#27 Baby

| November 29, 2011 | 0 Comments

Considering herself a seasoned ship-hand, having long ago left behind what planetary ties she might have had, Baby had a very short list of needs.  The first was, and would always be, having a crew she could trust and work with.  That was a given, seeing as you were going to be in a tin can a damn long time looking at the same bastard’s faces shift in and shift out.

That was a secret a lot of station and planet-bound folk didn’t really realize.  Skills didn’t matter so much, long as you had a couple brain cells you could rub together, you could be trained to fit where one needed you.  Getting along, well, that was a talent in much more high demand, and one that wasn’t half as easy to drill into a person as mass distribution in a zero-g cargo hold was.

But Baby had a nack for sniffing out team players and trouble makers, and ever since the cap had started trusting her nose as much as he did the fancy sensors and scanners in his interview room, she’d been able to help piece together a well oiled machine.  Which was the first of her necessities.

Her next, most personal need, was decent deodorant.  She had the right not to have to smell herself, and those dry showers might get you clean, but they never really did get out all the smell.

For down time, what there was of it, what she needed was a good story.  Vid, book, whatever, just something to get her somewhere way out past the airlock.

As for the rest, it was basic, four ship suits, (always in varying states of abuse, one always pristine, for those rare moments when she had to represent),  five or so sets of underthings, one nice outfit, and the box of little trinkets which reminded her of the best memories her life had had to give.

The only thing she was out was the nice outfit, Trisha having spewed all over it on the last leave.  Not that Baby had held it against her- those drinks had been laced with something fierce, and it was probably the vomit that had gotten them out of some deeper predatory trouble.  Baby had sensed it circling, too fucked up to do much more than notice it.  But when Trish coated them both, the trouble coming vanished like bad air down a mech-room scrubber.

Not that they couldn’t have handled whatever idiots were coming, even trashed they knew how to throw down and push their panic button implants at the same time.  And anyone, at any time, throws the panic switch on her ship, all hands come running.  That same implant being embedded with a state of the art tracker, and stations being limited in size as they were, no one would get far with a mate, even if he was out cold.  That was a dead man’s switch when a body was at port, since a knocked out mate was clearly in distress.  Most of the time.  They tended to go out in groups when getting fucked up was the plan, so that any accidental passing out could be called in before the sober half of the ship mustered.

So she guessed she could say the was another on her list of her needs- some way to keep her crew safe, and some way to know that they could do the same for her.

The fancy dress, well that would come with the next civilized docking.

So, all in all, she could say she had everything she needed.


Category: 2011, Scifi

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