by Johnny Stone
“John, what’s the status on the AI, we’re almost out of time?” John was my decades old droid that I’d picked up cheap, a few years ago. I relied on him much more than I should, but I didn’t really have a choice. For the most part, he was nothing more than an highly advance automaton, following orders, acting within his strict programming guidelines, with only limited free thought or deductive reasoning, unlike his more advanced brothers, the AI. He was a decent enough co-pilot, and his electronics and astrogation programming were okay, but as much as I hated to admit it, I’d purchased him mainly to keep me company.
“I have just finished the AI’s final formatting and integration into the ship’s mainframe Captain,” his somewhat synthesized voice replied. “But I’m afraid-”
“Great! We’ll be lifting off in thirty-”
“We may have a problem. The AI-”
“What problem?” I painfully climbed out of the hole I’d been working in for the last two hours, trying to stretch away the stiffness. I pulled off my goggles with a huff, running a hand through my matted, butter-blonde hair in frustration. What the hell’s wrong now? Why couldn’t anything go right, for a change?
“Captain, I was unable to purchase a new AI that would be satisfactory for your needs, with the money allotted. I found a used one, Mark, as it calls itself, but he has numerous personality quirks that you may find offensive. I’m sorry Captain; it was the best I could do.”
“What model is it?”
“A Pencore 3B.”
I winced, throwing my head back, closing my eyes. Why me? No wonder he got it so cheap. Pencore had discontinued that model years ago, and for good reason. It had a high-end brain core, more than adequate to handle the ship, but the 3Bs’ had an unexplained propensity to develop quirky, off the wall personalities no matter how many times you wiped their memory, and set their personality blocks to the lowest setting.
“We don’t ‘ave time to find another one, so we’ll just has to deal with him as best we can.” My life-long nemesis, in the form of a thick, grammar mutilating Southern accent, started to make its reemergence. That always seemed to happen whenever I got overly flustered, or was completely exhausted. I happened to be suffering from both of those conditions at the moment. “Why don’tcha start the pre-launch checks, while I get’s things closed up?”
“Yes, Captain.”
I can honestly say that the only good thing to come out of my maintenance layover on Darien IV was that I’d picked up an unexpected contract for the Mandolin Cartel. It was a big money slave and weapons haul this time, unlike the pithily ones I’d managed to scrounge up recently. The drawback was, I had to make the cargo pick up on Orvus Prime first, and I loathed making a pick up on any Federation planet. It was still considered a level-three colony world, but that didn’t mean it was even close to being safe for me. The Star Marshals were always on the prowl in hopes of catching one of the Cartels red-handed for a change, and since I happened to work for them more often than not, that made me a prime target on their hit list. The warrant currently out for my arrest meant a lifelong stay on a penal colony several times over, if not worse, for some of the crap I’ve pulled over the years.
A ground-based sting operation was only the start of my concerns, because I still had the gauntlet of Federation picket ships that circled Darien like a pack of wolves to consider, first. If that wasn’t bad enough, I was going to have to brave another picket line of satellite surveillance drones before landing on Orvus Prime, and then make it back out again undetected. Who knows, maybe it’ll be a milk run this time? Yeah right, nothing was ever easy for me. I’ve been living by the seat of my pants, hedging on borrowed time for most of my life already, so why should things be different for me now?
I paused after stowing my scattered array of tools in the recessed compartment beside the maintenance hatch, wiping my grubby hands on the rump of my flight suit, looking out over the massive expanse of my patchwork ship from above. She was a two-hundred-year-old, mostly reliable class-2 light-bulk freighter that was nearing the limit how many band-aids I could slap on, and still keep her going. The ‘Space Tramp’ was on her last leg, but then again, I’ve been saying that from the moment I’d first laid eyes on her. It didn’t matter if she was a piece of junk though, because she was my piece of junk.
“Just one more haul baby girl, and then maybe I can afford to get’cha ya fixed up the way you deserve,” I sighed lovingly, bending down to pat the scored and pot-marked metal of her hull. Maybe if I’d known this would be the last time I’d see the Tramp like this, I would have come up with something a little more meaningful to say.
