Something was horribly wrong, and for once, it had nothing to do with my ship. One of the things people don’t really like to talk about is the way zero gravity and the garbage you eat in outposts and space stations will affect your digestive system.
You wouldn’t think it, but the galaxy is a tiny place. Faster Than Light travel has made it that you get interdicted by one pirate on one system, and he has a cousin all the way over in the other side of the galaxy that thinks it was rude of you to melt his hull into blobs of scrap metal. Everything and everyone is connected, one way or another. You meet up the all kinds of people in your travels, every single one of them crazy, no matter where you go. Disgruntled Docking Traffic Controllers, trigger-happy security forces getting in your line of fire, maniacal dockers, and a colourful crowd in every pub and cantina around the galaxy.
So there I was, floating in the sick bay on some derelict, unsanctioned outpost, clutching my cramping stomach. I must have eaten a bad bowl of noodles when I stopped to refuel at a station halfway along the journey from Baal to Rajukru. Now I was forced to make a maintenance and repairs stop for my ship and, well, my “organic” modules. If whatever alien bug that was destroying my intestines did not kill me, something in this outpost would.
The place was sparse and decrepit, as an unsanctioned outpost would be. That meant very limited forms of distraction or entertainment in the sickbay. They had actual printed magazines, so old I figured I could trade them as rare archaeological items. The station supervisor had clearly been away from gravity for a long time, his limbs were elongated, and he moved about like some sort of spider. Or maybe he was just tall and gangly, I could never tell with this kind of things. He spoke with a thick accent, almost like a lisp, constantly made lewd jokes, and kept producing protein jelly packs from his pockets and slurping them noisily. He constantly offered some to me, but for once my misfortune was my blessing, and I could use my ailment as an excuse to decline.
I opened up my terminal and, for lack of something better to do, looked at the Galnet news feed. More bickering from the factions, and I just wrapping my head around the powers that run the galaxy. I’ve not been a CMDR for long, but I’m starting to recognize the players. Mainly, I am identifying those I dislike, which was most of them.
The thing is, you always work for someone, whether you want it or not. I had joined a Guild over in Empire territory, a good crowd who would escort trading ships and hunt down pirates. I was barely settling in when the group disbanded, leaving me unemployed. So I decided a change of scenery was in order, I aimed at the opposite side of the system and engaged my Field Shift Drive. Figured I would pick up some rare commodities along the way, maybe map out some stars, get a paycheck out of it. I heard Alliance space was nice this time of the cycle, good jobs to be had. So far all I had gotten was a station manager descended from arachnids, and explosive organ failure.
Once it felt like they replaced my intestines with polymer nanotubing, I strapped myself in the command chair and boosted out as fast as I could, looking to get away from mass lock before my organs decided to act up again and I would be forced to finally accept protein goo. The Galaxy Map came to life on my screen, a tangled mess of dots and lines spreading like Lave ramen all over the known universe. I looked for the nearest sign of civilization, and set navigation lock on LTT 13904, Mcdonald Dock station, and engaged my Frame Shift Drive. The station name struck me as a particular stupid one, but its Alliance space, and I was starting to sympathize with the Alliance and their terrible choice of names. They seemed to be a disorganized bunch stuck between two powers, the Federation and the Empire, and I could relate to that. Plus, it meant there were jobs available for a pilot like me.
The galaxy is tiny. And that’s because it’s all connected. What you do in space inevitably helps or hinders someone. Every job, every trade you make, each bounty you claim. One group or faction will profit, another will suffer economically, or will lose influence, or will have their feelings hurt so have fun when you get scanned in their system. Even explorers going out into the great black cannot truly get away. Except the ones that never return. But that exploration data they sell once they come back to populated space? The Federation wants that, or it just helped the Empire plot whatever their next powerplay move is going to be, or some onionhead pirate will have found a juicy new trade route to stalk.
