SWNOVELS Chapter CHAPTER ONE
We find our hero, such as he is, travelling through warped space on-board his ship the Bessie Fontaine. His name is Atlas Van Morrison, but most people just call him ‘Van’. As was a regular occurrence for our unwitting hero, he was slumped in the pilots chair with his feet rested on the controls of the four-seater cockpit. He was deep in sleep, as the on board media system quietly played ‘suck my kiss’ by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Van didn’t play any music that was produced after the early 21st Century, as he believed that’s when original music had died. It wasn’t that he disliked music after that time, it was that he believed that all music from after that that time was just a cover or sampling of what had come before. He considered himself a purist and, living with only a single companion, a computer generated one at that, no one was around to point out the glaring inconsistencies in such an assertion.
The lights on the control panels suddenly sprung to life, flooding the cockpit with a fluorescent glow. The alert system began to emit a high-pitched ‘beep’. Van stirred from his sleep and sat up straight in his chair. He gazed at the heads up display, struggling to focus on the alert screen, he soon gave up, “D00D!!!”. The ship’s computer system stopped the alarm and answered its captain,
“I’m glad to see you’re well rested Van, we are just about to drop out of warped space and need to begin the approach procedure for the delivery point.”
Van sighed, “Ok” he said, rubbing the crust from his eyes, “So, is it a planet fall or ship to ship-“
“A space station. It’s in a lawless zone, but it is along a popular shipping route so not a high risk location. The cargo is a container of rare meat. The pay is 40,000 credits. The local time is-“
“Enough!” barked Van drowsily, “I remember now. So, how long until I have to do something?”
“You will need to confirm a landing vector with the control tower in 12 minutes and 49 seconds”
“Fine, then I need to freshen up. Hyper-sleep is a bitch”
“You can’t call it ‘hyper-sleep’ just because you’re napping on a space ship” Replied D00D, sarcastically. Van hadn’t been awake long enough to have a retort to this passive aggressive attack, so simply trudged off to the shower room in his quarters.
The lights of the corridors blinked on as he approached them, causing him to squint. Van had never been a morning person and nothing about this changed, regardless of what time zone he found himself in. The music had changed now, the sound of Joe Walsh’s ‘Life’s been good’ followed him down the long path to the other end of the ship.
His quarters were a mess of discarded clothing and empty food containers. As he crossed the room, toward the wash room, he haphazardly pushed the refuse aside with an unenthusiastic drag of his foot.
He entered the wash room and walked across to the long double sink that lined the chromed wall at the back of the room. He looked into the mirror above to find a pale face staring back at him. The stubble on his face had grown a lot since he had last been on a station, having picked up his cargo there nearly 2 weeks earlier. He ran the hot tap, letting the water fill his cupped hands. He threw the water onto his face. It ran down his brow and over the two small scars that sat between his cheek bone and right eye. He reached for a grooming tool and reduced the length of his stubble. The small, razor like device slid along the contours of Van’s face, its trimming edge vacuuming away the hair it had removed. He put the device to one side and judged his choice in beard, an anchor goate was a little outdated, but no more than his choice in music and that was awesome, wasn’t it? He began baring his teeth to check for errant food particles. They didn’t look too dirty, so he passed on brushing. Choosing instead to just swill some mouthwash and hope no one stared at his dental discolouration.
Van’s work was not, in the strictest sense, a legitimate occupation. Sometimes it was simple, low-level smuggling sometimes it took on a more clandestine form. He never chose anything that involved too much effort, but a lack of planning often led to his work requiring more effort than it should. Either way, it paid for Van to enjoy life and that was all he wanted. He was a “freelancer”, the kind of person you could hire for pretty much any job you wanted doing.
Although Van’s clients knew that he was a freelancer when they hired him, he felt it didn’t hurt to let his customers believe that he was just like them. He would tailor his public persona to imply common ground existed between he and his clientele. This meant being a different person for every client he worked for, it also meant having to keep track of the type of person he was working for, a feat he was not exactly great at. Despite having more than enough time and opportunity to make a note of his current employer’s personality type, Van now found himself at a loss. It was another case of bad planning.
He stared into the mirror dumbfounded, who was the client? He was shipping meat… Of course, it must be a chef, but was it a wholesome person or a foul-tempered mercenary type? He drew a blank, how was he supposed to present himself if he had no idea what level of illegality his job entailed. If he showed up looking like a cut-throat gun for hire and the client was a sweet old lady, she might die of fright. Not the strongest argument for repeat business.
