Back in Buisness

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Felix's Revenge
Posts: 2
Joined: Tue May 27, 2003 10:51 pm

Back in Buisness

Post by Felix's Revenge »

Felix never thought he'd find himself out here again. When he retired with a blockade runner full of credits, he figured the closest he'd come to running the spacelanes would be wagering on the outcome of the Ik-Thorn Cup.

Several hundred million credits seemed like a lot for a guy born on a heavy G mining world, but a few years of professional decadence, while enjoyable, sucks away cash like a Thevian callgirl.

"Maybe I did make a few poor investments. Especially on the gladiator matches. And the galumati races. And the cards. But man, it was fun while it lasted."

It lasted until the revenue service repossessed his Blockade Runner, his sprawling home, and it seemed like all of his friends. Especially the super friendly, nubile kind. And then his less savory creditors started sending "associates" to pick up the credits they were owed.

Stepping out of the refresher, Felix pulled on his grey flight suit and pulled on his boots. He buckled on his EM slugthrower and ngo-knife as well. He wasn't expecting to get mugged on the crawl to the cockpit, but the idea of walking around anywhere completely unarmed was a bit scary. Besides, the ngo-knife was good at opening up ration packs.

The best ship he could afford with his current "financial difficulties" was this Merchant Vessel. It seemed like it was cast all in one piece. Just poured into a mold and left to cool down. It lacked the character of his first vessel, an Old Merchant Vessel that seemed to run solely through clean living.

Felix buckled himself into the cramped command chair and powered up the systems, running through the checklist. The automated Federal Beacon message repeated on the loudspeaker. The checklist was flown through, not because Felix had anywhere important to be, but because the automated voice droning on in seven languages was pretty irritating. Back when he was running with a bunch of like-minded piratical traders (or mercantile pirates) he used to joke that the only phrases he knew in every language in the Federation were "A shot of West Quadrant bourbon, barkeep" and "This is Federal Protected Space, power down your weapons."

Easing the sluggish tub away from the ships still scattered around the beacon, Felix checked his itinerary. Hauling wood, synthetics, food and ore to a half dozen fifth-rate stations.

"I should have learned to handicap those galumati races."
Felix's Revenge
Posts: 2
Joined: Tue May 27, 2003 10:51 pm

Post by Felix's Revenge »

Felix ran a hand along his jaw. He needed a shave. Little things like that tended to take a second place to keeping the ship moving fast and unnoticed and his time tied up at port to a minimum. Plenty of time for the little niceties now that he was docked at station.

The enormous, sprawling station that housed the Federal headquarters orbited the West Quadrant capital world like a good-sized moon. There were thousands of places on the commercial decks designed to part a spacer from his credits. Glancing at a vidscreen, Felix figured he could spare a few credits for a hot meal and a some shielding improvements. A novel to read while his reactor and panels recharged his batteries would not be out of the question.

The necessary preparations to stroll about civilization required some time. After all, one has a certain reputation to live up to as a WQ spacer. When the whole Federation blames the Quadrant for the criminal underground's extensive use of cloaking devices, spacers tend to play up the reputation. Though, truth be told WQ spacers don't need reasons to swagger and look like troublemaking smugglers, but most like to look like dashing troublemaking smugglers.

With a last check in the mirror, Felix headed out on station. The clamour washed over him, the sounds of throngs of spacers and stationfolk conducting their buisness at high volume. Passing by the deserted customs station without pause, Felix slid into one of the broad, main steel arteries that branched through the station.

On impulse, Felix wandered over to one of the small ship dealerships that dotted the station. A few battered Blockade Runners, a half dozen Rogues, and a solitary, battle-scarred Dark Mirage rested in the dealer's hangar off the throughfare. Strolling out onto the hangar floor, Felix examined the predatory, avian-like starships. No two were made by the same company, likely. That was apparent with a glance. A dozen and a half companies all made the West Quadrant ships under license, and they liked to change the cosmetics any way they damned well pleased. One Rogue, he noticed, had more the look of a menacing manta ray than the hawkish one next to it.

"Lookin' for something, Captain?" A voice asked behind him.

"Just remembering old days, friend. I flew more than one of these over the years. I rode in my share of Rogues and Runners during my service years, for that matter."

The old dealer gave Felix a quick once over. "Infantry?"

Felix nodded with a rueful grin. "Broke my heart when they sent me to the 331st New Troy Heavy Infantry instead of flight school."

The dealer chuckled. "Likewise. I remember the sergeant yelling for some to go on this ship for spacer training and the rest here for infantry. 'But Sergeant,' I said, 'I signed up for flight school.' And he looked at me and said 'Son, you don't got any special technical skills. They don't need no farmers-'"

"'In the cockpit.'" Felix finished with a smile. "That's what all the boot instructors say. Except mine insisted it was miners didn't belong in the cockpit. At any rate, I was just looking. I got my eye on that Rogue for later. Who was the builder, Void Runner Shipwrights?"

After some small talk and a promise to return when he had the credits, Felix went off for some dinner at a Alskant joint that seemed to offer a reasonable price for dishes Felix recognized as Alskant.

As he ate, Felix examined his fellow diners. All were other spacers. Most were traders like himself, small timers. A few in the corner wore patches denoting one of the big alliances, and from the looks of their gear, flew Interstellar Traders. Felix felt little more than disgust for the squat, potbellied ships, but they could move cargo.

A couple parties at different tables wore WQ gear on their flight rigs. Their almost insolent body language proclaimed them as Rogue and Runner captains. Pilots who knew their ships were fast, tough, and slick. 'If I wanted to, I could hustle fusion torps right under the Federation President's nose while I ran off with his daughter and no one would be the wiser.' was their attitude. Felix knew it was because when he flew one of those ships, he felt the same way.

Then there was the last table with four spacers around it. When one got up to get a refill at the counter, he strutted. His arrogance was palpable. Dark Mirage pilots. The killers in the dark. Stalkers in the abyss. Death in the pitch black. Those pilots flew the most dangerous ships you'll never see. Felix flew a few of those, once upon a time as well. Walking into a spacer bar or other establishment wearing that gear made you draw looks and cause whispers. Envy and awe being the most common, not to mention some company in the form of the opposite gender.

Felix got up and tossed down some loose credits to settle the bill. It'd be a while before he'd get a chance to draw those looks yet. Besides, he had an appointment with the shielding installer, and keeping those guys waiting never brought about good things.
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