Chapter 3

Varna

Varna awoke, disoriented and confused. Where was she, why was she alone, why was it so quiet, where had her hair gone? So many questions.

And what the fuck had died in her mouth. Memory came back. Slowly. “Ugh.” She looked around blearily. Her tablet was on the floor, where it had fallen from her grasp, and bed, sometime in the night. She stiffly bent over to pick it up. Her skin looked so weird, clean, dirt free. Varna checked the tablet over, it appeared undamaged. She tried to remember the last thing she had been doing the previous night. She had accessed the exterior station cams around her ship, had taken pictures of its remarkably dusty state and had tried using the pictures to identify the make and hopefully model, all to no avail.

Of course, that would have been too easy. Nothing was ever easy in her life and it didn’t appear to be changing anytime soon. All she wanted was an ID so she could find out how to fly the damn thing. She could have posted the pictures to one of the many thousand ship-spotter forums and probably receive an instant reply on make, model, how many bolts were used, how many miles of cable and the total amount of paint used in its painting, but equally, they might also tell her who it belonged to, and even worse, tell the person who it belonged to. No. she wanted to keep hold of it for a bit longer. No, make that a lot longer.

She really needed to get organised and start a ‘to-do’ list. Varna looked at the time on her tablet. She’d slept enough and time was money. She had a very expensive ship sat there racking up dock fee’s. Collecting all her gear up into a bag, Varna took a final look around to ensure that she had everything and departed before she added a late exit penalty to her room fee. She really shouldn’t have stayed the night here in the first place, since she had a perfectly good ship.

Varna sighed, pulled out the tablet, created a ‘too-do’ list and started it with “Purchase cot bed and chemical toilet.” and after a moment’s thought, “and straps to hold both in place!” No-one wanted to be hit by a chemical toilet, or worse, its contents, in zero G.

The door to the room behind her shut with a definite and final click. Varna knew her next destination without needing to look it up, walking along the concourse, glancing disinterestedly at the shop fronts as she passed. ‘Whitethorn’s Freight Management’ the sign proudly stated in lurid illuminated colours. Varna steeled herself before she entered.

The office was fairly busy, various male and female clerks busily working away at their terminals as three front of house staff dealt with those that had come in person. She waited patiently, the person she didn’t really want to see, was sat at his own personal terminal at the back of the room, surrounded by a privacy screen currently set to clear.

“We don’t allow children in here. Nor do we give out charity, girl. Seek it elsewhere.”

Varna looked at the clerk. “Do you own a spaceship?”

“What?” The clerk asked somewhat perplexed.

“Do you own a spaceship? No? And there is no need for you to answer as since you are sat there, the answer is going to be ‘no’. I do, so if you call me girl, or treat me like a child once more, I’m going to ram your head so fucking hard into your terminal, that your teeth will join your eyeballs.” The surrounding conversation quietened as the surrounding staff and customers turned to look at her. “I’m here to see Willburr.”

“He’s not here at this moment.” Varna leaned forward and the clerk leaned back. “I’m afraid he’s not here at this moment...” The clerk reiterated again.

“He’s sat right behind you in his booth, you dumb fuck...” Eyes in the office looked up and behind at the enclosed booth.

As though he could feel the gaze of staff and customers alike, Willburr Whitethorn looked up. Varna beckoned to him. Willburr looked around sensing the tension ibn his office. He rose and opened the door. “What!” he barked.

“I need to discuss a trade agreement.” Varna jumped in.

“And who the fuck are you?”

“My parents had a contract with you, 9947826.”

Willburr paused, obviously thinking back. “That was two years ago and you never delivered.”

“It’s about that, and I need some equipment and services for which I will put myself and my craft at your disposal, in payment.” Willburr paused, thinking, then nodded. A clerk opened a gate in the counter and Varna made her way towards his booth, threading her way through the desks. She shut the door behind her, all the office noise cutting away to silence. There was no chair opposite his desk, forcing her to stand. Given the last couple of years, this wasn’t anywhere near as humiliating to Varna as Willburr possibly thought it would be.