***
The dim glow of Darien IV’s upper stratosphere began to fade from the cockpit view screen, giving way to the inky blackness of space. I felt a bump, almost like a hiccup, pass through the Tramp’s hull, when I transferred from atmospheric to standard star-drive. Damn, I thought I fixed that.
John, in all his synthetic glory, sat next to me in the cramped two-seater cockpit. His vaguely life-like eyes, which never came into focus, were locked on the sensor display waiting for any sign that our planetary breakaway had been detected. Even in the dim red of post launch lighting, I swore I could see an intent ‘human’ stare of seriousness etched in his face. I knew he couldn’t be nervous, but I sure as hell was. This was the moment of truth; we were about to enter the Federation far orbit picket line.
Thus far everything had been golden. I’d taken a roundabout flight path after leaving Johannesburg, blending in with the commercial traffic as best I could, before engaging my jammers and making a run for it. Sometimes, the best way to hide was in plain sight. Fleet was no doubt watching all the usual backdoors and unauthorized flight corridors, like a hawk. I didn’t think the Trade Corporation would send word ahead of my launch; there was no love lost between them and the Feds, but all it would take is one greedy narc to get wind of my identity, and I was screwed.
I broke into a cold sweat, holding my breath, beginning to pray. Because of the Haley Accord of ‘30, Fleet wasn’t allowed to actively scan Darien or any ships still within its planetary boundary, but what if they’d gotten a visual on the Tramp at some point, and ran it through their database? What if the new, yet second hand countermeasure suit and cloaking upgrade I’d recently installed, wasn’t up to the challenge of defeating military grade hardware? So far it seemed to be doing the job, but if just one of those Fleet weenie’s noticed even a slight discrepancy in his sensor returns… With the current state my ship was in, I seriously doubted if I could outrun a patrol boat; let alone a modern System Corvette.
Fortunately for me, picket duty was about as boring as it got, and if I’d timed this correctly it should be close to shift change on board ship. The sensor techs would be anxious for their relief to show, lulled into a near comatose state from staring at their screens for the last twelve hours. My ace in the hole was that if Fleet personal still held true to form as when I was in, only one of three things would be buzzing around inside their heads at the moment: chow, sleep or a quick roll in the sack before their next duty shift. Who wanted to waste time on a slight sensor glitch that was probably nothing anyway, when they had a wet and wild piece of ass waiting for them in their bunk, right? I’d waited in plenty of bunks over the years, so you trust me on this one.
I smiled with a rare sense of personal satisfaction, so far so good. The Fed ships continued to move further away on their deep orbit station. You can always count on Fleet to come through in a pinch I scoffed, inputting the jump point data into the navigation computer. The Tramp diligently responded, beginning the lazy turn to a new heading, and hopefully the big score that I needed for a change.
I finally allowed myself to relax, closing my tired and sore eyes against the first twinge of a massive headache. The chaotic last minute rush to finish the overhaul, punctuated with apprehensive fear, had been nerve racking to say the least. Besides that, the stim tabs I’d taken were beginning to wear
off, and it was really doing me in this time. It felt like I hadn’t slept in a week, but it had only been 36 hours. At some point, my helmeted head flopped wearily on the padded headrest of my seat. I don’t remember dozing off, but I must have. My eyes snapped open at the sound of John’s voice.
“Are you okay, Captain?”
“Yeah I’m fine, just a little tired is all,” I mumbled groggily from under my darkened visor that contained a heads up display on the Tramp’s status. “Have the picket ships changed course, at all?”
“Negative. Passive sensors indicate an unchanged and prescheduled course per standard Federation doctrine. It would appear the ECM upgrade is functioning adequately. At our current speed we will reach jump point 411 in twelve hours. Captain, if I may be so bold,” John asked as hesitantly as his artificial brain would allow. “This would be a good opportunity for you to get some sleep. Your vital signs are well below the norm, and your biorhythm indicates excessive sleep deprivation. This is an unhealthy state for you to be in.”
