((My first attempt at writing something that might have continuity to it in a long time. Bear that in mind...))
It's been five minutes past my planned execution date. My mind is racing, screaming, no, begging, for mercy, for a moment to speak... anything.
And yet this damned gag in my mouth has me unable to even breathe properly.
This whole debacle started almost thirty years ago. I've always been a bootlegger, it runs in the family. You could trace it all the way back to the early 20th century, on the Old Earth, long before the Federation was even a twinkle in someone's eye. Nonetheless, it had become something of a specialty of mine. I started the craft when I was eleven, managing to sneak drinks into theaters, snacks into ball parks, things like that. After a while, I started moving up in the world of smuggling. Running illegal alcohol across the station, taking cigarettes and selling them illegally for massive amounts of credits per pack. Eventually, an opportunity presented itself, and an old man offered to buy a real, live chicken off of me for a beat-up old ship. He even offered to teach me how to fly it if I gave him the other chicken I had. Dunno why, but I took him on the offer. At least he held up his end.
Almost three years later, I was finally flying. The old, antiquated Cobra, a Mk. I model, still flew... somehow. Gaffer tape held together bits of the cockpit, the radio didn't work, and the weapons constantly jammed into the hardpoint doors because they wouldn't open. Nonetheless, the old metal beast still started, still flew, the thrusters were in good working order, and it could hold nearly twenty tons of cargo. Coming from smuggling things in a duffel bag, attached to your person, this was a massive, massive step up, and I couldn't wait. I played it safe my first several times, smuggling the same things I was before, just stashed in various places around the ship. Nothing I couldn't carry out in a duffel bag, just like old times. As time went on, I got more and more brazen... and made more and more money. The old Mk. I Cobra couldn't let me down, and I got pretty comfortable with flying it. Had numerous people offer me loads of money, more money than I could have previously even dreamed of, to buy the old junker and stash it in a museum somewhere. But, 'Ol Faithful was mine, and mine alone. Owned that ship for almost twenty years.
That is, until I went to 34 Pegasi...
I had heard there were excellent opportunities in the area, thanks to Archon DeLaine taking over and making a mess of the security forces, as well as those that got in his way. I figured, 'Hell, why not? What could go wrong with one lone smuggler making a few bucks?' So I flew there, and docked, in one piece. I'll remember the day just like it was yesterday... stepped off the ship, locked her up, and made my way to the canteen for a drink and a bite to eat. Never even made it that far before a gun was pointed at my head, and I was put into handcuffs.
Apparently, the downside to flying a very old, antiquated ship is that you're very, very easy to track. So the Federal nabbed me, right quick and in a hurry. I'll give them credit... how they managed to do it without getting anyone killed by DeLaine is beyond me. These guys, though... they weren't too fond of doing things the normal, Federal way. Or at least, any Federal method I'd ever known or grew up around.
I remember waking up, a bag over my head, my clothes torn and my everything bloodied. I'm chained to a chair, and someone is yelling things out, and a whole bunch of people are responding. When the bag was removed from my head, there's no less than sixty people in front of me, eager, and each holding up a numbered card.
They had sold my ass into slavery.
The only thing that kept my sanity with me for the next five years was the fact that the people I was sold to kept very, very meticulous time of things. From clocks to calendars and even GalNet, these guys were spot on. Having a point of reference for what time it was, even though the work was miserable, food was sparse and even worse, and the taskmaster's could have given Atilla the Hun mean lessons...refreshing, to know that I would be woken up every morning at 0300 standard galactic time, would work in the outpost's dock, with a gun to my head, until 2200, sleep, and then do it all over again. Some days, there were food breaks in between, and buckets of water thrown at us. Don't get me wrong... it was a miserable, painful, gods-awful experience, one I wouldn't wish on even the worst person in the galaxy... but it was structured. You were pointed in a direction, told to go, and went only until you were told to stop.
'course, emancipation threw a corkscrew into all of that, real fast. It was a Sunday, March 3rd, 1755. All I remember is some people in really shiny armor busted in and started shooting people. Messed up thing is, I actually tried to stop them from shooting the taskmaster's. Stockholm Syndrome, they call it. But... it's how I ended up here, tied to a pole, in the middle of Archenar... or whatever it is. Apparently, even though the Empire doesn't like slaves other than their own, they hate smuggler's even more, doesn't matter where you operated.
