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With a mild jolt, the scoutship smacked down onto the hard, asphalt landing pad, waking me with a jump.
"Hey, kid, we're here. Hey, wakeup, sleeping beauty," Paul was standing over me and his putrid breath was not the most pleasant thing to wake up to.
"Shut the hell up, Paul, I'm awake." I'm usually grumpy when I wake up, and his presence did little to improve my mood.
"Hurry up, kid. I have a dozen more pods to get. Now get out of here." Paul is the guy who waits around on the outskirts of the system during a battle and picks up the escape pods as they come. And after 3 hours in a pod smaller than a refrigerator eating some sort of imitation styrofoam that they call "rations", you can believe that I was glad to see him. Everyone is; that's why he's everyone's bud. Except mine.
I stood up from the dirty old cot and stepped off the ship, tempted to kneel down and kiss the solid ground. After seven weeks in space, you would too. And they weren't the most pleasant seven weeks, either. It had been one of the most grueling and arduous battles in which I have ever taken part. But we had won. We always do.
You think the 'feds would learn. Every time they send one of those damned task forces to try to conquer Evildrome, or Privateer's Haven or any of our worlds, we kick their sorry asses. It's because they underestimate us. They always underestimate us. They think we have a couple measly space stations and a few rogue kestrels wandering about the universe aimlessly looking for an easy target. But we have much, much more than that.
Seemingly uninhabited worlds that they so often overlook house our settlements in concealed biodomes and underground lairs. Our proton and cloaking technologies are far more advanced than theirs, for we have many of the most ingenious minds in the galaxy working 36 hour days in our labs, advancing our current technology to levels never thought possible by the Confederation, or even the street-smart Rebellion.
Over the years we have been slowly setting up more and more colonies on distant worlds; making our ships and weapons better; amassing a huge navy with which we will one day use to overthrow the tyrannical Confederation and claim the universe in the name of the glorious Legion of Privateers.
But that's later. For now, I must focus on getting a new ship and getting back to work.
I walked to the local shipyard and opened up my wallet. I picked up the stylus and looked at my bank account.
2.7 million credits. Damn, that's not enough for a new kestrel. A corvette, perhaps. If I haggle some I can get a 'vette with some upgrades.
I walked into the small, dilapidated office of the shipyard. Inside it was hot as Hell in summertime, and it smelled like rancid meat. The official Legion-sponsored shipyard was about 20 kilometers away, and had a larger selection of high-quality, new ships and a large, air-conditioned building. I would have gone there, but the prices are double and you can't haggle or argue with the salesmen.
A scruffy, unshaven man sat behind an old wooden desk reading a magazine. I cleared my throat to get his attention. He looked up at me, annoyed.
"Yeah?"
"I need a 'vette."
"I can give you a used one for three million."
"And I guess I'll give you my firstborn while I'm at it, then, shall I?"
"I don't buy slaves. That's two buildings over."
"It's called sarcasm. Ill take it for two million."
"2.9"
"I can get it for 2.5 at the other shipyard, and those are new."
Sensing that I would simply leave if I didn't get a better deal, he gave in.
"2.3 mil and I ain't goin' any lower."
"And fuel," I added.
"Whatever." He had me sign a piece of paper, tossed me an I.D. badge and told me to get out of his sight.
Looking at the badge, I saw that my ship number was on pad 12b. I walked over to the pad, stopping only two throw a credit chip at a bum, and surveyed my purchase. It hull was scorched from proton bolts and dented by torpedoes. It had character. I like a hull with character. I climbed the ladder to the hatch and hit the release button. It slid halfway open, and I had to give it a forceful shove to open it the rest of the way.
Sensing my entrance, the onboard computer hummed to life. I sat down in front of the control panel and looked at the specs. Apparently, it wasn't as bad as I had thought. It already had both RCS and engine upgrades, a torp launcher with no torps, a missile launcher lacking ammo as well, and 3 proton bolt turrets.
I hailed the dock master with a request for fuel, 20 torpedoes and 20 missiles. I left my ship to get stocked while I went in search of the nearest mission computer.
(This message has been edited by moderator (edited 12-28-2001).)
Hey,pretty Classé!You gotta hate the backlog of stories which means you have to wait so long,though
------------------ (url="http://"http://www.geocities.com/shades_shipyard")Shade's Shipyard(/url), the source for your ship needs.
Very nice start. If you want to get it to readers quicker, you could also post it at another board. The months-long wait kills the drama. If you do, be sure and tell use where.
------------------ Get a life, a cyberspace life.
Actually, EVula has whittled the backlog down to a sliver of its former self. By posting stories three times a week, he's reduced the turnaround time from months to weeks - and, shortly, days.
Three weeks from now, there'll be no backlog at all. I guess we'll need to write faster...
------------------ world keeps turning
Woohoo, it only took 3 and a half months for that one to go through.
Quote
Originally posted by Phil Barron: **Actually, EVula has whittled the backlog down to a sliver of its former self. By posting stories three times a week, he's reduced the turnaround time from months to weeks - and, shortly, days.
Three weeks from now, there'll be no backlog at all. I guess we'll need to write faster...**
There are currently only 12 stories left to sort through (thankfully). A bit more than three weeks, but once it is done, I'm going to switch to a one-story-per-week thing, if it is even warranted. shrug
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