- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per week
- One post per week
- Slow As Molasses
- Writing Levels
- Adept
- Advanced
- Prestige
- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
- Female
- Primarily Prefer Male
- Genres
- Fantasy, SciFi, Modern, Magical
CS
Foresight Industries was paying them exceptionally well for this gig, so Ken's boss had spared no expense. Well, that wasn't exactly true; the owner was still a greedy bastard, only worried with lining his own pockets. The promise of double overtime Ken had been instructed to make had been considered an investment. Sneering, his eyes wandered the ship that was to carry whatever junk Foresight wanted out so deep in space. It was Deep worthy, sure: the good ship Howard Phillips was their newest crate and had made the five runs or so since its commissioning perfectly. Not that it was comfortable by any means. The artifical gravity tubes sat just below the floor panels, wrapped in safety insulation; the living quarters were tight and intimate, more fit for ants than people for all the personal space it accommodated; and every last wall was lined in the same monotonous gray paneling, illuminated by the weak if steady cold flow of a line of fluorescent bulbs. Ken shook his head, grateful for his position as supervisor; he wouldn't have to get into that luxury tuna can.
At least, not if people actually showed up. He checked his watch; another few minutes until he started calling people. Another few minutes before he began screaming obscenities. Grumbling, he pulled a small digital pad from the issued uniform, a dull green coverall. Several names flashed across the screen as it came to life, and he nodded, recognizing some of them. This should be interesting.
And where the hell was that cargo? That Foresight rep should have been here with it already. Damn it if fucking nobody had any sense of urgency. That Jones woman made it sound like it was an emergency, and yet they were late.
Shit.
October 13, 2136
1352 hours
1352 hours
Foresight Industries was paying them exceptionally well for this gig, so Ken's boss had spared no expense. Well, that wasn't exactly true; the owner was still a greedy bastard, only worried with lining his own pockets. The promise of double overtime Ken had been instructed to make had been considered an investment. Sneering, his eyes wandered the ship that was to carry whatever junk Foresight wanted out so deep in space. It was Deep worthy, sure: the good ship Howard Phillips was their newest crate and had made the five runs or so since its commissioning perfectly. Not that it was comfortable by any means. The artifical gravity tubes sat just below the floor panels, wrapped in safety insulation; the living quarters were tight and intimate, more fit for ants than people for all the personal space it accommodated; and every last wall was lined in the same monotonous gray paneling, illuminated by the weak if steady cold flow of a line of fluorescent bulbs. Ken shook his head, grateful for his position as supervisor; he wouldn't have to get into that luxury tuna can.
At least, not if people actually showed up. He checked his watch; another few minutes until he started calling people. Another few minutes before he began screaming obscenities. Grumbling, he pulled a small digital pad from the issued uniform, a dull green coverall. Several names flashed across the screen as it came to life, and he nodded, recognizing some of them. This should be interesting.
And where the hell was that cargo? That Foresight rep should have been here with it already. Damn it if fucking nobody had any sense of urgency. That Jones woman made it sound like it was an emergency, and yet they were late.
Shit.
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