The Astrobar - View Single Post

iamspenagain · 04-11-2005, 12:27 AM

It's unfinished because I assumed the others in my creative writing class, who have to critique my story, would probably lynch me if I provided them with a 20 or 25-page story. So I limited myself to 11 pages, which is still over two and a half times the minimum. Anyway, without further ado, may I present to you:

The Spacefarers

Conditions aboard the freighter were, at best, cramped. The corridors, which were almost wide enough for one man to walk comfortably, had low ceilings. The fact that many wall panels were missing, exposing various wires, cables, and conduits, only added to the claustrophobic atmosphere. The lights which ran along the ceilings, which barely illuminated the corridors sufficiently even on a good day, were flickering and buzzing. Many had gone out completely. To make matters worse for the crew, more cargo than could fit in the cargo bays was being hauled on this journey. Crates of various sizes and shapes, some from locations halfway across the galaxy, were strewn about wherever there was room and sometimes where there wasn’t.

The men aboard the freighter were not in much better condition than their ship. Due to long travel periods often exceeding three months (the galaxy is a big place), most of the crewmen were grizzled and unshaven. Some were gaining weight due to lack of exercise. Others were losing weight at appalling rates due to an unwillingness to eat the rations that were forced upon them. Despite their appearance, however, they were widely-renowned in the shipping industry. This was the crew that, despite their patched-together ship and lack of proper supplies, had fought off wave after wave of Orion Marauders, the most infamous pirates ever to have raised hell on the galactic shipping lanes.

Their ship, the Lady Luck, was a decades-old freighter originally used to haul foodstuffs and weapons in the Terran Civil War. Following the war and the defeat of the Separatists, the Greater Centaurian Shipping Company purchased the ship and outfitted it with light weapons to fend off the many pirate groups that had recently begun to take advantage of the Terran military’s lack of military and security power. The engines were replaced with a different make entirely to boost the speed, though engineers complain frequently about the patchwork of wires and power conduits used to jury-rig the engines to the ship. Their reliability was suspect, their power consumption was beyond commonly-accepted safety limits.

The commander of the Lady Luck, Captain Michael Davis, loved his ship and respected his crew. They could handle anything the cosmos threw at them, he believed. His confidence rubbed off on his men, and was often the only thing holding them together. His second-in-command, Commander Jimmy Douglas, was a quiet yet energetic man. Able to swiftly make decisions and act upon them, his decisiveness and calm under pressure had saved the ship and crew countless times. Communications officer Charles Conway, a charismatic Brit with a quick temper and an even quicker wit, had the unique ability of simultaneously charming and intimidating those that would attempt to hold back the Lady. Helmsman and navigator Ahmed Ackbar, a devout Muslim who had become incredibly inverted due to the lack of others who share his faith and culture, had nonetheless mastered the art of flying the spaceship he called home. The crewman at the weapons console, Rocko Cavuto, though this was his first voyage aboard the Lady, had already proven his proficiency at his station.

***

It was three o’clock. Ahmed Ackbar was in his cramped quarters, one of only three single-person cabins on the ship (the other two were the captain’s and the first officer’s). He pulled a small, square carpet from the drawer under his bed and laid it upon the floor. Kneeling on it, he placed the tips of his thumbs on his earlobes and turned his palms upwards. He began reciting the takbir as he slowly moved his hands to his navel. He heard his door slide open, but paid it no mind. Rather, he finished Salaat as per strict Islamic code. Rising, he turned his head toward the door to see Charles Conway. “May I help you?” he asked softly.

“I’m going to the mess for some tea, if you care to join me,” Conway replied. “Tea is one thing us Brits just can’t leave behind. I mean, we could deal with leaving behind India, the Americas, the Middle East, Northern Ireland, but not tea.”

Ackbar shook his head gently. “You should not compare my homeland or anyone else’s to a cup of tea. Isn’t there anyone else for you to share tea with?”

Conway smiled. “Nope. You, good sir, are the only person I regularly talk to that isn’t currently on duty. Well, except Cavuto, but I can’t be seen with that bloke. Might hurt my reputation. Or my head.”

“All right,” Ackbar said. “I have a few things to do, but I will certainly meet you in the mess in five minutes.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” Conway smiled. Ackbar couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw a wink come from the face of his colleague.

***

Rocko Cavuto tried his best to stay awake. The only think on subspace was an old show about a retired couple looking after their grandchild, probably being broadcast from some God-forsaken refueling post that everyone but common thieves had forgotten about long ago. Why common thieves would care about old people raising children, Cavuto couldn’t even begin to guess. Regardless of the reasons for the broadcast, however, it still bored the hell out of him. He switched off the subspace multimedia unit (most people still used the archaic word “TV” to refer to it) and jumped down from the top bunk. “Coffee,” he said aloud. “I need some coffee.” He knew if he fell asleep now, he’d never be able to get to sleep in the evening, and his shift tomorrow wouldn’t go so well.

