Ships Log; Personal. Commander Adept Geraden. 21:00 Hours. 23rd January 3302.
A day in the life, or in this case week, of a busy minister of state with side
projects and clandestine interests.
A week ago I decided to take a short break from affairs of state, and potter
around doing some mining in the neighbourhood's favourite little pristine.
The Python, SoBaDD, needed some down-time in the maintenance dock at Robson
Port anyway. The crew there, who are very capable, have a nice little shipyard
with Diamondbacks and various trader ships, and a reasonable supply of
outfitting items. But they didn't get much trade from their previous masters,
who preferred to fly their ships into the ground, so to speak, rather than
spend credits on repairs and hull integrity. Personally, since that ship is the
only thing between me and the deep blue sea, I mean, cold black nothingness,
I'll keep it maintained and in tip-top shape at all times. And, with the
frequency I've been getting into scraps with pirates and bandits lately, I
think they'll be fine for business for quite a while.
Since it was going to be there for a number of days, I picked out a nice shade
of blue for a repaint. Bright safety yellow is also a good colour, but I had
the mining Dropship, Lassiter's Folly, painted that colour a while back. Don't
want a fleet of ships all painted the same colour. Variety is the spice of
life, after all.
I tried really hard to get the name of the ship emblazoned down each side, but
in the end they refused. Between all the arguments back and forth, seems every
person down there on the shop floor has a different reason why it can't be
done. Near as I can figure, it boils down to one of two basic trains of
thought. One is superstition, probably promulgated by jealous land-lubbers and
starport dwellers, who will never get to fly there very own starship. Bad luck
of some sort to stick the ship's name on the outside where everyone within
firing distance of white-hot lasers can see it. The second is that it was an old
law from the days of Galcop, or Galcorp, seems so long ago no one is really sure
of the spelling anymore. Just an old law that set a precedent, that nobody has
bothered to challenge, simply because that's the way it has always been done.
Or not done, as the case may be.
Anyways, I had a nights layover in the station between switching ships. My
pretty little secretary, Tara, insisted we do dinner, since I hadn't been in
the office much lately. Over a posh-enough 3 course dinner, I managed to figure
out most of her life's story, so far. Seems her parents were farmers, of mixed
heritage. That is, refugees. One from the Empire, one from the Federation. Tara
got packed up and sent to an up-market private boarding school over in Eleu. In
those days, the area was mostly independent, before the Federation started
expanding this far out to the edge of the human bubble. Now, I ain't no fool. I
can put 2 and 2 together and get Onionhead for an answer. Farmers just don't
get to send their kids to private school by growing fruit and veg, you know.
Seems her last year at boarding school, her parents transferred a heap of
credits into her account, and a message not to come home till they contacted
her. Seems she also has a younger brother. Other than he was mad keen on space
ships, especially those sexy looking Imperial jobs, and tales of derring-do by
armed traders and bounty hunters alike, not much more information was gleaned.
Maybe we'll have to do dinner more often.
But for now, I think I need to keep Tara down to small doses only. The
similarities between her and the recently departed love of my life, The Lady
Terisa of Morgan, make me realise I'm probably not over grieving yet.
The mining was mostly Zen. Only hassled by a couple of minor wannabe pirates,
who scanned the Dropship, noted the multiple hardpoints packing serious
firepower, and decided that I wasn't the person they were seeking after all.
Case of mistaken identity, and all that. Mining is more profitable if you can
pick up contracts to supply precious metals before heading out, so long as the
faction issueing the contract is someone we want to support. In a small
population system, one of these high value contracts seems to do quite a bit for
the faction's influence. Of course, you'll almost never get these contracts when
returning from a mining mission with a hold full of the good stuff. Seems these
faction contact people are quite cunning in that regard. Why offer a premium for
something you already have, and would sell to them at going market prices
anyway?
Good Lord, look at the time. Matters of state to attend to. Memo's to the fleet
about our rapidly expanding list of previously uncharted neighbours, many of
whom have missing information to be added to the database, rumours I've gleaned
about the great Palladium shortage of 3302, and how Gold is the new Palladium,
and where to get the best deals for profitable Gold trading.
End Personal Log.
