So my mechanic called me up to the dock this morning....
21 Aug 2018Hawkeye Jones
Blackmount Habitation, HIP 17692, Pleiades.....My heart pumped adrenaline at the news, and I could feel the veins bulging out on my temples. I swallowed back my unease and a growing sense of panic. I asked again.
"What do you mean SOLD?"
The station apparatchik, nominally female, looked up from her datapad and met my eyes.
"Right here, Commander. Logged with your signature and timestamped. 0354 hours galactic standard, local ground base alterday, signed, callsign Hawkeye Jones."
I stood there, aghast, in that dingy dockside office. The glare of an arc welder through the outside viewing portals briefly highlighting the baggy, bloodshot eyes of the shipyard clerk.
I tried to stutter out some words, but it came out as babble.
She was right. There it was on the datapad, black and white.
My beloved Eon Rover; the Pride of Asp Explorers, hot rod of the gods, mapper of countless systems, tool of choice for nefarious smuggling, and my instrument to flip several systems to friendly factions.....gone. Sold.
By me.
Okay. I'd had maybe a bit to drink the other night. I may have dipped into a case of booze I delivered to the scuzzy dockside dives that pass for bars at this base. I may have bedded down at one of the sleepaways a few levels down and drunkenly attempted to swap ships on my datapad later that night.
I may have pressed some wrong buttons before passing out.
"Had a rough night, commander? You know....liquor is contraband on this base. Not that it matters these days." She looked over my greasy rumpled coveralls. I hadn't showered. I hadn't shaved. My head felt like an egg that had been cracked open by a large and vicious spoon; a spoon called Lavian Brandy. You know, logbook. The stuff I had smuggled in the other day.
Best to keep her on subject. "Look....see..." I glanced at her shipyard ID badge. "Marie. This is, um, a bit of a crisis. You see, I pulled the Drive out of the Rover to put it into THAT," I pointed to the ancient milsurp Federal Dropship sitting like an ugly brick on the dockside, "to test THAT ship's suitability for these search and rescue runs. I didn't LIKE it. I want the Rover back. Okay, okay," I glanced around nervously, and lowered my voice, "I may have hit the sauce a little hard last night, and pressed the SELL instead of the TRANSFER button. But I'm sure we can come to an agreement somehow, huh? Seeing as this is a crisis situation?"
Marie, looked down at her datapad, and give a quick exasperated sigh. She pressed some buttons and icons. I grew hopeful that the little tick sounds the datapad made with each keystroke would bring back my Asp.
She looked back up at me. I could see in her eyes what the answer was. I could also see the exhaustion of a woman who was staying behind in a place where it was all coming apart. Maybe she was doing what little she could to keep order in her little corner of the galaxy. In her way, in her mind perhaps, she was standing up to the Thargoid incursions, and bringing order to a base in danger of an attack at any moment. A base also flooded with hungry refugees from half a dozen systems.
Marie, looked me right in the eye and said, "Commander. There are hundreds of crisis at this base right now. Some of them I have to deal with right here in this dockside office. But I'll tell ya now...your crisis isn't one of them."
Her voice softened a little. "Look. You at least pulled the drive out of your old ship. You still have it in that old ancient hulk. Base-side outfitting can still come up with a few hatch breaker and cargo limpets controllers. The nearest shipyard that can produce an AspEx is over 200 light years from here. You can take that old thing out and do good....here in the Pleiades, now."
I glanced dejectedly at the ugly standard issue matte paintjob of the Dropship. It was a brick. It flew like a brick. It was functional, but barely. It would also have to do.
"Okay, where do I sign?"
"Thumbprint here. And, oh, before I forget, dock crews recovered your personal effects before your last ship was taken to recycling, here's the keycode to the storage locker on blue dock, 4C deck. You'll find your items there. Bobbleheads mostly, it seems. You travel light."
I signed, and was the brand new owner of an ancient dilapidated milsurp Dropship. A ship that now sported a hot rod FSD. Unfortunately, it also had E ratings on everything else. I stored the keycode into my datapad and turned to go.
"Oh....one more thing, Commander. A name. Do you have a ship's name? I dislike blanks on my docs."
I grinned though my hangover. "I guess I'll have to call her the Marie's Crisis."
Well. That got a smile out of her at least.
Fly Safe Commanders.