Rules of Acquisition

Posted on Mon Jun 20th, 2016 @ 9:09pm by

Mission: Mission 1 - Bridges
Location: Kaleb Sector
Timeline: MD 01
4603 words - 9.2 OF Standard Post Measure

It always made his spine tingle, a shiver of disquiet which slithered just under the surface of his skin, an icy finger tracing inhumanly along the fibers of his nervous system. Of course, it was perfectly safe; even if this had not been a routine depressurization, the EV suit Barton was wearing would keep the ravages of space from wracking his body, boiling his blood, exploding his organs like over-pumped balloons.

This knowledge helped none. The audible hiss of atmosphere slithering away into the vast void of nothing was the sibilation of every astronaut’s demon since time immemorial. A sound so pernicious that it had worked its way into the genetic make-up of every space-faring culture; for despite force-fields and impervious hulls, no creature of sentience could listen to such a glissade of crucial, indispensable, irreplaceable air slipping away, without feeling the frosty gaze of death lingering on them from the shadows.

Focusing on the steady pattern of his heavy exhales, which echoed about the enclosed helmet as if he were chocking on phlegm, Barton closed his eyes and waited for the cycle to complete. Three ascending chirps and a change in airlock lighting confirmed a good seal, they had docked.

“You look nervous.” Fravs sly voice was muffled by Barton’s thick Ushanka; a gift Rueben had given him nearly six years prior. The heavy fur lining of the hat stifled the EV suits comms, but it also fought off the cold which the cheap get-up Frav had given him failed to do.

“Eager to inspect my property is all.” His own voice was piped back into his ears through the comm system, making him sound more definitive than he actually was. He could have used a hit right about now, something to numb the edge off his stark concentration, settle his fidgets and quiet the snapping demons always plaguing his sober mind. Not that he was entirely sober of course, there was just enough in him to alleviate the phantom pains and paralyze the internal voices of dread. It was wearing off fast, sometimes Barton lamented his livers ability to filter the narcotics out of his blood.

He noted a glint in Frav’s eyes as the man nodded; his jitters could easily be mistaken for inexperience and not withdrawals. Ferengis just loved inexperienced buyers, so Frav would be feeling extra pleased right about now. That was fine, over confidence could be the fall of many, and Barton new well how to strike that final blow which toppled those prone to forgot just how far they had to fall.

Even considering his species, Frav’s mien seemed a particularly delusive one. His eyes drifted about their sockets shrewdly, his lips seemed pursed in a permanent smirk and his long fingers always moved as if they were spiders weaving silken traps for lowly insects to wander into. As a merchant, his fetish for profits was famous the system over; as a corrupt dealer of black-market goods, his deceptive reputation was spoken with infamy all the way back to the Klingon border.

Barton had noted quickly the manner in which Frav moved and thought and acted. This was his gift, his particular edge in the underworld, Barton could pick a mans motivation like a prime thief could pick a lock. He likened Frav to the serpent from so many tales of old, eagerly tempting fools with an over-priced apple, which bought nothing but misery and bad luck.

Every cell in his body tingled in prescient caution when ever he dealt with Frav, the very make-up of his being warning him against trusting the wily salesmen, but Frav had something Barton wanted. So they were to deal.

In the end, so long as Frav felt he was getting the better end of the bargain, then his over-sized ego would be appeased. Barton could manipulate that he thought, he would have to if this was to work, if he was to end up with what he wanted.

“She’s not your property yet.” Frav reminded Barton, a sweet twinkle in his voice as he worked the airlock console.

If he only knew how true those words were. They’d already agreed on a preliminary price, one surprisingly fair considering the size of the trade. Frav wanted 10% upfront in cold hard credit, but he would take the SS Divern, an ailing Raven-Class vessel Barton had limped to the Kaleb Sector in over a week ago, as 50% of the total payment.

Raven-Class ships were popular out here, nimble and fast they were sought after by smugglers and pirates alike. But the Divern had not seen a good Engineer in nearly ten years, it’s shield generators were shot, the life-support system was on the fritz and it shook like a cocktail mixer when you took it above warp 3.4. How he and Rueben had survived in the back-reaches of space inside that coffin for three years, was nothing short of a miracle. In truth, it was worth a lot less than Frav had offered, but even a clumsy merchant could move a Revan-Class quickly, and for more than triple its true price if he were sly enough.

