Her name was Heather (Epilogue)
02 Feb 2018Gmanharmon
I was seated in the clinically-appointed office of the Pilots Federation, undergoing secondary screening. The stainless steel chair wasn't doing my posture any favors, but at least it didn't smell like whatever Godawful emissions were taking place in the lobby. And there, behind the glass-topped office desk, was an immense slab of humanity bedecked with garish makeup and clothed in what I could only describe as a silken bedspread. They reviewed my license application with glazed eyes behind plastic, sequined spectacles. If all went well, Grayson Harmann would be a thing of the past, and I could start a new life.The public-sector-class leviathan was my last hurdle.
"You have written your given name here as... 'G-Man'?" they asked, eyes not leaving the paper. "May I ask you to elaborate?"
"Yes, you may," I replied.
We sat in silence for sixty seconds, which for all intents and purposes might have taken fifteen years in the spartan office, without so much as a wall clock to provide some form of keeping time. The only sound in the room was her sufflation; heavy, labored breathing through her mouth that set my hair on end.
"Are you going to respond, sir?" the lady said finally, an annoyed tone behind her ethnically-tinted voice.
"Very well. Back home, my friends used to always ask me tough questions about their schoolwork, and I would tell them, "well, gee, man, I just don't know.' So, they called me G-Man, and the name stuck."
"But you must have a given name," she needled. "What name was it your parents called you, sir? What name was that?"
"Besides 'little shit'?" I grinned at her. She scowled back.
"Sir, I must have a name to input into the system to process your license." A single, doughy finger tapped a staccato drum-beat atop the glass as her vexation reached critical mass. "I must provide the Pilots Federation a proper name."
"And what's wrong with G-Man? Just remove the hyphen."
"Sir, that is not--"
I stood from the chair and pointed at the door. "Can you tell me why I just passed a newly-minted commander out there with a listed name of Four-Two-Zero-Aitch-Four-Are-Dee-See-Zero-Are-E-Kay-One-El-El-Three-Are-Six-Nine, taking delivery of a Sidewinder, without question, while I'm here being interrogated about a first name that's five characters long?"
That finally shut her up. "Very well, sir, I shall input your name as listed." More of her doughy appendages moved from the paper to her desktop dataslate, tapping at a holokeyboard, while her artificial nails clacked against the glass. The sound sent needles through my brain.
A few more cursory questions were asked, the Bank of Zaonce signatory's credentials were verified, and my personal dataslate chirped as my frequency was hailed.
"Okay, sir, please step in front of the camera and remove your sunglasses." I did so, revealing a brilliant amber right eye and a cybernetic replacement lens in the left. Upon seeing the hardware, Miss Mass frowned.
"I see, please keep your sunglasses on, sir."
"But you said--"
"Please put on your sunglasses." An oath was uttered under her breath as I replaced the shades on my face, knowing that the augmentation wasn't without stigma.
The Pilots Federation physician who took my vitals offered me a full organ regrowth if I flew for him during the construction period, which would require accruing a deficit of a hundred thousand credits. I politely told him in which orifice he may shove those credits, and in return, he installed an extremely outdated and malfunctioning lens which left my eye perpetually bloodshot and caused me great piercing headaches when it acted up. With the current cultural views on inorganic body modification or augmentation, I may as well have leprosy. Luckily, I stopped at a corner chemist and found a free pair of sunglasses.
Cheese.
The flash-bulb ignited, and all was finished. Another few minutes of waiting while the office worker clacked at her dataslate, and my data was uploaded to the cloud. "Here you are, sir, welcome to the Pilots Federation. Please proceed to the outpost at Baker's Prospect at oh-nine-hundred hours for your ship allocation." With a flippant gesture, she hands me a polymer version of my Commander's license. I looked at the time on her dataslate.
"But it's ten-thirty," I replied.
"Then try again tomorrow. Our business is concluded, please exit the building. Have a nice day."
"Looks like I'm Penniless, Aimless, and Harmless now," I said to myself as I left the branch office. It was a long road ahead, but I welcomed the challenge.
My commander's application, now resting for eternity in an unnamed filing cabinet in an unnamed warehouse.
On the short journey to Baker's Prospect, I observed a struggle taking place near a greengrocer, some mook wearing dark clothing and a wrap around their face trying to wrest a satchel from a courier. It was obvious that the lanky courier was no match for the buffed juicehead, broad of shoulder and rippling, muscular legs like tree trunks. I looked around for leverage, something to increase my odds, but the place was barren. I uncoupled a mag-boot and held it in my hand, then came up behind the juicer as he ripped the satchel away and knocked down the courier.
"Hey, asshole!" I grabbed the robber's shoulder and turned him about. He had a bewildered expression on his face.
"Who the hell--" His words were lost as the heel of my mag-boot connected with his jaw at lightning speed. The sound of cracking bone split through the air and the meathead stumbled, then staggered, before sinking to the floor in an unconscious pile.
