Grease & Gizmos
27 Mar 2020Jason Frimantle
Jason guided the Ancient Oath through Smoot Station's docking corridor, easing her in for a gentle landing on the designated pad. A quick few holo-calls arranged the transportation of the Python to a hangar a bit further from the hustle and bustle of the corridor, freeing up the landing pad for another wishing to enter or exit the station. Medium landing pads were not as hot a commodity as the large ones, but Jason was still inclined to be as courteous as possible.
Unstrapping from the webbing of the crash couch, Jason exited his craft and headed for the office of the material trader. A few transactions later, he had what he needed. That was the easy part.
He'd rented a small studio living space towards the outer layer of the station. He headed there, taking his time both to allow his ship to end up in the right hangar and also to adapt to the 0.5g in the residential areas. He'd read stories about sailors needing to re-acclimate to being on land. "Getting your land legs," they called it. Did this mean he was getting his... space legs? He shook his head. He had other things to occupy his thoughts.
He hung his grandfather's flight jacket in the small closet of the studio, then peeled out of his Remlock. In the drawers towards the bottom of the closet he found his work clothes - sturdy pants with several pockets, a loose short-sleeved shirt, a pair of gloves. He took his toolbox from under the bed, headed back out into the corridor, and locked the door behind him.
As he carried the box towards the lift back down to the hangars, he wondered how often Imperial nobles did this sort of work themselves. Granted, he didn't rub elbows with nobility that often. While he was rising through Imperial ranks, and was entitled to certain invitations and privileges, he preferred to live here in independent space, where it was easier to avoid attention he didn't want and focus on his personal goals.
Which, at the moment, included fixing up his Python.
He had several blueprints saved to his hand terminal from experts he'd meet, seeking them out for information how to customize his vessel. He reviewed a few, and when he arrived in the hangar, got straight to work. It wasn't easy, nor was it clean. He was squirted with lubricant on more than one occasion. A short within the power distributor might have cooked his hand if it hadn't been for the insulated gloves. And the arithmetic for recalculating the range of the frame shift drive gave him a headache. Still, hours later, he stepped back from the Ancient Oath and regarded it with a smile.
"A little grease, a few gizmos, and the Feds won't know what hit them."
He packed up his tools and headed back to his studio. The shower was calling his name. And then, after that, a drink.