D00D interrupted his train of thought, “Van, the control tower is requesting confirmation to begin the landing procedure”. Van sighed and began to traipse back toward the cockpit, if only there weren’t confirmation systems which had to be dealt with by him, he could sleep right up until landing, it’s not like D00D couldn’t control all on-board and piloting functions. That was it, maybe D00D could tell him about the client.
“D00D, I need to know everything you can tell me about the client.” His words fell upon deaf ears, Van was in the rear corridor and the PA system in this half of the ship hadn’t worked since a particularly raucous night with a couple of pleasure droids, a crate of thermal charges and a magnet. To cut a long and sordid story short, the droids were now floating in deep space, a magnet may or may not have ended up inside of Van and the rear half of the ship had electrical issues that were beyond Van’s know how.
He walked into the central area of the Bessie Fontaine. This was the air scrubbing room, a lush green area filled with exotic plant life that could recycle air and water more efficiently than any artificial system. This room always made Van feel a little more alive. He took some deep breaths, savouring the clean taste of the air in his nostrils. The room was encircled by access doors which led to all other areas of the ship. The kitchen was a part of this area too, giving Van a beautiful view to eat his meals by.
The feature that he most wanted to utilise at this moment however, was that the electronics in this portion of the ship were fully functioning, meaning that he should be able to speak to D00D from here.
Despite being what can only be described one of the laziest men in the Universe, Van nevertheless understood the importance of doing his job, especially when failing to do so could result in he and everything he owned being blown into teeny-tiny pieces by a disgruntled control tower operator. That being said, he still begrudged having to work at all. He had grown up on a planet that didn’t use an economic system, so the idea of having to work just to continue living seemed a grotesque concept. He had adapted to the idea of capitalism, but viewed it as no more than an inconvenient, but necessary evil.
He increased his pace to a swift half-jog and soon found himself rounding his seat and planting himself in front of the controls. An ugly face greeted him on the communications display, the owner of that face, aside from being the control tower operator, was a Hectaphaige. These creatures, as the name would suggest, have six arms. They resemble a large red beetle with the face of a cat when you’ve taken a butt-load of LSD. They have 5 eyes and their mouths are segmented into 2 sides each lined with jagged teeth and covered in thick, whiskers. It was a face that not even a mother could love. They often seek employment away from their home world of Skreltch in positions that only a six armed worker can do.
Van stifled his gag reflex and engaged the creature in conversation; “S’up?”
“STATE YOUR BUSINESS”, spat the ‘fugly’ monster, in a tone that would suggest you just came into his house and relieved yourself into his wife’s face.
“Just dropping off some cargo” replied Van, taken aback by the creature’s cacophonous bark.
“WHO IS THE RECIPIENT?”
“Oh, shit, hang on I know that”
“YOU WILL ANSWER IN 10 SECONDS, OR BE DESTROYED!”
“Wait! It’s coming back to me, just hold on…”
“10…”
“I’ve written it somewhere”
“9…” Van frantically searched through the folders on his control port. “8…”
“Fuck!!” exclaimed Van.
“I HAVE NO RECORD OF AN INHABITANT BY THAT NAME, PREPARE FOR ANNIHALATION!” The Hectaphaige was now powering up the station’s defence system. Van was scrolling through the ship’s manifest frantically…
“Vegros Mandran,” he blurted, “it’s a meat shipment for Vegros Mandran.” Van held his breath tentatively, as the operator stared at him with an expression that was hard to read.
“WHAT CREATURE’S MEAT IS IT?” Enquired the operator, still shouting every word.
“I don’t know, he said he needed it for a feast…” The Operator appeared to be having a seizure of joy.
“THIS MAKES ME VERY HAPPY”, The operator announced in the same menacing tone, “THAT MEAT IS FOR MY BIRTHDAY FEAST. YOU WILL DOCK IMMEDIATELY OR BE DESTROYED!!!” The screen went blank and Van slouched back into his chair, he exhaled deeply. “D00D!” he shouted, “begin docking procedure. I’d do it myself but I think I’ve just shit my heart out in fear.”
“Right away” replied the computer, “and might I add, how expertly you dealt with that situation.”
“Don’t get snotty, we’re still alive aren’t we?”