"Are you alright?" I asked the courier as he retrieved his satchel, while replacing my boot.
"Yeah, I'm just fine. You saved me, man!"
"Forget it," I replied. He insisted, shoving several thousand credits' worth of chips in my hand. "No, really, keep it."
"Take it, bro! Get yourself something awesome!" I placed the chips in my bag and continued on.
"I'll be sure to pay it forward," I said to myself.
My line of credit with the Bank of Zaonce wouldn't officially take place until I was in the seat of my starter ship, so this sudden windfall was a boon for me. There was a small shopping center less than a hundred meters from the hangars, so I stopped at a street vendor and ordered a steak sandwich. The sound of sizzling red meat on the griddle reminded me of days long past. I soon found my mouth watering as he laid the steak on two slices of toasted, buttered bread, layered with lettuce, onions, tomatoes, and an orange sauce with a tangy scent.
"Enjoy!" he said with a smile and a wave. I nodded my approval and dug in, enjoying my first taste of real sustenance since I was dropped off on Asellus 2. The sandwich was splendid, but unfortunately, didn't last very long, so I disposed of the trash in a bin and stepped into a clothier's.
I left an hour later in a new Remlok and ensemble, gray and black matching jacket and trousers with red piping. A few doors down was a tinker's shop. I had a few credits left, so I went in and looked around.
"Hi there!" the clerk said in greeting. She was blonde, of middle-age, with fair skin and happy eyes. "Welcome to my shop!" She had a bit of a drawl like me.
"Oh, this is y'all's shop?" I asked. She giggled when I slipped into my brogue.
"Yes, sir! My daddy was an engineer with Core Dynamics, an' I just kinda followed along. Now I sit here in Asellus, buyin' and sellin' cool and weird stuff you work with your hands!"
"Ain't that a treat. What's your name, darlin'?"
"Brenna! How about you?"
I took a breath and started to reply, then my mouth tightened into a straight line.
Crap. Time slowed to a crawl as my mind raced. I'm not Grayson anymore, but G-Man is a pretty shitty name to give to a lady. What do?
"Name's John," I replied, grinning again. "My flyin' handle is G-Man." Nice.
"Nice ta meet ya, John!" Her smile caused a flutter within me. "G-Man, huh? So you're a Commander?" she asked, taking a look over the counter and spying my mag-boots.
"Just become one a few hours ago. Waitin' on the hangar to open so's I can get my ship."
"Wow! I'd like ta do all that, go out flyin' around the universe, gettin' into all sorts a' trouble. But I gotta stay here and take care of my daddy. He's very sick."
"My condolences," I replied, placing my hand on hers. Her skin was as smooth as I imagined. "Maybe you can sell me somethin'."
"I'd be happy to! Just take a look around and see what I got!" I glanced around the shop, browsing the aisles, while Brenna followed and described everything I picked up and looked at in perfect detail. We made our way back to the counter, and I picked up a piece from a display.
"I just got that in the other day! It's an old watch." I looked at the watch, its face filled with numbers and dials and hands. The reverse was pristine, and the band was a natural rubber, devoid of its gummy flexibility and quite brittle. "Needs a little more love and a new strap, but it's a beautiful li'l thing!"
"Know any more about it?" I asked. "My Pa had a watch just like this'un."
"I dunno, the man who sold it to me didn't have no story or nothin', he just wanted some credits. Best I can tell ya is it's called a Breitling. Used ta be made in a country on old Earth called Swisser-land or somethin'?"
"Swisser-land..." I repeated. Something about the watch compelled me to it. "I'll take it!"
"Yay! Can I ring ya up now, or do ya want anythin' else?"
"Let me see..." A small bag on a shelf behind Brenna's smiling face caught my eye. "What's in that sack over yonder?" I pointed it out, and she brought it out front. It rattled with metallic items inside, and clanked on the countertop.
"To be honest, I don't rightly know what I got in here," she said, opening the drawstring and pouring out the sack's contents. The smell of lubricant filled the air as I looked over the collection of parts. "I thought it might be pieces to a power converter, but there ain't no electrics to it. So I threw it on this here shelf where I keep my projects, but I kinda forgot about it."
"Mm-hmm." I took the parts and started sliding them around on the counter, grouping them up in a pattern that was starting to form in my mind's eye. "These all look familiar to me," I told her, "but I can't figure out why." She stepped back out to the floor and stood next to me, looking over my shoulder as I arranged and rearranged the parts ad nauseam.
"Hang on..." I said, something clicking in my head.
"Got somethin'?" Brenna asked, her hand on my shoulder.
"Yeah." I turned to look at her. "Do y'all have a toolbox?" Her eyes brightened.
