A Day in the Life
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MystWyrld free porn video
MystWyrld
OR
The Beloved Planet of Our Lady of Mysteries.
PART ONE- A Navigator's Tale
1713 9904.27
by Yellow Dancer
CHAPTER ONE- Introduction by the Navigator.
Officially, that is to say, on charts cartographed by the Interstellar
Cartography Guild, the planet was nothing more than a jerkwater stop on
the way to Alpha Orienns IV, the last of the frontier planets. The Emperor
of the Known Multiverse, Kerrigan III, the Just, had determined that it
was to be nothing but a way-stop, useful for the amount of Tritium
LithoKarytide that could refuel the Empire's gigantic freighters. It's
Official name was Beta Centarus VII, but the locals all called it Myst
Wyrld.
It had no native inhabitants save for a few drone miners, and no
one was allowed to actually set down on the planet direct, mainly becuase
of the fierce storms that ravaged the surface. 400 kilometre per hour
winds, picking up even the slightest dust, would not only crush, but strip
the flesh from, any humanoid stupid enough to step foot on it's surface,
even in heavy working suits. No one is sure how the Empire got the work
drones down on the surface, or how they managed to keep mining the
Tritium ore that kept the Empire running so smoothly, all of this is lost in
the centuries between then and now.
My name is Janson, That's my first, middle, and last name, no,
not Janson Janson Janson, just plain ol' Janson. I'm a navigator on a
spice freighter, a small, free-owned frigate called "Mercy's Melons" I'd
describe exactly why we call her that, but it's irrelevant, but I will say this:
it has to do with the construction at the front of the ship, that is, the
navidomes, and a picture our Captain painted there when she was just off
the blocks. Although I say we have a small frigate, she masses well over
1,000,000 metric tonnes, bigger displacement than ancient earth aircraft
carriers, but, compared to imperial ships, we looked like so much flotsam
floating in the space lanes. Our forecastle is detatchable from the freight
area, so, we can buckle down to just 172.543 metric tonnes when we're
not hauling cargo.
As I've said, we were a spice trading vessel, which, I'm sure most
people like you might scoff at ("I get my spices from the grocery store!")
what you don't realize is, most of the spices, herbs and seasonings that
Humanity uses, don't grow off of the core worlds, either gravity's too
high or low, or there's too much oxygen, or not enough, or too much
radiation, or not enough for them to grow on expantion planets, like in the
outer rim, hardly any vegetables at all grow, much less delicate and
delicious spices. It's a lucrative business, I must say, and we rake in quite
a bit of money. Piracy is really not a problem anymore, unless you count
the Imperium's Customs Service's import taxes, which can make up to
23% of your bulk mass plus 2% of your profit margin, yet, all in all, it
costs less than .5 Solaris per metric tonne of bulk we take on, and we can
amass up to 10-15 solaris per metric tonne per delivery, less repairs and
fuels, and taxes, that leaves us, on average, 7 solaris per metric tonne, and
that's a 1400% profit, really not bad, and at 100,000 metric bulk push and
storage, you can see how we can consider ourselves wealthy, eh?
People usually don't like free-traders, I haven't quite figured it out,
maybe it's because we don't bathe very often, as, the only water carried
on board is for NECCESSARY sanitary concerns, like, flushing the loo,
and drinking; or maybe it's because we don't speak perfect Standard, like
all of those 'hoity-toity' rich types who can afford to spend all of their
waking hours playing Kickney, or one of those other hermaphro's games.
I really can't say, the only scope I've been able to dig is maybe, just
maybe, you all think that we're some kind of hindu 'untouchable' or
something, and, you know what? that's fine by me, my dirt is, in a sense,
clean, I work for it, I sweat for it, Hell, sometimes I even bleed for it, just
so your precious souffles and vicchysoise don't come out bland...
***
When I first signed on to be a deck hand for a freighter, I was
hoping that I might pass the Imperial tests and go through one of their
academies to become a professional, clean, and well-respected hand. You
see, I wasn't always the navigator, no siree: no such luck for this little
gray duck, to coin a phrase. Since all academic acheivement nowadays is
based on the S.A.T., I wasn't able to sign on, as I made less than 800 on
mine, and the service, even the Merchant Marines, require at least 800, the
Space Corps (those effeminate bastards with their cravats and thier tailored
jhodpurs) require 1200 at LEAST. I have one thing to say to you ancient
earth people: it's not how educated you are, it's how well you can use
your noodle, which, I know, seems trite and uncompassionate, but, screw
you, because of your 'striving to build a better human being' the rich got
richer, and the poor, those who couldn't afford a good education, got
trampled beneath the boot heels of the 'ubermensch' of our time. Thanks a
lot.
I eventually found work as a dock loader for a local shorside
shipping company. Working with 6 tonne machines that can lift an entire
frigate's pilot module in their grips is a rather prestigious position. I was
pulling down 10sol an hour, for what amounts to nothing more than
telling a machine where to put stuff; I was a part of the Loader's Union,
and paid my dues, but, when they went on strike, all of a sudden I
couldn't afford to be out of work, you know? So, I paid out on the
Loader's Union, and joined the Spacers' Union, and got a job as a
deckhand, recruit grade, making approximately .01 share per jump, which
wasn't that bad, but wasn't great,. either. Ah, to have been in Military-
grade work, those guys have it made, I swear to ya, they're the absolute
cream of the spacing crop.
