It was 12 nic sticks past midnight local time and I'm completely stimmed out from my last run. Two bottles of Mongorian Klop and I still can't sleep. My inner clock is all boled up from the Macron run and their damn 36 hour rotation. Drunk as hell and hyped up on stim I was when the Confed call came in. "All able pilots required to report for humanitarian mission or face revocation of license" and all the rest of that bols.
So I's drag my carcass, bloodshot and trembling, to the Confed office to report for duty. The Confed jacko eyeballed me like I was begging credits. Ignoring him, I scanned the mission board. Seems the twerps on Vatican III have run out of food. Again. That's what you get when you plant a colony on a desert plant.
"Food's ready and waiting for immediate transit, Captain." says the perturbed, neatly pressed Confed jacko. "The Confederation thanks you for your service."
As if I's got a choice. Bastards. I grunt and head for the fight deck. The flight doc plugs me into the machines and certified that I am alive but barely. He doses me with another stim and warns me against the dangers of drugs and alcohol. Stoned to the bejesus, I nod sagely and thank him for his sagacity and his drugs.
My old LA-87b flier was fueled up and loaded by the time I make it to Departures. I sign the manifests and give the Spacecraft Inspector the finger. For my trouble he handed me a list of Ship Flight Worthiness violations. Nothing that will force him to ground me, just damn expensive to fix. Sometimes it doesn't pay to be a VoidJumper.
The trip's nothing interesting. Just black void and singularities, the standard fare of modern space flight. My LA-87b drops into realspace in the designated zone and immediately the radio starts pounding my poor depleted brain with distress calls from the planet. Thanks to my hidden stash of Mongorian Klop or it would have been a miserable flight.
I check the Grid for landing orders and a hotel room. The Mongorian Klop has finally overcome the stim and it's time for sleep. The thought of spending the night in my bird was too depressing. So I ordered a suite at the only hotel available. Who cares? The Confed was picking up the tab anyway, might as well make the most of it.
There's no chance I'm leaving my bird wide open on this planet. So I stayed and watched these damn starving scarecrows unload for more than an hour. They spent more time tearing open and cramming vittles than hauling. These yokels were probably going to get rich selling food on the black market but that's no care of mine. Sleep is what I crave.
As luck has it, my hotel (the only damn hotel on this backwards shithole) was the nastiest little bols you could imagine. The building itself looked like it was built by drunks after a long weekend. Six sideways tilted floors and built from local timber - what a dump.
The old crocker at the desk looked enough like the crazy old bastard that stunned me that I almost plugged him full of holes with Molly. My better nature stopped me when I realized I was still so drunk I would probably miss. Time enough to kill him tomorrow.
Key in hand, I called the ancient elevator. Stepping inside and pressing the button for the top floor was harder than ever especially since the damn buttons seemed to evade my finger. The wood paneled doors creaked shut to reveal knife carved ads for whores and eateries. Suddenly the elevator let's out this horrific scream and begins to tremble before lurching upwards. Scared the piss out of your humble hero. What a nightmare.
Some divinity sure smiled at me cause my room was just outside the elevator. I staggered to the door, inserted the key card and stumbled inside. Sleep beckoned. Not even undressing, I fell face first on the bed. Mattress lumps and all, it didn't matter, I was asleep instantly. Snoring and dancing with Morpheus.
Until that damn elevator screamed again. Woke me like cold water on my bols. I cocked one eye open, fighting through the crusted goo on my eyelids, a certain sign of too much stim.
Good thing I got the suite, I thought. This is smaller than that jail cell on Wolf 9021.
Nature called so I creaked to my feet and limped to the can. Looking into the mirror I took stock: good looks intact if in need of more sleep and grooming. I groped for the seat on the toilet when I heard the door to my suite open.
The beauty of adrenaline is it can overcome anything, even Mongorian Klop, exhaustion and stim withdrawal. In one fluid motion, I lever Molly out of her holster and snap off the bathroom lights. Hiding in the shadows, I peek into the room and see a shadow walk past. Quantum quick I step behind the shadow, pressing Molly to it's head.
"Freeze fucko," I say gallantly, though it came out more like fwee fooku. Damn Mongorian Klop.
The crocker from the front desk, trembling in terror, says "Message for you sir. You didn't answer my calls."
Using teeth to scrape the hair off my tongue, I says "And this gives you license to violate my space?"
"It's marked urgent sir. From the Confederation."
"Drop it on the bed and fuck off or I'll blast open your sinuses."
The crocker ran for his life. Only, he didn't leave any message. Just as well, I thought. Last thing I want is to hear from the Confeds again. Bastards probably want me to keep receipts or some shit.
I bolted all the locks and pushed the drawers against the door to ensure no further interruptions. Using the can to eliminate the internal pressures, I used the time to field strip and clean Molly. After washing up, I undressed and dropped my gear into the cleaner.
I slipped Molly under the pillow and settled in for more sleep. Let the Confed deal with their own bols for a while. I needed sleep now. Later I would hunt for more drink.
My last thought before sleep was how strange that the message light on the phone wasn't blinking.
--- To be continued....
No comments:
Post a Comment