Code: Select all
Archive reference number #48530
Ship designation: Heavy Metal Queen
Ship registration: SZN-179
Ship model: Ides Vanguard
Captain: Linda Jorwan
Recovery sector: Litany of Fury IX
Code: Select all
Overview: trader ship. Ordinary story. Deemed of interest for instruction regarding daily risks when living in space.
8.615% of the captain's logs could be recovered. Accessible logs referenced under the following numbers: 1, 8, 41, 89, 103,
125, 129, 145, 146, 148, 152, 198, 227, 239, 240, 254, 263, 267, 271, 272, 273, 296, 310, 311, 314, 316, 320, 325.
Code: Select all
Please type below your request; "read" followed by the aforementioned reference numbers to access a target log, "continuous" to consult them in a logical order, "random" to request another archive, "search" followed by
your keywords to display results associated with the current archive, or "exit" to return to the Public Archive's main menu. Functionalities for "open" and "query" should be accessed from the main menu.
> continuous
Starting logical read. Accessing...
- - - [ Captain's log - entry #1 - The beginning ] - - -
Original title, right? Didn't feel inspired. Whatever.
The name's Linda Jorwan. My age... is none of your concern. We haven't taken off yet with this new ship, but I felt like making a commemorative first entry before its inaugural flight.
I do call that entry a "beginning", but it's rather a second start. Until recently, we were all miners working "on the edge" of the Federation, that is to say - the underpopulated areas of interest to the Federation that await development. In layman's terms, shitholes where the poorest gather to feed richer sectors with much needed resources. Aside from us, pirates, Kha'aks and even Xenon are common occurrences. Police or security details, much less, but it's not like we have the credits to settle in wealthy, safe areas.
I was born to a poor but happy family. My father never was much of a smart guy, a bit hotheaded but his perseverance is unmatched by those I know. My mother would hold his reins anyway, despite being of a feeble constitution. Something about bone density and whatnot because she always lived in space. She nearly died at my birth so they never wanted another child, but enough about them.
As I was saying, we were miners "on the edge". After making enough money then borrowing some more, and the sponsoring of the Federation, my parents ordered the building of a new mining station in the sector of Morning Star IV. Nothing fancy, mind you, but enough to start a small mining operation with four ships and a basic processing facility to make our ore usable to the industries.
Between the space miners and the station crew, this outfit started with nineteen people. I grew up at first on the local planet with my grandparents, Morning Star d, because my mother feared I'd grow as weak as her in space. They died when I was sixteen though, and since the station needed funds, their possessions were immediately sold and I started living on it. I finished my basic education remotely, and immediately started working afterwards with my parents.
By then, the outfit had grown. Fifteen mining ships were employed, two extra transporters for our ores were constantly traveling to the rest of the Federation to feed the industries. They were mostly for our regular customers though, as the traders' traffic was abound. Overall, 104 people were living from our little venture. I quickly realized I had overestimated the quality of life onboard the station; there weren't much in the way of entertainment besides what we can use from personal terminals. You also quickly grow tired of the view - a big dot that is this system's star in the distance, otherwise rocks everywhere in a dark space. At least other stars are visible, still that made for a depressive sight.
And don't get me started about work safety. Obviously, when you're mining "on the edge", you're not dealing with the safest jobs or outfits. Accidents would often occur, and one of them claimed my mother's life shortly after I started living on the station. A leak from the processing facility released toxic gases, damaged the lungs of twenty-six people then killed eleven of them, herself included. Shortly after, my father only grew overprotective, but what was he expecting? I was already becoming a woman, only missing the maturity, and definitely took after him - I wouldn't listen. At some point he finally understood, so fistfighting he told me to deal with "unconsiderate" boys. Another way of being protective of me I guess, but he never was the same man again. Often with a weary look on his face, he would lead the station as he already did but ownership had been fully registered under my name from this point.
Back to the topic, we also obviously lost people and ships to the Kha'ak and the Xenon, and many wares to pirates. At least with the latter, you can buy your life by letting them have your cargo. Anyway, life kept going for eight years "peacefully" struggling to make a living, until these despicable insects decided they'd settle close to us.
That's when shit hit the fan. Kha'ak raids started intensifying, unrest onboard the station would only grow, until one day we noticed a new structure in sight - and not an Argon competitor. Kha'aks had started building an outpost close to us. Our activity immediately stopped, with only our transporters heading out with whatever ore we had left to sell. Traders weren't coming anymore, neither pirates.
Panic spread this day. The entire crew of the station gathered to the main dock, with obviously many cries for escaping this place. But we were "on the edge", so nobody had that sort of money to get away. Six of our mining ships had already been hijacked for a few people to leave, but we quickly declared them as stolen and as soon as they entered Argon Prime, they were apprehended. The others were grounded and systems' undocking procedures all locked. If you add in the two transporters that never came back, with barely twenty mining ships left from our last wharf orders that could be operated, there weren't room for everyone onboard for the more than a hundred people stranded on the station.
My father didn't step back from that crisis though. With some eloquence I never knew he had, he managed to keep our workers in line and quiet down the coming uprising. We emitted an emergency call for the Federation, and what do you expect? Empty promises followed. Supposedly, a fleet was scheduled to assist us as soon as possible, except - that fleet never showed up. Not when we needed it at least. The people had quieted down for two days, but the Kha'aks were progressing well enough on building their outpost. Anyone could see it, so the fury rose again.
That stubborn mule I call my father stood up again to calm them down. Attacks directly against our station had started that day, so there were no way "waiting" would be an acceptable answer. Our defenses had done their job, but they were few in number and had taken a hard hit. So he started convincing them of taking a different approach from fleeing. The worst I didn't even expect from a miner at the time: he began persuading people of taking an agressive approach. Instead of escaping, he managed to gather volunteers to head to the closest equipment dock and refit our ships with combat gear. No matter how much I opposed it, he wouldn't listen.
