Perfect Angel
11 May 2016Terra Sheer
There are two features of Lakon Spaceways freighters that command immediate respect.First -- they are virtually indistinguishable from the inside. In accordance with the fundamental principles of their design, they're essentially just boxes within boxes, with perhaps a few lumpy bits tacked on here or there for the sake of aesthetics. Boxy rooms connect through boxy corridors, broken up occasionally by an outcropping of ticky-tack, and it's all laid out in such a way that it's generally impossible to arrive at any given location without going completely out of your way first. Incidentally, this is why the Type 9 features two ports of access into the cockpit -- not because you might ever actually need a second exit, but because that's only way to get from one side of the ship to the other.
Second -- Lakon ships trap rattles like rattle-fur is a luxury commodity. And, really, this may actually be a useful feature. You can always tell what state a Lakon ship is in by the kinds of rattles it leaks. To make sure you never miss a nuance, the nice folks at Lakon have designed the ventilation duct-work in such a way that it catches up every little tick and groan and funnels it directly into your ears. Doesn't matter where in the ship you are. It all looks and sounds the same. And this means that, if you want to be noticed aboard a Lakon Spaceways freighter, all you've got to do is make some noise.
It doesn't take me long to figure out that we're on some kind of Lakon ship. I'd guess a Type 9 by the pitch of the rattles. An old one, too, since the seals around all the ventilation grates have long since turned to dust, allowing the grates to move enough that they make a delectably satisfying racket when disturbed. I don't have any better way to entertain myself, so I hook my fingers into them good and shake them until they sing. The duct-work, true to form, picks up the sound and carries it into every boxy little corner of the ship.
It isn't long before I hear Lizard shouting. "What the hell is that noise? What the hell are you doing?"
I give the grate another good shake.
"Whatever the hell you're doing in there, you'd better stop it--"
He comes around the corner carrying a shock stick in his left hand and a wild look in his eye.
"Oh, good. You're awake," I say. "I need to talk to the manager."
Lizard blinks, licks. "The ... manager?"
"Yeah. About the state of the accommodations. I'd like to air some grievances."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
I go to the door and hook my hands through the bars. "Look, I don't know what kind of operation you're running here, but I just don't think I'm getting my money's worth."
Lizard squints. His right eye tics. A look of deep perplexity settles over his face. His lip curls up on one side, exposing the gap in his teeth. He adjusts his grip in the shock stick -- less like he's getting ready to use it and more like he just needs to hold on to something to keep a handle on reality.
He licks. "This isn't a fekkin' hotel," he says. "You're our prisoner!"
"I know. But that's no excuse for poor service. Let me lay it out. The food sucks, the bed is terrible, I'm still waiting for a decent change of clothes, and it smells like something died in here--"
"Something did die in there!" He shivers, brandishes the shock stick. "You're going to die in there if you don't fekkin' shut up!"
And away he goes, back into the bowels of the ship, muttering curses under his breath.
I go back to the grate and hook my fingers into it again. I'll give him a minute to get comfortable before I start rattling it again.
From the corner of our little cell, Tiny chuckles, something vaguely like amusement lighting his face.
"Rule 37 of being someone's captive," I tell him. "Do everything you can to make them regret it."
"You don't think they're going to make you regret it?"
I shrug. "Maybe. But I think you're underestimating just how much of a bitch I can be."
I rattle the grate again, and for a fleeting moment, a smile breaks through the bleakness in Tiny's eyes. He blinks it back an instant later, and it dies under a heavy shade.
"You know, you remind me of someone," he says.
"Oh? Someone special, I hope."
He drums his fingers, looks away. "You could say."
Rattle-rattle-rattle. "Is she a slave, too?"
He doesn't respond. From the way he suddenly tries to avoid my eyes, I know I've hit on something.
"That's why you haven't tried to fight them," I hazard. "They're holding her over your head. Or maybe you're just all she has left. Either way, it's something to live for. Something they can take away."
"You should behave," he says. "They're just going to hurt you if you don't."
Rattle-rattle-rattle. "I'll behave," I tell him.
I give the grating one last good shake, and am rewarded by an exasperated yell from down the corridor. There's a clatter of motion, a flash of shadows as Lizard comes clambering back.
"I'll be a perfect angel ... just as soon as they give me what I want."
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