Drift Stories/Hands Off the Merchandise: Difference between revisions

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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.”

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.

“Good morning, crew!”

Silence, save for the tapping of keyboards and the gentle, distant hum of the Drive. Ilyar looked around.

“Bad… morning?” He ventured.

Solivane cleared their throat. “We are approximately halfway to our destination, captain. Estimated arrival is early tomorrow afternoon, assuming Drift conditions remain stable.”

“Good, thank you Sol… Quartz?” Ilyar turned to the fennec, eyes silently pleading to give him something to work with.

Quartz glanced up for an instant, then went back to her console. “Short range scans clear. Nothing to report.”

Ilyar slumped in his coat. “Right, OK… Bentley? Engine?”

Bentley slid slowly down in their chair and onto the floor, almost knocking over their coffee in the process, and crept across the bridge to sit at Ilyar’s feet. They looked up, blankly. “Ship’s on auto helm. I’m tired.”

Ilyar stared at them for a moment, then back out the window. The tension on the bridge was too great to ignore, but nobody was giving him a clue. Finally he spun round, unable to take it any longer.

“OK, what’s the deal? Did something… happen?”

The silence was broken immediately by a chorus of “No!”, almost simultaneously, from all three. They looked around at each other, blinking, for a split second, then went straight back to what they were doing before.

Ilyar threw his arms up in frustration. “Alright, well, if nobody has any other business, I’m going to the galley.” He marched towards the door, plucking a bottle of whisky from beside the captain’s chair on the way.

“Captain, it is ten thirty,” Solivane called after him.

“Time is fictional in the Drift,” he shouted back, his voice already disappearing down the corridor.