Postby SockFiddler » Sun Nov 26, 2017 9:19 am
Between moments defined by the utter certainty that I am going to die, I am having the time of my life.
In equal measure, my time is spent flying, laughing, drinking and passing out, and the men I am doing this with are reckless, impressive, incredibly capable, functional drunks who demonstrate a friendship and intimacy that only comes from having saved each others' lives more times than any of them can count. They have passed through the hypothetical "I love that guy; I'd die for him" barrier by repeatedly endangering their own lives to save their wing-man, and their stories are many and ridiculous and often quite moving.
We are on Tor's ship, which he has officially named "Lucy", but which is also known by a variety of other, filthier names. "Just the tip" is the one I currently cannot resist giggling at, as the scarred paint-job is mostly yellow but morphs into a deep, pulsing red toward the 'Vette's nose-tip. The vessel itself is an incredibly slick, reliable machine complete with 2 fighter bays, more guns than I can count and - inexplicably - a hot tub and sauna: "So we can purge before starting a new crate!" explains Tor as if it's obvious.
Lucy's interior is appointed in the style of a haphazard, often bewildering mixture of convenience and half-considered impulse that only very, very rich, functional drunks can manage. There are 3 fully-functioning, fixed-unit bathrooms, complete with H2O recyclers and ceramic, claw-foot bath tubs. The typical stow-away, space-saving, lightweight stuff mostly because Lucy's crew would continually forget to pull the toilet unit out and simply pee in the space where it would go, leaving a puddle for someone else to wake up in some hours later. Such trauma could then only be dealt with by collectively deciding that they needed more Whiskey / Wine / "Jugs" (I still don't know what Tor drinks out of those things) before they'd start on the clean-up operation... and then would get distracted and not deal with it at all.
Similarly, there is a constant supply of fresh food, mostly many different kinds of meat, as well as an abundance of incredibly rare, carb-based snacks. The recon food packets standard to deep-space FSD ships were abandoned when the collective decision was made that the crew would rather adopt a liquid diet than waste time reconstituting flavourless, luke-warm goo to sustain themselves with.
The only way I can tell that I have been aboard Lucy for 8 Standard Weeks is by the message that Not-Dave sent me. Time has no meaning here; We drink while we jump, then we fight, dock, hand-in bounties and jump again. Loriath is aboard because he is hitching a lift to "somewhere in Imp space where I'm certain I left my ride..." and we have plotted a course there five times so far, only to be pulled off to another system by a rumour, a job, a bounty or the promise of some decent booze.
This chaotic, impulsive wandering is exactly what I need to distract and focus me. The sharpness of losing Nari is now fading and being replaced by a sense of control, especially when I am flying one of Tor's fighters. I only do this while utterly faced and have grown to love the tiny, zippy vessel which I load myself into whenever the scanner blips. There is no terror anymore, just an acceptance that death is a possibility but, until it claims me, I am one with my machine and should chase, shoot and chase again.
"Fuck that 'Winder," says Lori one evening when I am nursing some seriously good rum and musing over having to borrow a vessel. As far as I know, I am still penniless and lacking a ride. I look over at him and shrug.
In reply, Lori settles back into his chair in the way that indicates he is about to Explain How Things Are. I grin and take a swig as his rants are variously tinged with genius, impossible expectations, filthy humour and the arrogance of a pilot who exactly knows what he's doing. He empties his whiskey and slides the empty along the dash to Tor who is already sliding one back. The bottles pass each other in slick fly-by.
"See, you've been earning," says Lori, twisting the real-corked top off his new bottle. "You've been flying and shooting, so you've been earning. Fuck knows how much, but there's been some spoils for you. And a cut of the trades. This ain't no free ride here, Princess, but we pay jocks fair here, too. You scratch our backs, we'll scratch yours and you're good out there. It's time for your own ride."
"I can't afford a ride good enough to handle the crap you two drop me into," I laugh, leaning back in my chair and turning my head a little to access my Contacts panel.
"Sure you can. It won't be pretty but it'll take care of you. I'll make some modifications myself. Get you a Cobra mkIII or something. Get you out there on your own, in a Grown-Up ride. You're done with Tor's baby-bouncers. Time for some real meat."