I immediately put those thoughts out of my head as my ship docked. I went out searching for the local pilot watering hole. Mcdonald station had better pubs than I had expected, which meant I only had to worry about getting my teeth punched in, but didn’t need to concern myself about getting mugged and my ship stolen in the process. Finding the bar where pilots congregated was second instinct to any good CMDR; they would head straight there as if pulled by a tractor beam. I, on the other hand, walked into the wrong place twice before I made my way into the resident pilot pub. An old and worn illustration of a white anthropomorphic bird wearing a blue shirt and hat greeted the clientele, the neon lights illuminating it gave it the aura of some centuries old deity. Welcome to Mcdonald Dock pub.
I walked to the bar, and I prayed the sticky stuff on the floor was just spilled beer and not something excreted, forcefully or otherwise, from a human body. I ordered the first fermented beverage that I could pronounce, hoping that it had enough alcohol to kill whatever seemed to have taken up residence in my intestines, and started fishing for jobs.
People always want to look at your credentials, which in my case, weren’t much. After a few rejections and scoffs, I approached a short, stubby man who said was working for Jet Universal Int. It so happened that the recently lost a ship to pirates, and even they did not want to touch the experimental chemicals the ship had in its cargo hold. Just a matter of finding them and bringing them back discretely, he said. And if I were heading that direction, there was some sensitive documents that he would need delivered to an outpost station in that very same system. How convenient.
This is why my body was falling apart, I thought. Picking up space garbage not even pirates wanted to get in their ships. And intergalactic postman. Not even proper cargo. But a job is a job, and it sure beat being a docker. I agreed to the contract, tried to finish my beer, felt my stomach refusing, and left before something embarrassing happened. I really needed to improve my diet.
So there I was, back in BD+37 2416 and again heading to Virchow Installation, picking up illegal experimental chemicals on the way. A courier and a smuggler. My arachnid friend greeted me with long, open arms and packets of protein jelly, a crooked smile spreading eerily across his face.
Space is smaller than we think.
(Also published on my Medium page, which can be found here: https://medium.com/@alhiboux/when-restrooms-are-light-years-away-elite-dangerous-8ca1a69b7f36 )
You wouldn’t think it, but the galaxy is a tiny place. Faster Than Light travel has made it that you get interdicted by one pirate on one system, and he has a cousin all the way over in the other side of the galaxy that thinks it was rude of you to melt his hull into blobs of scrap metal. Everything and everyone is connected, one way or another. You meet up the all kinds of people in your travels, every single one of them crazy, no matter where you go. Disgruntled Docking Traffic Controllers, trigger-happy security forces getting in your line of fire, maniacal dockers, and a colourful crowd in every pub and cantina around the galaxy.
So there I was, floating in the sick bay on some derelict, unsanctioned outpost, clutching my cramping stomach. I must have eaten a bad bowl of noodles when I stopped to refuel at a station halfway along the journey from Baal to Rajukru. Now I was forced to make a maintenance and repairs stop for my ship and, well, my “organic” modules. If whatever alien bug that was destroying my intestines did not kill me, something in this outpost would.
The place was sparse and decrepit, as an unsanctioned outpost would be. That meant very limited forms of distraction or entertainment in the sickbay. They had actual printed magazines, so old I figured I could trade them as rare archaeological items. The station supervisor had clearly been away from gravity for a long time, his limbs were elongated, and he moved about like some sort of spider. Or maybe he was just tall and gangly, I could never tell with this kind of things. He spoke with a thick accent, almost like a lisp, constantly made lewd jokes, and kept producing protein jelly packs from his pockets and slurping them noisily. He constantly offered some to me, but for once my misfortune was my blessing, and I could use my ailment as an excuse to decline.
I opened up my terminal and, for lack of something better to do, looked at the Galnet news feed. More bickering from the factions, and I just wrapping my head around the powers that run the galaxy. I’ve not been a CMDR for long, but I’m starting to recognize the players. Mainly, I am identifying those I dislike, which was most of them.