So, without deliberating too much about what kind of coffee to get (there was, after all, an extremely limited variety), he slipped on his boots and headed off to the mess.

***

Only four other people were in the mess when Ackbar arrived, and one of them was Conway. The other three were technicians or engineers or some other people that worked on the lower decks. The bridge crew didn’t often intermingle with the rest of the crew, primarily due to the fact that their duty shifts weren’t synchronized.

Ackbar walked to the window where the man commonly called “Chef” was standing. This title was somewhat inaccurate as most of the food required minimal preparation due to its pre-packaged, instant-heating nature. “I’d like a glass of sour pomegranate juice, please,” he said.

“Sorry, Ahmed, ran out yesterday. That other Egyptian guy that works down on C-deck took the last bit.” Chef’s apology was not sincere.

“I’m actually from Saudi Arabia.” Ackbar’s tone as he corrected Chef was not one of resentment but of pride. “And I’ll have a glass of water, please.”

Chef quickly filled a glass of water, recycled from sources nobody really wanted think about, and placed it on the counter. “There ya go.” Ackbar picked it up and walked to the table at which Conway sat. Since the chairs had been replaced by cargo crates out of necessity (much to the objection of the crew), he sat on a box labeled “Potentially Hazardous Materials.”

Conway sipped at his mug, which contained a steaming dark-green substance, possibly a bad imitation of tea. “How are you, Ahmed?”

“I’m fine, and you?” Idle chit-chat bothered Ackbar, but he was never outspoken enough to start a meaningful conversation with anyone.

“I’m good. Just glad to be having a drink with you.” He sipped his tea again. The mess hall doors attempted to open behind him, but the servos became stuck and made a whining sound. The motors quit, leaving the door half-open.

“Crap!” yelled a voice from behind the door.

Conway rolled his eyes. “Christ,” he said. “Not him again.” Rocko Cavuto sidestepped through the opening.

“Why the hell does that always happen to me? I mean, Jesus, what did I ever do to the door?”

“Shut up, Cavuto, you’re far too loud!” Conway slammed his mug down rather forcefully. “You know, I’ve spent two months serving with you, and not once have I ever heard you speak in a normal tone. And you’re always complaining about something.”

(Continued)