It's now 1710. My execution was supposed to be ten minutes ago. The Empire really has no track of time, though, the hushed whispers among the numerous guards in the room seem to signify something either very important, or very bad is going down... something about a Duval? I dunno... I'm done fighting. Let them end it... maybe then, and only then, will the peace I've heard about all my life finally hit me, let me take a nap or something. But, the-
Someone just walked into the room, with even more guards around her. She's lithe, and quite pretty. The blue hair is rather... odd, but, I suppose it's her life, I shouldn't infringe upon it. Seeing the guards in the room stop and salute is rather unnerving. Maybe I them off bad enough to have someone really important execute me...
"My name is Princess Aisling Duval, heir to the Imperial Throne, and daughter of Emperor Harold Duval. You are officially pardoned by the Empire, under my authority, and your execution record expunged... Commander."
Serves me right, I suppose. One minute, I'm at peace with death, the next, I'm buddy-buddy with royalty. Funny how the galaxy works, I suppose. The rest of her words were hollow and meaningless to me, I just remember, and I hate to admit this, but... crying. The thought of breathing, eating, sleeping... it all rushed back. It was... almost too much for me to handle.
Though, having woke up in a chair, at a table, surrounded by guards and this 'Princess' person, means it either was too much, and I passed out, or they decided it would be easier to knock me out before dragging me off somewhere else. There is food in front of me though, and etiquette be damned... this looks tasty.
"Commander... you do realize that the food *is* edible, and your's to eat, right? You're not in DeLaine space anymore... eat."
A male voice, this time a guard. He didn't get past the word 'edible' before I started eating, and fast. The others around me started talking, and apparently I was nodding, but, nothing else got through to my nogging but 'food food food', and so on.
Next thing I know, I'm standing in front of a hangar... looking at 'Ol Faithful. Guess I know what I agreed to, and damn, it's good to be back...
It's been five minutes past my planned execution date. My mind is racing, screaming, no, begging, for mercy, for a moment to speak... anything.
And yet this damned gag in my mouth has me unable to even breathe properly.
This whole debacle started almost thirty years ago. I've always been a bootlegger, it runs in the family. You could trace it all the way back to the early 20th century, on the Old Earth, long before the Federation was even a twinkle in someone's eye. Nonetheless, it had become something of a specialty of mine. I started the craft when I was eleven, managing to sneak drinks into theaters, snacks into ball parks, things like that. After a while, I started moving up in the world of smuggling. Running illegal alcohol across the station, taking cigarettes and selling them illegally for massive amounts of credits per pack. Eventually, an opportunity presented itself, and an old man offered to buy a real, live chicken off of me for a beat-up old ship. He even offered to teach me how to fly it if I gave him the other chicken I had. Dunno why, but I took him on the offer. At least he held up his end.
Almost three years later, I was finally flying. The old, antiquated Cobra, a Mk. I model, still flew... somehow. Gaffer tape held together bits of the cockpit, the radio didn't work, and the weapons constantly jammed into the hardpoint doors because they wouldn't open. Nonetheless, the old metal beast still started, still flew, the thrusters were in good working order, and it could hold nearly twenty tons of cargo. Coming from smuggling things in a duffel bag, attached to your person, this was a massive, massive step up, and I couldn't wait. I played it safe my first several times, smuggling the same things I was before, just stashed in various places around the ship. Nothing I couldn't carry out in a duffel bag, just like old times. As time went on, I got more and more brazen... and made more and more money. The old Mk. I Cobra couldn't let me down, and I got pretty comfortable with flying it. Had numerous people offer me loads of money, more money than I could have previously even dreamed of, to buy the old junker and stash it in a museum somewhere. But, 'Ol Faithful was mine, and mine alone. Owned that ship for almost twenty years.
That is, until I went to 34 Pegasi...
