[henry quirk]

...I course-corrected a bit.

Rescaled some things, retooled others, generally re-thunk stuff.

What follows is an experimental stab at a beginning.

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Space (Truckin') Opera

by Henry Quirk (2018, mine, all mine, goddamnit!)

ONE

After decon I made my way across the orbital's Esplanade. 'Bustling' doesn't cut it. It was befuzzlin' after three weeks of just me and V.I.ola, betwixt. Big noise, big color, all manner of people, everywhere. I navigated the fiasco, un-augmented eyes mostly straight ahead. I'm no tourist, got no interest in the orbital's goin's on.

I nearly tripped over and then side-stepped a Brain (in a jar) skitterin' erratic-like on its four mech-legs through the shifty crowd. It wasn't runnin' its ghostface so I couldn't say for sure, but I'd have bet five creds it was drunk. Surrounded by hundreds of bios, mechs, and enfleshed infos, can't say I blame it. If I were gonna be there for more than a handful of hours I'd probably get blitzed myself.

I was relieved when I got to the brokerage and he was at his terminal, all big and fat, plugged in and (mostly) human.

"Trujo."

He swiveled in his chair. Plugged in, it didn't matter much which direction he faced. If he coulda stood on his head at all, then he coulda stood on his head, facin' the wall, and conducted his business with the same greasy efficiency as he did sittin' up, facin' the mostly superfluous ghost terminal.

"Munson! What brings you to Hesperis?"

Trujo knew I was in-system 'bout five minutes after I cleared the Needle (along with a whack of other 'interested' beings, each and every one I hoped to avoid). And he knew why I was on-orbital. And he knew I knew this. And he still acted surprised to see me and curious why I'm on Hesperis. Meh.

We shook hands. I plunked down in the human-form chair that sprouted from floor.

"Same as always. Droppin' off."

He relaxed back in his own grown chair. Seemed to me it groaned a little. Like I say, Trujo is a large man.

"Now you're looking to pick up."

"Yep."

Trujo's eyes irised closed as he accessed his manifests and schedules by way of the optical cable plugged into the top of his shaved head.

"Well let's see what I have... You still flying that old tractor?"

'Course I was flying the 331. *If it ain't broke, don't fix it. Besides, no way I coulda afforded another tractor even if I wanted to. Creds were tight, always.

"You know I am."

Mech eyes opened.

"Hmm... Have a preference?"

I shrugged.

"Nope. I'll go wherever takes me out of Comm Space."

I haul in Community Space (cuz work is work), pay their friggin' fees (cuz that's just one of the prices of doin' business). But I can't cotton to their 'one for all' hooey. So when I can, I fly in Free Space. Business is spare flyin' Free but I breathe easier.

I fly the Gadsden on the 331's nose for a reason.

"You're in luck, then. I have two scheduled for Golgotha."

A mostly defunct mining station in Free Space affixed to a big chunk of mined out rock surrounded by other chunks of whatnot, all orbiting a small, dim, dwarf. Notable mostly as a way-station between Flinx and Lapis 5 (with 1 through 4 bein' long gone I don't know why they just don't drop the numerical). Was a hoppin' place a few years back, then a new Needle cropped up that bypassed Golgotha's. Sparsely crewed, quiet, and about as far as you can get from any place excitin as a body could want.

"Mass?"

"Touch over one."

Decent load for a hauler like mine.

"Pay?"

"Standard plus half, and the out-going Needle toll."

That plus five is for the distance. Like I say, Golgotha is off the beaten and more than just a few AU from its Needle. Most don't wanna travel that far, that deep, in-system. Me, long-haul is what I do.

"That'll work. Load need anything?"

"It's Pseudo Grub..."

"So nuthin' special."

Really, what the hell do processed, compressed algae and yeast blocks need? Besides flavor, that is.

"Just avoid the rocks and the mooks."

"Always."

"Status?"

"I unhitched soon as the creds cleared. Inspected her. Moved off and parked her half a click out. Still gotta re-tank and restock. After that I'm good to go."

"Okay, then. Thumb the plate and you can get moving. Link with my comp when you get back to your tractor for the relevants."

"Will do."

"So, how you've been?"

"Meh... Workin'."

"That's what you been doing. How are you?"

"Alive."

"Hmm... As always, a pleasure."

"Thanks, Trujo."

It occurred to me on my way back to the lock (as it always does) that mebbe the man I meet when I'm Hesperis-way isn't a man at all. Entirely possible Trujo is an A.I. not even on-orbital but tucked away in one of the hundreds of satellites clustered 'round, or a non-human runnin' a proxy body from two offices up-spin. I've never seen him outside of that office, or without that cable plugged into his skull. It's part of the problem I got with Comm Space. Almost nuthin' and no body is what it seems. Flesh gets reshaped or swapped or ridden by remote; ghosts hang on every-thing and -body like a shroud. I thought on it all for five then put it aside. Don't matter much what Trujo is as long as he plays me straight and makes with honest work. Don't matter what Comm folks do with themselves cuz I'm just passin' through.

TWO

Threadin' a Needle is easy. You let the V.I. do it. Nah, strike that. If you're like me you don't 'let' the V.I. do it cuz the V.I 'must' do it. Executin' a spiral around a Tipler Needle can't be done with a natural, unmodified human brain. Not fast enough to take into account the always shifting variables. Between Needles I'm more than competent (if I say so myself) at navigatin' the 331. Needles, they're V.I.ola's.

She's not top of line (not for a long time now), but she knows Needles, knows the 331, knows me, and generally knows a helluva lot about any place we're liable to end up, and that's all I need to get through my day to day.

When I bought the 331 she was already installed, experiential- and data-bases deep and wide. I'd have been a damned fool to wipe her. I didn't (cuz I'm no fool, mostly), so she's got a personality that don't always jibe with mine. which is to say, sometimes she's a royal, Grade-A, bitch. Makes for interesting times, now and again, betwixt.