"Real meat" is not - unsually - a penis reference but a phrase that at once means "good stuff", "proper action" and, vaguely, "something someone really, really needs." It can also mean decent booze, good sleep and a shower. In fact, the thing it is never used to indicate is a penis.
"Contact, point-two-one light years," murmurs Tor. He is currently relatively sober, having only been awake some 45 minutes. Thus he is completing his coffee-up swing before the first jug, very much like spinning up an FSD ahead of dropping into SC. There is no urgency in his announcement; we're too far out to launch and fight yet. It's more a warning that we will - at some point - need to suit up and climb into our 'pits in the next 15 minutes: when you do that in a hurry, you're more likely to forget your bottle.
Lori is about to start speaking again when Tor breaks into laughter. "Oh... she's going to love this," he murmurs, throwing back the contents of is mug with one hand while adjusting speed and vector with the other. By now, I am somewhat familiar with the sort of thing that amuses Tor, but I am distracted by the notion of having been earning money the whole time aboard so far.
"How much we talking?" I ask.
"I'd think around six or seven mil maybe."
I have a mouthful of rum that is rapidly ejected and sprayed over my legs and the dash. Briefly, I choke, and then I start to laugh.
"Get you a decently-outfitted Cobra," continues Lori, once again settling into his chair, preparing to explain to me what I'd need to do to get a Cobra combat-ready. And then what I'd need to do to get a Cobra A-Team combat ready. It's a fascinating lesson, often punctuated with interjections from Tor about vehicle bays and cargo space, bi-weave shields and thrusters.
They are still chattering - and I am still listening, utterly fascinated - when Lucy drops out of SC. I glance over at my two companions, but neither is showing any alarm. Tor deftly flips and rolls the vessel so that she is now facing in the direction she was coming from, her nose tickled by her own engine wake. A beautifully-painted Python drops out of SC, slows its pace and rolls. Warnings flash that we are being targeted and the Python's weapon hatches open up.
"What the..?" In spite of the cool heads on my companions, this is an unsettling development. That thing is HUGE and built for death. The coms panel flashes that we have a voice link established and the cabin is immediately filled with the sound of a man's helpless, gleeful, rolling laughter. "Happy New Beer, gents!" and then the python opens fire.
Lucy's shields flash purple and blue, and Tor and Lori quickly dissolve into laughter, too. The python continues to shoot us in the face and the helpless, maniacal laughter continues over the coms. Finally, Tor pulls himself together enough to say both to me an over the open coms channel, "Sock, meet Dawg. Dawg, we have a new member."
"Oh, that's bloody marvelous!" comes the reply, "A pleasure to meet you! How have you managed to survive us so far?"
"Fuck alone knows," I reply dryly as the python's weapons power down.
"She's been flying Tor's launchables," says Lori, "Was just saying it's time she got her own wings. She's got the cash."
The python elegantly flips over and bumps windows with us. I can clearly see its pilot grinning and waving at us before raising his bottle in salute. We three salute him in return (Tor swearing and reaching for another jug first), and then Dawg flips again to come to a rest off our right wing. Of course, he is drunk. Of course he's an incredibly skilled pilot. Of course he completely understands his ship. Of course he is having the time of his life.
I am suddenly hit by a pang of urgency: I want to fly like these guys do. Not alongside them, but as one of them. I don't want to be part of the team simply because I can keep pace with them drink-for-drink, but roll-for-roll and kill-for-kill.
"Was going to save up for an Adder," I murmur, provoking more, huge gales of rolling laughter from Dawg who is quickly joined by Lori and Tor in his amusement. "Fuck that!" says Lori, "The way you fly, you'll tear that thing apart before anyone gets a shot off at you. Nah, you need a Cobra."
"Plotting!" announces Dawg with delight, "Balante... 7 jumps."
"I've got your target," confirms Tor, powering up his throttle.
Lori stands up, stretches and laughs. He slaps me on the back and winks. "Let's get you some fucking wings and start teaching you how to actually fly."
And, thus, my life as a commander truly began.
Last edited by
SockFiddler on Thu Jul 09, 2020 12:13 pm, edited 1 time in total.
"Drink fast, die young"
"You may ask who was wearing the bow tie; me or the shark. The answer is: YES."