An older gentleman walked into the small hotel and gently closed the door. He tossed a stuffed duffel bag onto the nearby couch and collapsed into the opposite side. Slowly, he sank into the cushions with his eyes closed and head leaned back on the rear cushion.
"Too much damn work." he mumbled under his breath. His communicator vibrated as if in response. The man groaned and picked it up. "What." he spat.
"Smugg." the voice on the other end rasped.
"I told you, I retired that name when I left the Congress." the man growled.
"Right, sorry...James. Listen, we've got another requisition request here. Premium Scrap to Gamma...and another to...Gran Canaria? The hell?"
"Put a pin in it for tomorrow. I've been running myself ragged with up keep in Texas. Give me like..." the man checked his watch, squinting at the digital read out. "...five hours. I'll be back 'on the road' so to speak in the Anamnesis with a haul to our Corsair friends. Until then, piss off and let me sleep."
He hit the end call button before the man on the other end could answer.
He'd started up a small scrapping company after his retirement from the Congress. It wasn't much, but it was honest work and fairly profitable to boot. Every now and then, he would have to use his contacts with certain factions and groups to keep the wheels greased, so to speak, but for the most part he was left alone. Gallia and Kusari were still technically off limits...but he'd go there to collect Military Salvage when he could for delivery to his clientele which included some of the more seedier parts of Sirius.
"I'm getting too old for this shit. Wonder if I should retire in a few years."
Eventually, he fell asleep, his snores echoing off the walls of his small hotel on Planet Houston.
You fear oblivion. Yet you forget. The universe remembers every atom of your being. Even dust hums your name in the dark.
Seward Station, Bering System --- October 21, 829 A.S.
"Cleared for landing, Anamnesis. Welcome home." squawked the communicator as the Pilgrim Liner navigated into the mooring point.
"Give me a status update on the restocks." James said as he did post-flight checks.
It had been a couple of days since Seward Station was finally pressurized out in the Bering system. Ever since Ozymandias, James had hated being the administrator for a station of any kind, but with the amount of money that could be made off of the Scrap in Texas, and the lack of a suitable place to store it except for onboard Chesterfield, he'd decided that it was a necessary evil.
From there, the station and it's purpose seemed to have taken on a mind of it's own. Within a few hours of the stations opening, he'd discovered an old abandoned Bustard and several Sabre's left abandoned out in a nearby field. He'd claimed the wrecks with salvage rights and had begun the arduous process of towing them back to Seward Station. Shortly after he'd received a request for the Sabre's be restored and was provided with currency to get it done. From there a business model emerged relating to scrap and salvage. He'd accidentally stumbled on to a new business model, something that he could appreciate more than pirating and smuggling.
"We've got some runners out now picking up some materials for restocking the station. Should be back within the day." squawked the communicator.
"Did you remember the whiskey?" James replied.
The female voice on the other end sighed loudly.
"Yes, James, we remembered to get your whiskey...friggin' alcoholic."
"Recovering, alcoholic." James said holding a finger up in the air for no one but himself as he reviewed the final checklist.
"Sure, and I'm Bretonian Royalty. Get your ass in here when you're done."
"Right away, your highness." he responded. All he heard was a snort before the line was disconnected. He stretched as he stood from the command chair. Yawning, he exited the ship through the mooring point and into the small station proper.
At the moment, the only thing the station had was a small berth for what crew was on the station, a small kitchen, and a command and control section. What remained was completely storage. They were in the process of building the station so pieces were still missing here and there. Systems weren't completely online as of yet but his small team was working getting everything up and operational.
"Jessie, make sure the docking system is configured to allow our Unioner friends access. That's a condition of us building here." James yelled above the sounds of construction for those in the command center to hear.
"Sir, yes, sir!" replied the female voice from the communicator.
James snorted to himself and wandered to his bunk to get a nice restful nights sleep. He had plans tomorrow to work on the Bustard and he needed as much rest as he could get.
You fear oblivion. Yet you forget. The universe remembers every atom of your being. Even dust hums your name in the dark.
![[Image: AlGbG5Y.png]](https://imgur.com/AlGbG5Y.png)