I glanced at John with a sorrowful, yet loving smile. I had removed his artificial flesh coating, not long after purchasing him; it’d been in a sorry state, to say the least. The muted, gray metal of his under structure poking out randomly through the numerous rips and tears of his skin, made him look more inhuman than just taking it off all together. To tell you the truth, his appearance had kind of given me the creeps at first; it made him look like some sort of classic horror show zombie, or something.
It was hard to believe I relied on a synthetic, a machine to look after me now. In a strange sort of way I cared for John, just as much as he was capable of doing for me, within the confines of his programming. I used to laugh at women that developed relationships with droids. Mind you, some of the newer models were so life like you couldn’t tell the difference, but not my dearest John. I was constantly reminded of what he was, whenever the cold, lifeless metal of his body pressed against me. Most of the time, I felt nothing but shame afterwards, like I wasn’t good enough for a real person any longer. I don’t know, maybe I’m not.
“No, I think I’ll wait until we hit the jump point. If something happens…”
The cool touch of John’s articulated fingers stroked my shoulder length hair, with the intended perception of incapable love. “Margo, it is well within my ability to pilot the ship to our destination, and you need your rest. You know how I worry about you?” God, I’m pathetic! I’d even altered his programming and English lexicon, so that I had the false perception of a caring partner at my side.
“Maybe you’re right,” I sighed wearily, unclipping my flight harness, coming to my feet. “I’m about shot-out at the moment. Wake me if anything unexpected happens, okay?”
“Of course, Margo.” His hand slid downward, cupping the cushy firmness of my backside, and I closed my eyes with a soft purr. I liked it when he did that. It was all an illusion, I knew that, but that was all I had anymore.
“Should I wake you at a predetermined time? It has also been over fifteen hours since you have eaten anything.”
I dropped my helmet in the seat, before returning his unconditional affection, gently stroking the top of his smooth head that had originally been covered by a mop of sandy brown hair. Just like the Tramp, John may not be much, but he was mine.
“Sure, wake me when we reach the jump point if I’m not already up, I’ll grab something to eat then. Goodnight, John.”
“Goodnight, Margo, sleep well.”
My booted steps echoed mutely along the mid-ship corridor that had once been surfaced with a layer of sound damping and traction matting. Like most things in regards to my ship, it had been worn to unserviceability, and replacing it didn’t even grace the bottom of my long list of minor repairs. I rounded the corner, stepping through the door to my cabin that stood open, more often than not. I was by myself, more or less, making privacy an obsolete concern of mine long ago.
The Tramp had originally been designed for a crew of four, but with the modern marvels of automation software and an active AI to handle the tedious job of monitoring the ship’s systems now, I pretty much ran the whole show by myself. It could be a pain in the ass at times, especially when maintenance came into the picture, but at least I had plenty of room in what would otherwise be cramped living conditions. Besides a small galley that doubled as my dining area, I had three more cabins of equally small size for my own for personal use. One of them, I’d turned into a modest rec area with an interactive holo-projector and Galactic Net access; it was pretty much my only link to the outside world during a haul. Because of my lack of funds, the other two rooms stood empty. Needless to say, I got really bored during transit. That’s where John came into the picture.
I stopped in front of a full-length mirror, looking at myself for the first time in three days. The dark bags under my eyes were long enough to trip over, and my hair was a tangled rat’s nest. I needed a shower…bad. My shoulder holster went on a magnetic hook beside the bed, and my baggy flight suit slid off forming a pile of synthetic refuse at my feet. Standing at just less than 5’5, and weighing close to 165 pounds now, I was reminded by my reflection of how I’d let myself go over the years. My once slim and desirable figure had already begun the inevitable downfall of shapeless ambiguity, which comes with neglected middle age. I wasn’t very pretty to start with in my opinion either: average, tediously average was about the best I could pull off with my overabundance of teeth, and a light splattering of dark freckles dotting my cheeks. I could probably pass for a blonde Pippi Longstockings, if I put my hair up in pigtails. No, I’m not much to look at anymore, am I? I sighed despondently.
