So, about a year, maybe a year and a half back, I gave some thought to the idea of a story or two in Fenspace... and then promptly got distracted by life and such, because that's pretty much how I roll. Still, when an idea nestled in there the other day, I figured I might as well put together a snippet and see what happens.
***
JUNE 2013
I say this as someone fully aware of his own status as a Fen of many fandoms. A man with far too much fondness for world-building and fictional cultures made real. And the fact that it might well make me look like a massive hypocrite.
But dear lord, there are days I just wanna smack the majority of Fenspace. Hard. This is definitely one of those days. If I was back on Earth, or somewhere remotely reasonable like Stellvia, I’d be having this meeting in an office, with comfortable chairs, a mostly peaceful atmosphere, and our business would hopefully be sorted out in a quick and reasonable manner.
Instead, here I am, sitting in a rather dingy bar in one of Ganymedes smaller dometowns, putting up with an incredibly uncomfortable folding chair and inhaling far too much cigarette smoke (And really, who in their right mind smokes this much in a dome colony?). And thanks to the fact I only got a glass of water, I’ve already gotten a few glares from the sort of people that see a teetotaler as someone that needs to be thrown out via the window.
But this is where the client wanted to meet, so here I wait… Some people really take the whole ‘Space West’ mentality a little too far. It wouldn’t be so bad if this place at least offered counter meals.
Which meant that I was sitting there, glaring at the water as if hoping it would magically turn into cola, when I was interrupted by an amused chuckle. “You know, my pa always said a man that don’t touch the spirits is a man that fears lifes surprises.” I looked up from the glass to see a large man, both tall and round, dressed in the kind of suit quickly becoming known among the Browncoats as ‘Sunday Best’, and with the sort of beard that would make Abraham Lincoln stand up and salute. My client, Adam Worthington, and thankfully for my sanity, he’d shown up early.
“I’m merely a man that’s seen too many spirits turn out to be demons,” I reply with what I hope is a friendly smile, even as I stand and offer him my hand. His handshake was strong, but thankfully he’s not the sort of man that feels the need to make it a contest. “I’ve found it’s more effective to be the poor sober fool that has to handle the people that had too much,” I add, offering him a seat, and he took it while radiating a second chuckle. His amusement, while well contained, was still as large as the rest of him, and I have to admit, it presented an impressive image. The folding chair managing to contain his weight might have been even more impressive. These things look damn cheap.
Raising a hand to the woman behind the bar, the sort of motion that implies regular patronage and ‘I’ll just have the usual thanks,’ he turned his full attention to me. “Captain Wood, I appreciate you respondin’ to my post so promptly. I’m afraid that my usual pilot decided to run off and join Miss Suzumiya’s Crusade,” he said in a tone of profound irritation. “Boy was off on the other side of Venus before he even remembered to email me and explain where he’d gotten to.”
I didn’t quite suppress the wince at that. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that particular story, especially since Crystal Osaka, but it always seemed to trigger a fresh surge of paranoia. Pushing that aside again, I shrugged slightly. “I’ll admit it was mostly luck Mister Worthington,” I admitted. “I’d finished unloading a cargo in Serenity Valley right as you posted the job opening. Timing and location, nothing more.”
“And the willingness to move quickly,” Worthington replied. “An important trait, especially in times like these.” The bartender placed a bottle of beer on the table, some brand I didn’t recognize (Not a shock), and he politely thanked her before continuing. “On top of that Captain, you have a reputation. Reliable, consistent. I don’t know if you realise how hard it can be to find a ship and a Captain with such a reputation.” He grumbled, a deep ‘harrumph!’ noise that I swear I could feel through the floor. “Everyone running off, convinced they’re Mary Sue and Fenspace will make them the big hero,” he muttered, twisting the lid off his beer and dropping it on the table. “You though. From what I understand, you’re not out to be the hero, to smite the Reavers. You simply do your job, and do it well.” He sipped at his beer, then considered me. “A rather grounded Mal Reynolds, in many ways,” he mused.
Deciding to take that as a compliment, given why I was here, I merely smiled. “Someone has to keep the freight moving sir.”
He smiled broadly, clearly pleased by my answer. “Quite right Captain. I have a shipment that needs to be delivered, and thanks to Matthews outbreak of fantasy and heroics, I’m already running dangerously close to my deadline. The cargo isn’t perishable, but my client is a rather… impatient sort, shall we say?” he noted dryly. “Failure to deliver on time will likely cause them to seek out a new supplier.”
