the-writings-of-a-lone-hermit

[the-writings-of-a-lone-hermit]

Oil and Gasoline

  Frederick coughed, and when his eyes opened again, in the dim gloom of the factory he could see the wispy silver dust settling. So he had grey cough again, great. That means he'll probably be relocated to the painting division, with all the other sick children, and the girls. Eugh.   He hated the painting division. To be fair, he hated the entire factory, but the painting division was one of the worst. Dreadfully silent, windows that lined the roof gave enough light to see just how badly you messed up your brush strokes. So quiet he could hear himself think, to daydream.   Of course, that's what he was doing now, so before visions of fighter planes swarmed his mind, he refocused and drilled another hole, slid the bolt in, and tapped it, moving it down the line. Another tank hull rolled forward, and this time in unison with his fellow workers, he drilled another hole, slid the bolt in, and gave it a rough tap.   He hated tanks. The first time he saw them, he was in awe. Here he was, a boy no more than seven, when a colossus of steel and oil came rolling down the street, five by four, twenty giants representing the great American way: Work, Prosperity, and Freedom, in that order. An enterprising business man saw his awe, and offered him a job in his factory. "Want to see how these steel gods are made," the business man asked, and Frederick had been quick to say "Yes," though now he wished he had held his tongue.   Another hole, another bolt. Another machine to the front. It's the lunch whistle that pulls him from memory, and he hops off the platform he had previously stood upon. Reaching into his back pocket, he feels his mother's Ham and Cheese sandwich, and quick as he can he starts running, off to find a quiet place to eat. He passes dozens of his fellows, thirty five unfinished tanks in various stages of completion, and the division manager, who gives him a sour look as he speeds by.   Up the scaffolding he climbs, like some naked ape in an industrial jungle, the act itself second nature to him. His objective still distant, he had to move fast if he wanted some time there. Floor by floor, he climbed, passing folks of every age. Every one did their part to fight back, men going overseas and all others making machines to keep their families safe. He waved at old man Anderson, and got a brief smile and wave back, before continuing the climb.   Floor five, floor six, floor seven! Kicking off as hard as he could, he rolled from the scaffolding, and bounced as he hit the end of his roll, keeping his speed, but changing it from an upward force to a forward one, charging down the claustrophobic pipe works, the steam and oil flowing through these scalding hot. "Hey Fred," A kid called out from an opening as Frederick tore past.   He'd love to stop and chat, but he had to get there. Turning another corner, he came to a dead end, and looking up, saw a narrow air shaft, one that ascended another three floors to allow these otherwise boiling spaces some much needed airflow. Thick leather gloves slid on as fast as he could, he began the ascent, shimmying up the shaft like the chimney sweeps of old Britain. Without much effort, he pushed the grate at the top off, the fruit of several lunches worth of working on the screws, loosening them for a painstakingly long time.   But now, it was all worth it. Emerging from the air pipe, he took in a deep breath of the fresh outside air, and opened his eyes, soaking in the city landscape he works in, yet never saw. His whole family works and lives in the factory,  in the dormitories on the fifth floor, right in the middle of the building. He hadn't seen the skyline in over four years, spending the entire time deep within the square, three mile by three mile building. It was so large, and had been so long, that he heard that there were four year-olds, almost old enough to work, who have spent their entire lives within the confines of the endless network of halls and rooves.   There, laid out in it's glory, was the spiraling towers of Boston. Skyscrapers, twenty stories high, were dwarfed by the monsters of industry, a hundred stories or more, keeping vigilant watch for the workers below. The air shaft he came out of was bordered on three sides by walls three stories higher yet, limiting his vision to one direction, but even so, the view was breathtaking. The horizon just a faint line, sky morphing into distant ocean, before returning to the near bay.   A wing of fighter planes roared overhead, launched from the nearby airfield to combat an unseen threat across that great ocean. As they flew past, Frederick reached up, as if he could catch one and ride with them into tomorrow's sunrise, nothing but sky at his back. Taking a seat on the slanted metal roof, he pulled his sandwich out, and took a bite, watching the planes become nothing more than distant specks on the horizon.   "Even up here, there are things above us," A voice spoke, and Frederick jumped up, slipping for a moment on the roof, and made to scramble towards the vent, when the voice calls out again. "I've already seen you, kid. No point in ruining a good meal." Freezing, Frederick turned again and looked at the source of the voice.   Standing there was a man, maybe thirty five, dressed in deep olive pants and a tan button-up shirt, a heavy, fur-lined leather coat. Atop his head, a leather cap, two goggles inset into it. "You're a pilot!" Frederic exclaimed, looking at the shadowed man again. "Not just any pilot," he added, pointing to the pins upon the breast of the coat. "Your pins show you're a part of the Night Wings squadron, the second most successful after the Wings of Glory!"   The pilot shrugged, and waved his hand. "After that deployment, I bet we'll win the war before the Wings have a chance to catch up," He challenged nonchalantly. "Come sit with me," He said, motioning Frederick back to where he was sitting, "And finish that lunch."   Cautiously, Frederick got closer, before sitting next to the young pilot, and taking another bite of his sandwich. This close up, he could see the experience in the eyes of the stranger, the weariness of war. But, more importantly, he got a better look at the awards of the pilot. Three for heroic service, two for destroying enemy landships, another five for completing missions deemed impossible. And at the top, a pair of golden wings, given to the squadron commander of any team who served during the Red Night. Swallowing his chunk of sandwich, Frederick exclaimed "You're not just any pilot, you're Sean Davies, captain of the Night Wings!"   That got a chuckle from the grizzled veteran. "You got me. So tell me kid, what are you doing up here?"   Narrowing his eyes, Frederick retorted "I work here, you first."   Holding up his hands defensively, Sean laughed. "Fair, fair. I fly by this place pretty often, but wondered what it looked like to see the fighters launch from this angle. Worth all the propaganda, that's for sure. Now, your turn."   Sighing, Frederick looked upwards. "I haven't seen the sky in three years, and I love planes."   Sean leaned back, aghast. "Three years? Holy cow, kid. Nobody should have to go without the sky."   Eyeing the pilot, Frederick leaned in conspiratorially, even though they were alone on the rooftop. "Can I tell you a secret?"   A smirk crossed Sean's face, before he too leaned in. "Sure thing, kid. What's the secret?"   Looking both ways, Frederick's eyes finally set to looking deep into Sean's. "I always wanted to be a pilot."   "No kidding?" Sean asked, leaning back, whistling slowly. Leaning back in, he had a mischievous grin on his face. "Tell you what, kid. Grow up big and tall, and come see me in the hanger when you can enlist. I'll see you in the sky."   Frederick's eyes flared wide, excitement and shock fighting for control of his face. "Really?" He asked, shaking softly.   "Absolutely," Sean answered, thumping the kid's shoulder lightly. "Bring me this," he said, undoing the strap on his neck, "And you're sure to get airborne." He finished, taking his flight cap off, tossing the hat three sizes too large onto Frederick's head. "Fly high, kid."   It was so large that the goggles ended up beneath his nose, and quickly Frederick readjusted it, to see the pilot standing tall, fists at his hips, elbows extended; The spitting image of American propaganda, up to the billowing scarf. A symbol of the future.   A symbol of Frederick's Future.