“Where is my shipment?” He demanded.

“Gone. We were ambushed by a pirate. The cargo was taken. Along with the lives of my parents and brother. Our freighter was trashed. However, since it was payment on delivery, your only penalty was a missing delivery, and lost time.”

“Time is money...”

“And they knew where we would be at exactly the time we were there. Only your staff and my parents knew that...” Varna left the obvious accusation unsaid.

He stared at her motionless. Varna didn’t blink. She wasn’t in a hurry anywhere. “What the fuck do you want?” He finally growled.

“My current ship has a ... malfunctioning transponder. I need a replacement along with an inner planet capable profile. A robust one, not a flimsy one that will flag every passing security vessel and cause problems every time I dock.”

“That won’t be cheap...”

Varna nodded. “That’s a given.”

Willburr pulled over the keyboard of his terminal. “And you have another ship?”

“Yes. Dock seventeen. You can check.”

Willburr looked down at his terminal as he typed away. He grunted. “You don’t hang around. Is it sound?”

Was it? “I’m here aren’t I?”

He grunted again. “I do have some deliveries that need to be made. Are you passenger or freight capable?”

Varna thought back to the open space inside. “Freight.”

“How many cubic metres?”

It was Varna’s turn to pause. She hadn’t a clue. More out of panic than any sensible idea, she gave the capacity of her parents freighter, though it had been a fair bit smaller than the craft she had found. “Give or take a bit...” she added lamely.

“What’ s the name of the craft?”

Shit. She hadn’t thought about that. “The Anya.” It was the first name that came into her mind.

“How soon before you depart?”

Varna thought of the accruing dock fee’s. “Soon. I just need to square away a few admin points.”

“I’ll start assembling your cargo and a delivery schedule. Varna?”

“Yes.”

“You fuck this up. Don’t come back. Ever. Are we clear?”

“Crystal.”

“What’s your com ID?” Varna swiped it across. “You’ll get a message and dock notification when it’s ready.” Varna nodded.

The door opened and the noise of the room outside flooded back inside. No nod, handshake or other sign of agreement. Panic welled up inside her. She turned and left as she didn’t want to crack here. It was a struggle to keep her composure back to her dock. As soon as she stepped out of the busy transit tube into the quiet privacy of her dock hatch, she bent over and dry heaved several times.

Placing a hand against the bulkhead, she tried to regain her breathing. She needed food for a long journey, she had to find, or work out how much fuel was still in the craft, work out how she was going to pay for it. And she needed to find and inspect the hold space, work out how much cargo capacity she had. And she would need to inspect the water and air tanks. Shit, shit, shit... And she still didn’t know how to access the hold. If the craft even had one. Oh fuck ... Varna desperately hoped the craft had a cargo hold, otherwise she was screwed.

Varna held her bracelet up to the docks door lock and it beeped green and cycled back. She stepped into the narrow umbilical and made her way to her craft. There was a red and green console next to the hatch. She was fairly sure that hadn’t existed before. Or maybe it had, and it had just been under a layer of dirt and dust and it had been revealed by the umbilical as it brushed across the hull seeking secure adhesion. It certainly beat banging on the hull with an empty air tank. She pressed the green light and the hatch opened.

There was still a stale smell of urine in the airlock. She would need to deal with that as well at some point. The door slid shut behind her, plunging her into a moment of darkness before the inner door cycled open. Varna stepped in and froze, one foot in the airlock, the other in the craft proper. Only it wasn’t her craft. Gone was the horrible putrid purple light and the wide open space. She now faced a well-lit corridor.

How the fuck had she walked into the wrong spacecraft? Quickly, before someone noticed, she stepped back into the airlock and cycled back into the docking umbilical. She was halfway along it when she looked out of a port window. That was definitely her ship, the number above the station hatch, was definitely her dock. She was confused and turned back round and headed back. For the second time in as many minutes, she cycled through into her ship. Turning left, she headed down the new corridor. There was an open blast door leading to an almost familiar chair. Though, that was all that was familiar.

