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 Perilan Vesper

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Vesper



Posts : 1
Join date : 2010-01-19

PostSubject: Perilan Vesper   Fri Jan 22, 2010 9:11 am

My first memory is the hum of the old nuclear engines, vibrating the deck plating and reverberating through the bulkheads.

My second memory is the sound of those engines struggling, then cutting out entirely.

I was too young, and I have no idea if we were attacked, if it was an engineering failure, or sabotage, or just bad luck. I assume I was born on that old ship. I assume my parents were there, or my mother at least. I assume they died when the thing blew and let the atmosphere out. The fact of the matter is that I don’t know any of those things.

They picked me up in a pod along with a girl about ten years old. Maybe my sister, maybe just someone that saw a screaming baby and picked it up on her way out. Malfunctioning plasma conduit in the pod caused a power surge that killed her, too, but somehow it missed me, likely because I was lying on the ground, and very small.

I grew up on the Adaceth station. I got a little education, but not much. For the longest time I wanted nothing to do with ships. Had a sort of a phobia, I guess you’d say. Pretty funny since the entire income of that floating hunk of titanium was from merchants and traders that came and went on their own shiny little starships. Some part of me kept waiting for one of them to blow up like mine had, but someone they never did. I was working at the food distribution center ever since I was eight or so, and while I certainly wasn’t happy, it was a life of sorts. I had a few friends, I had a warm place to sleep.

Then the old man died and changed everything.

He was just some old drifter, this smelly, crotchety old fart who would come into the center every morning and pitch a fit about the food. I was the only one who would deal with him, because I happened to agree with him that it was lousy. Some days we’d commiserate, some days he’d just yell at me, once in a while I’d even yell back. I certainly didn’t like him.

Which was why it was such a surprise when he left me that shuttle in his will.

At first I just left the thing there in the hangar. I told myself it could rot for all I cared. Still, my mind kept coming back to it. I was thinking about the stars, all those worlds out there. Hearing that same deadly siren’s song my parents must have heard, I guess. Finally one night, confused and depressed and more than a little drunk, I scraped together all my credits and I applied for flight school. Somehow I got in.

I run little transport and exploration jobs here and there now. It’s a living, and it beats packing food into boxes. A little while ago I found myself in a tight spot without fuel, and a nice guy named Fridgit Shiek from the Res Publica faction bailed me out. He said they could use good pilots, so I sent in an application, hoping the "good" part was optional. I’m still trying to figure out what I can do for them, but with luck they’ll give me time to find that out.

In the meantime, I just fly from here to there, with one eye on the stars and the other on my thruster’s heat gauge. The black is beautiful, and vast, and you can make a fortune out here. But I try not to forget that no matter how rich you get, space will kill you just as fast. All it takes is one leaky coolant system, one bored pirate who wants your navcomp, one rogue comet your sensors didn’t pick up…and in the blink of an eye, you could leave some poor kid an orphan.

Believe me, it happens all the time.
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