04-11-2005, 12:27 AM	#1 (permalink)
iamspenagain Cymro's Bitch Join Date: Jan 1970 Location: The Nast 'Nati, Ohio Posts: 494	An unfinished story It's unfinished because I assumed the others in my creative writing class, who have to critique my story, would probably lynch me if I provided them with a 20 or 25-page story. So I limited myself to 11 pages, which is still over two and a half times the minimum. Anyway, without further ado, may I present to you: The Spacefarers Conditions aboard the freighter were, at best, cramped. The corridors, which were almost wide enough for one man to walk comfortably, had low ceilings. The fact that many wall panels were missing, exposing various wires, cables, and conduits, only added to the claustrophobic atmosphere. The lights which ran along the ceilings, which barely illuminated the corridors sufficiently even on a good day, were flickering and buzzing. Many had gone out completely. To make matters worse for the crew, more cargo than could fit in the cargo bays was being hauled on this journey. Crates of various sizes and shapes, some from locations halfway across the galaxy, were strewn about wherever there was room and sometimes where there wasn’t. The men aboard the freighter were not in much better condition than their ship. Due to long travel periods often exceeding three months (the galaxy is a big place), most of the crewmen were grizzled and unshaven. Some were gaining weight due to lack of exercise. Others were losing weight at appalling rates due to an unwillingness to eat the rations that were forced upon them. Despite their appearance, however, they were widely-renowned in the shipping industry. This was the crew that, despite their patched-together ship and lack of proper supplies, had fought off wave after wave of Orion Marauders, the most infamous pirates ever to have raised hell on the galactic shipping lanes. Their ship, the Lady Luck, was a decades-old freighter originally used to haul foodstuffs and weapons in the Terran Civil War. Following the war and the defeat of the Separatists, the Greater Centaurian Shipping Company purchased the ship and outfitted it with light weapons to fend off the many pirate groups that had recently begun to take advantage of the Terran military’s lack of military and security power. The engines were replaced with a different make entirely to boost the speed, though engineers complain frequently about the patchwork of wires and power conduits used to jury-rig the engines to the ship. Their reliability was suspect, their power consumption was beyond commonly-accepted safety limits. The commander of the Lady Luck, Captain Michael Davis, loved his ship and respected his crew. They could handle anything the cosmos threw at them, he believed. His confidence rubbed off on his men, and was often the only thing holding them together. His second-in-command, Commander Jimmy Douglas, was a quiet yet energetic man. Able to swiftly make decisions and act upon them, his decisiveness and calm under pressure had saved the ship and crew countless times. Communications officer Charles Conway, a charismatic Brit with a quick temper and an even quicker wit, had the unique ability of simultaneously charming and intimidating those that would attempt to hold back the Lady. Helmsman and navigator Ahmed Ackbar, a devout Muslim who had become incredibly inverted due to the lack of others who share his faith and culture, had nonetheless mastered the art of flying the spaceship he called home. The crewman at the weapons console, Rocko Cavuto, though this was his first voyage aboard the Lady, had already proven his proficiency at his station. * It was three o’clock. Ahmed Ackbar was in his cramped quarters, one of only three single-person cabins on the ship (the other two were the captain’s and the first officer’s). He pulled a small, square carpet from the drawer under his bed and laid it upon the floor. Kneeling on it, he placed the tips of his thumbs on his earlobes and turned his palms upwards. He began reciting the takbir as he slowly moved his hands to his navel. He heard his door slide open, but paid it no mind. Rather, he finished Salaat as per strict Islamic code. Rising, he turned his head toward the door to see Charles Conway. “May I help you?” he asked softly. “I’m going to the mess for some tea, if you care to join me,” Conway replied. “Tea is one thing us Brits just can’t leave behind. I mean, we could deal with leaving behind India, the Americas, the Middle East, Northern Ireland, but not tea.” Ackbar shook his head gently. “You should not compare my homeland or anyone else’s to a cup of tea. Isn’t there anyone else for you to share tea with?” Conway smiled. “Nope. You, good sir, are the only person I regularly talk to that isn’t currently on duty. Well, except Cavuto, but I can’t be seen with that bloke. Might hurt my reputation. Or my head.” “All right,” Ackbar said. “I have a few things to do, but I will certainly meet you in the mess in five minutes.” “I’m looking forward to it.” Conway smiled. Ackbar couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw a wink come from the face of his colleague. * Rocko Cavuto tried his best to stay awake. The only think on subspace was an old show about a retired couple looking after their grandchild, probably being broadcast from some God-forsaken refueling post that everyone but common thieves had forgotten about long ago. Why common thieves would care about old people raising children, Cavuto couldn’t even begin to guess. Regardless of the reasons for the broadcast, however, it still bored the hell out of him. He switched off the subspace multimedia unit (most people still used the archaic word “TV” to refer to it) and jumped down from the top bunk. “Coffee,” he said aloud. “I need some coffee.” He knew if he fell asleep now, he’d never be able to get to sleep in the evening, and his shift tomorrow wouldn’t go so well. So, without deliberating too much about what kind of coffee to get (there was, after all, an extremely limited variety), he slipped on his boots and headed off to the mess. *** Only four other people were in the mess when Ackbar arrived, and one of them was Conway. The other three were technicians or engineers or some other people that worked on the lower decks. The bridge crew didn’t often intermingle with the rest of the crew, primarily due to the fact that their duty shifts weren’t synchronized. Ackbar walked to the window where the man commonly called “Chef” was standing. This title was somewhat inaccurate as most of the food required minimal preparation due to its pre-packaged, instant-heating nature. “I’d like a glass of sour pomegranate juice, please,” he said. “Sorry, Ahmed, ran out yesterday. That other Egyptian guy that works down on C-deck took the last bit.” Chef’s apology was not sincere. “I’m actually from Saudi Arabia.” Ackbar’s tone as he corrected Chef was not one of resentment but of pride. “And I’ll have a glass of water, please.” Chef quickly filled a glass of water, recycled from sources nobody really wanted think about, and placed it on the counter. “There ya go.” Ackbar picked it up and walked to the table at which Conway sat. Since the chairs had been replaced by cargo crates out of necessity (much to the objection of the crew), he sat on a box labeled “Potentially Hazardous Materials.” Conway sipped at his mug, which contained a steaming dark-green substance, possibly a bad imitation of tea. “How are you, Ahmed?” “I’m fine, and you?” Idle chit-chat bothered Ackbar, but he was never outspoken enough to start a meaningful conversation with anyone. “I’m good. Just glad to be having a drink with you.” He sipped his tea again. The mess hall doors attempted to open behind him, but the servos became stuck and made a whining sound. The motors quit, leaving the door half-open. “Crap!” yelled a voice from behind the door. Conway rolled his eyes. “Christ,” he said. “Not him again.” Rocko Cavuto sidestepped through the opening. “Why the hell does that always happen to me? I mean, Jesus, what did I ever do to the door?” “Shut up, Cavuto, you’re far too loud!” Conway slammed his mug down rather forcefully. “You know, I’ve spent two months serving with you, and not once have I ever heard you speak in a normal tone. And you’re always complaining about something.” (Continued) __________________ If I could, I would marry a Magnum bar.