The Divern was hardly the problem; it was the 10% credit that Barton would struggle with. He was utterly broke. Somehow he needed to talk Frav into taking only the Divern upfront, the remaining 50% he would pay off over time. Of course if he succeeded in that, which seemed unlikely, then he would still need to find credit in order to fill the anti-matter and deuterium tanks, stock up the kitchen and stores, pay a retainer for a handful of crew. There were more than a few holes in his plan, but Barton was being driven by some force beyond himself. He could not entirely figure at what propelled him into this course of action, all he knew was that he wanted this ship, he felt like he needed it even.

In a way, Barton sensed the last few years had been building to this. The endless trials and ludicrous situations, the continual run of bad luck that had plagued him, his never ending desire for increasingly harsher stimulation, even the nights he had seriously considered dumping himself out an airlock. All of it had been nothing more than a series of uncoiling events, one circumstance unraveling into another; a master universal plan, the only function of which was to bring Barton here. To ensure he was at this point in space, at this very moment. Somehow he knew that beyond this airlock laid the meaning of his entire existence.

None of that mattered, not now. Frav was his current concern, he could deal with the rest when and if it occurred. That was how Barton lived, always had been and always would be. Apply yourself to each problem as it arose, focus on the present. Forget the past and leave the future up to those powers in the universe, which were to mighty for humble minds to comprehend.

With effort, he pulled his mind back into the air-lock compartment, his gaze back on to Frav. Great heed would be needed if he was to be successful in convincing a Ferengi to sell something for less than its worth. Never a task easily accomplished, in fact some said it impossible. Barton loved the impossible.

It only took the merchant a moment to sync the airlock controls. He looked up at Barton, and with a smarmy real estaters voice that reveled his shark like teeth, crooned “Welcome home, Captain” as the doors slid open onto a well of deep black.

They had docked into port seven, along the right hand side of the vessels main hull. Barton fumbled awkwardly for a moment at his suit, his fingers probing for the small concealed switch. Finding the depression, he pushed a digit down into the well. Two streams of cold blue light erupted from the sides of his helmet, piercing into the nothingness which opened up before him and ricocheting dully of the muted grey of the ships interior. The intensity of the tight beams flowed out and dispersed into fuzzy halos, leaving a meek and dreary image in their wake.

It was clear no one had been aboard in a while, the sidings were pot marked with rust and grime, black skid marks crisscrossed the flooring and several access panels were ajar, wires pulled asunder as if birds had attempted to nest there.

Barton loved cold, dark places; feeling they offered that type of respite and solitude he so oft craved. But even for him the interior beyond the airlock seemed eerie. It was all together to still, to silent, to devoid of even those imperceptible air currents which stirred dust mites about the sky, to be in any manner comforting.

He’d come this far though; he was literally standing on the brink of his dreams. To hesitate now was pointless. With his usual unconsidered enthusiasm, he surged through doorway like a horse loosed from it’s starting gate; thinking the quicker he struck into the ghostly place, the sooner the supernatural feeling would abate from it.

There was sudden shift in gravity as he stepped onto the deck directly beyond the threshold. The Gravity Plating still gave a rough sense of up and down, but with the energizer off the gravity dampening field generators would not function. Barton bounced as if he were on a moon or large asteroid, a sensation which tumbled the contents of his stomach and forced him to careen off the ship walls.

He groped at the bulkhead as he tried to steady his bounding motion, landing too heavy on his feet, the result of which sent him soaring toward the ceiling as he drifted deeper into the ship and it’s enveloping darkness.

Where was Rueben when he needed him most. Usually, it would be his oldest friends hand that would clench at his shoulder just moments before he went like a deluge into the fray. In a heavy accent, he would have grumbled something about gravity, reminded him to move slowly, told him to engage his mag-boots before going a bullet-a-gate.

Rueben might have been an unimaginative sap, too wound up in his delusions of Starfleet grandeur to be a truly useful accomplice so far away from the law, but Barton had missed that more serious approach to the world ever since they had parted two months ago. At times, he had almost longed for one of Rueben’s endless check list, or a snap-quiz on some obscure ship system or a conduit bypass routine.

Not far beyond the airlock door the hull opened into a three deck high cargo-bay, wrapped on this level by a narrow cat-walk with waist high railing. The pools of light cast out by the torches gave this space a truly cavernous appearance, seeming more like a canyon or gorge in the dull illumination than an empty ships hold.

