181-1103: Colchis. Still dry, for now.
So, the fancy lot finally came back from their little excursion into town back on Acadie. While I were elbow-deep in the power couplings, actually making sure this rust-bucket wouldn’t vent us all into the vacuum the second we hit jump, the “Admiral” and her lot were off playing Spy vs. Spy. Apparently, they found a lock-up full of guns and a claymore mine rigged to blow their legs off. Zhana was looking very pleased with herself for spotting a switch behind the door. I told her if she wants a medal for not getting blown to smithereens, she’s in the wrong line of work. In the Belt, we call that “Tuesday.”
Then came the drama. Always with the bloody drama. They hacked some computer they nicked from the German lads – Neubayern, whatever – and found out it was all a big conspiracy to arm the locals and blame the neighbours. Next thing you know, the local copper, some bloke with a moustache you could lose a spanner in, calls up giving it the “we know what you did” routine. Travis, bless him, looked like he was about to pass a kidney stone. They ended up posting the computer back to the coppers like a late birthday present and we scarpered. All that faffing about just to do the local plod’s job for free. I swear, if there was a credit in it for common sense, this crew would be bankrupt.
We finally lifted off before the riots kicked off properly. I was glad to see the back of Acadie. Too much gravity, far too much constant rain, and too many people shouting in French. Give me the black any day. Me and Travis got the power systems singing again – well, humming, at least. He’s a decent enough mechanic for a trader, even if he does spend half his wages on those pills to try to look twelve. I’d rather spend my credits on a decent ale and a pie that isn’t made of reconstituted soy-paste, but each to their own.
The jump to Colchis was quiet, thank the stars. Just the hum of the drive and the occasional check on the “popsicles” in the freezer. Vanderpool kept fussing over them like a mother hen. I told him as long as the green lights are on, they aren’t thawing out, so stop poking it. He looked at me like I’d suggested surgery with a rusty spoon. Honestly, these people. You’d think none of them had ever had to strip a CO2 scrubber in zero-G before.
We touch down on Colchis, and I’m thinking, “Right, Anson, old girl. Time for a pint. A proper pint. In a glass, on a table that isn’t vibrating.” We get the freight off-loaded, get paid – which is a bloody miracle in itself – and head for the nearest watering hole. I could taste the foam. I was two steps from the bar, ready to order something that would strip the paint off a bulkhead.
Then, of course, a suit shows up. Sweating like a cheese in a sauna, tie all skew-whiff, looking like he’s running from the tax man. Turns out he’s from Sternmetal. Says they lost a boat. A boat. In a lake. In a war zone. And he wants us to go fetch it.
I looked at the others. I looked at the suit. I said, “You do realize we just got done drowning on the last planet, right?” But no. The money’s good, they say. It’ll be an adventure, they say. So now I’m polishing my wrench again, getting ready to wade into another body of water to fish out rocks for a corporation that couldn’t find its backside with a map. I’m a Belter. I belong in the void, surrounded by honest rock and vacuum. If I wanted to be wet and shot at, I’d have joined the other sort of Navy. This spying game isn’t what I’d hoped for at all.
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