Captain Speedy Made a Docking
25 Sep 2024Meowers
Author's note: the text below has nothing to do neither with my character nor with anything related to her. It is an improvised sketch which unexpectedly fell out of my head and hit the keyboard as a response to the 'Cadets learning by example: tales from the Alliance' written by Haraldsen. We rejected sanity for a little while, and things have gone out of hand in the best way possible. So I recommend reading her part first if you haven't done it yet, for a proper picture.
Ashtray made of canned beans tin was a fine touch to the picture. A hand in the shabby, patched protective glove pressed another cigarette butt into the can, and a thin, rippling trail of smoke emerged from the sludgy mass of old, used and discarded. Old, used and discarded. How woefully precise.
"Nowhere for an honest old man to find a decent job in this damn Federation," a tired, coarse male voice sounded. Ronny. Poor old Ronny, it seemed like he'd been around forever. Kept singing his song, as younger misfits and outsiders come and go. Retired marine, wounded in the knee decades ago, in one of the countless border clashes with the Imperials. As insignificant as their outcomes, he was thrown on the outskirts of society, and such the scenario of his life was written without any of his words in it. Or was it a gang uprising? Too long ago to remember. Perhaps, he wasn't even searching for anything better, giving up silently, becoming one with his scruffy, greasy protective suit, logo on the shoulder so worn off that you barely could make out the letters. Ross 695 Dock Cleaning Service. Nobody chooses career paths like that, these were for the times when there was no choice left at all.
"Damn voting, who cares, it's all the same trash... I swear you youngsters are going to scrape, pack and process me as well someday," Ronny's words lingered in the thick, tobacco-filled air of the rec room, mixing with the rustling of the old vent fan, probably older than Ronny himself. At least that vital machine still had some oil in it, which Ronny's joints desperately lacked. "Years and years and years, and they just keep comin'. What those jerks at the training are teaching them these days? Go nice and slow, your damn Hauler ain't no Fer-de-Lance... No, he boosted and smacked his damn cockpit straight into the slot edge. Found damn legs half a mile away."
Old Ronny sighed hopelessly and lit another cigarette, holding it tight with his cracked weather-beaten lips. By the unspoken rules, it meant that other, younger folks may share their stories now.
"...And I can't stop seeing that cursed T-7. Never thought sending people with ropes and jetpacks was still legal. I mean, those limpets..."
"Legal? Ah... Guys, he said 'legal'... Stay innocent, cub...", a man from the far corner interjected, his voice a mix of mockery and bitter, even desperate, factuality. Although it was obvious that he didn't mean to offend anyone.
"Fuck you, Vince. Those poor fuckers have it worse than we do. Anyway... That jerk in the cockpit fired the laterals before they strapped the rock they'd pulled inside. I heard the blackbox recording, that's some nightmare. Then that dumbfuck kept yelling at the intercom and calling them lazy on the next chunk, until he went into the cargo bay himself to look. I mean... They were pasted. Smeared over the wall, together. Two heads sticking out of whatever left... Damn, those ribcages, like, pressed, melted together in one. Shit, I can't stop seeing it. And the boot, guys... That magboot somehow had power left and locked to the wall. With the bone sticking out. Fucking comedy... Both immigrants, no IDs. Got fined for breaking the fucking 'biomaterial recovery regulations'. Regulations, my ass, go down here and help me to tell whose liver that was. No, they don't grow in those milk carton families to even look at our job."
Slow, even shocked speech of the young worker turned into a resentment-fuelled rant once he got to the actions of their management. Perhaps, that was necessary to vent the pictures, still etched into memory, out of the stream of his thoughts. Regardless, he cut his story short and took a deep drag of his cigarette, unwilling to continue. Everyone knew everything they needed about the management already. And, altogether, they were helpless.
"Immigrants... Noone damn counts them, and nobody ever had, just go and get another batch. Show them a few creds and they'll do anything. His ship, his rules," stated old Ronny, maybe still remembering his own dreams, almost faded in time, barely any colour left. Vivid once, before that stray shot painted a double cross over his life, now they were the same old shambles as Ronny himself.
The bright red lamp above the door flickered a few times, and a series of barely audible plastic rattling noises followed it. A long time ago, they had a sound signal too. No surprise someone tech-savvy went inside with pliers and screwdriver and silenced it forever, leaving only the actuator to its futile attempts. People here could do without another nod towards their misery.
The door opened, and another figure in the cleaning service suit appeared. Vigorous, apple-cheeked, tall and brawny, it was nobody else than Ken, again. So eager to do the job nobody wanted to have in the first place. Never seen neither with a cigarette nor with a glass of something with a proper kick, but often with a tablet full of financial and stockmarket news he's been subscribed to. Still childishly naïve in his boundless faith that position in the cleaning service was simply a minor setback and he could finally break even any day now.
Thank you, Ken. You've been so helpful, as usual. Everyone already knew what to do. At least there has always been someone to send for the most sickening parts of the job, and, these days, it was Ken. Smart enough to find his way to the markets and lose the money he inherited, but not that smart to figure out his own standing in the team of dock cleaners.
His arrival in the rec room meant only one thing. More work.
"Let's go, people. Another Captain Speedy just made a docking."