He felt like a Kstzuran was crawling all over his brain. He tried to lift his head but the increasing pain stopped him immediately. The next attempt was to open at least one eye. That worked somewhat, there were some dim blurry lights.
Ok, first checking his status. Marik Llandradroß, 17 standard years old, C3 class pilot. Last been on Ribbentoa station after limping home with Simon. As expected for an insurance scam, no one wanted the crates in the cargo hold which only contained scrap metal from Cobasian. And the station did not want a ship close by with a hot fission core. Luckily, someone had bought the ship as it was still good enough for some years of inner system service. At least, Simon would not be scrapped. But he was without a ship, and broke without the second half of his money (the money for Simon was in an escrow account until released by the Cobasian owners, so he would probably never see it) and without a job, again, a familiar state. A good reason to go to the next drinking hole, whatever it was called there, and get high on the local liquids. They were safe for humans, he had been assured. There had been quite some humans there, so it was probably true. And he had not died. Yet.
He tried to focus again. Very slowly, contours emerged from blurred circles and sliding zigzags. Not like 4D, at least. Then he waited a little longer to be sure of what he saw. Since it was a cockpit. None that he recognized but no doubt a cockpit. And with his other senses slowly reporting to duty, they were nearly weightless. So, he was no longer on the station.
"Computer, status." Ug, the words echoed in his skull.
"Coils at 211%, run up since 7301 for jump with 0.1 g towards Hrrst 20456892. Overall state 9.8."
It took a long time to process this info with the echo. And he neither recognized the voice nor the accent. Time to get a little more awake and aware.
"Computer, full identification, destination, cargo, crew." At least the echo had died down a little.
"Silen from Samur, #00521/24747/AARRTS#. Final Destination: Fallerian. Cargo: Contract Workers (modified), hibernating. Crew: Marik Llandradroß, Pilot, Flight time 7302, jump in 2607."
He processed this. And then again.
"Computer, which" He stopped. "What, modified contract workers? Sounds like slaves?"
"No data, no official freight manifest."
In other words, illegal working slaves for a colony. Great. "Computer, is there any manifest on my payment?"
"Board and lodgings. You get your ID back at Fallerian, it is travelling via courier."
Damn, as he had feared. Drunken, he had probably forced his story on everyone not getting away quick enough until somebody had found a C class pilot for for an odd-job. Ugh, and it would be so easy to please him. Why couldn't just a regular freighter need a copilot? He didn't have any bigger ambitions. But shanghaied for illegal cargo, he could barely sink much lower.
He looked around. They had brought his bag, at least, sitting on the floor next to the chair. "Computer, how long till the jump?" he sighed.
"2162"
"Computer, do you have painkillers?"
"Any specific preference?"
"Computer, something for my head, please."
"This patch should do. Give it 0005, if there is still pain, ask for another."
He took it from the patch dispenser. He had some time till the jump, he should check the ship. Slowly he got up. A lot of people got sick in near weightlessness. He was not affected and in his current state, 0.1 g helped a lot: no need for quick movements, slow was best. He took his bag and climbed down the hatch.
The crew space was tiny. The ladder ended in the combined galley/mess/workshop, the only living space. There were two tiny cabins to one side, just capsules in the wall with a mattress all around. Certainly not fitting a Cobasian, not that he would expect any of them here as he was on the other side of the galaxy. He opened a luggage drawer in the capsule. It was empty, so he put his bag onto the bed and started to fold his clothes into the drawer. Apart from his ID and his pad, nothing else was amiss. And he still had the SI-OP around his neck which was probably the most valuable thing he owned. And probably so rare that his kidnappers had no idea. He laid down for a moment.
When the painkillers in the patch had dulled the headache, he crawled out of his capsule cabin again to conclude his inspection of the ship. There was an equally tiny toilet-shower unit across the galley, the same size as the airlock to the engine section next to it. In between were several storage cabinets. And there was a large hatch to the cargo hold, with the recent addition of a high-quality and tamper-proof lock. But it was a wide hatch with four hinges on his side. He could just remove the hinges. But that would need some more time than what had been scheduled until the upcoming jump. He needed to postpone it, he would not jump with an open cargo hatch.
Continuing his inspection, he opened a storage cabinet, which was full of cheap Fallerian insect instant soups, the cheapest 'food which fuelled the galaxy™'. Luckily, he had been raised on it and really liked it; although he preferred the real over the instant variants. Stiil, a hot soup was what he needed to get the ugly lingering vomit taste out of his mouth.
He checked the other lockers: Apart from the soups, there were just four regular meals. With the cup with hot instant Krantasoup in his hand, he climbed back up into the cockpit.
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"Computer, please project the route, in 3D."
A display came to life but flickered out immediately. "Sorry, 3D is unstable. Please use the main screen."
So no 3D, great. "Computer, there seems no registration number for our flight plan?"
"There is only a flight plan filed for Fallerian, the final destination." The answer was expected, illegal cargo goes of course on an unregistered flight. At least, he had asked.
"Computer, please give me access to the full status."
He went through it while he absentminded shovelled the Krantasoup with the plastic spoon into his mouth. There was dangerously little fuel, barely enough for a single jump and then he had to come out very close to the planet in the destination system. He might be still able to return to Ribbentoa station, although that would mean 20 days on Krantasoup. But given that this was an illegal operation, a return to Ribbentoa station would certainly not bode well with whoever had put him on this ship. So he would have to jump.