God knows I’ve dealt with enough customers like that, even back with the ‘Danes. “I should point out that my ship isn’t exactly large,” I admitted. “The Blue Bomber has some decent speed, but her freight capability isn’t much above that of a hardtech truck.”
Smiling broadly, Worthington raised a hand. “That’s all that’s needed for this job. The cargo is relatively small, but valuable.” Reaching into the inside of his suit jacket, he removed a folder and handed it to me. Curious, I opened it up and found myself looking at the Australian coat of arms at the top of documents from the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade. I felt my eyebrows rising towards my hairline, and heard my client chuckle, but I focused on the documentation.
After almost a minute, I looked back up at him, unable to keep the shock from my face. “How much Guacamole do you have?” I wondered, and he laughed again.
“Quite a bit. I’ve had some luck convincing the Green Goo to grow. Not amazingly fast, but consistent enough to require a regular trade route.”
“All the way back to Earth,” I commented, flipping through the paperwork again. “Melbourne airport, on to…” My eyes caught the name I’d missed the first time, and my jaw dropped. “Royal Childrens.”
When I looked back up, Worthingtons expression was much more serious. “I see you’re familiar with the facility,” he commented.
“I’m not just Australian, I’m Victorian,” I pointed out. The Royal Childrens Hospital was a part of my cultural background noise. Hell, my mother had coordinated my home towns branch of the annual state-wide fundraiser for over half a decade… It didn’t take a genius to work out what the nations best childrens hospital wanted Guacamole for. “That’s… kind of a risky path to take.” Biomodding children seemed like an idea almost destined for trouble, and yet… “I get the feeling this isn’t something they’d do often.”
“Five times since I began supplying them,” he agreed. “All teenagers, with their parents consent and, well, I understand they had little chance otherwise.” I nodded very slightly, my imagination running off in directions I’d really have preferred it didn’t. “The main reason I ship there is because they’re taking the risk of accidents very seriously and have a large, dedicated storage room that supplies most of the state from there.” Sipping at his beer, he waved his hand at the paperwork and added “Needless to say, everyone else is taking that risk seriously as well.”
“Yes you are…” Looking away from the paperwork, I considered the bar for a moment, then finally noticed something I should have clued into right away. People were outright buying drinks and snacks. With consistent currency. Australian money was the most common solid cash in the Void, but a dometown this size having so much of it… “Well then Mister Worthington,” I continued, pulling myself away from the fact I seemed to have stumbled over a quiet little success story of the Fen without even noticing, “what are you offering for my services?”
***
JUNE 2013
I say this as someone fully aware of his own status as a Fen of many fandoms. A man with far too much fondness for world-building and fictional cultures made real. And the fact that it might well make me look like a massive hypocrite.
But dear lord, there are days I just wanna smack the majority of Fenspace. Hard. This is definitely one of those days. If I was back on Earth, or somewhere remotely reasonable like Stellvia, I’d be having this meeting in an office, with comfortable chairs, a mostly peaceful atmosphere, and our business would hopefully be sorted out in a quick and reasonable manner.
Instead, here I am, sitting in a rather dingy bar in one of Ganymedes smaller dometowns, putting up with an incredibly uncomfortable folding chair and inhaling far too much cigarette smoke (And really, who in their right mind smokes this much in a dome colony?). And thanks to the fact I only got a glass of water, I’ve already gotten a few glares from the sort of people that see a teetotaler as someone that needs to be thrown out via the window.
But this is where the client wanted to meet, so here I wait… Some people really take the whole ‘Space West’ mentality a little too far. It wouldn’t be so bad if this place at least offered counter meals.
Which meant that I was sitting there, glaring at the water as if hoping it would magically turn into cola, when I was interrupted by an amused chuckle. “You know, my pa always said a man that don’t touch the spirits is a man that fears lifes surprises.” I looked up from the glass to see a large man, both tall and round, dressed in the kind of suit quickly becoming known among the Browncoats as ‘Sunday Best’, and with the sort of beard that would make Abraham Lincoln stand up and salute. My client, Adam Worthington, and thankfully for my sanity, he’d shown up early.
“I’m merely a man that’s seen too many spirits turn out to be demons,” I reply with what I hope is a friendly smile, even as I stand and offer him my hand. His handshake was strong, but thankfully he’s not the sort of man that feels the need to make it a contest. “I’ve found it’s more effective to be the poor sober fool that has to handle the people that had too much,” I add, offering him a seat, and he took it while radiating a second chuckle. His amusement, while well contained, was still as large as the rest of him, and I have to admit, it presented an impressive image. The folding chair managing to contain his weight might have been even more impressive. These things look damn cheap.
