On My Rotation Back into "Civilized" Space.
16 Nov 2017Gmanharmon
12NOV330314:19
Today is my birthday. That is, the back-date on this entry is my birthday, as I haven't had the time to sit back and properly flesh out my thoughts on the recent past.
On the seventh of November, at the helm of my Anaconda, with Betelgeuse to windward and the Bubble to lee, I returned to human space after a thirty-day excursion into the black, nearly very much on a whim. I will attempt to recount a quick summary here in these pages for posterity. Even though I have a Diamondback Explorer that was properly equipped for such a venture, I had grown attached to my DeLacy vessel. If any ship was going to take me to the edge of the heliopause and beyond, I decided it would be her.
The USS Constitution II in repose at Ohm Terminal, with a fresh coat of paint and a bright future as a combat frigate ahead of her.
After catching the tail-end of the hullabaloo regarding a lucrative business venture ferrying various passengers between the Rhea and LQ Hydrae systems, I grew tired of the haulage, being reminded of my former life as a bulk trader, a great majority of time which was spent ferrying less fortunate, human cargo under the watchful eye of Senator Zemina Torval.
Although the pay was reasonable, there is an undeniable stain on my soul as I see the barracks full of debtors being led to Torval's auction blocks, too proud to admit their fiduciary iniquities and exchanging citizenship for indentured servitude. I recall reading about a legal precedent in ancient times whose name was bankruptcy, in which you appeared before a magistrate and expressed extreme financial hardship, and based on one's own merit, the magistrate could choose to wipe the slate clean and give you a second chance at a financial future. Again, I am reminded of another time where I eavesdropped on a conversation in the marbled halls of the Bank of Zaonce between a senior loan officer and a sly commander, attempting to invoke bankruptcy to avoid paying interest on the principal re-buy cost of a Gutamaya Cutter rigged for bulk trading, but apparently no match for a combat-fitted Fer-de-Lance. Flying a Type-9 has soured me to the lumbering Lakon beast, unsuited for escaping interdictions, but I will not deny that a pirate or two had been vaporized when the mass of twelve hundred tons of plasteel, hydrogen fuel, and slaves on the hoof met their cockpit at better than 185 meters per second. Only once have I had to rely on my Remlok to save me from certain death in that giant ship, and found myself in the infirmary of some Coriolis station I had recently traded at, staring at a dataslate with options to replace the Lakon and all her modules at fifteen percent, or start afresh in a Sidewinder if I lacked the means. I’ve never needed to take the Sidewinder or draw a loan from Zaonce, but time may tell whether I will have need of the Pilots Federation’s good graces.
Again I go on my tangents. Traveling the southern half of the Galaxy and seeing several of the most popular sights, ignited something deep inside me. Call it wanderlust, but this will not be the last time I leave human space. The decision to leave the Bubble in early October was reached after obtaining my Sol permit, finally laying eyes on the Cradle of Humanity. It was a momentous occasion, bringing the Constitution to see where her namesake once sailed the oceans, with canvas and hemp instead of plasteel and hydrogen, and where my ancestors called home. Part of me thought of how confined humanity was before space travel became widespread and feasible, and now we occupy over five hundred square light-years of space and are trillions strong. After getting my fill of Mother Gaia, I docked at Abraham Lincoln and marveled that the only opportunities available to me was hauling biowaste.
There has to be more to this, I told myself. I returned to Ohm City at LHS 20 and refitted the Constitution, selling off the passenger cabins and storing the missile racks, and refitting her for long-range exploration. The one mistake was fitting a first-class cabin for Mister Graham Price, whom you have been acquainted with in an earlier missive. My lust for money exceeded my desire to explore, and after the meager restitution I had just received from bounty vouchers at the Secret Billionaires’ offensive in I Carinae, the 32-million credit payout being offered for a trip to a single black hole 30,000 light-years out was too good to be true. We all know how that ended.
However, chauffering Mr Price (and unceremoniously dumping him at Polo Harbour, may he and his holoscreen crew rot there for eternity) and plotting a course to the very center of our Galaxy, seeing Sagittarius A* and the Great Annihilator with my own two eyes, not to mention all the wonders that followed on the return leg home, gave me pause. My exploration data sold to Universal Cartographics earned me close to 200 million credits all told, but in the grand scheme of things, getting there and bearing witness to all the mysteries and wonders the universe has to offer was the true reward. I thought I needed a reason, but it turned out the only thing holding me back was myself.
The motor of the galaxy, Sagittarius A*. Source 2 is just out of frame, flying by at incredible speed.