Barton felt his breath catch in his throat as the beams of light hit the hard floor three decks below. He was still floating from his last bounce, and drifting drastically close to the edge of the catwalk. The gravity might be low, but he likened the drop still great enough to snap bones and crack EV suit helmet glass.

Grasping the railing like a life preserver, he dragged himself onto the cat-walk and engaged his mag-boots. A cackling sound filled the comms as his right boot snapped heavily onto the metal plate flooring.

“Watch your step hey.” Frav leered as he entered the airlock behind him. “So, what exactly is it you wanted to see?”

“Everything.” Barton was trying hard to hide just how heavily he was breathing. He could not shake an odd sensation, which seemed to be chilling the very marrow of his bones. There was something so unnatural and unsettling about an empty and vented ship, it was like walking a graveyard on the stillest of nights. It was enough to make you believe in ghosts.

Frav simply shook his head and pointed toward the ships bow. “Center of the gangway, that corridor leads to the main power distribution room. The cold fusion batteries were new only three years ago, they’ll have enough charge for emergency lighting at least.”

Barton liked the sound of that, lights would go a long way to easing the case of nerves nearly hurtling over the edge of the catwalk had raptured in him.
“After you.” He said, wishing it was possible to wipe the sweet from his brow.

Moving was slow and heavy with mag boots on, and despite the short distance they had to go it took some time to reach the corridor. Barton carefully untangled his mind as they egressed along the cat-walk, re-focusing his attention and reminding himself of the stakes.

Rueben would have been assessing the layout of the ship, noting the faults, how many airlocks there were, if there was any damage of serious concern. Hell, he’d have had tricorder out before they even open the airlock door.

That would have been invaluable knowledge, the interior seemed a total shamble. Consoles laying pulled from their sockets, deck-plating missing and at least two pools of some unknown liquid on the floor three decks below.

To Barton, it all just looked like a ship. Nondescript bulk heads, sturdy looking girders and a couple of empty cargo containers. None of it meant anything to him. A ship may have been whole comprised of a great many parts, but to Barton, it was only the complete ensemble he understood, the minutia of it all was as mysterious and impossible as magic.

Were others considered each part, seeing not a whole vessel but 200 grav-generators or a Mark 34 energizer relay or some other obscure sounding device and its circuitry; Barton saw only a living creature. He shuddered, thinking that this might have been the first time in a long while, that any person would appreciate this ship for all it was, and not for the cheap manner in which it could fulfill a purpose.

“I’ve an ace mechanic on my crew.” Barton lied. “If anything is not up to scratch I’ll be working it out on the cost of the ship.”

“Bah.” Fravs harsh voice hissed over the comm at that statement. “She might be old, but she’s fit as a fiddle.”

“I want a full cycle test done, a ship which don’t seal is a useless waste…”

“If you came here too barter mister, your wasting my time. We vent all vessels in storage to stop the mildew from growing, and to keep the varmints out. Now you have my word, this ship is up to snuff, your mechanic will attest to it I assure.”

Frav paused a moment at the mouth of the corridor, as if he were waiting for sign that it was safe to continue. The hall was long and narrow, scarcely wide enough for two people abreast and lined in that dull grey siding common to vessels of this era. A thick bundle of wire and several flex-pipes were ham fistedly strung along one wall at head height, passing through a crude hole cut into the bulkhead at the end. Under the glare of their torch beams, it looked suspiciously like a tunnel leading to your worst nightmare. But the was the darkness, the cold, the quietness of a derelict ship talking. Even so, Frav moved noticeably quickly down the narrow stretch.
“I’ll need a moment to work the manual override” Frav said as he pulled at a handle burry in the wall. Barton just nodded, looking suspiciously at the wire bundle, thinking it might be an angle to play for reducing the purchase cost.

The power distribution room was long and rectangular in shape, the intermix shaft piercing through it’s center like a tree trunk sprouting from the floor and growing into the ceiling. Being only a small room, their torches were able to light up the space far more generously. It was nicer here, there was no impending sense of dread.

The wire bundle exploded inside this room, creeping over the walls like an uncontrolled vine, coiling this way and that, before the individual strands slipped under the wall siding or were spliced into open connectors. Someone had been very creative in bypassing the energizer, even if somewhat crude.