Next, he checked the few other star systems within their theoretical reach. All of them were human or empty. Since he needed fuel, he could not jump to an empty system. And arriving in a human world with an unregistered flight plan with a cargo of slaves and without an ID would certainly lead to his arrest, he had seen enough dramas to not look forward to that. Moreover, only two systems had shorter 4D transit times than the current destination. But the vectors for these two would mean a slow turn around half the Ribbentoa system for which there was not enough food for him or faster acceleration for which he had not enough fuel. Whoever had shanghaied him, had thought of everything. He would have to jump to the set destination, get refuelled there and then see what options come up.
He sighed. "Computer, I confirm your route. Do you have a name?"
"I prefer Blackbeard."
"Computer, ok, Blackbeard." He did not like that name at all.
He still held the empty cup in his hand, so he went back to the galley, made some instant ice tea and threw all the containers away. He just nibbled some roasted kribats and cursed silently that they did not leave him his pad. With nothing better to do, he went back to the cockpit again. "Blackbeard, do you have better data on the destination system? There seems to be no station."
"There is no station, we will do a reentry and glided landing. Hrrst 20456892 has 0.35 g surface and less than 40 % pressure of the standard atmosphere."
"But, Blackbeard, I am C3, not qualified?"
"Be assured, I have landed unassisted before. I am reentry rated." Great, a bragging AI.
"Blackbeard, How long till jump?"
"0047."
It would be time enough for a quick shower. But he would need one after the jump anyway. Thus, he looked further at the destination system, even though there was really nothing. Just the sole barely habitable planet of a system with only four planets in total. And their entry point was already as close as he dared.
Finally, there was the jump warning. And the room unfolded properly into four dimensions. His hand with the patch connected with his cheek and knocked him out.
* * *
He was again in 3D, drifting in 0 g, and he felt like vomiting. Maybe the painkillers and rest alcohol had formed a bad union with the patch. Or he simply did not react well to the local variation of the drug. No matter why, he hasted down to hurl through the vacuum lid of the toilet into the howling suction.
After some water gargling in 0 g with the hooded sink, which in itself was ugly enough, the worst was over and he floated back to the cockpit.
They had come out quite far, almost too far. It would be three days of braking and their delta v was really tight, even at the optimum deceleration of 0.13 g. "Blackbeard, the entry was a little far. Braking with 0.13 g."
"If docking for a station, yes. But with atmospheric reentry, there are higher tolerances. And a lighter ship is easier to glide to land safely."
Great, a backtalking AI. Although, being lighter sounded reasonable. He had to take the AI's word for it since he had not even started to look into the atmospheric reentry and atmospheric flight needed for an D and E class licenses. "Blackbeard, do you have flight manuals or a simulator?"
"There is a relatively simple simulator program. The manual should be in the top left corner now."
"Blackbeard, thank you."
He played around with the simulator. It was only a little more than a game since there were none of the forces, just a screen. And a game which he sucked at. His first five attempts never even reached close to the landing strip.
After several more attempts, his stomach had settled and he felt the hunger after a jump. He started with another instant soup, leaving the last three bigger meals for later. And even then, he would arrive quite hungry, and that included already his small stash of sweets that he had bought first thing when arriving at the station.
And then back to the simulator. After a few tutorials about the theory of flight and many more failed attempts, he had his first successful touchdown just after half a day. However, the simulator soon stepped up the challenge, now he had to find the landing strip first. Frustrated, he had another soup and two crunchy Kresslian bars from his stash.
He was tired from all the near and wider misses at the simulator. And still smelly and sweaty from the jump. It was time to shower and call it a day.
The tiny shower had an equally tiny water tank, just four minutes of lukewarm mist cleaned almost nothing, just wetted the dirt so it stuck better to the dry wipes. Either way, the sweat was gone, and he was solo anyway. He fell asleep as soon as he entered his mattress capsule.
* * *
"Good morning, we have an answer from the planet."
It took some moments until the message had filtered through the lower circuits and reached his higher cognitive system which only slowly got up to speed. "Blackbeard, yes," he yawned.
"We have the landing coordinates. They will provide enough LOX and hydrogen for takeoff. They want you to verify the cargo."
"Blackbeard, tell them there is a lock."
"Please, do yourself. Recording." Great, no time to get angry at the AI.
"Hello, this is the pilot. The cargo hold is secured by a lock for which neither the AI nor I have the code. Also, may I ask for some food, please? The company had not stocked enough on departure."
"Sending reply."
As close as they were, there should be less than 0006 of delay. But there was no response. Likely the radio station on that backwater world was monitored just a few times a day and had not constant AI watch. Or maybe someone had to crank a wheel for it to operate. Not that they needed much guidance. They were clearly the only thing in space, apart from the three huge terraforming/solar harvesting/weather orbital platforms in a close locked orbit around the planet.
His stomach growled menacingly, So a real food package for breakfast. And then to the simulator again. Way too soon, he would need to land this ship on a planet, or at least be ready to land if the AI had trouble landing it. Lots of pressure to do better. And now, he had the coordinates so he could train for the real thing. Given their tight fuel budget, he would enter the atmosphere near the equator and then descend to the north. The only challenge would be to avoid the downlink microwave beam from the energy-harvesting orbital platforms.
When he made the next break for another instant soup, it was already past 7000. But his success rate for landing had reached nearly 30 %. After half a day at it, he needed to do something else. He still wanted to check his passengers.