Simon Darkstep leaned on the bulkheads as he made his way along the corridors of Serebrov Terminal. The false gravity didn't bother him, but the old, creaking station had picked up a slight axial wobble. The locals and regular visitors couldn't feel it, and short-handed station maintenance had other priorities.
Simon, however, had been in flight for nearly a year, with only two brief stops on the way back to civilization. Every time the corroded, spinning box wobbled a few mils, his lack of sea-legs acted up.
His spacer bag hung from a shoulder, helmet and Rem-lock power unit slung from it. His sidearm slung lower than usual - he'd lost weight around his belt line. His streaked and coyote-colored had been cut a month ago and gotten shaggy and curly again.
He'd reserved judgement about the situation until he could catch up, but more and more the evidence seemed grim. His olfactory implants registered many leaks in the station's systems, patched but still needing work. Auditory and visual augmentations sent warnings to his cybernetic interface, listing everything from mechanical failures to space-gnat infestations.
Finally, he reached his destination.
The Princess had always been a special and unique place. It was a cantina, to be sure, and there had always been an element of riff-raff and dingy spacer dogs visiting. But despite the - always welcome - hard-looking, hard-times patrons, the Princess was always lavishly and classily decorated, and staffed with the very best people that money and influence could hire. The walls always displayed mementos: things very very few people would ever recognize. Artifacts of ancient expeditions and lost civilizations always hung next to analog-printed photo flimsies of people who could have been famous - and none of them ever bore a label.
You knew who and what they were, or you did not.
Stepping into the cantina, Simon looked around. He compared the present to his memory. The Princess had suffered. The Children of Raxxla had taken a beating, and the system's descent from stable - if aristocratic - rule into anarchy had taken its toll.
But the Princess was still here.
Simon nodded to Taffer, the bar manager, and was acknowledged with the same nod as always, as if he had been gone an hour rather than a year.
The Children had an alcove in the back. Simon was relieved to see it still reserved - the curved conference table made of real Terran mahogany, surrounded by custom-made seats rebuilt from crashed and salvaged ships' Commanders' stations - all of them still here.
He walked along the table to find his usual seat. Some of the seats had battered and charred helmets sitting on them - bad news. One had only a long black ribbon laying across it. The corners of the room had acquired dust and small stacks of stored cantina supplies. In his memory, Simon could still see the times when the room was buzzing with Commanders, the long table spread with digital and analog charts, fiery glowing holograms hovering above, as all the Children would gather to plan and conspire.
Simon Darkstep claimed his seat at the table. Even though it sent up a puff of dust, his seat was still here.
And so was he.
((
So, here I am, finally back from Distant Worlds. I had a change of RL jobs that killed my play time for the most part, so after I got separated from the expedition it was slow going and solo. I tried to make it by the deadline, but never did achieve Beagle Point. Of course, after the meet and greet there, everybody buckeyballed it back home, and I was left in the stardust.
It's been a heck of a trip.
One change of jobs.
One broken, worn out joystick. Replaced by a newer model that won't break in properly. (Does anybody recommend a really good HOTAS stick that does as much as the X-56 but without the horribad throttle tightness?)
One change of forums for my faction.
Two major releases I'm just now catching up on. (How the heck do you get the engineer's spinny-wheel thing to register a hit? )
One visit to Jaques' on the way home to max out his reputation.
More than six (two heat sink launchers worth) jumps into close-orbiting stars, and the accompanying pucker factor trying to get out of it.
One Season pre-anticipating alien encounters - I was convinced FD was going to have DWE encounter them in one of the far-away sectors!
One missed-out DWE ship badge.
One tight pucker on the first interdiction back in the bubble.
My play sessions might be a lot shorter, but I am at last back!
))
By the way, did anybody else hear strange noises in the vicinity of Systembea DO-K C11-497 ?
Simon, however, had been in flight for nearly a year, with only two brief stops on the way back to civilization. Every time the corroded, spinning box wobbled a few mils, his lack of sea-legs acted up.
His spacer bag hung from a shoulder, helmet and Rem-lock power unit slung from it. His sidearm slung lower than usual - he'd lost weight around his belt line. His streaked and coyote-colored had been cut a month ago and gotten shaggy and curly again.
He'd reserved judgement about the situation until he could catch up, but more and more the evidence seemed grim. His olfactory implants registered many leaks in the station's systems, patched but still needing work. Auditory and visual augmentations sent warnings to his cybernetic interface, listing everything from mechanical failures to space-gnat infestations.
Finally, he reached his destination.
The Princess had always been a special and unique place. It was a cantina, to be sure, and there had always been an element of riff-raff and dingy spacer dogs visiting. But despite the - always welcome - hard-looking, hard-times patrons, the Princess was always lavishly and classily decorated, and staffed with the very best people that money and influence could hire. The walls always displayed mementos: things very very few people would ever recognize. Artifacts of ancient expeditions and lost civilizations always hung next to analog-printed photo flimsies of people who could have been famous - and none of them ever bore a label.
You knew who and what they were, or you did not.
Stepping into the cantina, Simon looked around. He compared the present to his memory. The Princess had suffered. The Children of Raxxla had taken a beating, and the system's descent from stable - if aristocratic - rule into anarchy had taken its toll.
But the Princess was still here.
Simon nodded to Taffer, the bar manager, and was acknowledged with the same nod as always, as if he had been gone an hour rather than a year.
The Children had an alcove in the back. Simon was relieved to see it still reserved - the curved conference table made of real Terran mahogany, surrounded by custom-made seats rebuilt from crashed and salvaged ships' Commanders' stations - all of them still here.
He walked along the table to find his usual seat. Some of the seats had battered and charred helmets sitting on them - bad news. One had only a long black ribbon laying across it. The corners of the room had acquired dust and small stacks of stored cantina supplies. In his memory, Simon could still see the times when the room was buzzing with Commanders, the long table spread with digital and analog charts, fiery glowing holograms hovering above, as all the Children would gather to plan and conspire.
Simon Darkstep claimed his seat at the table. Even though it sent up a puff of dust, his seat was still here.
And so was he.
((
So, here I am, finally back from Distant Worlds. I had a change of RL jobs that killed my play time for the most part, so after I got separated from the expedition it was slow going and solo. I tried to make it by the deadline, but never did achieve Beagle Point. Of course, after the meet and greet there, everybody buckeyballed it back home, and I was left in the stardust.
It's been a heck of a trip.
One change of jobs.
One broken, worn out joystick. Replaced by a newer model that won't break in properly. (Does anybody recommend a really good HOTAS stick that does as much as the X-56 but without the horribad throttle tightness?)
One change of forums for my faction.
Two major releases I'm just now catching up on. (How the heck do you get the engineer's spinny-wheel thing to register a hit? )
One visit to Jaques' on the way home to max out his reputation.
More than six (two heat sink launchers worth) jumps into close-orbiting stars, and the accompanying pucker factor trying to get out of it.
One Season pre-anticipating alien encounters - I was convinced FD was going to have DWE encounter them in one of the far-away sectors!
One missed-out DWE ship badge.
One tight pucker on the first interdiction back in the bubble.
My play sessions might be a lot shorter, but I am at last back!
))
By the way, did anybody else hear strange noises in the vicinity of Systembea DO-K C11-497 ?
