Fine, I'll do This: Pilot's Log #2
08 Sep 2015Michael Wolfe
Commander’s LogM. Lehman
September 8, 3301
They say your first Sidewinder is like your first time with a woman: exhilarating at the time, and cringe-worthy in retrospect.
That wasn’t me.
I hated my ‘Winder from the get-go. I swear to God it hated me back.
Remember my last log, when I mentioned that the ship's bunk smelled like the previous owner? Well, if that had been the end of it, I might have some fond memories to share.
It wasn’t. Not by a damn sight. In fact, it was the least of my troubles.
Where do I begin?
The smelly bunk, of course.
But not just that.
The landing gear didn’t always deploy the first time; that made some approaches really interesting. The techs could never replicate the problem with the machinery- it always dropped like a charm in the repair bay. They would just shrug and tell me that they can’t fix what ain’t broke.
Sometimes, the nav computer would just lose its connection, mid-hyperspace jump. That was fun. Having your ship shake so hard from emergency hyperspace exiting that your modules were damaged was just great. I swear, it’s a miracle that I never flew into a star or anything.
There was something off with the supercruise, too. Whenever I engaged it for longer than 5 minutes, the pilot’s cabin would start to smell funny- kind of a burned, acidy smell, like someone pissed on the reactor core.
Again, the techs could never find anything wrong.
Looking back, I’m pretty ashamed that I took my parents up in it. I guess I wanted to prove to them so badly that their son was somebody- that I had made it, and that my life was going great.
The look of relief on their faces whenever the hotel came into view after a day of sight-seeing wasn’t just nervousness from flying.
It only took me a week to christen my ship Goddamn Hell-Bitch. Imagine my surprise when the name turned up as being available in the Pilot’s Federation registry.
I never took Goddamn Hell-Bitch out on combat missions. No way. I was eager, but not stupid. For the most part, I was just doing short-range courier hops for chump change. Easy squeezy. The less I pushed my junky Sidewinder, the fewer things on it broke down. I didn’t even use my cargo bay much. Usually, I just tucked my client’s data disks into the pocket of my flight suit, and made sure to meet them at a bar instead of the docking bay.
By day, I was barely making ends meet as a data courier. By night, I would ogle brochures for other ships like they were nudie-holos.
This went on for longer than I care to say.
I can’t say how my life would have ended up if fate had conspired to keep me with that piece-of-crap ship. Would I have flown home and begged my parents for my childhood room back? Would I be dead somewhere because my ship’s life-support finally quit working? A victory mark on some pirate’s hull? All I can say is that things sometimes just work out, even if it doesn’t seem like it at the time.
I was in Eravate (told you I didn’t push Goddamn Hell-Bitch very hard) running some trade info like normal. Then, it happened: the frame shift drive sputtered and died.
Just like that.
I had fuel, I had power, and I had what ship diagnostics insisted was a perfectly intact frame-shift drive. Only… when I tried to engage it, it made a noise like a cat laughing even as it was drawing its last gasps of air.
It was not a good noise to hear coming from your ship in the middle of deep space.
So, I did the only thing that I could do: shut the damn thing down, kill my thrusters to conserve fuel, and send a distress signal. Then, I reached for the "emergency kit" I had stashed under the seat.
One nap and a half a bottle of Old Sol later, I watched the countdown timer on my courier job reach zero. So, even if I found a way to get to my destination, I was now working for free. Great.
Figuring that I had nothing to lose, I sat back down in the pilot’s seat and re-activated the drive.
And it started right up.
Well, I probably wasn’t going to die from exposure, so there was that. Still, I didn’t exactly have a paycheck waiting for me when I got to port anymore, and Goddamn Hell-Bitch ran on H-fuel, not her pilot’s good intentions.
I was in a bit of a quandary- without the courier payment, I wouldn’t have enough money to re-fuel once I landed, and my reputation with my client was shot. In fact, chances were pretty good that I was actually going to owe money once I got there.
I was cruising along, running short on time, fuel, and options.
It would be fair to say that at that point, I was better- fueled than my ship, having now consumed almost the entire bottle of Old Sol.
Yes, Pilot’s Fed regulations severely look down upon intoxicated flying, but I had been pretty certain that I was going to die earlier.
So, in my drunken stupor, I got creative. Inspired, even.
Everybody knows that still-intact cargo can be salvaged from derelict wrecks. The problem is that you don't exactly stumble across them much . Space is, after all, pretty damn big. After that, the trick is selling it. If it ain’t registered to you, port will not only have nothing to do with you, but local Authority becomes awfully interested in how cargo that ain’t yours found its way into your hold.
Everybody also knows that if you do find a buyer for whatever you’ve picked up, there can be some serious cash heading your way.
Like I said, I was inspired.
I started investigating every signal anomaly I could find. For the better part of a day, I found nothing.
My ship was starting to run for-real low on fuel, and my own bottle of inspiration was long gone.
I was decelerating, already mentally rehearsing what I would say in the transmission sent home to my parents: Hey, it’s me. So, the pilot’s life didn’t really work out. I’m here on Cleve, and I think I’m ready to come home. Oh, and… could you maybe wire me a few thousand credits for the transport?
Don’t I have a ship, you ask? Yeah, funny story about that. I owed some money, and I was barely able to pay it by selling my ship. You understand, right?
I keyed up my sensors, adjusting them to sweep the widest area possible.
OK, OK, I know. And you’re right. The honorable thing to do would be to just see a magistrate and sign a slavery contract once I’m home. Only, that ain’t exactly an option out here. It’s different in Fed space, you know?
I watched as the instruments buzzed and beeped as they scanned for any kind of signal.
Hi, port office? So, I was wondering if you were looking for any help. I can do anything. In fact, you could say that docks are my specialty. I was in the service for 6 years working on docks just like this one. Maybe a little smaller. OK, a lot smaller. Where? It was, uh… with the Empire. That’s not a problem, is it?
The scanners completed their sweep cycle. They picked up the derelict hulk of a little Type-3. Chunks of it, anyway.
And… 7 containers of rebel transmissions.
I remember actually checking twice. According to my scanners, the transmissions were very recent, which meant that if I could find the right contact, they would be worth a damn fortune.
I only had room for 4 of them, but it was the biggest haul of my life.
If I could move them.