Gone was the blank wall, replaced by controls and view screens. There was no way this had all been here when she had left, or maybe it was a result of some psychological trauma that she had been under and somehow, she had failed to see all of this. A mental trauma cured by her one night of good sleep. It sounded like a bag of shit even to her confused mind.

Varna dumped her bag of meagre possessions down next to the chair and settled down onto it. Somehow it felt even comfier than it had when she had left. Was it yet another psychological thing? That it felt better because it was hers?. It was making her head spin. The chair, in her absence, had gained left and right joysticks on the arm rests, which were positively festooned with buttons and switches.

She looked at the various screens, which showed a variety of information graphs, some which she recognised, some that she didn’t. Varna tried a few tentative button pushes on the console in front of her, which changed the screens hovering in front of her head. Some of the buttons seemed familiar and some of the others appeared fairly intuitive.

That was a sub menu for fuel! Varna opened it up. Ninety percent full. Well, that was a pleasant surprise. Who the hell abandons a craft with a full tank of fuel? She hoped it was full, and not just a faulty fuel gauge. The other tanks were full’ish, though the water and air were reading seventy and eighty percent respectively. How that equated to operational time she hadn’t a clue, as the levels were given in percentages with no indication as to the size of the tank. Ninety percent sounded a lot, but if it was a piss small tank, then it was virtually meaningless.

There was even a proper Coms menu, with caller ID’s for the station and all the other ships in the area. She felt a mad rush of excitement and rose from the chair before she did something foolish, like un-dock. The question remained as to what had happened to the original cavernous space. She moved off back down the corridor, past the airlock hatch. Hatch doors lay to either side of her. Closed but with lit buttons on the door frames. She pressed the green one, which glowed brighter at her touch. The door opened to reveal a dining/cooking area.

Varna raised an eyebrow. She was either definitely hallucinating now, or had been earlier. If she was now, this was definitely worth hallucinating about. She opened cupboards at random. Most appeared empty bar cutlery and dishes for about six eaters. There was plenty of containers for things, but sadly they appeared to be empty. It looked as though her imagination could only stretch so far. Which was a shame. There was even a freezer unit. Empty, but it was there, and judging by the frigid air escaping out of it, in working condition. Varna moved on. A kitchen without food wasn’t much fun.

The room across from the galley turned out to be a bedroom with an ensuite bathroom and shower cubicle. That was hers, and she would most definitely fight herself for it. Varna laughed at the mental image of herself declaring to all in sundry in an otherwise deserted ship, that she would fight everyone else aboard for its sole use. An army of me, fighting against an army of me, for the spoils of war... There was even a ship console tastefully mounted into one of the walls. Varna stepped out of her new room, glad to remove cot bed and toilet from her list of jobs to be done.

The next room down the corridor was an empty room that butted on next to hers, and another empty room followed that. And another empty room after that. The next hatchway was on the opposite side of the corridor, the same side as the galley. It turned out to be a mix of toilet cubicles and shower cubicles. Which made sense as all the pipework and extractor fans could easily be connected up with those in the galley.

There followed another two empty rooms and a spiral staircase leading down to a small landing in front of an ominously thick looking hatchway, with more than a little nervousness, she tried the green button at the hatch. The door slid open and a series of roof lights came on revealing a substantial -and sadly very empty- cargo space. Varna pulled her tablet out and flicked through the menus till she found one for calculating area.

Following the instructions on the screen, she pointed the device at the bottom four corners, then the top four corners of her cargo hold. The tablet took the eight measurements and calculated out her hold space, saving the figure. Varna took a walk around. There were a good amount of anchorage points receded into the floor, walls and the celling. At least that explained the thickness of the hatch in relation to the hatches within the rest of the ship.

Varna couldn’t see any panels in the wall that could be removed for access to ship systems that must exist, somewhere, and the storage tanks also contained within the craft. Not forgetting engine access. She really hoped all that wasn’t done externally. Nothing worse than having to suit up and space walk, just to bash a sticky solenoid with a hammer, or with whatever was close to hand.