D00D did not reply. The ship slid neatly into the docking bay flight path. Van went to his room to find something to wear that would allow him to fit in with a crowd that was kind enough to throw a birthday feast for someone, but mean enough to only give a delivery guy 10 seconds to answer them before turning them to dust… Maybe something in blue?
Van had a large collection of clothing to suit anyone he was trying to be on that day and most pieces allowed him to conceal at least one weapon. After searching through his overly large wardrobe selection he eventually settled on; a light blue delivery boy’s outfit composed of a long-sleeved, golden trimmed jacket, matching trouser-shorts and a pillbox peaked hat that he wasn’t going to wear for fear that he would look like a bellhop. The belt, which brought together this childish ensemble, had several large pouches attached to it; one of which Van would use to conceal a small sidearm. He was all ready to make the delivery, now all he needed was to remember what the client looked like, where the rendezvous point was and where the nearest bar was so that he could get wasted after the delivery was complete. He had priorities after all.
The docking bay doors began opening as the Bessie Fontaine approached. The powerful lights of the hanger cast a white shaft of blinding luminescence into the blackness of space. As the opening widened, the vessel was gently illuminated by the stream of light. The tarnished purple paintwork, though heavily coated in dust was still visible. The almost avian body shape of the magnificent shuttle navigated itself softly through the docking bay entrance, the four large engines on the back propelling it forward steadily.
The internal landing lights of the station guided D00D as he lowered the ship onto the platform below. The dozen or so other vessels dwarfed the Bessie, being primarily huge haulage vessels. The ship landed softly next to a commercial tanker ship, the lights of which revealed the faded image of a once detailed nose art on the beak-like vertical ellipse which formed the front landing gear that supported the cockpit area. The nose art in question was of a humanoid female, whose species was indeterminable, due to the state of degradation wrought upon it over the years. The cargo bay doors opened, lowering the ramp from the breast of the Bessie.
Van pushed the pallet of mystery meat along on his hover-dolly, hoping that his delivery was meant to smell so awful. It was a floral stench, one most commonly associated with flesh that was already rotten. Maybe that’s how they wanted it he thought, maybe that’s just its natural scent. He knew he was grasping at straws but it wouldn’t have been the first time he’d been around something disgusting that was considered a delicacy. Rich people must like to eat shit, it seemed plausible enough, at least in his personal experience.
He pushed the rancid shipment along the landing platform, towards two highly bemused looking guards. They were Veezahns, a species similar to humans, but with bigger foreheads and absolutely no sense of humour.
“Are you here for business or pleasure?” the first guard asked in a flat-toned voice.
“Business” replied Van, “delivering meat to-“
“Vegros Mandran” interjected the second guard in the same lifeless tone, “Yes, the tower operator has already informed us of your purpose here. Please follow the red line on the floor to the food court.”
Van looked down at the red line, it was more of a smear really, and not one that looked like it was made with paint. Van did as instructed and reluctantly followed the ominous streak of red towards the exit on the nearest wall of the gargantuan hanger.
He made his way along a long, dingy hallway and into the residential area of the station. It was in a state of disrepair, but not squalid. Still, it wasn’t the kind of place you’d want to settle down and raise a family, but I suppose beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
The narrow streets were a network of domicile cubes, that weren’t in too bad of a condition. They were stacked three high, making up a small labyrinth of streets under the fluorescently lit ceiling. Each cube was a self-contained living space, complete with all essential amenities, be it a highly condensed and claustrophobic example of housing.
Van continued to follow the red smear that snaked its way through a few of the make-shift streets before leading him to an open area, filled with what appeared to be restaurants. He would have loved to have smelled the doubtlessly exotic aromas of this place but the wretched stench emanating from the over-dolly was overpowering everything around it (much to the mutual discomfort of passers-by).
Van stopped. He had remembered that he had no memory of where he was supposed to meet his latest client, but had to assume that the guards had sent him here for a reason.
This lack of information, and in fact most of his ill-planning, wasn’t because he had been busy or even that something remarkable had happened to him; like a space parasite that feeds on memories had feasted on him during some daring adventure. No, the culprit in this mystery was far more mundane. As is the case with most slackers, Van was what he would describe as a xeno-botanical enthusiast, but it is more recognisably referred to as a ‘pot head’; an imbiber of intoxicating plant life, which he smoked a little too often to function at his peak potential.
As such during his long and uneventful journey prior to this moment, he had passed the time, not in preparation, but getting baked and watching galactic entertainment broadcasts with D00D and an array of junk food..
