Drift Stories/Hands Off the Merchandise: Difference between revisions

Ilyar drained the last of his brandy, flicked a few shiny silver marks into the empty glass, and stood. “Well then, we shouldn’t keep her waiting. Sol, fetch Quartz and meet us back at the ship; we ought to make a good impression.”

{{Sep}}

“You look fine, OK?”

Quartz grinned at Bentley. “What’s the difference, anyway? Pirates probably get paid better.”

{{Sep}}

The glass-walled elevator car made its way slowly up the side of the High Spire, the luxurious crown perched atop the ''Cloud Archipelago''’s expanse. Inside, the four members of the ''Stationary Traveller''’s crew stood waiting. Though they tried not to show it, the tension was palpable.

Kyrie sat back down with her glass and raised it, a broad smile across her face. “To a job well done.” Ilyar, Bentley, Solivane and Quartz clinked their glasses against hers. “And to new friends,” Bentley added, sipping their glass and breaking into a coughing fit from its sheer potency. “Quite right,” Kyrie laughed.

{{Sep}}

Solivane walked through the main corridor of the ''Stationary Traveller'', thinking it was unusually quiet for a departure morning. A deck below, the hold buzzed with the chatter and rattle of dockers loading crates of provisions and Quartz complaining about the scrapes they left on the floor. Up here, however, the air was too still.

“Eh, some old tradition,” replied Bentley with a shrug.  

{{Sep}}

Bentley lay awake, staring at the ceiling. It was sometime in the dead of night and the lights were off, letting the gentle glow of the Drift illuminate the walls of the captain’s quarters. They carefully untangled themselves from Ilyar’s arms and slipped out, throwing on a dressing down on the way.

With nothing more to say, Bentley walked towards the door. They glanced back at the cargo once more. “It’s trouble, I know it. More than it’s worth.”

{{Sep}}

Morning came as morning could only come on a seamship, with the lights coming up on a timer and the Drift remaining as dark and empty as ever. Bentley was at the drive console, sipping a cup of coffee in a vain attempt to gain back some of the sleep they missed the previous night. Quartz sat as ever on the far end of the bridge, pointedly ignoring everything around them, and for once Bentley was glad for it. Solivane, at the navigator’s desk, was busying themselves with course corrections and valiantly pretending nothing had happened. Into the midst of this tension strode Ilyar, fresh-faced and stretching his back. He stood by the front windows admiring the Drift for a moment, then turned to address the room.

Ilyar took the headset from Quartz and keyed up the transmitter. “''Grand Repose'', this is Heavy Freighter…” He glanced around in a panic, his eyes alighting on the crumpled bag stuffed under Bentley’s seat. “… ''Cool Ranch''. Apologies, our transponder has been malfunctioning lately. We are carrying a volatile load bound for Passenger-382-C. Advise maintaining distance, our Drift wake is potentially dangerous to small craft.”

Ilyar glanced down at Quartz, who quickly mouthed a suitable answer. He smiled, keying up again. “We are carrying fifty tonnes of Drift isolate. Our hold is locked down but I ''strongly'' advise against any attempts to scan it.” Bentley was watching from across the bridge, eyes wide with delight. Drift isolate, pure concentrated narrative energy, was just about the most unstable substance in regular traffic; the cutter’s crew knew as well as they did that one scan could blow the entire sector out of existence.