I had heard there were excellent opportunities in the area, thanks to Archon DeLaine taking over and making a mess of the security forces, as well as those that got in his way. I figured, 'Hell, why not? What could go wrong with one lone smuggler making a few bucks?' So I flew there, and docked, in one piece. I'll remember the day just like it was yesterday... stepped off the ship, locked her up, and made my way to the canteen for a drink and a bite to eat. Never even made it that far before a gun was pointed at my head, and I was put into handcuffs.
Apparently, the downside to flying a very old, antiquated ship is that you're very, very easy to track. So the Federal nabbed me, right quick and in a hurry. I'll give them credit... how they managed to do it without getting anyone killed by DeLaine is beyond me. These guys, though... they weren't too fond of doing things the normal, Federal way. Or at least, any Federal method I'd ever known or grew up around.
I remember waking up, a bag over my head, my clothes torn and my everything bloodied. I'm chained to a chair, and someone is yelling things out, and a whole bunch of people are responding. When the bag was removed from my head, there's no less than sixty people in front of me, eager, and each holding up a numbered card.
They had sold my ass into slavery.
The only thing that kept my sanity with me for the next five years was the fact that the people I was sold to kept very, very meticulous time of things. From clocks to calendars and even GalNet, these guys were spot on. Having a point of reference for what time it was, even though the work was miserable, food was sparse and even worse, and the taskmaster's could have given Atilla the Hun mean lessons...refreshing, to know that I would be woken up every morning at 0300 standard galactic time, would work in the outpost's dock, with a gun to my head, until 2200, sleep, and then do it all over again. Some days, there were food breaks in between, and buckets of water thrown at us. Don't get me wrong... it was a miserable, painful, gods-awful experience, one I wouldn't wish on even the worst person in the galaxy... but it was structured. You were pointed in a direction, told to go, and went only until you were told to stop.
'course, emancipation threw a corkscrew into all of that, real fast. It was a Sunday, March 3rd, 1755. All I remember is some people in really shiny armor busted in and started shooting people. Messed up thing is, I actually tried to stop them from shooting the taskmaster's. Stockholm Syndrome, they call it. But... it's how I ended up here, tied to a pole, in the middle of Archenar... or whatever it is. Apparently, even though the Empire doesn't like slaves other than their own, they hate smuggler's even more, doesn't matter where you operated.
It's now 1710. My execution was supposed to be ten minutes ago. The Empire really has no track of time, though, the hushed whispers among the numerous guards in the room seem to signify something either very important, or very bad is going down... something about a Duval? I dunno... I'm done fighting. Let them end it... maybe then, and only then, will the peace I've heard about all my life finally hit me, let me take a nap or something. But, the-
Someone just walked into the room, with even more guards around her. She's lithe, and quite pretty. The blue hair is rather... odd, but, I suppose it's her life, I shouldn't infringe upon it. Seeing the guards in the room stop and salute is rather unnerving. Maybe I them off bad enough to have someone really important execute me...
"My name is Princess Aisling Duval, heir to the Imperial Throne, and daughter of Emperor Harold Duval. You are officially pardoned by the Empire, under my authority, and your execution record expunged... Commander."
Serves me right, I suppose. One minute, I'm at peace with death, the next, I'm buddy-buddy with royalty. Funny how the galaxy works, I suppose. The rest of her words were hollow and meaningless to me, I just remember, and I hate to admit this, but... crying. The thought of breathing, eating, sleeping... it all rushed back. It was... almost too much for me to handle.
Though, having woke up in a chair, at a table, surrounded by guards and this 'Princess' person, means it either was too much, and I passed out, or they decided it would be easier to knock me out before dragging me off somewhere else. There is food in front of me though, and etiquette be damned... this looks tasty.
"Commander... you do realize that the food *is* edible, and your's to eat, right? You're not in DeLaine space anymore... eat."
A male voice, this time a guard. He didn't get past the word 'edible' before I started eating, and fast. The others around me started talking, and apparently I was nodding, but, nothing else got through to my nogging but 'food food food', and so on.
Next thing I know, I'm standing in front of a hangar... looking at 'Ol Faithful. Guess I know what I agreed to, and damn, it's good to be back...
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