My return to the Bubble was met with no fanfare, no ticker-tape parade, no mention in GalNet, which was fine by me. The spotlight need not shine on just another humble spacer making his way in the galaxy. I reactivated the docking computer upon entering Ohm City’s no-fire zone, remembered how to initiate a docking request, and set the Constitution down on Pad 30. Once her landing skids kissed the pad, I punched the final entry into the manifest, then closed my flight plan with StarCon and signed off as I powered her down. This Anaconda will be gutted and reborn, fitted with A-grade modules and cannon, groomed for battle. With a preliminary consultation with the local shipwright, it would come to about nearly 700 million credits to rig her how I want, so dilly-dallying is no longer feasible. The watchword now is business, and I believe I have a place to start.
I turned to Pad 32 and looked upon TNT Express II, my hulking Lakon Type-9 bulk trading ship. Still fitted with her cargo racks and torpedo tubes. It would be a trivial thing to sell her and forget I ever dealt in Imperial slaves, but something kept her in my fleet. Whether it was nostalgia or pure obstinacy, she was still there, and her fantastic cockpit was calling my name. I climbed the gangway and started my pre-flight, watching the consoles and holo-displays kick on without a hiccup. I filed my flight plan with StarCon and made way for Torval-controlled space.
Commerce. The final frontier.
There’s a lull in trading at the moment, and I’ve docked the Type-9 once again while I fish for new leads, hoping for something within the 5,000 credit per hour neighborhood. I believe one such opportunity may have opened up recently as market data has normalized. In the meantime, In the meantime, I traveled back to LHS 20 with my trade earnings, plus a bit more from the exploration windfall, and have kitted a DeLacy Python for multipurpose use. Once her hull had been laid down, the shipwright offered me the opportunity to name her, and I decided on an ancient Japanese phrase,
わかりません , or Wakarimasen in Galactic English. I had to settle for the Anglicized translation when the nameplate was painted against the hull, as the original pictographic alphabet has been lost to history, relegated to dusty volumes in analog libraries and offices, spoken in the ethnic quarters of countless starports where fragrant rice is steamed and bowls of delicious ramen are bottomless.
Wakarimasen and TNT Express II are currently docked in Charlier City in Kamocan, where I have been assisting Comunìdad Hispana and the other Imperial-aligned factions with ferrying boom data and trade missions, occasionally swatting a targeted ne’er-do-well out of the sky and earning a bounty voucher or two. Several of the systems within this small sphere of influence are experiencing boom times, so missions are plentiful. Currently, the Indrachit Empire Consulate is at war with another faction from Apterisha, and several soldiers of fortune have attempted to interdict me believing I had picked a side. The more stubborn have seen what a proper application of beam laser and multi-cannon fire can do.
Wakarimasen waiting for orders in Charlier City. A dilapidated appearance belies her true capabilities, hiding in plain sight.
As I have completed missions for these factions, and increased my standing and influence in the Empire, I have made a name for myself and am now a Squire in the Imperial Navy, with a permit to their homeworld of Achenar. To celebrate this momentous occasion, I have taken a bit more of my earnings and purchased a Gutamaya Courier. She is quite a beautiful ship, with a hull that is more organic than anything, long sweeping curves and a noticeable absence of harsh angles. It will be rigged for combat, taking advantage of its three medium hardpoints and more internal fitting options than the venerable Eagle, but not on the scale that the Constitution will be capable of. The Gutamaya shipwright invited me to his rather lavish office, a bust of Senator Torval displayed prominently against the wall, and allowed me to name the hull. Looking back at the Courier, I am reminded of a song from an old opera where the star, a clown, is conflicted with the discovery of his wife’s infidelity and must hide his sadness by putting on the costume and laughing for the audience. Quite a moving piece, still acted in opera houses and broadcast on holoscreens over two millenia on. It’s an apt comparison, with her jovial Gutamaya rigging and flattery on display hiding the somber reality of the railguns housed within her nacelles.
Ridi, Pagliaccio,
sul tuo amore infranto!
Ridi del duol, che t'avvelena il cor!
My dataslate is beeping. A 4,706 credit per ton route has opened up between Doyle Point here and Shirazi Orbital in Indrachit, trading debtors and flying back conductive fabrics. It's better than nothing, and I think the Comunìdad can fare without my help for the time being.
Author's note: at the observation of another commander, it seems I have confused a credit-per-hour trade route with the credit-per-ton profit that such a route was paying. I will blame that misprint on the three fingers of celebratory whiskey I was currently savoring at the time.