Subconscious Newsflash from a Distant World
07 Mar 2016TheDarkLord
“So you’re a fugitive? What’d you do this time? Pot shots at the police again? You’re a disgrace. How many did they send out for you?”“8, I think. New record.” I was trying not to smile. Eight Vipers was an impressively lethal response from a Coriolis, and surviving it was a feat of piloting brilliance.
“You’re going to throw all this life away because you think you’re the best damn pilot in the galaxy, and you’re bored? You’re an idiot.”
Turning away from me, her facial expression matching the fire of her hair, she grabs her suit jacket and strides out, slamming the door.
I woke. Hungover again. I wasn’t sure where I was. Wherever the Pilots’ Federation had dumped me after I ran out of ships, credits and options. I was still almost dressed: the waistband of my trousers was down at my knees. I guessed that while getting undressed I had probably noticed that my boots were still on, and then had a small nap while I figured out how to make my fingers undo the laces. It wouldn’t have been the first time.
“Lights,” I said. My retinas weren’t ready for the glare. “Dimmer.”
I looked around me. The only things I could recognise as being mine were my watch and credit access card, lying on the bedside shelf. The room was 3m by 2m, mostly occupied with a single bed, and a shelf sticking out of the wall. There were no windows. The walls had been painted in some inoffensive yet hateful cream colour. Across from me, a combined wardrobe and sink unit. I didn’t need to check to know that there was nothing in there that was mine.
Everything around me had that built-down-to-a-price look around it, supplemented with the accumulated grime and damage of many years of occupancy by parties who were too caught up in their own malaise to care for their surroundings. There were ventilation outlets in the room, but no controls for temperature. Stale, warm air blew through, with a strong odour of thruster exhaust. Real budget room, this.
“Urgh,” I said to myself and lay back down. I realised I was back in Trevithick Dock. My eyes closed for no reason other than I lacked the willpower to keep them open.
The Python explodes in front of me. It drops several canisters, which I grab. My ship’s purser module identifies them as containing illegal narcotics. I pilot the Cobra towards the station, where the police are quite interested in me, given my criminal record. The computer flies me in and lands the ship, to the usual Blue Danube accompaniment.
I walk down the disembarkation ramp and head straight for the Black Market.
“What do you want?” asks the dockhand. It’s so loud in here I have to shout to make myself heard.
“I WANT TO SELL ILLEGAL GOODS.”
We agree a price on the narcotics, and I leave, making my way back to our quarters to grab a shower. I was thinking to use the proceeds of this haul to take her for a nice dinner. Maybe smooth over some of the ruffles in our relationship after I’d been engaging in Police-baiting.
She was right, I mused. I did it because I was bored. It was an underground sport: poke the station to see how many police Vipers they send out. Then get docked without dying. Trouble was, the System Authorities hated it. And she hated me doing it, ever since the time I’d taken her out on one of my trade loops.
I’m still walking through the grimy passageways of the dock area. Dimly lit by sporadic overhead fluorescent tubes which are wrapped in plexiglass and then again with wire mesh. The place isn’t salubrious, but I’ve been down here before and worked with some decent people. Some haven’t got the stomach for it, with their gleaming Anacondas and Fer-de-Lances. But me and my Cobra fit in fine.
Two fairly sizeable crewmen are coming down the passage towards me, telling some story about what they’re going to do to some unsuspecting girl. They both have starter caps on and large-lensed sunglasses, which seems foolhardy given the lighting levels. I slide to my right a little, to afford them some space. The one nearest me crashes into me hard, knocking me back against the thick steel wall.
“Watch yourself…” he hisses. His mate looks over.
“Heyyy… You’re the guy who blew up the Python we were crewing,” pipes up the mate. “You stole all of our narcs man.”
“Now our boss is pissed because he lost his ship, and we’re pissed because we didn’t get paid.”
“And we don’t like escape pods.”
The first crewman – the one who had walked into me – pulls a metal cylinder from his toolbelt. It’s about the size of a beer can. He shakes it and it turns into a nightstick. With one blow to the side of my head, he knocks me to the ground, and they both start on me with their boots.
Another figure rounds the corner into the corridor. “Help!” I try to shout, but I have no breath to form the sound, so my lips move uselessly.
“Hey boss,” the mate drawls. “We got that pirate punk who shot us. Want a word?”
The new guy breaks into a run towards me. I’m curled up on the floor, and every part of me is being whacked, kicked or stamped on. As the pain level becomes incomprehensible, my subconscious flicks a switch and everything stops.
“Oh,” I thought as I came to. The lights were still on. The room still told its tale of sadness and decline. Yet again I’d awoken from a nightmare, covered in my own sweat. Still clothed, I’d fallen off the bed while I was asleep, and things hurt. But the dream wasn’t a dream. I was sure of it. It was a memory.
I think I’d known that I’d had a fairly flexible approach to the legal acquisition of cargo. I liked bounty hunting and had an aptitude for it. The Cobra was good at it, and had cargo space. But nowadays the fines for carrying stolen goods were insane, and piracy didn’t seem worth it to me. I was older though, and probably less reckless than I’d been before. And the quarters we’d been in when she stormed out did seem awfully nice for a Cobra-jockey. I probably had the beating coming, but it seemed unlikely that there was only the one time some recently-spaced crewmembers had come for a physical chat with me.
I rearranged my dishevelled clothing and went looking for an open bar. Maybe there were some beer glasses that had answers in the bottom, and I needed a burger.