The faulty progenitor cell -1-
25 Jan 2018Amphid
Technology at its finest. The prolonging of life in one handy apparatus, the progenitor cell. Though I wasn't eager to use it at first, my longing for space and its integrity as to whom able to pursue its depths were too intriguing to use the damn thing. There I was, one aging old male in his 70's. Old man's diseases began to sprout in my aging body, the worn out Remlok suit began to adapt to my failing health. Multiple crevices in the face of an old man when looking in the mirror in the back end of the sleeping quarters made me realize something. Soon I was too old to fly my ship, and what was left of my fruitful existence would unwillingly cease to exist, as I would be too old to pilot a ship, according to the Pilot's Federation Decree.
They would remove me from my pilot's seat, send me to some distant earthlike planet to live out the rest of my inane days. At least, that's what the message said.
The day it came to me was a blissful morning. I had deposited some of my cargo to a station in need and in return they gave me credits. Trading business is booming these days. The smile on my aging face was soon to be wiped clean to a formal, yet straight-up grimace, accompanied with a dissonant humming.
A newbie message handler came to me. In my day they would send out slaves to give messages to pilots, as it was a tiresome duty. Nowadays the job is a paid and the title given to those taken up on the job is called a courier. Oh well.
One cannot deny him or herself a future, and if the conditions are right, one can alter the laws of man in extension to make amends to others as well. I guess these are one of the reasons Her Imperial Highness Princess Aisling Duval is against the slaver's business.
After I shouted at the so called courier to not touch any buttons in which she absolutely failed, as she, in her words, 'accidentally' pushed the button that opened the cargo hatch, I paid her the usual amount of 500 credits and showed her the door. She shook her head while staring at me, laughing at the old creviced face she just agreed to take credits from, and left the ship.
Ten minutes later, the image projector that dictated the message and handed out the least favorable news to an aging pilot that enjoys his job, was now firmly attached to a wall inside my Imperial Cutter, accompanied with a dent on latter side as my swift throw of the thing had impacted on said wall. I was distraught.
Soon, my brain started to think up of various scenarios in which I could continue my lifestyle as a succesful pilot.
I could take up on piracy as a job, completely ignoring the message the Pilot's Federation sent me and eventually die a lonely soldier battling the strands of time accompanied with the aging process.
I could agree with the message, hopefully taking a job as a local skimmer pilot near my home planet in the same system. And die as a lonely civil servant in the safety of an office behind a desk, while remotely piloting a skimmer on a distant planet.
I could buy a progenitor cell.
Wait, what?
WOW, YES! THAT'S IT!
In complete disarray of sense and belief I was overwhelmed with this line of thought. I could buy a progenitor cell. Ofcourse. A device used to revitalize the body as a younger version of itself. And without a doubt, able to convince the Pilot's Federation I was fit to travel the depths of space for extended amounts of time.
But how to get the device for myself? I couldn't just pluck out cargo and steal the object from my clients. No.
Luckily the courier that sent the message was still around. As I descended from my ship, she looked in awe as what an aging captain could achieve and studied the lengths of my vessel. She compared the width of her waist as a template to measure the size of my ship. Not too bright, this one. But hopefully able to get the apparatus needed to prolong my life as a pilot.
I called her, and the same murky impression of her face greeted me once more.