Sam Collison

[Wired*Nun]

Several Months Ago...


That backpack Sam's aunt gave him for his sixteenth birthday finally came in handy. He never went for that wilderness trip, but now he had it stuffed with about everything he owned, or wanted to keep anyway. He'd sold what he personally owned in his father's racing concern to the pit crew, cleaned out his piggy bank and his personal accounts, and tried to avoid having words with his father. He didn't want to leave with burned bridges - but he did have to leave. He just had to. Staying was intolerable, and nothing ever went the way he wanted it to or his father expected it to. He had to get out and away, make his own way in the world. It wasn't adventure he wanted, not glory or some fantasy of the free life. It was

Respect.

Dad doesn't respect me. He loves me, but when the chips are down, I screw up. Or something does. I don't respect myself, not really, not for sure, and I'll never know what I'm made of if I don't get out and away.

The tourist and business ships at New Dunsmuir would be no help. Without an official rating, no chance. But the cargo ships...they took on apprentices, shareholders, and crew, and some of them didn't look too hard at credentials and certs. Least, that's what he'd heard around the circuit. Beaumonde Port it is, then.

He wanders for a while, skirting the fences and hard-faced guards of the corporate cargo pads before he finds the open docks, where anyone with a ship and the credits could put down, load and unload, and get fuel and essential services. Port authority cools walked around in pairs, showing the flag, but there was so much going on that the best they could probably do is curb open violence. He spots a drug transaction in an alley between the jumbled buildings, and all the pretty women and men - can't all be crew out for a stroll in revealing clothes. He knows he's where he wants to be. Now to find a halfway honest captain to take him on.

By the fifth rejection he's losing his optimism, but the last guy gives him a lead that may pay off. Hiram Price, he's looking for. Supposed to hang out at the Battered Barrel when he's in, one of the many pubs and dives serving the crews and denizens. He looks up at the polluted sky overhead. The sun will be going down soon, and he'll have to find somewhere to stay if this doesn't pan out.

Inside, the place is dim, multilayered, with country music playing from one direction and something Asian from the other. He was told to look in the corner by the country juke, and that's where he finds his captain, he figures. Old, black billed cap, drinking. Fits the description. In fact, face down in his liquor, snoring.

[Fulmen]

By the country juke huh? This guy isn't starting out with any bonus points, but so long as he has a job for me I can overlook it. Sam walks into the Battered Barrel. It's not the most welcoming of places, but atleast the air inside is better breathing than the smog outside. Many turn a look as he walks in, obviously not a regular. Sam gives a quick grin, and moves on to look for this Price guy. He thinks about taking off his sunglasses, but decides not to; it will help keep him from accidently making eye contact with some big mean drunk looking for a fight.

He walks up to the guy who seems to be Price. He stands there for a second as he watches the old man sleeping drunkily. Well, I can be pretty confident HE isn't the pilot. Hopefully he is looking for one, or atleast a DD. Sam gives one of the back legs of Price's chair a bit of a kick, sliding it back some. "Hey pal, wake up. I'm looking for employment and here you're the man to see."

[Wired*Nun]

Sam's peppy speech trails off as he finds himself on the wrong end of a Colt Retro forty-five, hammer cocked. Captain Price's reflexes don't seem to be affected by sleep or alcohol.

"Know what 'pal' means, boy? Personal Ass Licker. That what you figger I am?"

[Fulmen]

Sam is taken aback for a second, but then his grin returns. "Where I'm from it means Potentially Armed Lao gohn. Seems like my definition is more accurate. Now seriously, are you gonna try and make a mess of me right here in front of everyone or are you gonna let me sit down and talk business?"

((Lao Gohn means old man))

[Wired*Nun]

The man puts the pistol away, quickly and smoothly with his right hand, simultaneously raising his half-full shot glass with his left and tossing off the liquor.

"Perpetually, you mean." He pours another shot, slides it across to Sam.

"Drink. You ever had a cannon like this pointed at you before?"

[Fulmen]

Sam takes a seat across from the man. He grabs the drink, knocks it back, gives a slight cough, and sets the glass back down. "No I can't say that I have. You have the distinction of being the first."

[Wired*Nun]

Hiram looks at Sam as if evaluating the truth of it. "You got the nerves, I'll grant ya. I need a copilot. Backup. Start with room and board, and I'll sign off on your flight hours. Got a class A IP cert myself, so it's all legal. Your job is to learn and fly when I want you to fly, or when I can't. Or don't want to." Or when you're drunk.

"Once I think you're ready, we'll discuss salary. Or shares. Gettin' old anyway, I am." He takes the glass back, pours himself a shot, drinks half.

"You're young. What you fly before now?"

