Page 3 of Galactic Sentinels: Vol. 1
From the outside, SIL is a small, somewhat old two-seater spaceship, simple and unremarkable, without any distinctive markings of the Confederation.
As for the interior, there's nothing particularly remarkable either. It offers minimal comfort, with an ovoid room featuring a cockpit for two people. At the other end, there's a door leading to the sanitary area. In between, there's a space of about twelve square meters, serving for meals and any other activities compatible with the limited space available. This includes, on either side, a pull-out sleeping drawer. I also have some equipment typical of what you'd expect to find with a lone smuggler: nondescript clothes and a few illicit goods hidden in a not-so-discreet compartment.
No, nothing on board the SIL can betray my role for the Confederation: that of a snooping spy.
I move to the back of my aircraft, to the area solely dedicated to hygiene: a restroom, a small shower, and a tiny sink for washing hands and brushing teeth.
I remove my garment, heavily soaked with baijiu, while praising the ultra-absorbent quality of the fabric lining the large pockets of my long black coat. This isn't the first time I've tested it this way. It allows me to discreetly get rid of excess alcohol without anyone ever questioning the strong smell I emit after a heavy drinking session. The downside is that it needs to go through the cleaner afterward.
I salvaged my cleaner from the carcass of an old ship sent for recycling. So, it's an outdated model that, if it draws attention, will make people think I acquired it through unofficial means. All I care about is that it gets the job done. I toss my alcohol-soaked clothes into the machine located under the sink and start a cycle. In ten minutes, they'll be clean and dry.
Naked, I slip into the narrow shower cabin and let the water wash away the boozy fumes from the evening. I carefully wash my long white hair, the only remnant of my life on Asgarne, my home planet. Then, I meticulously clean every inch of my skin to rid it of the nauseating smell. When the water jet stops exactly two minutes later, a blast of warm air dries me in no time.
I put on a pair of light, dark canvas pants and head back to the main cabin.
“SILMAR, I'm going to sleep. Wake me up if you hear anything weird.”
“I'm keeping an eye on your sleep, Pherebos. I'm working on our itinerary for tomorrow.”
I place my hand on the starboard panel and reveal the integrated bunk, just over seven feet long and three feet wide.
While navigating, I activate the drawer's closure during my sleep. The AI might need to perform an evasive maneuver, and having tested it once, sleeping without the protection of the sleeping drawer exposes you to serious bruises, or worse! But tonight, I'm docked, so I can skip this precaution. I lie down on the bunk and simply pull the blanket over me before asking SIL to turn off the light. Then, I let myself drift into what I hope will be a restorative sleep.
***
“Pherebos, wake up. You have a visitor.”
I open my eyes right away.
“What kind of visit?” I ask, just before hearing a violent pounding on the access door.
“The kind you encountered on MC-5, the black market we visited three months ago.”
Without even putting on a shirt and boots, I grab my blaster pistol, lower the access ramp, and step outside.
I have indeed encountered the human standing there, looking quite unfriendly this early in the morning. He has a massive build, with hairy shoulders and arms protruding from a greasy, foul-smelling outfit. I distinctly remember dealing with him, and the impression he left was that of a brute with rather limited intelligence.
“You there!” he calls out immediately. “I knew it was you. I recognized your crappy ship. We have a problem, you and I!”
“Hey, uh... what's your name again? Prick?”
“Rick!” he growls angrily. “Not Prick.”
“Right, sorry. Hi Rick. What can I do for you?” I ask with a friendly smile.
“The landing pads you sold me on MC-5... they're junk!”
“What do you mean, junk?” I feign offense. “I gave you pads straight off a crashed Confed ship!”
“Then how do you explain them bending on the first landing? I almost crashed, man!”
“Ah, I have no idea!” I say, rubbing my chin and pretending to ponder deeply. “Are you sure you followed the Confederation's landing protocols? After all, for all we know, they might have specific procedures for their ships!”
“Huh?” he replies, surprised. “Well, a landing's a landing, right? Why shouldn't it be the same for them?”
As I mentioned, this guy isn't the brightest. The landing pads I sold him three months ago were made by a replicator using mediocre materials. It's no surprise they didn't last long.
Do I have any qualms about selling subpar equipment on the black markets? Absolutely not! The Coalition plunders worlds, shamelessly stealing mineral and living resources, sometimes even trading their inhabitants. So, I regularly visit the BMs, the black markets, doing a bit of trading myself to justify my presence and gather some intel. My specialty is selling them items supposedly stolen from the Confederation, which are actually just low-quality counterfeits.
