A miniskid slides up to your boots. You toss on your duffel and guitar kit and go back to rummaging around the passenger’s side floorboards to find the second of two dead batts you tossed there. Perhaps you’re having trouble finding either of the batts because you’re thinking more about the security for the data-paq you’re couriering: obscurity, stealth, subterfuge, or strong-arm? Or maybe it’s all the food wrappers, the rank and stale sports-bra, and the books getting in your way.
:Yes, there’s one!:
Normally you’d do the obscurity thing without a further thought. It suits your personality and your wallet, but you’re thinking it over anyway. Stealth’s too blown from your ride in. Can’t motor in on a bitchin’ flit like this custom B’bridge and not expect people to notice. You’re too frazzed after the long jump from [planet name here] to bother with the acting that goes along with subterfuge though you could go for some man burning sex-play. Can’t have too many of those notches. Maybe you’ll fit some of that in anyway. That leaves armed guards and an impromptu parade through the core of Okkatu. And endless waiting.
:Screw it. Not waiting. Not after that ride.:
You remove the data-paq from the skid’s safe and stuff it into a day bag with your floorboard trash and laundry.
:There’s the other batt.:
I thought I’d not yet written your deboarding in the hanger, but apparently I had. Maybe I can slot this bit in before that one.
Extended inspiration from the fifth one down on the first column. Read related here and here.
You give the deckteam shit for misidentifying your Bainbridge and graciously accept a high berth near the exit corridor. Works every time.
The robots and gizmos are ‘socking’ your flit so you know you’re in the stix again–everywhere else they’d be calling it ‘bagging’. Either way, no dust on the custom flexx. It’ll still drape like a hyperswoop but it’s fair camo for a casual glance in this crowded berthing.
You DX your pad’s tap and get back four bars. Every byte of data gets routed through the flit’s on-board before it floats into your noggin–you can never be too secure. As you walk away with your kit bag slung over your shoulder and your rollie in tow you get the feeling you’re missing something. Oh yeah. You throw the Berthmaster in the watchhouse a curt wave. He probably thinks you’re thanking him for the prime spot in the berthing, but you’re really making sure he sees your gear. Need him to think you’re in town for a long one not just here to kill his wife.
Word count: 192
Inspired by the fifth one down on the first column. Read related here and here.
:Another fucking floating city,: you think.
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You’ve left the profanity filter on from last night at the bar. And afterward at the brothel.
:I hate floating cities.:
Mom commented in your log recently that the in-eye cam is making her sick so you feed out 30 seconds of vid from your flit’s camera instead. The rest of your flight dumps to your on-board memory banks. You never know who or what you’ll find on approach.
:How did I not know Okkatu was a floater?:
> Admin > Feed > Off
Okkatu is the uprooted dome style floater. The graceful arc of it’s roof contrasted by the dribbling geometry of it’s belly. If you were to like any floater over another it would be the ringed ones with towers–thick torus with three towers rather than the thin ones with four or five. And leaning out not perfectly vertical. Those you knew where to berth your flit. This thing was like trying to find the ass on a jellyfish.
You drop the Bain’s twin-turbines down to a creamy 5400 HPM and aim for the center like everyone else tonight. Nav picks up the beacon 5 klicks out. You feel it direct you to lower level because it picked up your false ident–tonight you’re a 20 year mini-cargo drone instead of a heartbreaking tricked out hyperswoop. Looks like it’s communal showers with aliens and boys again.
Word count: 247