He examined his surroundings, in an attempt to spark a few dormant neurons in his narcoticly-marinated brain. The names of the small eateries were displayed on signs, offering an eclectic array of culinary curiosities to sustain any species’ taste buds; Quarknard’s house of flesh: Home of the dancing entre, not the name on the delivery manifest but potentially worth a visit. Maxie’s Pad, the kiss of a rainbow or your money back, this was on the ‘maybe’ pile. Taste of the battlefield, today’s special: fried sex organs in cream sauce, Van wouldn’t enter there for anything, the lack of specificity on the genitals made him worry that he may end up as dinner. Also, he didn’t want to dine on any fun parts that weren’t live, willing and attached to something sexy. Mandran’s: Try our Omni-toilet any exit catered for, this must be the place.
Van had always been a great believer of following the path of least resistance, at least when it came to his work. He was never going to become rich this way, but that didn’t interest him, what he wanted in life was contentment. He desired only to be free to live his life, whilst doing the least amount of work to get it. It was by no means an ambitious ideology, but it was his and it suited him just fine.
He entered the cramped interior of the restaurant. The lights were dimmed and a large table had been cobbled together from random tables of slightly different sizes. No one was around, but Van could hear noise coming from the doorway to the back of the room. “Hello!” he shouted in the direction of the sounds. There was no reply. The atmosphere was spooky, advancing any further into the vacant space would have violated Van’s low risk rule of working while slightly high. He chose to shout louder instead, “HELLO!! IS ANYONE HERE?” There was a hurried wet shuffling sound in the back, it was slowly moving closer. A fluorescent blue glow was now emitting from the doorway, growing brighter. The shuffling grew louder with it, until a glowing blue alien in a floor-length, chef’s apron appeared in the opening. The glowing creature scanned the room, he seemed to have ironically poor vision, likely related to his apparently advanced age. Or at least as old as one can look when prolonged examination could lead an observer to damage their retinas.
“Can I help you?” asked the old creature, feebly.
“Yes”, replied Van softy.
“Whuh?” Quizzed the anthropomorphic glow-stick, craning his ear hole toward Van. “You’ll have to speak up, my translator implant is nearly as old as I am.”
“I’M HERE TO DELIVER YOUR MEAT ORDER, MISTER MANDRAN”, Van said in the same manner as one would to a tourist that couldn’t understand the local tongue. “THE MEAT FOR THE PARTY, YES?”
“I’m deaf, not stupid” explained Mr Mandran, in a bemused tone, “And please, call me Vegros, I’m not senile. Now, this is very important, did you take measures to preserve the freshness of the product?”
Van hesitated; he figured it would be better to tell the truth, the guy was going to smell if he was lying, literally.
“Um-”, began Van.
“I’m trusting you to be honest with me, young man. My species are not blessed with an olfactory sense organ, so I need you to do the honourable thing and come clean if this meat is spoiled, even if it is only slight.”
Van thought for a second about the trust this innocent stranger was bestowing upon him. “No spoilage whatsoever, sir. It’s all part of the service.” He had settled on the fuck it course of action.
“Good”, smiled the old man, “then I shall transfer your 40,000 cha-ching immediately. Would you like to join us for the banquet this evening?”
“No”, answered Van politely, “I’ve got a lot of deliveries to make and don’t really have the time.”
“Your loss”, shrugged Vegros, “It’s going to be a memorable night.”
“Especially for the sewage recycling systems” muttered Van under his voice as he turned to leave.
The hover-dolly still had the lingering stench of its recently departed load. Luckily it was more tolerable than it had been on the way into the station, though it still garnered some disgusted looks from inhabitants who were unfortunate enough to pass by as it was being pushed back to the ship.
Van stowed the defiled lifter in the cargo hold, he knew he could avoid cleaning it for a while if it was in an area of the ship that was capable of being pressure sealed. The computer interface device, or ‘CID’, on his left forearm lit up. It was a confirmation that a deposit had been made into his credit account, but not the amount he was expecting. The old man hadn’t transferred 40,000 into his account, he had deposited 400,000. Assumedly this good fortune was owing to the man’s failing vision. Whatever the reason, Van knew he could have a great night and still leave before anyone noticed the mistake. It was time to indulge the one aspect of his life that Van did have lofty ambitions regarding it; sex.