[Fulmen]

Sam leans back in his chair a bit as the man talks. "Straight 'n to da point. Suits me jus' fine. Ya offer seems agree'ble ta me. I've flown mid-bulk transports mainly, pretty simple stuff they are. Driven some land vehicles fast 'nuff they looked to be flyin' as well." At this Sam gives a bit of a chuckle.

[Wired*Nun]

"Yeah," he says deadpan. "That racin' cap gave it away. What's your name? I figger you know I'm Hiram Price, of La Folie. Folly, to most people."

After introductions, Hiram takes the bottle, standing up, and puts the shot glass in his pocket. "Got my own arrangement," he says by way of non-explanation. "Got your sea bag? Let's go." He walks out of the bar, expecting Sam to follow.

The streets are full of sundowners, when the city heat starts to cool and the workday winds down. Stalls of street food - yaki mandoo, gyoza, bibimbop and u-don, brats and burgers - remind him that it's been a while since lunch. Hiram ain't slowin' down though.

Soon enough they end up on the public pads, where he leads them up to an old, modified Aphid. Seen better days, for sure. He punches in a code, letting Sam see it, then opens the personnel hatch. He shows Sam up to a cabin. "Here's yours. Set your own code, it's defaulted to 9999. We take off at 0550 local. You got about eleven hours to get dinner, get laid and get back. I'll want you in the cockpit a half hour before takeoff for preflight. Night." He makes as if to walk off.

[Fulmen]

"The name's Sam... Sam Collison."

Sam follows him to the ship and makes himself at home. His room isn't much, but it will do. He doesn't expect to be spending much time in there anyway. He takes time to get settled in, putting his stuff away and setting up a door code. He then leaves to grab a quick burger and heads back to the ship. He wants to get a good nights rest before getting up early in the morning.
----------
The next morning comes too early for Sam, as he had trouble falling asleep in a new place. Regardless he gets up and enters the common area around 0500. He snoops around and manages to find a coffee maker and a cup. After helping himself he wanders into the cockpit by 0520. "So where are we headed?" Sam tries to sound as enthusiastic as he can, but the tiredness still shows through.

[Wired*Nun]

One mystery-meat protien-burger later, he's back on the ship. Coming in the personnel hatch, he catches sight of a dim figure sitting on the ladder above. His sharp eyes can make out the shape of some kind of large firearm, pointed vaguely in his direction.

The figure notices him noticing. "Just in case you brought friends," says Hiram's voice. The rest of Hiram comes down the ladder, a pump shotgun held in one gnarled hand. "Reckon you just passed the second test. Won't be the last. See you in the mornin." He brushes past Sam, opens the hatch and walks off the ship into the smoggy night.

He finds the galley in the morning, filling a chipped mug with coffee from the built-in coffee cabinet. It's surprisingly good. Nobody else seems about.

It isn't hard to find the cockpit. He squeezes into the copilot's seat. Hiram's already there, along with a thermal mug of his own, clipped into a holder. "Finish that coffee before we lift, boy. Not gonna have no hot coffee all over if'n things get bouncy. We'll find you one o' these when we get a chance." He taps his own thermal.

The cockpit, like the rest of the ship, has seen better days, but all the instruments are on and functioning, and Hiram runs through the preflight like a pro. "This time you just watch, boy, less'n the Buddha take me sudden. Ask the questions now. Next time you lift, if'n we got time to do it slow."

[Fulmen]

Sam watches closely, only speaking up if something seems abnormal or out of place. Once all systems are go Sam asks again, "So where are we headin' this fine morning?"

[Wired*Nun]

He gets the sense of the controls, what's different, what's the same. He asks what he needs to, keeps his mouth shut otherwise, until they clear orbit.


So where are we headin' this fine morning?"


"Regina. Here's the burn." He double-checks alignment, then reaches for the comm. "Art, ready for pulse. Standard burn." He turns back to Sam.

"You got the first watch. See you in four."

Four hours go by fast, as he runs through the checklists stored on two-rings in holders. Cortex is easy to access from the board, and they are five by five in track for Regina.

What's on Regina?

Hiram comes back in at the four-hour mark, propping a bottle of beer on the console before putting his feet up next to it. "You are relieved, sar."

[Fulmen]

Sam sees the beer, but decides it is best to not even bother worrying about it. "Fantastic. Guess I'm expected back here in 4?" With that Sam leaves and begins taking a tour around the ship. He really hasn't seen much other than his quarters, the cargo bay, the common room and the cockpit. He takes it upon himself to snoop around a bit, checking out anywhere he thinks is okay for him to go and many places that probably aren't. He gets a feel for the ship and talks to anyone he happens to run into.

[Wired*Nun]

"Yeah. Four-eight rotation in the black, 06-10, 10-14, 14-22, 22-06." He takes a pull off the bottle, starts checking the board.

(Jump to common prelude thread)