Several phaser burn marks stained the walls, giving the impression a rather heated fire-fight had erupted here. No one had bothered to clean up the dark welts now littering the facades. That was notably strange, but Barton thought nothing of it.

Around the periphery of the room were solid black sheets of glass, consoles awaiting power to flow into their illumination circuits. The intermix shaft looked as lifeless and cold as the hard metal walls. There was no doubt about it, the ship was completely asleep, and had been for a long while.

Barton followed Frav to a small cluster of antique looking switches and buttons, which were marked ‘Standby System’ on the wall near the door. It was almost comical, seeing physical toggles and gauges, but it reminded Barton just how old this ship was.

The process was less simple than he would have assumed, requiring Frav to turn several knobs and dials in order to align the cold-fusion batteries to the emergency lighting system. Usually, Barton could fumble his way through such a chore, but he would have been lost on this console. It looked more like the overhead panel of a 20th century earth airliner than a space-ships emergency battery distribution controls.

“Let there be light.” Frav declared as he toggled the final switch. Nothing happened. He tried again. Same result.

There was an audible growl over the comes as Frav began flicking the switch back and forth. He was loosing his cool, acting in a way which would make bartering all to easy. This was something Barton had not expected… perhaps Frav was more eager to move this ship along than he was letting on.

Barton placed his gloved hand over the Ferengi’s, stopping his frantic switch motions before he snapped the thing off.

“What are you trying to dump on me here Frav.” Barton demanded, doing his best to sound dubious. “You said the cold-fusion batteries were new.”

“They are, I’ve the Engineering Dockets in my office to prove it, it must be a fault in the relay.” Frav raised his hands and shrugged his shoulders, but his tone was tense.

“I was in this as a going concern, if I have to go troubleshooting every system, or worse start replacing components, I’m walking away.”

“A minor issue, very minor. Monkeys could have it fixed in 15 minutes.” Frav assured, a hint of desperation slipping into his voice as his eyes seamlessly re-confirmed he had correctly selected the emergency lighting. “You saw the paperwork mister.”

Barton chuckled just loud enough for the helmet comm to pick up. “Paperwork can be forged.” He said from experience.

“I would never.” Frav shot back, offended. He was stalling now, hoping to regain the upper hand he’d just lost. But there was something else too, Barton felt Frav was particularly unwilling to walk away from this deal. “5% upfront then, final offer.”

Barton blinked, shocked. He’d not even mentioned negotiating on the price yet, he’d figured they’d do a whole song a dance, back and forth, over and over. He’d threaten to walk away from the deal, Frav would say he had other interested parties or quote one of the rules of acquisition.

“The Divern upfront, 10% after 6 months when I know for certain you’re not selling me a Junker.” He shot back just as quickly. If Frav wanted to play ball, then Barton had no intention of lingering.

“Don’t make me laugh. Six months from now you could be across the other side of the galaxy. Besides, that pile of scrap is not worth the hull it’s bent into. There are scorch marks all over it and the inside stinks like skunk den. 3% upfront with the Divern, and I get 15% of your hold space for cost when I need something shipped, for two years.” Frav moved to the railing surrounding the inter-mix shaft, where he began to work yet another ancient, analogue console.

Barton was not about to skip out on paying his debts to Frav, the Ferengi had a tendency of snapping the limbs on defaulters. But it was a fair point and he knew he would instantly reject it.

Rolling his eyes, a little over dramatically, ensuring Frav was looking at him as he did so, Barton prepared his rebuttal. He was cautious, suddenly feeling like he was missing a huge piece of this puzzle, a piece which might have saved him a great deal of money on this deal. “Who is telling jokes now. The Divern, 5% after 3 months, 10% of the holds at cost for 1 year 6 months, plus a month birthing fees at Deep Space Seven and a full check out by an Engineering team.”

Frav thought for a long moment, the silence between them enhanced by the sound of their breathing and the dark, empty nature of the vented room. Something past over the Ferengis face, something Barton could not name.

“Your old ship, 10% of the holds for 2 years, 7% at 3 months, two weeks docking fees and a full inspection certificate. Plus, I keep both emergency transporters, the pattern buffer from transporter room three, all but two of the replicators and the main bio-bed in the surgery.” He finally countered.