[the-writings-of-a-lone-hermit]

Hyperlane

"Look me in the eyes," The barkeep stated, both hands palm down on the bar. "I'm not servin' you no more here. Now gittout, scram."

Rolling my eyes, and throwing up an exaggerated shrug, I sigh. "Come on, Shell. All I did was compliment the guy's coat." I groan, leaning back on the barstool.

"A compliment that made me have to replace this whole bar here. You know how much it costs to import genuine wood to this planet? Not to mind one of this size, or quality." He defended, running his hands along the grain. "So go, out, shoo, before you make me break the bank again."

I was about to let loose with a prime witty retort, let me tell you, when a Rath turned and looked us up and down. If you've never had the pleasure of meeting a Rath, be glad. I've got three words to describe them: Nasty lizard folk. "Alright, alright, I'm going. I might drop by again before I ship out, I know you love me, Shell."

Shell just groaned, and waved me off, conjuring a relatively clean rag as barkeeps do, and proceeded to rub down the bar where I'd previously been sitting. Stepping out of the bar, I breathe deeply, stretching my shoulders and popping my back. Overhead I can hear a fighter chase, probably bounty hunters.

A beautiful world, I reminisce. Noct, a planet always in shadow. A rouge planet, a world with no star, spinning alone in interstellar space. Hard to find, almost impossible to leave. See, here in lawless space, you can find anything or anyone here, as long as your credits are good.

Any good, any drug or exotic creature, can be found somewhere here. There's no organization, no official bodies, but you'll never leave without finding something you wanted. The newest military tech, peeled straight from the cold hands of the good old boys fighting the good fight out there? It's here.

And just like objects, anyone can be found here. Accountants, Political Leaders, Assassins, name it, there here. And since Noct doesn't fall under any jurisdiction, you can find things other places might be too queasy for. Gladiator pits, bet on blood and death, Brothels, filled with as much death and twice the blood, even Gladiator Brothels. Magical experiences, those.

But I digress. Need something found? Explorers for hire. Need some one found, oftentimes dead? Bounty Hunters stand on every street corner, and only half are for hire. The others, if you're really that curious, are probably looking to blow their cash on new trinkets, or scanning the crowds for their quarry. Those are some of the less reputable, less respectable occupations. You could even hire yourself some pirates, but that might blow up in your face in more than one way.

Hold up now, I haven't even introduced myself. I'm Dac, part time denizen of this shining slime heap, and a prime time "Goods Relocator." I'm talking big, like my face is on every wanted poster big. Alright, maybe not that big, but a guy can live his fantasies, right?

What, Goods Relocator too esoteric a term for you? What would the law call it... Hold that thought, someone's calling me. Blinking a few times, I turn to the voice that's calling my name. Sure enough, thankfully it's not the law, but some... actually pretty cute girl.