About an hour later, Brenna and I were sitting at her project table in the back of the store, and I was painstakingly piecing together the mystery parts.
"Now, gimme that long piece with the cylinder thing inside," I asked, and she handed me the part. I turned over the chunk of steel, and pointed out some markings on the left side. A prancing horse, surrounded by words and dates. "I figgered out what ya got here."
"Yeah?" she asked, grinning.
"Yep. It's a pistol, Colt nineteen-eleven. I ain't seen one a' these in a long time. My Pa had a good-sized collection of 'em!"
"Oh, you mean, like... a gun?" Her expression visibly waffled. "Ain't they just for killin' people?"
"Well, that's one use for 'em," I replied. "Right now, it ain't nothin' but a bit a' steel on this table, an' that's all it is.
"My pa taught me a gun ain't got a brain, same as it ain't got a heart. Same goes for a starship. It ain't the gun or the ship that kills, them's just a tool. It's a hard heart that kills. It's just that simple."
Brenna looks at the two halves of the Colt pistol on the table, then reached out a hand and touched the cold steel. Her expression was inscrutable at first, almost disdainful, but as she looked back at me and saw a comforting, beatific smile, she began warming up. "Heh," she said, "I guess I just ain't used to 'em. All my life I been told that guns are bad, an' only bad people got 'em, an' they only get used for bad things, like a ghost story."
"They taught you to fear," I replied. "Now I'm showin' you a different side, and you don't know what to think anymore, right?"
"Yeah," she said. She wrapped her hand around the frame, feeling the diamond pattern of the ancient wood grip panels.
"Once you break that fear, it ain't nothin' but another thing in the world," I said. "Now it's about respect. Like a knife can cut you once you stop respectin' it, an' like a ship can explode when you stop respectin' it, same goes for a gun."
I hold out my hand, and Brenna gingerly places the frame in it. With my other hand, I place the slide and barrel on top and move them into place, before sliding in the slide stop, recoil spring, and barrel bushing. Once I secured those pieces, I took the magazine from the table, inserted it into the butt of the 1911, then ejected the magazine and racked the slide. A check of all functions told me the pistol was fully functional and ready for use. I gently dropped the hammer with my left thumb and reinserted the empty magazine, then placed it back in the sack, which contained a stencil of crossed cannons on the front.
"I reckon I'm ready to check out, now," I told Brenna. She smiled and stood up, and we went to the front where she punched in some numbers in the register. I found a couple of new straps for the Breitling, replacing the old rubber with a new synthetic fabric strap, secured with hook-and-loop points.
"Here ya go," she said, turning the display towards me and revealing the price. I gave her the credits, then had a thought and gave her the rest.
"What?" she replied, startled at all the money I dropped in front of her.
"Go on, take it. Give my best to your pa." She covered her mouth with her hand, and her eyes grew watery.
"I... John, that is so nice, I... I don't know how to thank you!" I placed my hand on her cheek, and she touched her own hand to it.
"Promise me you'll be here when I come back, sweetheart."
"Yes!" she breathed. I leaned in and stole a kiss, which she reciprocated. It was the best feeling I've had in a long time.
I waited at the pad for several minutes, before a blue-suited man came out and handed me a satchel.
"You the one they call the G-Man?" he asked.
"Yeah." He tossed the satchel at me, which I caught.
"Your Sidewinder is on Pad Four, and that's a special delivery to Azeban City in Eranin. You got twenty-four hours, wheels-up in ten. Welcome to the Pilots Federation, Commander." He disappeared as quickly as he came in. I made my way to Pad 4 and climbed into the DeLacy Sidewinder, just about as tall and wide as my home. The cockpit was cramped, the sensor array was overloaded, and the Remlok was secured just a bit too tight, but this was my ship. I gripped the throttle and joystick and rolled the pad out to the surface, looking up at the vast blanket of space laid out before me. I ran through the pre-flight checks, signed off with StarCon, then the landing gear was unlatched and I was flying once again.
My little metal wedge cut through Asellus 2's sky as I broke free of the planet's gravity, soon surrounded by other new commanders in their own Sidewinders in supercruise around me. Many of them were zipping away into the black, and I charged my frame-shift drive to follow them to Eranin. With four seconds to jump, I realized that I may never have been destined for greatness like my father wanted, but perhaps I can find my own version of it, on my own terms. I flew into witch-space, watched the cosmos swirl around me, and smiled.
Her name is Brenna.
Did you miss any part of this story? Start here at the beginning!
It has been a great joy to provide my own roleplay contribution to Inara, and I hope you enjoyed following along as much as I enjoyed writing it. My story is far from over, and I look forward to being a larger part of the Elite universe in the coming months and years!
My thanks to the many logbook writers here, too many to name individually, for providing me with insight and inspiration into RP storytelling, and allowing me to craft a personal narrative I could share with other like-minded people who love this game as much as I do.