Gremlins Aboard
At this point of the orientation tour, the head maintenance officer and I were on our hands and knees, shuffling through the crawl spaces below decks. Noticing that we breezed past an access hatch, I asked, "where does this lead?"
The old spacer looked at me and let out a long sigh.
"Nowhere good."
"Then shouldn't I know about it? I do own the ship now, after all." My curiosity piqued, I pressed for answers. Another sigh.
"That's where the gremlins nest."
"Those little ape creatures, like the one you blasted in the galley earlier?"
He nodded.
"Well then toss me a fumigation charge, that'll fix 'em." The maintenance officer grimaced as I opened the hatch.
"See," he began sheepishly, "that's what I wanted to avoid. You'll think I'm a crazy old spacer. But that gremlin I got deckside was… out of bounds, so to speak. Got caught up top, paid the price. But if you take the war to the gremlins on *their* turf, you'll regret it."
I started dumbly at the crazy old spacer but said nothing. Taking courage from the fact I didn't shut him down, he continued.
"See, every ship's got gremlins. But the difference between an infestation and a war is about boundaries. We could fumigate, sure, but survivors- and, mark my words, there would be survivors- go from stealing the odd bolt or scrap to sabotaging the life support.
"It's no fun to wake up in the middle of the night to a gremlin gnawing on your bones, or drinking up the last of the water supply. A lot of good sailors have died bad deaths, all in the name of cleaning out the ship. Mark my words, sir, it ain't worth it."
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Maybe it was the honesty in the old man's voice. Maybe it was my own superstition. Maybe it was the way the beady eyes in the darkness below seemed to wink as I closed the hatch. For whatever reason, I knew I'd better listen to the officer. Latching the door shut, I nodded to him. He smiled and turned around, continuing the tour of my- of our- ship.
Rum Runners
“You’ve got five seconds to get that gremlin-infested ship out of my spaceport!” spat the toad-like Krauquian port boss.
Burnik hesitated, clicking his claws on his chest. He only needed to keep the port boss from doing anything drastic before his driver arrived with the Griffonian rum. That single crate would make the difference between the Mayblin making a profit- for the first time- or running at a deficit for another month.
“I have a full minute, actually,” said Burnik, his falling crest belying his nonchalant attitude.
“What!?” demanded the port boss, his naturally bulging eyes nearly popping out of his head.
“I have a full minute,” he repeated. “After a hauler has been notified that they are no longer welcome at a port, the crew has five minutes to conclude their affairs before heading directly to their hauler and leaving. You’ve been berating me for-” he checked his watch, “-three and a half minutes. So I have one and a half minutes left.”
An intelligent but neurotic Dromean, Burnik was terrible with maintenance. He was awful with people. But rules he could work with. He had gone to school to be a lawyer, but a series of misadventures had landed him a ship to call his own. One that was, in fact, gremlin-infested.
The port boss gathered himself, ready to begin another tirade, when a screeching sound came from across the spaceport. He and Burnik turned to see a utility craft with a single crate strapped down to the bed coming around a corner fast enough that the bumper tilted down and scraped the concrete. Burnik motioned for the driver, one of his more competent, if bombastic, employees, to slow down. The craft slowed its approach- slightly- and drove up the ramp into the Mayblin, where Burnik was sure all hands would begin strapping it down.
“Tell your driver to slow down in my port,” grumbled the port boss.
“Will do,” said Burnik, turning towards his ship with nearly a minute to spare. “And next time, leave the gremlins out of this.”