There really wasn’t much to see in the large empty space, so she headed back up to her cabin and sat on her bed, pushed down on her heels and bounced her backside on the bed to see what the cushioning was like. There was a short bit of netting attached to the wall, which when unhooked turned out to be stretchy, and corresponded to series of anchorage points along the edge of the bed, obviously for keeping the sleeper in bed during either zero G or hard turns. Varna hooked the bed restraint back up, leaving her bunk, she retrieved her bag of meagre possessions from beside her flight chair and took it back to her room. There was a deeply thrilling and exceptionally satisfying feeling, to storing her toiletries in her very own toilet.

Her tablet chimed with an incoming message. It was a message from Willburr (or a clerk on his behalf) Informing her what cargo dock she needed to berth with. Varna acknowledged that she was on her way. Back in the pilot chair, she flicked through menus till she found the controls to contact the port authority. After waiting in a brief queue, she spoke to a bored sounding female who authorised her movement and released the docking clamps. If she thought sitting on her bed was exciting, it was nothing compared to taking control of the two joysticks and manoeuvring her ship away from the station. This was power. The screen in front of her changed to a route view and she guided her craft along it to her designated cargo berth. Instructions on the screen were telling her to roll her ship to offer up her cargo bay doors to the industrial umbilical. There was the faintest of vibrations through her feet on the floor as the clamps engaged. An access request for her cargo bay flashed up. She approved access.

Another convoluted trawl through sub-menu’s revealed the existence of a visual feed to her cargo hold, where a group of cargo handlers were currently pushing large freight crates into place in the hold. There appeared to be a lot of crates.

It was taking her a bit of time to navigate her computer systems, but she was confident that after a few weeks she would be doing it without, even looking. Another incoming message to her tablet. Varna opened it up. A manifest, of sorts. No contents, just crate numbers. At least the numbers we marked on the crates in a size that she could easily read them through the visual feed. The handlers seemed competent enough, stacking the various sized containers expertly to avoid creating voids between them, lashing them down with aged cargo nets. It would appear that she had a multi drop cargo and the handlers were showing their professionalism by stacking the cargo as per destination, using different coloured nets for the different destinations.

Varna left the cargo loaders to it, as she would only get in the way, besides, she didn’t want to get roped into helping. Just watching them work was exhausting her malnourished frame.

The list on her tablet rapidly changed colour as the items were loaded on board. It buzzed in her hand as it displayed an incoming call from Whitethorn’s ‘s Freight Management. “Yes?”

A lackey rather than the man himself, was on the other end. “The Load master says you will have room for further freight. Are you willing to accept further cargo?”

The more she carried, the quicker her debt would be paid off. “Yes.”

“Okay. I will send it over. I suggest you do this drop last. The customer can be ... difficult.”

I bet. “Dangerous difficult?”

“Oh, no no no, not all all.”

So that’s a yes then... “What station?” Varna asked, wondering why she had to ask. He should have just told her.

“It has still to be confirmed. Drop destination will be sent when we know.”

“Willburr will have the transponder ready for collection upon return?”

The clerk checked his terminal “Your profile is being created even as we speak. Mr Whitethorn will honour his agreement.”

Her voice mirrored every bit of dubiousness she felt at that statement. “Hmm ... Anything else?”

“No, not at this moment.”

Varna ended the call.

With the cargo loaded and strapped down, there was really no point in lingering, time in dock was costing her. Sending the signal to release the dock clamps, the clamp light went red and she carefully accelerated away from the station. There was a message alert and Varna opened it. An invoice reference docking fee’s from the station. She had no funds to pay for it and redirected it to Whitethorn Shipping with a covering note asking them to cover the cost. Which they did, notifying her that the cost and a ‘handling charge’ would be detracted from her final payment. The sooner she was clear of the leach the better.

Her ship was flagging a signal emanating from the hold and was asking what she wanted to do with it. She told the system to allow and ignore it. The emergency transponder that had come aboard with the cargo freight, was a necessity until she found the ship’s or had one installed if it lacked. It was a problem for another time.