The Velcro strap of my wide-band bra ripped the air, releasing my clammy breasts with a tingling sigh. I wasn’t what you would call ‘well endowed’ up top either, and things really hadn’t changed much since puberty. As foolish as it sounds for someone of my age, I still felt self-conscious, if not inadequate, when comparing myself to most other women, but then again, I guess I always had.
I pushed in my shoulders, cupping my boobs to form a meager amount of make-believe cleavage in the mirror. A ruing sigh, and a smirk of disgust, followed shortly thereafter. Strike three, you’re out! Guys had a thing for big tits; they always have, and always will. Why? What the hell was so damn special about having a massive rack, anyway? There wasn’t a man alive that could keep their hands off them, even my pale excuse for womanhood. It was like they had…That’s it, a delirious, sleep deprived cackle crawled its way from my chest. The mystery’s finally over! Men were born with boob magnets in their hands.
I could laugh about it now, but my sense of mammary-based insecurity had been especially bad when I was growing up. It didn’t help matters that I’d been a bit of a tomboy growing up: boy’s clothes, catching frogs down by the swamp, a rough and tumble game of full contact Football with the boys, followed by skinny dipping out at Hennington Lake. That kind of stuff was okay when I was a kid, but as I got older… Most times I felt like I wasn’t a girl at all, just a pretender that happened to have a vagina, by chance of fate.
I dropped heavily on my double bunk, unbuckling my boots, slowly being consumed by a dark and tired mood after belittling myself in the mirror. I knew what it was, yet was powerless to stop it as usual; the depression I’ve battled with, off and on throughout most of my life, had a nasty habit of unexpectedly rearing its ugly head.
My thoughts began to swirl, forming a bottomless vortex of lifelong regret and self-pity, as I thought about the only man that had ever truly given a damn about me. I could still remember the morning he died like it was yesterday, so sudden, so unexpected. My father had been the center of my universe when I was a little girl. We did everything together. It’s funny, because I still don’t see it as sexual abuse, even today, except in a technical sense. He was the only man that ever loved me, that made me feel needed and special, and that was all I’ve ever wanted in my life.
My little sister Aurora and I were
finishing breakfast before heading off to school, and dad was on his way out the door for another 16 hour double shift in the infernal hell of molten durasteel production, at the metallurgy plant in town. Daddy was a good man, and worked hard to provide for us, yet always made time for Aurora and I in his busy life. He stopped on his way out the door, to tell us one of his stupidly funny jokes.
“Daddy, that was really dumb.” He laughed of course.
“I know. See you tonight princess.” Then he was gone. The last thing I’d said to him when he was alive was how dumb his joke was. He was killed in a freak accident that morning, it shouldn’t have happened, but it did.
“A robotic arm at the plant gave way due to structural fatigue,” the man had told my mother. “The backup safety rigging had been improperly secured, your husband was killed instantly by the falling pallet of machinery, I’m sorry.” The investigation later found that the operator had been drunk on the job. Of course he’d been fired afterwards, but it was a moot point by then.
Like most normal people, mom and dad didn’t have the money to keep a memory cube and brain pattern tape on file, in the event of an untimely death. The cost alone of keeping a clone on ice with one of the big cryo-firms, even if my parents hadn’t been purists, was astronomical in itself. Daddy was dead and would never be coming back, no matter how much I prayed for it. I was twelve years old at the time; that was when my life changed forever.
I looped my fingers around the string of my panties, and they slipped down my legs with an involuntarily sniff of neglected female hygiene; that was a bad idea on my part. Ugh! God I stink. It reminded me of tuna simmering garlic sauce. The hell with it, I can always wash the sheets later, I silently scowled, crawling over the haphazard mountain of covers, reaching into the wall-drawer for my habitual dose of sleep tabs. I hadn’t been able to sleep soundly for years, without them.