Van prided himself on the variety and number of species he had seduced during his travels. He didn’t mind what gender or species they were, as long as they were hot and physically compatible. He revelled in the boasting opportunities it afforded him, when matching his perceived ‘manliness’ with other males. It wasn’t just about the bragging rights for him though, he saw it as an art form. He might not be an accomplished painter, sonnets and lyrical verses were beyond his capabilities, but his talent lay elsewhere, with all the conquests that had come, gone and come again. He was a ‘bonesman’; a knight of the pork sword, avenger of orifices, a conqueror of crevice, rump-ranger of the final frontier, a- (look, I’m not happy recounting these sexual synonyms, I’ll simply say this, he was a man-whore of the highest order). That being the case, he considered it his sworn duty to test his luck in each and every new location he visited.
Van made his way into the body of the ship. It was time to dress more like a bonesman and less like a bell hop in summer clothes. He went into the large central compartment of the Bessie; the genetically engineered botanical air scrubbers made this the area of the ship with the clearest air and most comfortable surroundings. He reclined in one of the bean-bag-like plants in the centre of the room and loosened his clothes. “D00D”, announced Van, “tonight I intend to add yet another notch on my alien hunting belt, what can you tell me about the local night life on this station?”
D00D’s voice came through the ship’s internal PA.
“Let’s see shall we?” he replied condescendingly, “Well, there are 14 different intoxication establishments on this station. Four of them sport a more geriatric crowd, which is good if you’re in that kind of a mood. However, knowing your usual habits, I’d say a saloon called The Nauseous Traveller, would be the best fit for your particular brand of depravity. They boast the highest strength intoxicants on sale and the largest number of violent incidents, so if you get too drunk to seal the deal, as it were, you could always punch them and run off.”
“You know D00D, you can be a real bitch sometimes.”
“Thank you Van, I do try”, D00D harped back sarcastically.
“So, from the description of the place, I’m guessing there’s no dress code I need to take into account?”
“No”, replied the computer in an exasperated drawl.
“Cool, then I’ll quickly scrub up and then it’s hunting season.”
Van took exactly 1 hour to clean the meat stink from his body and another hour choosing what to wear. Then he spent 3 hours enjoying some botanical treats so that he wouldn’t have to spend as much of his ill-gotten gains in the bar.
By the time he had achieved an acceptable state of inebriation, the bar had been in filled with patrons for 2 hours. Van thought it was about time to make his grand entrance. Rather than be told to follow another suspiciously-spattered, coloured line to the night life district, Van chose to find the quickest route to the bar from the comfort of his plant-chair before departing. This also afforded him the pleasure of not having to converse with any humourless guards again. He followed the directions on his CID and arrived at The Nauseous Traveller (after only 5 wrong turns). He was now at a level of high that he could control, feeling alert and invigorated, if somewhat more easily distracted and giggly.
The first thing he noticed about the bar was that the structure appeared to be reinforced and the windows had been replaced with holographic projections of windows. This was down to the original glass windows having been destroyed every time a fight broke out and the owner getting sick of the constant expense of replacing them on a weekly basis. This definitely appeared to be Van’s preferred style of hunting ground. Time for him to inspect the inside (sincerely, no pun intended).
He entered through the frame where a door had once stood. The interior was what one can only accurately describe as a ‘dive-bar’, but to our hopeful protagonist it was anything but. The sounds of dozens of raucous voices, intermingled with the obscure music playing on the jukebox, accented the various smells that wafted through the establishment. There was a large pale-skinned space-biker over to one corner. He was being very loud and seemed to be attracting the attention of most of the bar’s ‘talent’ with some wild story about being; ”kicked out of hell for being too badass”. Van couldn’t be doing with the obvious competition and so situated himself at the large, circular bar that encompassed the centre of the open room.
He began to scan the rest of the room for potential mates for the evening, when he was interrupted by a bar tender.
“What’s your pleasure stranger; gas, guzzle or bite?” Van looked at the man confused. The creature before him had six arms and was around 6’4” tall, his limbs, like his body, were wiry. His lowest pair of hands were cleaning a glass with a white rag, while the other two sets crossed his chest, giving him the appearance of a stick insect in a waiter’s uniform. Van couldn’t read his expression, but he was pretty sure it was one of growing impatience that his polite question had been met with confounded silence. Van would have been more than happy to oblige the bartender, if only he knew what his question meant.
“He wants to know if you want something you can eat, drink or inhale, that will get you wasted”, said a voice from behind Van’s left shoulder.
