Wired*Nun
20th of August, 2008, 04:54
Several months ago...
Easy to figure, hard to stomach how William ended up in the Battered Barrel in Beaumonde Port. The roar of landing ships was a constant cacaphony, but it fit his somber mood. Some days you mount up with wings as eagles, some days you run and are not weary. Some day you just walk and try not to faint. His was one of those days.
His duffel was between his ankles, his small medbag was visible in his lap, and a beer sat untasted in front of him. He could afford the cover, and a man without a drink in front of him in a shady bar like this would stand out, in a bad way.
Blue Sun Medical had moved in on his little practice. His partner Brian Chele, a retired Alliance military PA, had taken the generous buyout, apologizing. "I got mouths to feed, Will, and I can do more good by staying and helping a bit on the side than going." Sure, like they would let him help on the side. Blue Sun had only one side, and that was Blue Sun's.
No way I'm getting locked into a corporate contract, especially with a corporation that didn't shirk from using Tong muscle. Once those people get you, they own you.
So here he sat, looking for the man from the ad. It took a keyword search to find it in the Cortex personals, no frills or graphics.
"Independent freighter needs a doc. Room and board, passage and opportunity. Captain Price, 15X24." His message to the box number returned a terse, Battered Barrel, 1900L, be obvious. Thus, the medbag. He also sat in one of the most well-lit areas of the shadowy room.
It was actually 1904 when the man slides in front of him, across the table. Battered forty-five Colt Retro on his hip in a worn holster, no strap. Old, clean, well-mended clothes, courderoy and denim; what would have been termed a Greek fisherman's cap on Earth-That-Was, if he recalls correctly. His eyes are a watery blue; his face: old, worn, tired, maybe seventy. The veins in his nose say alcohol, though he seems sober at the moment. Something of a moon-face look and discoloration say liver problems, maybe hepatitis. Without expensive antivirals, it could be a chronic problem.
"You the doc?" he barks without preamble.
Easy to figure, hard to stomach how William ended up in the Battered Barrel in Beaumonde Port. The roar of landing ships was a constant cacaphony, but it fit his somber mood. Some days you mount up with wings as eagles, some days you run and are not weary. Some day you just walk and try not to faint. His was one of those days.
His duffel was between his ankles, his small medbag was visible in his lap, and a beer sat untasted in front of him. He could afford the cover, and a man without a drink in front of him in a shady bar like this would stand out, in a bad way.
Blue Sun Medical had moved in on his little practice. His partner Brian Chele, a retired Alliance military PA, had taken the generous buyout, apologizing. "I got mouths to feed, Will, and I can do more good by staying and helping a bit on the side than going." Sure, like they would let him help on the side. Blue Sun had only one side, and that was Blue Sun's.
No way I'm getting locked into a corporate contract, especially with a corporation that didn't shirk from using Tong muscle. Once those people get you, they own you.
So here he sat, looking for the man from the ad. It took a keyword search to find it in the Cortex personals, no frills or graphics.
"Independent freighter needs a doc. Room and board, passage and opportunity. Captain Price, 15X24." His message to the box number returned a terse, Battered Barrel, 1900L, be obvious. Thus, the medbag. He also sat in one of the most well-lit areas of the shadowy room.
It was actually 1904 when the man slides in front of him, across the table. Battered forty-five Colt Retro on his hip in a worn holster, no strap. Old, clean, well-mended clothes, courderoy and denim; what would have been termed a Greek fisherman's cap on Earth-That-Was, if he recalls correctly. His eyes are a watery blue; his face: old, worn, tired, maybe seventy. The veins in his nose say alcohol, though he seems sober at the moment. Something of a moon-face look and discoloration say liver problems, maybe hepatitis. Without expensive antivirals, it could be a chronic problem.
"You the doc?" he barks without preamble.