Log Entry: 19 September 3302
18 Sep 2016Rogue Lobster
Another deep space mining run, another set of days with my mind wandering aimlessly between rocks. It hasn't been the same since I left Sol.
Something has been bothering me and I don't know what.
The usual runs in between systems, the random salvage contracts I pick up, the few sanctioned executions I do, none of them seem to be on hand. More importantly, none of them are paying well.
If that was all that was on my mind, I wouldn't think much of it. After all, money is easy to figure out; more is better.
But no, something is nagging in the back of my head. Something about that "servant" (read: slave) that I saw holding someone's luggage as they boarded an Orca liner headed for Imperial space.
She keeps popping up in my head. That look of contentment and resignation all mixed up in one facial expression. How she could feel anything other than anger at her (I refuse to call them by what they call themselves) slave-owner for his ridiculous, almost toddler-esque, temper tantrums is beyond me.
"Svaria" he called her repeatedly.
He must have been a person of some import, as she wasn't the only one, and he had a Federal Congress liason with him, catering to his every whim.
All of this, this spectacle worthy of the most grandiose Divas in New Hollywood, took place in only fifteen minutes as I spoke with the crew chief that was looking over Naomi (my Vulture). We exchanged looks as if to say "Senators eh? Whatcha gonna do?"
But the verbal abuse she endured because his flight was late through no one's fault was galling. If it hadn't caused an incident I would've walked up and taught him some manners.
But no.
I'm cutting up rocks 90 light years away, and further still from wherever they went.
We talk big about how slavery is wrong, and yet nobody in Mars High, or Sol, or any Federal port, does anything about it if the person is important enough.
I should've done something.
I'm sick of looking at these asteroids.