“Thanks”, replied Van without taking much interest in where the voice had come from. “I fancy something in a liquid form, what have you got for someone looking to unwind, while still retaining the use of their legs, eyes and genitals?”
“We have a mild Votaki Stein Ale if you’re interested, that’s good for Veezahns as it definitely won’t kill you?” joked the bartender.
“Did you just call me a fucking Veezahn?” asked Van, in an irate voice, “I’m human you bug-bodied prick!”
“I’m sorry sir, all humanoid life forms look the same to me.” Explained the bartender. Mortified by his unintentional faux-pas, “I meant no offence; I haven’t seen any of your species before tonight. It’s only the two of you that I have experience with. Please allow me to get you our finest liquid intoxicant, on the house of course.” And he swiftly scurried off down the bar.
“Well, alright then”, said Van settling back into his seat. “Hey!” he called after the bartender, “what d’you mean by; ‘the two of you’?” But the creature was already out of earshot.
“I think, he thinks we’re in here together because we’re both human”, said the voice from behind Van’s shoulder. Van turned around to see a pale, medium-length haired, stocky built human male, perched on the bar stool next to him. The man was dressed in a red, hooded jacket and a pair of blue jeans. “Hi”, said the man, extending his hand, “I’m Dallas.” Van accepted the man’s hand and shook it, he stared at him for a second, then said;
“Look dude, I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but isn’t Dallas a stripper’s name?”
Dallas chortled, “Cheers dick” he laughed, “so what’s your name?”
“Van”, replied Van.
“That’s more of a sound, than a name mate”, said Dallas, he chortled merrily once more. Van already disliked this guy, and his seemingly bumbling nature was in danger of cramping Van’s style and ending his sexual objective before it had even begun. He needed to end this conversation, fast.
“So what brings you here?” enquired Van, surreptitiously hoping to find a way to put this perspicacious stranger off of wanting to continue conversing with him.
“Oh, I’m a wanderer”, began Dallas, “you see, I was brought up on a station that I lived on with my family. After I grew old enough, I thought it was about time to get out and see the galaxies. So I collected what cha-ching I had and started travelling from point to point across the solar systems.”
“Ok, so how many places have you been to so far?” asked Van, preparing a snarky retort that was certain to put this cock-blocker off of his friendly pedestal.
“Including this place and my own station”, stated Dallas, matter-o-factly , “two”
“Two?!” said Van incredulously. The once polished retort he had primed had now been lost in the ethers of his mind following Dallas’ unexpected revelation.
“Yeah”, confessed Dallas deflated, “Sad right? I worked in the repair bay of my home station since I was 10 years old and all I had to show for 20 years of work was enough credits to get me a brick of toking herbs and a one way trip to a station 300,000 light-years away. Kinda sucks, y’know?”
Van was all too aware of what it was like to feel stranded and powerless, he could feel the need to repel this man from his presence beginning to falter, an internal conflict he found most frustrating.
“So what are you planning to do?” he asked sincerely, momentarily postponing his insidious plot.
“Well, I don’t wanna, y’know, live here or anything, but it’s impossible to get a ride without credit to pay for it and you can’t get a job on this station unless you’re a registered inhabitant, which also costs, so I don’t have a clue.” He chortled again, though this time it sounded more like he was trying to mask his true feelings on the subject, rather than to extend any sincere levity.
Van wondered whether it was a good idea to offer this guy a ride to his next destination. He seemed alright, his story was a sympathetic one, if it was true. Van was faced with a conundrum; he had to answer soon or look weird for staring for too long, he wanted to offer some small gesture to the unlucky man, but at the same time, offering to transport a stranger to an unknown location could be dangerous, or worse yet, really, really, REALLY boring and/or inconvenient. He could help out by sharing some of his cha-ching, but he certainly wasn’t going to. He thought for a second then said;
“Tell me, where’s next on your travels? Assuming that you don’t end up just living here…”
“I haven’t planned anything, I’m just going where I can get to”, answered Dallas, “It seems as if I’ll be less likely to be disappointed that way”
“Alright then”, began Van, “I’ll make you a deal, I’ve got a ship and I will take you to any port within a half million light-year range of this station, if you can prove yourself as a wingman, tonight. We won’t be setting off until the morning though as I want to free-the-beast for a good few hours, if you get my meaning. What d’you think?”
Dallas thought for a second, then asked; “what would I have to do? And what do you mean by ’free-the-beast?”