Raising a hand to the woman behind the bar, the sort of motion that implies regular patronage and ‘I’ll just have the usual thanks,’ he turned his full attention to me. “Captain Wood, I appreciate you respondin’ to my post so promptly. I’m afraid that my usual pilot decided to run off and join Miss Suzumiya’s Crusade,” he said in a tone of profound irritation. “Boy was off on the other side of Venus before he even remembered to email me and explain where he’d gotten to.”
I didn’t quite suppress the wince at that. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that particular story, especially since Crystal Osaka, but it always seemed to trigger a fresh surge of paranoia. Pushing that aside again, I shrugged slightly. “I’ll admit it was mostly luck Mister Worthington,” I admitted. “I’d finished unloading a cargo in Serenity Valley right as you posted the job opening. Timing and location, nothing more.”
“And the willingness to move quickly,” Worthington replied. “An important trait, especially in times like these.” The bartender placed a bottle of beer on the table, some brand I didn’t recognize (Not a shock), and he politely thanked her before continuing. “On top of that Captain, you have a reputation. Reliable, consistent. I don’t know if you realise how hard it can be to find a ship and a Captain with such a reputation.” He grumbled, a deep ‘harrumph!’ noise that I swear I could feel through the floor. “Everyone running off, convinced they’re Mary Sue and Fenspace will make them the big hero,” he muttered, twisting the lid off his beer and dropping it on the table. “You though. From what I understand, you’re not out to be the hero, to smite the Reavers. You simply do your job, and do it well.” He sipped at his beer, then considered me. “A rather grounded Mal Reynolds, in many ways,” he mused.
Deciding to take that as a compliment, given why I was here, I merely smiled. “Someone has to keep the freight moving sir.”
He smiled broadly, clearly pleased by my answer. “Quite right Captain. I have a shipment that needs to be delivered, and thanks to Matthews outbreak of fantasy and heroics, I’m already running dangerously close to my deadline. The cargo isn’t perishable, but my client is a rather… impatient sort, shall we say?” he noted dryly. “Failure to deliver on time will likely cause them to seek out a new supplier.”
God knows I’ve dealt with enough customers like that, even back with the ‘Danes. “I should point out that my ship isn’t exactly large,” I admitted. “The Blue Bomber has some decent speed, but her freight capability isn’t much above that of a hardtech truck.”
Smiling broadly, Worthington raised a hand. “That’s all that’s needed for this job. The cargo is relatively small, but valuable.” Reaching into the inside of his suit jacket, he removed a folder and handed it to me. Curious, I opened it up and found myself looking at the Australian coat of arms at the top of documents from the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade. I felt my eyebrows rising towards my hairline, and heard my client chuckle, but I focused on the documentation.
After almost a minute, I looked back up at him, unable to keep the shock from my face. “How much Guacamole do you have?” I wondered, and he laughed again.
“Quite a bit. I’ve had some luck convincing the Green Goo to grow. Not amazingly fast, but consistent enough to require a regular trade route.”
“All the way back to Earth,” I commented, flipping through the paperwork again. “Melbourne airport, on to…” My eyes caught the name I’d missed the first time, and my jaw dropped. “Royal Childrens.”
When I looked back up, Worthingtons expression was much more serious. “I see you’re familiar with the facility,” he commented.
“I’m not just Australian, I’m Victorian,” I pointed out. The Royal Childrens Hospital was a part of my cultural background noise. Hell, my mother had coordinated my home towns branch of the annual state-wide fundraiser for over half a decade… It didn’t take a genius to work out what the nations best childrens hospital wanted Guacamole for. “That’s… kind of a risky path to take.” Biomodding children seemed like an idea almost destined for trouble, and yet… “I get the feeling this isn’t something they’d do often.”
“Five times since I began supplying them,” he agreed. “All teenagers, with their parents consent and, well, I understand they had little chance otherwise.” I nodded very slightly, my imagination running off in directions I’d really have preferred it didn’t. “The main reason I ship there is because they’re taking the risk of accidents very seriously and have a large, dedicated storage room that supplies most of the state from there.” Sipping at his beer, he waved his hand at the paperwork and added “Needless to say, everyone else is taking that risk seriously as well.”
“Yes you are…” Looking away from the paperwork, I considered the bar for a moment, then finally noticed something I should have clued into right away. People were outright buying drinks and snacks. With consistent currency. Australian money was the most common solid cash in the Void, but a dometown this size having so much of it… “Well then Mister Worthington,” I continued, pulling myself away from the fact I seemed to have stumbled over a quiet little success story of the Fen without even noticing, “what are you offering for my services?”
