The Float

The Float

Out alone on the float, it was easy to forget; to put everything out, and focus solely on the task at hand.

Morisel was fine with that of course. Had more than enough kickin' round in the ol' brainbox that would be just as well if it never came to mind again.

Working salvage way out at the raggedy edge of civilization around the black-hole-cum-trash-compactor SAG-A filled that forgetful focus desire most days. The ship had seen better days, and weren't a run that something troublesome didn't threaten to break down. And then of course there was the ever eventful act of actually salvaging anything from the old derelicts drifting towards their final destination.

Now, Morisel could have chosen to run these jobs with a crew... Ship had space for 5, but the universe herself knew that he'd left more than enough friends and acquaintances driftin' the void during his years in service, and he sure as spit wasn't keen on reliving those moments. Bad enough they visited him in his nightmares. An Oldhat like him didn't need any more ghosts chained to his shadow. So, he ran alone. One man on a ship crewed for five, doing a job best taken by four.

There's no doubtin' that the work was hard. Were it not for the two years spent being tempered and honed in the heat of the Consolidation Wars - on the losing side, no less - well... probably wouldn't have made it this long on his lonesome. But, Morisel had been honed. Had been tempered. And, despite everything, when the dust had settled he'd made it through with the skills and instincts necessary to excel at life as a Belter... and just enough damage and rough edges to make life as a civvy planetside unthinkable.

The other Oldhats called his kind "Skips", a type of Belter that was like a stone skipping across a pond - bouncing from one job to the next, never spending an extra minute in the comfort of civilization. There was no stopping for Skips. They'd bounce until they hit the far bank or they'd falter and sink down into nothingness.

Which was a thought cartwheeling through Morisel's mind as he idly pinged the scanner again. It'd been a week since the last good find and if some bird's carcass didn't show up soon the ol' debt collectors would be calling for their pound of flesh. When the ping bounced back with a chirp signaling just what he needed, he almost dropped his re-reheated dinner ration.

"About goddamn time," he muttered to himself.

This post is the first of an upcoming series of posts following our spacefaring salvager, Morisel - a Collection will be created to contain the story. If you're interested in the fate of our dear Belter, toss a follow, or bookmark the Skipping Stones - A Dead Belt Tale collection. I plan for weekly posts as we navigate this story.

Also inspired by the Freewrite prompt - Nothingness and the Worldbuilding prompt - 331: Motivations

Header image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

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