Drifter

In orbit above a gas giant there was a space station. Numerous docks jutted out from the hull, as if it had been subjected to torture, the implements left in place. Countless bays dotted its surface, each a little pinpoint of light.

In the center of this station, there was a massive concourse. Plants grew tall, long, neon-colored petals flowed from their crowns. Walkways linked platforms, each hosting some new curiosity.

Above, a transparent dome gave a view of the starships as they came and went. Fat tankers, colossal freighters, and sleek cruisers sailed past fairytale lights, past dreamy nebulas and blazing constellations.

The crowd was thick, strange. Local miners on leave. Salvage crews that picked the old battlefields that dotted the length of the Golden Road. Peddlers of drugs that were said to bring salvation and ruin in equal measure. Bounty hunters on the trail of renegade potion makers. Blue skinned mercenaries dressed in medieval finery grinned sadistically, lunatic glee in their eyes.

It walked along on tall legs, its mouth a cluster of obscene barbed tongues. A line of beings in red robes marched along, their faces reptilian, their eyes a glimpse into forgotten tombs. Wrinkly giants strode past portly fuzzballs. Chrome armor, orange scales, sucker lined fingers. Predatory eyes scanned the throng of extraterrestrials through wide visors.

A lone human stroud through the crowd. Countless eyes and other sense organs were drawn to two things, the prosthetic arm and the markings on his neck.

He wore a backpack. In one hand he carried a brand-new gym bag. In the other, he hefted an OD green duffel bag that was both badly faded and covered in a assortment of seemingly random letters and numbers, each rendered using a stencil. This luggage was stuffed so full that each piece looked like it was about to burst open.

The man moved through the crowd with a purpose. He heard snippets of their conversations. As each word was said the translator did its work. He could feel this. It wormed its way around in his brain, searching for the correct words, considering shades of meaning. And it was quick. The words that the aliens spoke kept their sounds, with English not so much layered over them, as simultaneously understood.

The translator, known as the tadvash, did the same for the concourse’s many signs. On every level there were stores. The translator spat the names and specialties of each into his awareness. Everything from pawn shops to dealers in exotic minerals could be found.

At last, he reached his destination. The signage identified it as a dealer in new and used starships.

He approached the counter and sat his bags down.

“How can I help you?” the salesman asked, a little hint of nervousness in his voice. His language consisted of shrill and short words. He glanced at the markings on his neck.

“The Apogee class,” he answered.

“Yes, it’s still available.”

“I’ll need to take a look at it first.”

“Of course. And your name is?”

“Eli Cisneros.”

The pair made their way into the adjacent hangar. There they found a variety of ships. The Apogee class sat alone in a corner.

The lines and curves of the main fuselage weren’t too dissimilar from a terrestrial attack helicopter or perhaps some extinct species of seaplane. The nose seemed to have been designed to convey meanness. He took note of the portholes located along the sides, as well as the two airlocks.

A pair of wings sat at the top. They gently curved downward and sported a pair of small engines. He could see that each wing had three sets of hardpoints for additional weapons. At the moment, they were bare.

These wings were connected to the craft by a thick, oval shaped neck, which had several portholes, including a large one at the front.

The rear of the craft had two stacks of engines mounted on a pair of vertical fins. Between these fins there was a boarding ramp.

The ship sat on a trio of landing gear. A freight elevator was positioned in the middle of the belly. Just forward of that, there was a basic tractor beam. The hull was painted white with a set of blue racing stripes running over the top and bottom.

The craft looked like it had undergone numerous cheap and ugly repair jobs. The paint was badly scratched. Countless dings and dents marred the vessel. Sections of the light armor plating that lined the hull were damaged, several of them outright missing.

A salesman spoke with the kind of pride someone that was actually involved with the ship’s design should have had, “The Apogee class combat utility transport.”

“There are a lot of them flying around?”

“Yes, sir. This model and its predecessors have been mass produced for a long time. It’s seen service in countless militaries, security teams, police forces, PMCs, and other groups. Due to the craft’s versatility, there are a lot of variations.”

