An Armstrong Station mini-story

I have six days with nothing to do.

Literally, nothing. 

If I was almost anywhere else in the solar system, I’d have my pick of diversions to waste my not so hard-earned money on.

But I’m stuck here on the Moon at Armstrong Station, and I have absolutely nothing to do.

I mean, if all I want to do is drink until I’m blind, it’s probably no different than any other merchant port of call. My goddamned medical nanites take most of the edge off that kind of fun, anyway. So, what’s the point?

Oh sure, I can turn them off and get stinking drunk like any other spacer, but I’m getting too old for doing that dumb shit more than once or twice a year, and it’s not my birthday or Christmas. 

And besides, this is supposed to be one of the most dangerous ports around. I’m required to be on call if any of the ship’s crew happen to need a doctor while we all sit around and wait for Requiem to clear customs quarantine.

I made it clear to those idiots that I’m not available for self-inflicted alcohol poisoning, so barring a broken arm or a knife wound, they’re on their own. I wanted to enjoy a few days off.

Well, that was my plan, but like I said, this is the asshole of the system, and there is literally nothing to do if my intention is to stay out of trouble and alive. I’m so bored I almost wish Chambers or Schmaltz would get into a fight and need some patching up. But they are amicable drunks, and unlikely to do more than pass out if they drink too much.

Pussies.

I suppose I could go start a bar fight, but I’ve been punched in the face before, so no. We won’t be trying that again anytime soon.

When Requiem set down here, Chambers assured me it was a short stopover to pick up supplies and our next cargo. Nobody said anything about the possibility of being tagged by the port authority for a random quarantine and search of the ship. We were all booted off with only the clothes on our backs and told to not come back for six days.

Let me tell you, there was some frantic scrambling to make sure the smuggling holds really were empty, and I can only pray they don’t find the safe hidden under the floor of the medical bay. If they do, things won’t be boring anymore. I’ll be spending a few weeks in a morality police re-education centre learning about the evils of smuggling contraband medical supplies.

Predictably, Chambers apologized all over himself when this little setback happened. I think he’s worried I’ll quit and find something else. 

Normally, there would be a real risk of me doing that, but the truth is that he doesn’t have anything to worry about.

Despite my bitchy, high maintenance facade, I have been enjoying my time aboard Requiem, and have no plans to look for anything else in the foreseeable future. 

I just won’t be telling that to Chambers.

Besides, a part of me is interested in learning how well deserved this place’s reputation is. I wonder how much trouble I could actually get into if I tried.