“Why don’t you take the core too.” Barton scoffed. “Give me an oar, I’ll cut a hole in the side and row the darned thing across the universe.”

Frav gave him a cold, hard stare in response to that retort. “It’s a better deal than you would have hoped to get.” He said acidly.

The Ferengi was noticeably jittery and awkward, his eyes kept darting about the room as if he expected another party to slip from the shadows. What ever the reason, the lights not turning on had rattled Frav more than the depressurizing airlock had put Barton on edge. Some how it had changed the game, making Frav almost desperate to part ways with the ship. Perhaps there was more wrong with this ship then Barton had been lead to believe.

What ever the reason, Frav was right. The deal was far better than Barton could have hoped for. Truth told, Barton had not even been certain he was going to be able to talk Frav into a comprise he could afford at all. He had the sense there was something he was not being told, but if Barton spent his life wondering at the unsaids, then he never would have made it this far.

“Deal.” He said after another long silence past between them, Barton wanted to give the pretense of actually considering the offer. Appearing overly keen was not a good idea, there were still a lot of details to iron out.

Frav flashed him another toothy grin, his features returning to their sly, greasy ease. “Good, perfect.” He muttered, holding out his hand.

Barton shook the offered limb, feeling more like he was walking into a trap than a good deal. Any feelings of worry soon abated though, as he realized what had just occurred. It was done, he had his next ship, his next home.

“Let’s get out of the cold, dark belly of this beast and back to my office, draw up a bill of sale, transfer the ownership?”

The sneer in Frav’s voice did not put Barton at ease, but he had to admit he was keen to get off the ship. It would be a lot homelier once the energizer was active, the gravity was solid, the air breathable and the lights on.

“You’ll have it towed in” Barton asked before making to exit the power distribution room, last thing he wanted was to own a ship he could not even get to. He would likely have to give up one of the water defabricators for the cost of the towing, but he had no other means of getting it done.

“Be in Deep Space Seven by tomorrow afternoon.” Frav assured, another gesture of friendliness unaccustomed to his kind, he did not even try to barter. If Barton was not so excited about his new ship, he might have been a lot more suspicious.

Neither said a word as they returned to the airlock, Frav moving quickly to get back inside the shuttle while Barton eagerly calculated his next set of moves. He would need to source crew and find paying work – passengers, cargo or something more dubious would be fine. There were stores to acquire, hydrogen tanks to fill… the list was actually rather endless.

Before exiting back into the shuttle, he turned to gaze over the inside of his ship. He owned all this now, or would inside the hour. Every bulkhead and bolt belonged to him, all of the 21 decks were his property.

He’d felt a kinship with the vessel the first time he had seen it, that had been four years ago, right before it had been abandoned, before Frav had acquired it in a bulk trade deal. To Barton, it had felt like a lost soul, a being which lacked defined purpose, as though it was unsure of it’s true place in the universe. He could understand that, and it was then he first felt the twinges of the odd sensation now pulsing through him. It was this urge that had drawn him more and more toward the ship. Until he even dreamed of it at night and uttered its name in the silence of his meditations.

Perhaps he was going insane, or maybe his continual substance abuse had finally rattled his mind off it’s hinges. None of that mattered though, it was his, the SS Mary Rose was finally his. He could figure out the rest tomorrow.

“I’ll see you soon Rosie.” Barton whispered, placing his hand on the bulkhead a moment before slipping back into the airlock and away from the ship, his ship, his Rosie.

Sometimes, when Barton was silent long enough, when there was no idle thing to distract his senses, he could hear quite clearly the method in which his mind thought. His brain seemed entranced in some private conversation it was having with his body, all his thoughts a never ending run of dialogue which could be read like a book. Through meditation, and sometimes more liberal methods, Barton believed he could pose questions to the never ending thinking machine that was his brain. He spent hours fervently seeking it's consort, writing down in scattered journals the string of results that it feed him. For Barton, this was his religion, and there were indeed times he felt himself in commune with a much higher power. Not one he would ever term god; but rather an inner divinity, that had over time completely superseded the moral code instilled by humanity.

As the airlock hatch slid shut, slowly blocking his view into the belly of the highly modified Refit Constitution, one of these resounding thoughts surfaced across the top of Barton's conscience, echoing over and over, calling from a place in the depths of his mind. And so, it has begun.

--

Barton Harkin
Captain
SS Mary Rose