We'll pick up where we left off in "Ildarian Hamster Business." Our ethically challenged heroine decides to try an honest job for a change, but finds that old habits are hard to break.
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*
I have never been squeamish, I can take a judicial whipping without making too much of a fuss, but escaping the gallows by just a few days - that had really done a number on me. My tough facade had suffered some serious cracks and unlike my previous run-ins with the law, I wasn't able to shrug it off as easily.
Despite my somewhat hasty departure and the fact that I earned my fare as the ship's whore, the trip to Zesta had been one of my better travel experiences. The crew was a tightly knit group that had worked together for more than twenty years - they treated me well and in exchange for saving my life, I made a serious effort to provide good service. Even though I effectively worked for free in my main job, I was able to make a few credits on the side, helping the cook and doing simple maintenance work.
It wasn't a long-term solution, of course. Back at square one financially and professionally, I longed for a proper, decent job - one that gave my overused assets some rest, with a low risk for prison, enslavement, or untimely death. For the first time in my life, I was looking for a bit of stability and I was willing to take a pay hit to make it happen.
*
"So what's next for you, Lina?" asked Morg after the ship had safely connected to the docking pylon.
"Job hunting, I guess. A girl's gotta eat."
Morg grunted and shut down the engines. He was the first officer of the freighter and I liked him a lot. When he was on duty, I was allowed to hang out on the bridge and he was teaching me all kinds of useful things. Whoring for an eight person crew was not exactly a full-time job, so I tried my best to soak up knowledge whenever someone was willing to share.
"It's my first time here, any idea where to start?" I asked.
"You could try the docks," Morg suggested. "Make some money here on the station before you move on."
"I'd rather get back on a ship. I worked the docks before, I don't want to spread my legs for a few lousy credits."
"That's not what I meant. Why don't you join me at O'Reilly's tonight? That's where pilots and potential clients hang out. Let's have a few drinks and see if we can land you a job."
"You're sweet, Morg," I said and gave him a hug. "I'll be there."
*
The rest of the day I spent exploring the station. Zesta was a city in space with more than ten thousand permanent residents and a bustling trading hub for all kinds of goods. Whether it was grains, engine parts, electronics, or slaves - you would find it here, ready to be shipped to all corners of the quadrant and beyond.
The job market on Zesta turned out to be tougher than I expected. Unemployed and homeless, I knew that if I didn't catch a gig tonight, I would probably have to hitch another ride and try my luck somewhere else.
At the local thrift shop I invested my modest savings in a cheap comlink, some clothes, and a switchblade. Security was a major concern - no matter which part of the galaxy, a space station could be a pretty dangerous place for a woman travelling alone.
On a whim, because I had time to spare, I stopped at a public comm terminal to check on my old net account. There was nothing left for me at home, the only person I really missed was my sister - she and I had still exchanged message once in a while and I was glad that she had been too young to be drafted for the war. It was sad, I hadn't heard from her in more than two years, but being the disgrace of the family, there were not a lot of people who still talked to me. I paid another couple of credits to leave her a short message, then I logged off.
*
I met Morg at the bar and ordered a whiskey, which wiped out half of my remaining money. It wasn't exactly top shelf, but definitely drinkable and a lot better than the cheap booze that had been passed around on the ship.
"What were you up to?" I asked and took the empty seat next to him.
"Nothing much," he said. "Did a pile of paperwork with the station and ordered some spare parts. You?"
"Shopping, mostly. Also checked out the brothels around the docking ring in case this here doesn't pan out. Doesn't look good, there's way too much slave pussy on the market."
"Mhhh," Morg grunted and finished the rest of his first beer. "People don't wanna pay extra for a free woman?"
"Not really," I said. "But hey, you should go there, they have some really nice girls. Freshly collared, too, I bet their asses are much tighter than mine."
"You're fine, Lina. I've been doing this job for twenty-six years and you made this the best trip I ever had."
I grinned. "Awww, that's what a girl wants to hear. But you guys were seriously underfucked. Go get yourselves a new girl, they are really cheap around here."
My advice fell on deaf ears, of course. Morg had an odd sense of morality.
"Buy a poor young thing like cattle? I don't think so. And these brothels - don't get me started, it's a disgrace. They chain these slave girls to their beds, it pisses me off."
"It's not just the slaves," I said and took a gulp from his beer.
"What do you mean?"
"A lot of places chain you up when you sign a contract. I spent three months like that after my release from slavery. It sucks, but you get used to it."
He just shook his head in disgust.
"Come on, Morg," I said, rubbing his shoulder, "when you go on a deep space mission as a pilot, it's not like you can leave whenever you like. You have to fulfill your contract, it's pretty much the same thing."
It was a shame that the universe didn't make guys like him anymore - I remembered how I had to drag him into my cabin and swear a holy oath that I was doing it voluntarily. We continued our conversation, but he was not convinced. For me, the situation was much simpler - back in penal, when they made me do back-breaking field work, I would have given my clit or other essential body parts for such a sweet deal.
*
Time passed and unfortunately, it was a slow night at the bar. Only a few people were hanging out, nursing their beers, and with nothing better to do, I soon joined their conversations. Down to a couple of credits, I got a few drinks out of telling the tale of my Ildarian adventure and another one for flashing my boobs. I probably could have made some money by sucking dicks, but decided against it as long as there was a chance of catching a real job.
From time to time, a prospective employer came by, pitching an open position. For most jobs, I simply wasn't experienced enough and others required a commercial license that I didn't have. One would have fit my profile nicely - a co-pilot's position on a grains transport with decent pay. Unfortunately, one stop on the way was Massanas where I still had an outstanding warrant.
I had almost given up hope when a guy in a badly fitting, worn-down suit entered the bar. He was short, balding, and hadn't shaved in a while.
"I need a pilot for a cargo mission," he shouted. "Two months, interstellar. Anyone here who can fly a Hemmingworth Mark IV? It's just engine parts, all perfectly legal."
"Where to, friend?" a fat guy on the other side of the bar asked.
"Somewhere in the Riva nebula, you'll get the details when we're on board."
The pilot shook his head and turned back to his beer, and none of the other guys seemed to be interested either.
I took a sip from my whiskey and raised my hand.
"I've got a few thousand flight hours on a Mark III. Nav systems and jump drive are basically the same, there's just a difference in payload."