Short hair, black, bowl cut, Brown eyes, hands clasped behind her back. Butter yellow sweater with jeans running down to nondescript shoes. Strangely innocent looking for someone on this planet. "Mister Dac?" She asks again, rocking back on her heels.

Crossing my arms, I cock my head. "Who's asking?" I ask, trying to sound a little tough. Appearances to keep and all.

"Celeste Paira," She states, holding out a hand.

"Dac." I reply, taking her hand (jeez it's soft, I realize) and shaking it. "How can I help you?"

Tilting her head, she rocks back again. "I heard you're a big time smuggler." Ah, there's the term you wanted, I think with a cringe. Always hated it. Makes my job sound so... unrefined, so dirty and common. Like Bounty Hunter, who's the creative mind behind that? "I was looking at perhaps acquiring your services," she continues, completely oblivious to my internal dialogue. At least, I hope.

"I'd love to do a charity case," I lie, "but credits are the grease in this world. Can you keep me rolling?"

She blinks, pauses just long enough for me to almost lose interest, before hitting me with it. "Three thousand upfront, forty seven on arrival."

If I had a drink, I'd have held up my finger, taken a sip, and then blasted it through pursed lips into the street. For all of you who don't live in my day and age, a five credit chip could land you in a pretty post sleeping place with your choicest selections of companions. Three thousand up front? Preposterous.

Keeping my composure, appearances are all and everything, I pop the collar on my ribbed vest. "Three thousand up front? That's some serious coin, kid. Must be something mighty important. When do you need to have it, and where?"

Holding out her thumb, she poked at the bar I'd just exited. "Let's take a table. Somewhere quiet." She states, before heading towards the door.

Grabbing her upper arm, I stop her. "Bad idea. Shell's in a bad mood. And when we're talking the talk we're talking, we want somewhere loud." I say, thumbing at a building across the street. In an officious neon pink color, the sign denoted the building as the Rapacious Raver.

A quiet nod, and we cross the way. Not a minute in, and I already have a headache. The blasted music is making it really hard to focus, and she's got a pout deep enough to sink a neutron star. Leaning across the table, with surprising power and speed, she slams my face into the table, giving the spot I'm sitting at a nice new shade of red as she busts the bridge of my nose on the plastic top.

"One," she starts, the frown not leaving her face, even to make room for speaking. "Never touch me like that again." It's really distracting how her face simply looks like a puppet, her lower jaw moving without changing her overall expression.

"How... how are you doing that?" I ask, head wobbling slightly from the impact.

"Two," she continues, completely ignoring my honest question. "No questions."

"But..." I start, before.

"Three," she's like a train, no breaks, no pauses save to exemplify her points. "We're going to Partifica."

"That's the damn capital of the Paresian Alliance," I interject.

"I'm aware," She responds, her face speaking tomes of how displeased she is with this interruption. Honestly, medusa could learn some tips, her gaze is so cold. They say looks could kill, but this would be like unleashing a black hole on this planet. Which, when really thinking about it, would do the galaxy at large a huge favor.

"Just thought you'd like to know, if you didn't. It's kinda suicide for someone like me." I finish.

A single eyebrow quirks. Like, inches of face appear between the finely plucked line of hair and her eye. "Afraid? I can always find a more courageous smuggler," she says, her expression taking genuine pleasure in watching me cringe at that word.

"No, no, it's fine. Just pointing out the obvious," I say, nonchalantly waving one hand while trying to stem the bleeding.

"Good." She states, pulling a handkerchief out from... somewhere. I actually had no idea. She hands it to me, and motions towards my nose. "Sorry about that. I just needed to make my point." She adds, passing the soft cloth, the whole evil witch demeanor gone, replaced by her original, somewhat innocent one.

"Now then, to the job." She states, putting a particularly shiny looking credit card (More like your old world debit cards, it just holds credits, not some ridiculous lending system. Seriously, how did you survive as a species by spending money that wasn't yours?) on the center of the table. "Three thousand upfront, forty seven on arrival. One container cargo, heading to Partifica. Needs to be there in one or two days, three would be stretching it too thin. All clear so far?"

I nod, my curiosity raging louder than the music I can hardly hear her conspiratorial whispers over. "As an added clause, I'll not be riding with you, and you can't take any detours. Trust me, I'll know." Before I asked a quick question, she shushed me, and continued. "Last clause: You can't open the cas-tainer." She stated. It almost slipped, but her recovery was so smooth even I almost missed it.

"What, you don't think I do discreet?" I ask, incredulously. "A knife to my pride," I say, mocking being stabbed in the heart.

She rolled her eyes, before looking deeply into mine, deadly serious missy back. I really hope she saw some rainbows and sunshine, or some shit, to pull her mood up even marginally. Drat, no such luck. "Do you accept?" she asked, finger beginning to slide the credit card towards me.

"It's not a body, right?" I ask. "I don't ship people, too many questions at customs."

She shook her head. "Not a body."

Smiling, I reached over and placed two fingers on the card myself, before dragging it out from under her fingers. "Deal."