"Jack Visily?"
You blink again, bleary-eyed, at the attractive woman on your doorstep. Lithe, young, blonde, pretty and (impresively) not a hint of surgery. Must be genealtered or natural, you suppose, so pretty but not rich. This is borne out by her t-shirt with the double-D slogan.
"I, sorry what?" you murmur, your mouth still feeling like fish guts.
"Jack Visily?" the girl repeats. "I'm from Direct Delivery, I have a package for him?"
"Oh, right. Thank you-" Jack glanced at the ID badge on the girl's chest, trying not to linger too long, "-Alice. That's me. Where do I press?" Alice proffers a small pad, which you press your thumb upon. The little machine bleeps, and Alice hands you a slender package, flat and no larger than a datapad. She gives you a pleasant wink and heads off along the promenade.
You stretch and yawn, sticking the package down on the sideboard behind your door. You take a look around the promenade briefly, rubbing your eyes. Same as ever; long steel corridor with dozens of steel doors and rooms. 'Glass' roof, or what passes for glass these days, and glass windows at the stairwells at both ends, giving you an excellent view of the same purple sky and pink ice floes you've seen throughout your entire life. You close your door and step back into your room.
Cubicle would be a little generous. On a shipper's salary, you can't afford much more. There's a bed that folds up, or around to double as a table; a cupboard/closet where you stash clothes and uniforms; a vidscreen computer built into the wall (both for recreation, work, and the endless God-damned bulletins); a waste slip and a solitary folding chair. Nobody invites someone back to a cube, dates happen on the main rec deck and if you ever get married you save up for a double. Still, for a single man the cube is perfect. Which is to say, bearable.
There are a handful of personal touches, of course. An old Jjagged Bbanner poster (plastic film), a harmonica that after years of hassle you finally can play a half decent tune on, two ticket stubs to a screening with Maria and a group photo of yourself and your family. Real paper too, which was suitably expensive. It's not like there are many trees on Merlin anyway.
Your father, Sarekhen, stands proudly in the centre. Sarekhen would have scoffed at this life, probably. He was a priest, back in the village, a man of some standing. A trailer of his own, and easily twenty times larger than your cube. Unfortunately by the end even that couldn't save him from the illness. The last you saw of your father was a weak, confused wave as he was carried into a speeder - you didn't even get to say goodbye. Two weeks later, the letter came from the asylum and that was that. You can't even remember the funeral.
Your mother, Marta, stands beside him. Her side of the family flanks to the left, your father's to the right. You're familiar with most of them - all mostly fishermen back in the village. Not a life for you - you learned early on of your allergies to fish, a practically unheard of thing on Merlin. As a result, you figure you probably spend a fifth of your wage on antihistamines just to eat. Well, that's life, isn't it? Your father's side of the family stretches back three generations, though your mother's does not. Her mother (your maternal grandmother) never really spoke about your grandfather - you understand she raised your mother alone.
You shake your head clear. It might be your day off, but you shouldn't waste it daydreaming. You pick up the package again. It looks about the right size and shape to be a card, but you don't know anyone due for a birthday. Even so, you tear open the plastic and deposit it in the waste slot, opening what to your surprise is a real paper envelope. There is a letter enclosed;
To my grandchildren,
If you are reading this, I am dead. This will not affect you negatively, as I never knew any of you, and you never knew me. I was and am a solitary man, save those moments that gave rise to your parents. Still, I feel I should leave something to those who come after me. Yet there are so many of you that my fortune shall be spread thin as space! Still, I have lodged sufficient funds and instructions with my solicitors (Messrs Sue, Cripple & Sneer of Mars) to ensure that each of you will receive a single Eagle Mk I, a hundred credits and my blessing.
It is my hope that my grandchildren will be able to enjoy the life that I did, the adventure of space. True, space has civilised much since my day - I daresay you would not believe many of the adventures I might care to recount! Even so, there is still much to do. Some of you will enjoy the life of a trader, taking this small cruiser and making your fortunes from it. Others may take the more mercenary route of a bounty hunter, or fall to the temptations of smuggling or piracy. Still others might seek the lonely path of exploring uncharted space. Mining? Perhaps another time.
Whatever you choose, know that you have my blessing and the hope that one day you might achieve the same success that I did when I had your youth and opportunity.
Kindest Regards,
Peter Jameson
Enclosed are the deeds to a ship, and a credit slip for what you would suppose would indeed be a hundred credits. You let out a long, low whistle. More money than you've ever held in your life - nearly half a year's wages at once. Where will you go from here?
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As you may have guessed already, I am basing this in the universe of David Braben and Ian Bell's Frontier: Elite II. We have the option of remaining free-form with this, or turning this into a semi Let's Play with the game. Should we do things that depart from the scope of the game (getting multiple ships etc) we'll depart back into free-form anyway, but I'd still like to hear suggestions.
Also, a left out bit from above: A shipper in the context of the mobile factories drives speeders or other light transits across the ice to villages not directly in the factory's path. There, they pick up and pay for catches and haul them back to the factory for processing.
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Topic: You are SPACE PILOT! (Read 2519 times)