How do you figure that turned out? As expected, it went awry almost immediately. Whatever money hadn't been thrown at refitting, it was spent in recruiting independant captains - mercenaries that wouldn't say their names. Conveniently, our ships were first in line to bring the fight to the Kha'ak. It had barely started that four of them were destroyed in the first seconds, facing the first wave. The firing returned didn't do much; miners aren't war pilots, merely clueless civilians dreaming of themselves as heroes with the countless movies or games that can't reproduce the terror for your life, the widespread mess of a dogfight engagement that make the battle unreadable, and the stress that restricts your action and thinking to barely half of your potential.
The mercenaries had already started fleeing. In merely six minutes, all our ships had been destroyed and my family reduced to only myself. Without any ships left, a misery in credits and still no sign of that rescue fleet, there weren't much more to do. So I did the only thing I could: I got in touch with estate management companies and started negotiating. I wasn't expecting many deals, but they were all ready to purchase for a ridiculously low price. "Risk management" was their favorite argument, stating that obviously the Federation wouldn't hurry with the Xenon or Split incursions in Hatikvah's or Morning Star III, and the Holy Order crossing Antigonid space. It cost me a lot not to flare up at that one but with my back to the wall and lives under my responsibility, I unexpectedly managed to keep it to myself. Maybe the struggle between wrath and grief helped.
I finally struck a deal with one of them on the condition they'd send for people transports without delay. That they did; two frigates bringing mere tourism buses did the job well, with a guard detail of small ships meant for war. That was the closest to a "rescue" fleet from Argons I saw. It was an uncomfortable ride but they indeed brought us back to Argon Prime as agreed, and we left behind what little we had - I left behind whatever belonged to, or was, my family. It was impossible to recover our deceased.
PAFSO editor Julian Davis wrote:heck so cringey -Davis
The estate management company had made no mystery of what they intended to do with our station. They disassembled it and recovered whatever machinery was usable, only to sell it to their partners or the highest bidder. It mostly went to other outfits in the sector. I could've made that deal myself, had we not been under the insects' lethal threat. Whatever.
Finally safe, the crew quickly disbanded. We were already merely a bunch of downtrodden people scratching a survival, so obviously nothing strong held us together. The few who had relatives back there in that cursed battle could start mourning. Money quickly brings you back to reality though, so after paying everyone their dues, I had to start a new venture before losing too much. Since being a static helpless target wasn't really to my tastes anymore, and I definitely hadn't that sort of money anyway, I got in touch with the few people that remained around still unemployed in Argon Prime. It took a few weeks, but I finally managed to gather a large enough crew to operate constantly the ship.
And, there begins this new story. With the credits from the station sale, I could order a very basic Ides Vanguard from the local wharf. Nothing fancy; entry-level travel engines, thrusters and a shield, and a good interface as well as components for communicating and keeping accurate logs of our trades. I couldn't pay for turrets, but I don't expect to leave for contested space anyway - we've had our share of bloodshed for a while. I paid extra to make sure the interior would fit my needs; while it's not what I'd call comfortable, there are two sleeping quarters to separate ladies from gentlemen, toilets, two showers, a small kitchen that couldn't have more than eight people seated at the same time, and a small rest area that could hold as many people as the kitchen.
I never expected from the beginning to have all of us living at the same rhythm; while flying, the ship must remain operated wherever and whenever, hence the rooms unable to hold all of us together at the same time. Maybe the bridge could if we stand shoulder to shoulder, so I'll save it only for important decisions. Nobody has a private area besides their bunk and locker, so I'll have to consider shore leave too, if only for morale. There's nothing as fancy as "captain's quarters"; I have my bunk like the other girls.
The external hull is rather convenient for loading and unloading wares. The containers, while small, are arranged in the form of rotating circles taking nearly half of our central hull. Shipments can be loaded in precise smaller spaces all organized and referenced in our operating system, instead of a vast bay where they would be stacked altogether blindly, from fragile pieces to sturdy metallic products. Not the most efficient to make the best of our storage space, but oh so infinitely better to manage that huge loading capacity and remaining accessible to cheap docks that would still make use of machines the size of a human to load or unload. Not like we'd make great profits only staying in richer areas, so we'll have to visit smaller stations.
I decided to name that gal the Heavy Metal Queen. Says a bit about me, but it's all I could make out of whatever I had left of my family, and I'm not going to be shy about it. I could bring onboard nineteen people alongside me, but for now between those that remained of our former outfit and a few new recruits, we are fourteen onboard. Mostly men, but I'll keep the crew's introduction for a later entry; they just told me we were all onboard and ready to take off at my order.
We'll be heading first to close factories with too many supplies on their hands on known trade routes. It won't turn much of a profit but we've got to start somewhere, before making contact with new partners and seeking out actively lucrative deals! Fortunately, considering the ties between the Federation and the Antigonids, it shouldn't take long to establish relations. I insist on remaining independant but that also makes us easy targets, so hopefully soon enough we'll come across contracts offered directly by any of these factions so we can fly under their protection. It won't deter most pirates, but any slight extra chance is welcome since we can't fight back or flee fast; it will also help in making relations!
Anyway, time to head out to the bridge,
turn up the radio and give my first flying order as captain. Linda Jorwan, captain of the Heavy Metal Queen, over and out!
- - - [ END OF ENTRY ] - - -
Code: Select all
End of entry. Load the next one #8 "Our first contract"? Y/N
(No will bring you back to this archive's menu)
> Y
Accessing next entry...