A Voyage Among the Stars
Baldur Varangar, notorious bounty hunter, former star pirate, and one time planetary savior (albeit due to a misunderstanding) looked at the computer readout in front of him and sighed. The main fuel tank was almost empty, and the computer calculated just enough left in the reserve pods to get him as far as Locraf, still a few parsecs short of the last known whereabouts of his latest quarry. Another quick glance at a screen displaying credit information elicited another sigh. He wondered vaguely if he could refuel and get out of the system before they noticed his credit had been rejected. Probably not, but what choice did he have? He needed this bounty, and his ship was falling apart.
Baldur set the ship’s autopilot to take them to Locraf, and stood up, cursing as he banged his head on a display monitor hastily affixed to the cockpit’s low ceiling. Every damn time. He knew it was there, hell, he’d put it there, and he still did that every. Damn. Time. Once he’d paid off his creditors, he thought, he’d really need to see about relocating that display, or maybe investing in one of the high-end holographic setups. Sure. And while he was dreaming, maybe he could buy a whole new ship, and a private planet for docking.
With a stretch and a yawn, Baldur stepped out of the cockpit into the ship’s small living quarters. His ship, The Gull Wing wasn’t much to look at, but then, neither was Baldur himself. At 34 years old, the majority spent in deep space for one reason or another, his body lacked any real muscle definition, and his dark brown hair had begun graying around the temples. He had a three week beard that refused to fill out, and was starting to develop a paunch, but the black market ocular implants he’d paid for a few years back meant at least his eyesight was as sharp as it had ever been.
Likewise, he’d also made sure his ship, purchased secondhand at a frankly criminal price, had been equipped with at least the necessities for a lengthy, deep space hunt. She wasn’t exactly the fastest hunk of junk in the galaxy — come to think of it, she wasn’t particularly fast at all; mostly just a hunk of junk — but Baldur figured that what she lacked in style, speed, utility, firepower, maneuverability, resale value, or even size, she made up for in character. At least, that’s what he told himself. He chuckled quietly, thinking about the time he’d had to stop a coolant leak in the engine room with nothing but a roll of duct tape and an old pair of boots. It had only been the previous week, but it seemed to be holding together well enough, and besides, he thought it made for a funny story. It wasn’t like those stories about coolant leaks suffocating starliner crews in their sleep had any basis in reality either. Probably.
Baldur knew his life wasn’t perfect, far from it, in fact, but at least he wasn’t stuck working off a debt to one of the conglomerates on some backwater mining colony. Shrugging, he grabbed a glass from one of the cupboards, figuring it looked clean enough, and poured himself three fingers of a strange purple liquor he found at the back of his small refrigerator. Something he must have picked up on one of his last jobs, though he couldn’t say which. Maybe it had come with the ship? He took the bottle with him, and sitting at the small table that completed his dining area, took a sip from the glass. Hopefully it wouldn’t burn too badly.
*****
Baldur woke up hours later, still fully dressed in the small bunk crammed into the back corner of his living quarters. His head felt like a star that had gone supernova, reformed into a new star, burned for several hundred million years, and then gone supernova all over again. The empty liquor bottle lay on the floor next to the bunk, and while Baldur felt a small amount of misplaced pride at having finished all of it, that was quickly replaced by an immediate need to throw up into the nearest available receptacle.
A few minutes later, his head still spinning, Baldur staggered into the cockpit, and making a mental note to watch out for the hanging monitor again, collapsed into the pilot’s seat. Thumbing a button next to one of the screens, he waited for the system to boot, so he could see how close he was to his destination, and try to determine how much fuel he’d have left.
After what seemed like an eternity — damn ancient software — especially with the headache Baldur had suddenly noticed, the screens flared to life and immediately set about flashing a warning. Luckily he’d disengaged the audio alarms a few months back during a similarly hungover flight, so at least he didn’t have to worry about the usual screaming klaxons. Which was about the only good news he found, considering the ship seemed to be telling him that while he’d been sleeping it off, they’d overshot their destination and had less than an hour of reserve fuel left.
Baldur wanted to throw up, but this time he wasn’t sure if it was the hangover, or the fact that he was about to run out of fuel in the literal middle of nowhere space. Damn autopilot. Although a smaller voice at the back of his head chastised him for expecting anything different out of a piece of pirated software he’d bought from a transient in a back alley in the slums on Bachor. A thousand years since humanity had taken to the stars, and capitalism was still thriving exactly as intended, preying on the weak and downtrodden people of the galaxy. People like himself, he noted.
“Computer, shut down all nonessential systems,” Baldur said, knowing full well he was speaking to himself. Affecting a poor imitation of a woman’s voice, he responded to himself in kind. One day he’d get that voice activation software installed. “Acknowledged.” Baldur thumbed another switch and tapped the screen a few times, dousing the lights, shutting down the gravity generator, and disengaging the music player. After a few seconds, he tapped the screen again, and the music started up. Quietly. No sense dying completely bored, he figured.
Baldur checked the fuel indicator and rolled his eyes. “Thank god. An extra 15 minutes of power. I’m saved.” It obviously wasn’t enough, and now, with the gravity off, he was floating a few inches above his seat, which did nothing to help the storm churning in his stomach. He’d have to suck it up, call for a tow, and figure out how to pay for it later. If he didn’t get his shit together soon, he really would be working off his debt in one of the mining colonies. He’d managed to keep the creditors off his back thus far, but all it took was one wrong step, a single missed payment (for the 8th time), and he’d lose his ship. If he was lucky.
“Computer, call the Federation outpost at Locraf, tell them your crappy, cracked autopilot overshot them by half a parsec, and have them send someone to tow us in for refueling.” Baldur sighed again and punched the communicator. It was going to be a long couple of hours. He wondered if he had anything left to drink…