But, I digress, I was talking about MystWyrld, and the fact that no
human being has ever stepped foot upon it. Creepy, eh? Well, there's a
Schism in the Church about it, some say it's Heaven, and Some say it's
Hell, the Church Fathers simply say that it is an inhospitable planet,
created by God as a paradox and a puzzle for humanity as a whole to
solve. It doesn't really matter, in any case, because, they're all wrong,
from the Fathers all the way down to the lowliest heretical Brother,
wrong.
I say they were wrong, because what Beta Centarus VII was
really, would have shocked them down to the core of their very beings.
Chapter Two
"First Day Out"
The Bell rang at exactly 0530 Zulu (Earth Local Greenwich Mean
Time) and we hustled out of our bunks to begin the day's loading and
manifest shipping. We were in port in San Diego, which has the largest
starport shoreside that any planet does, save for perhaps, Galaxis'
Neiderport, which is simply unnatural, and wasn't built by humans
anyway. We were still recovering from the "Three B's" of the previous
night-Babes, Booze, and Boxing, which are any real spacer's favorite
passtimes, just ask one, you'll see... We were scubbing out the cargo
tanks for filling, and having a time of it, singing and drinking, and
generally making asses of ourselves, when in steps the most beautiful pair
of legs that I have ever seen.
"Gentlemen!", the owner of the legs shouted over the din,
catching, and holding, our attention. "I am Commander Schuyler of the
Imperial Customs Service, and this is an inspection tour!"
We all groaned and stopped what we were doing to allow her to
look us over, then march off to our bunks to inspect our living quarters.
We knew that we were sunk, as nearly every spacer on the ship has his
holos of his slot-girl hanging around the berthings, and such was
considered pornography (especially in my case, but-Hey!) and it was
illegal to transport Pornography through Imperium space. Oh, well, the
day was just beginning, and not very well, at that.
I personally, was fined two hundred sol or fourteen days in
military brig, which I had no intention of doing, so, I dug into my socks,
(the ones in my footlocker, you wierdo) and dug out the swag, cursing the
whole time, they musta raked in over 2k sol just in that little misadventure
alone, no wonder the Imperium is so rich.
At lunch, we ingested what we could scrape, and got they day
underway full up, getting the loaders to bring in the spice (a general term
for condiments, I should point out, not a geriatric melange curried from
some desert planet-ed.) and began to get the refrigerants flowing and
water to keep everything alive. The old Engine Man, Lefleur, kept our
minds off of the back-breaking woirk by breaking out into an old hymn-
the "Cap Trooper's Polka" which starts you off at a jolly beat, then works
your mind into a military fervor.
At about 1500 Zulu, the main hatch caved, and we were delayed
three days solar for repairs.
What a life, eh?
CHAPTER THREE
-Money to Burn
As I've said, I'm now the NavCom on the "Mercy's Melons" but,
I was not always so. and this story that I'm telling you will not actually
encompass the time that I've been a Navigator- this is because all nav's are
of the feminine persuasion, without fail, I've never heard of a man being a
navigator, and you probably never will, you see, NavCom's are at once
the Helm, the Navigation, the communications officer, and the shoreside
liason for a ship, a duty that only women have been able to satisfactorily
fulfill, because of their dexterity, stress control, et al. Men are cut out for
more of the 'typical' male role- as spacers, and spacers we are, and damn
proud of it. Not to say that there aren't any female spacers, there are, and
damn happy about it are we. Take Deckmaster Dunny, for example, she
comes from a long, distinguished line of spacers, and wanted to make her
poppa, rather than her mum proud, and, so she did, by becomming the
first deckmaster of either sex to have been given the title of Master before
she was 30, her Guild must be so proud of her, or filled to the brim with
propaganda, I'm not sure which, all I know is that she is the best damn
DM we've ever had. Let me cull you in, walker, a Deckmaster is the only
person in charge of Cargo. No cargo comes in, and no cargo goes out w/o
the Deckmaster's OK. it's as simple as that.
But, back to our NavCom. Sherba was a Kyest, a dainty, four-
armed beauty from the outer rim. She could do it all, she was the best
damn NavCom out there, but, her race was, as a whole, denied entrance
into military service because they were a conquered species, and, we can't
have the oppressed getting into power positions, can we?
Sherba, whose real name is only an approximation of the short,
junky sounding syllables that we attatch to her, is nearly unpronouncable
to the human tongue, was never destined to be anything, you see, Kyest
males hold their women in such high regard, that they're not allowed to do
much, except sit at home and kick out little Kyests. They also produce a
powerful pheremone that has no effect on their men, yet drives Homo
Sapiens nearly insane. They do it when they are horny, excited, or scared;
I, personally, have never been around Sherba in any of these situations,
so it hasn't bothered me any, but I've heard some of the men tell some
tales.