Eli carefully studied the read out, the alien letters meaning conveyed to him by the translator in his mind. The strange words that they made were converted into concepts that he could understand.

The Apogee class could be outfitted to serve as anything from a gunship to an ambulance. This one seemed to have been configured to carry troops and cargo. It also sported front and rear mounted energy shields, both of which had a respectable six charges.

A pair of guns were mounted on the nose, flanking the cockpit. He brought up the data on them, found that they were a common class of directed energy weapon. Not much firepower, but better than nothing. And there were hardpoints where other weapons could be installed once he acquired them.

That was when he noticed the transponder code. The ship was named Cavalier 3-1. The actual word was Zumkark, the dream logic of the translator in his mind chose cavalier as the closest equivalent.

“Cavalier Three One?” Eli questioned, as much to himself as to the salesman.

“This is a decommissioned military vessel. That was its callsign. I can change it, if you want, free of charge.”

“No. I kind of like it. And besides, isn’t it bad luck to change a ship’s name?”

“Depends on which culture. In some places, it’s done frequently.”

“Then just cut out the numbers.”

The salesman promised that he would. They walked up the ramp at the rear and entered the vessel.

The ramp led into a sizable cargo hold. Racks lined the walls. Storage nets were bolted to the ceiling. A series of squares were positioned on the floor. These were lined with clamps, so that pallets or containers could be secured. Caution stripes had been painted onto the deck plates to cordon off these areas. Despite the fading, the colors were still psychedelic, at least to Eli’s human eyes.

As they moved deeper into the vessel, the layout split into two decks. The bottom deck was home to a work area, complete with a bench, tool chests, equipment lockers, charging stations, and a 3D printer. There was a single person latrine toward the front. The freight elevator was also located there, connected directly to the cargo bay.

On the second deck there was a large room that the design specs referred to as a “multipurpose compartment.” It was set up to be adapted to any number of uses. At the moment, it looked to have been converted into a barracks bay, as evidenced by the rows of bunkbeds. There was also a compartment that contained the various life support systems.

Eli and the ship dealer inspected the neck that connected the wings to the hull. A small kitchen and dining area were positioned at the very front, where they overlooked the cockpit through a large viewport. A pantry and crew supply storage sat behind this. A pair of cramped crew quarters sat behind those, along with a set of latrines. And at the rear, a retractable docking arm.

They entered the small bridge. Like the rest of the vessel, it was designed to be adaptable. It currently had two stations, in addition to the pilot’s seat. These stations were equipped with a number of screens and controls, the functions of which could be switched. There were several more spots where additional stations could be installed.

The pilot’s seat was at the very front, suspended on the end of a short arm. In this perch it was practically encased in a shroud of viewports, monitors, and controls. Small viewports were positioned at the pilot’s feet. More viewports above and too the sides. Monitors that displayed feeds from the many external cameras sat at every angle, pressing against the many banks of buttons, switches, and touch screens.

Eli gave the controls a once over, found that the ship operated similarly to those Sad’Daki craft he had piloted in the past, although the aesthetics were different, tending toward simplicity. He turned on one of the monitors and found the manual. After a few minutes he decided that he could operate the vessel.

Eli turned to the salesman, “I think we’ve got a deal.”

The pair returned to the office to fill out the paperwork.

“I’m required to ask where the money came from,” the salesman said, his tone pained. Eli got the sense that he had asked this question thousands of times and never liked doing it.

Eli pulled out a plastic card that was covered with alien symbols, “It’s all on here. I’m licensed by the Skoga to collect Sad’Daki military salvage and bounties on HVTs.”

Again, the being’s eyes shot to the brand and tattoos, “As an official Atlath contractor you have reciprocity with many other groups. I’ll go ahead and register you. You’ll have PMC and privateering rights in a large number of systems.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Where are you planning to go?” the salesman asked, before hastily adding, “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“No clue. I’m just going to go where things take me.”