Page 3 of Galactic Sentinels, Vol. 1 (Chronicles of Pherebos #1)
While navigating, I activate the drawer's closure during my sleep.
The AI might need to perform an evasive maneuver, and having tested it once, sleeping without the protection of the sleeping drawer exposes you to serious bruises, or worse!
But tonight, I'm docked, so I can skip this precaution.
I lie down on the bunk and simply pull the blanket over me before asking SIL to turn off the light.
Then, I let myself drift into what I hope will be a restorative sleep.
***
“Pherebos, wake up. You have a visitor.”
I open my eyes right away.
“What kind of visit?” I ask, just before hearing a violent pounding on the access door.
“The kind you encountered on MC-5, the black market we visited three months ago.”
Without even putting on a shirt and boots, I grab my blaster pistol, lower the access ramp, and step outside.
I have indeed encountered the human standing there, looking quite unfriendly this early in the morning.
He has a massive build, with hairy shoulders and arms protruding from a greasy, foul-smelling outfit.
I distinctly remember dealing with him, and the impression he left was that of a brute with rather limited intelligence.
“You there!” he calls out immediately. “I knew it was you. I recognized your crappy ship. We have a problem, you and I!”
“Hey, uh... what's your name again? Prick?”
“Rick!” he growls angrily. “Not Prick. ”
“Right, sorry. Hi Rick. What can I do for you?” I ask with a friendly smile.
“The landing pads you sold me on MC-5... they're junk!”
“What do you mean, junk?” I feign offense. “I gave you pads straight off a crashed Confed ship!”
“Then how do you explain them bending on the first landing? I almost crashed, man!”
“Ah, I have no idea!” I say, rubbing my chin and pretending to ponder deeply. “Are you sure you followed the Confederation's landing protocols? After all, for all we know, they might have specific procedures for their ships!”
“Huh?” he replies, surprised. “Well, a landing's a landing, right? Why shouldn't it be the same for them?”
As I mentioned, this guy isn't the brightest. The landing pads I sold him three months ago were made by a replicator using mediocre materials. It's no surprise they didn't last long.
Do I have any qualms about selling subpar equipment on the black markets?
Absolutely not! The Coalition plunders worlds, shamelessly stealing mineral and living resources, sometimes even trading their inhabitants.
So, I regularly visit the BMs, the black markets, doing a bit of trading myself to justify my presence and gather some intel.
My specialty is selling them items supposedly stolen from the Confederation, which are actually just low-quality counterfeits.
“I don't know, man. I didn't talk to a Confed pilot to find out. I just swiped the skates and sold them back to you” .
“But how do I do now?” he grumbles, disappointed.
“Luckily for you, Prick, I've got a set of four spare landing gear,” I reply, trying to soothe him.
“Rick! Not Prick! My name is Rick! And how much is all this going to cost me?”
“Look, since you're a friend and had an issue with the previous pads, even though you'll agree it's not my responsibility, I'll offer you a deal. The pads in exchange for nutrition bars, chocolate, powdered eggs, and information.”
“Nutrition bars, okay. Same for the powdered eggs. Chocolate, we'll see, it's not cheap. And what kind of information do you want?”
“The kind about where the next big illicit market is happening. As a Human and a long-time member of the Coalition, I'm sure you have access to way more good tips than I do.”
The Coalition is made up of all kinds of races from different planets, so I'm used to meeting all sorts of people, but I'm the only Asgarnian on record so far.
With my pointed ears and purple eyes, it's hard to hide what makes me, well, unique.
I'm pretty well integrated, but there's still a certain mistrust of me.
It's especially weird since they've been trying to find out where my home planet is, probably to steal something there.
I told them I didn't know, that I'd been kidnapped by a smuggler, that I'd killed him, taken over his ship, and joined the Coalition as an active member.
They didn't look into it much further because my story seemed believable.
I'm pretty sure Rick knows more than I do .
“Of course I know things,” he immediately boasts, puffing out his chest. “But that depends on what you're looking for. I don't think you're involved in the slave trade...”
“Clearly not, but you never know when I might find something to offer myself!” I reply, even though the traffic he's talking about is making me nauseous.
“I'll offer you two months' worth of nutrition bars, ten pounds of powdered eggs, one pound of chocolate, and the coordinates for the next slave market.”
“Three months of nutrition bars,” I counter immediately, “and twenty-two pounds of eggs. Ten pounds of chocolate, one for each landing pad, plus the information I need!”
“Are you crazy? Do you have any idea what chocolate costs in the galaxy? Five pounds and I'll agree to the rest, that's my final offer!” he declares with determination.
“Prick, I have to say, you're really a top-notch negotiator. Deal!” I tell him with a big smile and a firm handshake.
“Rick! Not Prick.” He growls one last time.
An hour later, I set sail for new horizons, with a stock of good-quality bars and enough chocolate to last a few months.