I bring the tale to our Captain, who is the biggest enigma of us all.
Captain Delradier has no background. Well, none that I can tell, anyway.
She (he?) bought this vessel from mothballs about twenty years ago, and
immediately put her into service as a spice freighter, although, LeFleur
tells me she probably (the ship, not Cpt. Delradier) would have been
served best as a scouting vessel, what with the engines and sensors that
we're packing. Who cares, as long as I'm getting my percentage, I don't
care if we're hauling spices, or wild hunga from Tarsis, although, I must
admit the spices require less maintenance, and are not a percent as
dangerous as hunga, wild or not. Anyways, the Captain and I have
somewhat of a love/hate relationship, she loves to tell me how much she
hates me, and I hate to tell her how much I love the smell of her body and
perfumes as she squeezes past me in the tight quarters of the fo'csle of the
ship. I guess you noticed the subassigned question of the captain's gender
above? well, all in good time, my beardless darling, I'll get to that,
promise.
Finally of any real importance is our Deckmaster, Lt.cmdr Dunny,
a slut if I ever met one. Well, actually, I take that back, I like her too much
to say that. While I, personally, have never tasted her wares, she is
known for taking care of us on long jumps, in 'that way'. And all she
demands from us in return is that we get our work done, and pay her 15%
of our percentage, which isn't bad, if you use her services, that is. I don't
pay, and neither do Sherba, or the Captain, but, they know it goes on, and
turn a blind eye to what may very well be the best morale saver on board.
Chapter Four
The misfit Pirates of Who?
It was two weeks out of Sol, and the tiny ship has already caught
havoc in a microdust storm, just earthside of Proxima Teguese, and the
radiation dampers were shot and the outer hull looked like it had horrible
acne scars. Cpt Delradier sat in the command console just rearward and
slightly elevated of the NavCom. Captaincy had seemed such an awesome
waste of her many talents of here recently, and she was growing bored
with the entire mess of running a ship and supporting a crew, although the
money was not bad, the stresses were not outweighed by the excitement
anymore.
Closing the book, whose title was A Tale of Two Cities, she
thought of the ramifications of just turning the ship over to the crew under
the command of its First Officer once they reached Proxima Ceti, yet, for
reasons she could not discount, perhaps a misplaced sense of loyalty, she
couldn't let the old ship go. Glancing up at the supine navigator on her
crash couch, she cleared her throat, to which the NavCom looked back.
"Status?", requested the androgynous Captain.
"Still fourteen parsecs out of Proxima, Captain.", repeated the
young Kyest.
The Captain considered carefully. "I'll be indisposed, keep me
posted, and you have the bridge."
The CO left the bridge in an awful hurry, leaving the NavCom
wondering exactly what was going on in her head. Sherba crawled of the
navigator's console, which required you to lay on your stomach facing the
dome, and crawled into the CO's seat, not an unfamiliar place to be
sitting, as she had taken the bridge many times, and surely this would not
be the last. She thought that if she squinted just enough, just maybe, she
could see a NavCom laying there, telling her coordinates and course
layouts, rather than it just being her empty station.
*********
Captain Delradier keyed open her berth's hatch, the only separate
berthing on board, and stepped inside, feeling the weight of sleep
crushing in on her brain. The door slipped shut behind her, and she peeled
off the leather and denim uniform and stretched, scratching her ribs in
elation. She posed in front of the full-length mirror on the inside of the
door, and noted the less-than flattering features of her body. More than a
few lines around the eyes and mouth, a sag here and there, and even her
pubic hair was slowly graying, but still, most people she met still
considered her to be an attractive woman, 'Or am I just lying to myself?'
she wondered. Still, the only thing she thought exotic about herself now
was the nickel-silver of her eyes, what most people considered her most
striking feature. She knew about the rumours that the deckhands traded
during drunken bingeing in the cargo hold: that she was a shapeshifter,
that she had the secret to eternal youth, that she had once pulled a train
with the entire crew, that she was some kind of hermaphromorph. They
never really so hit it on the head, do they, she thought. She reached down
and untucked herself, and sighed at what she considered her one big
failure in life.
*********
Sherba was almost asleep when the proximity sensors went nuts.
She flew over to the Nav console and read what she'd already feared:
Pirates! Or most likely pirates, considering that that is what the "Jolly
Roger" painted on the canopy of a guerilla gunship usually means. In just
a few seconds, she had the entire ship alerted to the fact that they were
being chased. One of the ships opened fire with a focused plasmastream
weapon, and she had to jink the ship from side to side to keep the cockpit
from being cut in half by the deadly beams. The Captain stormed onto the
bridge and demanded a status report. Sherba, flustered, managed to report
that they were being slowly driven towards Proxima Centaurii, the huge
interstellar dustcloud around Proxima Teguese, a virtual deathtrap, in
which their sensors would be useless, but in which the pirates, with their
small, fast strikeships could see just fine.
(to be continued)
Elle
- 07.05.2020
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