The thing is, you always work for someone, whether you want it or not. I had joined a Guild over in Empire territory, a good crowd who would escort trading ships and hunt down pirates. I was barely settling in when the group disbanded, leaving me unemployed. So I decided a change of scenery was in order, I aimed at the opposite side of the system and engaged my Field Shift Drive. Figured I would pick up some rare commodities along the way, maybe map out some stars, get a paycheck out of it. I heard Alliance space was nice this time of the cycle, good jobs to be had. So far all I had gotten was a station manager descended from arachnids, and explosive organ failure.
Once it felt like they replaced my intestines with polymer nanotubing, I strapped myself in the command chair and boosted out as fast as I could, looking to get away from mass lock before my organs decided to act up again and I would be forced to finally accept protein goo. The Galaxy Map came to life on my screen, a tangled mess of dots and lines spreading like Lave ramen all over the known universe. I looked for the nearest sign of civilization, and set navigation lock on LTT 13904, Mcdonald Dock station, and engaged my Frame Shift Drive. The station name struck me as a particular stupid one, but its Alliance space, and I was starting to sympathize with the Alliance and their terrible choice of names. They seemed to be a disorganized bunch stuck between two powers, the Federation and the Empire, and I could relate to that. Plus, it meant there were jobs available for a pilot like me.
The galaxy is tiny. And that’s because it’s all connected. What you do in space inevitably helps or hinders someone. Every job, every trade you make, each bounty you claim. One group or faction will profit, another will suffer economically, or will lose influence, or will have their feelings hurt so have fun when you get scanned in their system. Even explorers going out into the great black cannot truly get away. Except the ones that never return. But that exploration data they sell once they come back to populated space? The Federation wants that, or it just helped the Empire plot whatever their next powerplay move is going to be, or some onionhead pirate will have found a juicy new trade route to stalk.
I immediately put those thoughts out of my head as my ship docked. I went out searching for the local pilot watering hole. Mcdonald station had better pubs than I had expected, which meant I only had to worry about getting my teeth punched in, but didn’t need to concern myself about getting mugged and my ship stolen in the process. Finding the bar where pilots congregated was second instinct to any good CMDR; they would head straight there as if pulled by a tractor beam. I, on the other hand, walked into the wrong place twice before I made my way into the resident pilot pub. An old and worn illustration of a white anthropomorphic bird wearing a blue shirt and hat greeted the clientele, the neon lights illuminating it gave it the aura of some centuries old deity. Welcome to Mcdonald Dock pub.
I walked to the bar, and I prayed the sticky stuff on the floor was just spilled beer and not something excreted, forcefully or otherwise, from a human body. I ordered the first fermented beverage that I could pronounce, hoping that it had enough alcohol to kill whatever seemed to have taken up residence in my intestines, and started fishing for jobs.
People always want to look at your credentials, which in my case, weren’t much. After a few rejections and scoffs, I approached a short, stubby man who said was working for Jet Universal Int. It so happened that the recently lost a ship to pirates, and even they did not want to touch the experimental chemicals the ship had in its cargo hold. Just a matter of finding them and bringing them back discretely, he said. And if I were heading that direction, there was some sensitive documents that he would need delivered to an outpost station in that very same system. How convenient.
This is why my body was falling apart, I thought. Picking up space garbage not even pirates wanted to get in their ships. And intergalactic postman. Not even proper cargo. But a job is a job, and it sure beat being a docker. I agreed to the contract, tried to finish my beer, felt my stomach refusing, and left before something embarrassing happened. I really needed to improve my diet.
So there I was, back in BD+37 2416 and again heading to Virchow Installation, picking up illegal experimental chemicals on the way. A courier and a smuggler. My arachnid friend greeted me with long, open arms and packets of protein jelly, a crooked smile spreading eerily across his face.
Space is smaller than we think.
(Also published on my Medium page, which can be found here: https://medium.com/@alhiboux/when-restrooms-are-light-years-away-elite-dangerous-8ca1a69b7f36 )
