Harsh, blinding light filled the man's eyes as he blinked awake. He sat up, and felt a sharp jolt of pain in his side. Looking down, he saw a bandage covering the left side of his abdomen. Glancing in the mirror, he saw a middle-aged man, about six feet tall, with close-cropped dark brown hair.
The man tried to stand, struggling against the forces that held him down. Operating entirely on instinct, he staggered over to the sink, pulled a clean-ish mug from the rack, and put it under the machine on the adjecent counter. He pressed a button, and hot liquid filled the cup. When it was done, he took a sip.
His name was Clay Coldstone.
He took another sip.
He was born on Planet Leeds.
Sip.
At 17, he talked his way onto an independent freighter, running in the border worlds between Bretonia and Kusari.
Sip.
His boss signed the wrong deal with the wrong man, and had about 30 seconds to regret his decision.
Sip.
Clay took the ship and headed down for the Omegas.
Sip.
Now he lived out of Las Venturas, a cheap hotel on Freeport 1.
Sip.
Last night, he'd tried to swindle some very angry gentlemen out of some red gems.
Sip.
That explained the wound in his side.
Sip.
The cup was empty, and Clay's memory was still stuck. He opened the fridge, and took out the remains of a pizza.
When he'd arrived home that night, he was angry with himself, for yet another day where he'd had to risk his life just to afford his next meal. Clay was desperate, and llooking for something better. So he'd signed up for something, some kind of self-help program? He couldn't really remember, except for the fact that it was in Rheinland.
His communication terminal beeped, and an image of a young blonde woman wearing a business suit appeared on the screen.
"Greetings, Herr Coldstone," said the woman.
"Uhm, hello?" said Clay, nervously.
"Your application to Daumann Heavy Construction has been accepted. Please report to our head offices on The Ring for processing." The screen went blank and the terminal started printing a sheet of paper, which Clay grabbed. It was all very standard stuff, where to go, how to dress, who to talk to, and what to expect. As the implications of this became more and more apparent, a smile crept across his face. This wasn't just a job, this was his ticket out of here.
He pulled on a shirt and trousers and packed what little he owned into a bag, which he slung over his shoulder. On his way out, he left his keycard and a handful of credits on the front desk. Turning around, he saw a young woman in her early twenties, leaning against the door.
"You're in a hurry to leave," she said. This was the closest thing Clay had to a friend, Alissa Sterling. Alissa was slightly taller than Clay, with tanned skin and deep red hair.
Clay showed the documents to Alissa. "There's a very good reason for that."
Alissa stepped forward, her eyes widening as the contents became clear to her. "Daumann? Seriously?"
"Yeah!" said Clay, grinning.
"So... is this goodbye?" said Alissa, holding her head low.
"Maybe not. Their ships come down this way all the time, y'know?"
"Alright... I guess I'll see you 'round?" said Alissa.
"Seeya," said Clay, heading off to sell his old Clydesdale for a ticket to New Berlin... and a new suit.
Clay had seen big stations and orbital shipyards before, but nothing like The Ring. In fact, he didn't even know there was that much metal in the Galaxy. He almost couldn't tell what was a distant star and what was a welding torch or window light...
"Impressive, isn't it?" said the man sat next to him. "I've spent half my life here, and I'm still not quite used to it."
Clay turned to him. "Something I should worry about?"
"Oh no, it's perfectly safe if you keep your cool and don't do anything foolish."
"Good to know."
The transport docked at the New Berlin mooring fixture, and the passengers all filed off. Clay made his way to the Daumann shuttle dock and showed them his documentation. They waved him through without a word, and he climbed into a small low-orbit shuttle. The passenger compartment was somewhat plain, but comfortable enough.
Clay helped himself to a bottle of Rheinbier and looked around out the window. The icy fields of New Berlin's day side filled the bottom of his vision. In the top half, a large container transport was docked at the Ring, being refitted, repaired... Clay really didn't know the difference.
There was a jolt as the shuttle's engines ignited. The planet fell away and Clay's view became nothing but stars.
When he arrived, Clay climbed out of the shuttle, dropped the empty bottle in the bin, and went up the the front desk. "Hello," he said, putting the papers on the desk, "I'm Clay Coldstone."
The woman at the desk picked them up and tapped a few things into her computer. "Just follow the corridors marked in red, and you'll be at the Nuburg in no time."
"Nuburg, eh?" Clay looked off to the side and nodded his head. "What kind of ship is it?"
"Container transport, Uruz-class." She placed an ID card on the desk. "You'll want to take those."
"Thanks." Clay stuffed the ID card into his suit jacket and walked off down the corridor.
