Never flirt with a Docking Traffic Controller.

The Security Ship finished what felt as the longest and most thorough scan of my ship, and my comms came to life: ‘Please take your position at the back of the queue outside the station, then proceed to docking bay 03’. Of course. Back of the line, and the most uncomfortable bay available. Everyone on this stations hates me. Scratch that, everyone in this system hates me. I never imagined Docking Traffic Controller had such reach or, for that matter, such capacity for grudges. Lesson learnt, don’t hit on someone who can literally leave you floating in space.

Space is big. Really big. People, on the other hand, well, we’ve not managed to shake off that small caveman mentality. We bunch into groups and classes, and then we make up new smaller groups and classes in those groups and classes, and so on. In this day and age, people living off planet can be divided broadly between dockers running around the station, the ones in charge of space traffic another group, station service people yet one more group, civilians, bureaucrats, government agents each with their own, and so forth. A whole ecosystem of people who were always bickering amongst each other. Except when it came to Commanders and Pilots, then we would be like family. Station vs. Nomads. And CMDRs are no different, they will scoff each other for being any one profession over the other.

I should know, I used to be a docker, and am now the commander of my very own ship. Little bit of both worlds, you might say. It started with a Sidewinder that a drunk CMDR sold to me in what I suspect were less than legal circumstances. The thing was old and beaten up and had what I suspected was blood in the cockpit. But when an opportunity like that shows up, you don’t ask many questions. So I didn’t. I hadn’t even been off system before, and that had been in the cargo hold of a commercial shuttle. I was certainly not letting an opportunity like this pass. Chances like that don’t happen often to dockers like me, and without thinking too much about it, I took it. As far as character flaws go, not thinking about things would be right there in the top five. The repercussions of such shortcoming included, but are not limited to, not thinking what had become of the previous owner of that bucket of bolts; basic things, like how to actually fly a real Sidewinder; power management and life support systems. The list goes on.

The first thing I had to learn was how to fly without bouncing off every wall in the station. The CMDR who sold me the ship said one didn’t need much training to fly a Sidewinder, and all my previous training from sims should be more than enough. I took his word and didn’t give it much thought.

The rusty piece of metal welded together in the shape of a Sidewinder held surprisingly well, and after a few minor accidents, I felt I got the hang of piloting the small craft. Soon enough, after several trading runs and, yeah, I might as well say it, some smuggling, I was able to afford a second-hand Cobra Mk. III. It was the most beautiful thing I had seen. But as it happens, you do need a little more training to fly a larger kind of ship. After it almost got me killed the first time I flew it off station, I named it ‘Murderous Momentum’. More mistakes on my part just reinforced the name.

The fact that I survived is what made me a proper commander. At least in my mind. I got better at trading, bounty hunting, and flying from one station to the other. I was a real pilot. I even joined a Guild. I was living the dream. The docker who had worked for decades loading and offloading cargo was but a distant memory. I walked into the pubs and cantinas in space ports and carried myself as a proper commander, looking down on those locked in mindless orbit.

I was docked at Stromgren Orbital over at Baal System. The bar I was in was a remarkably classy one. Didn’t even know there were stations this nice, to be honest. All my previous experience consisted of blocks of metal with the sole purpose of moving goods and services. People lived there because they had to. Here in Stromgren Orbital, people actually wanted to live in station.

It started off with me flirting with this gorgeous woman, as I would do with any member of the opposite sex who would show me the least bit of attention, who turned out to be a Docking Traffic Controller. To my surprise, my probably laughable attempts at seduction turned to actual, genuine conversation. She was in charge of making sure ships went in and out of the station safely and in order, I was the kind of pilot that made the kind of mistakes that broke the monotony of her job, which she somehow found entertaining. We talked like people talk, interested in what the other had to say, and speaking with honesty and candour. They must put something in the air in stations like Stromgren Orbital. Everything felt right. It was nice.

The night wore on, and I had almost 10 hours to kill before the Murderous Momentum was refuelled, repaired, and loaded up with cargo. We kept taking, and drinking, and as time passed, the initial failed flirting turned conversation started to turn back into a more romantic direction.

I was brought back to reality when my handheld device started beeping, reminding me I had to run to my ship or lose launch privileges for my allotted timeslot. I found myself waking up in a bed that was not my own, the last few hours a drunken blur, and with the comforting headache of a well-earned hangover. The whole ‘verse before me, I ran to my ship and I did not look back.

Turns out, people with whom you share an intimate moment do not much appreciate you running off without a word like that. The fact that it was about 2 months before I made it back to Stromgren Orbital station did not help the situation, either. My inability to remember her name was certainly a contributing factor to any feelings of enmity she had developed towards me. Couldn’t blame her, really.

It wouldn’t be so much of a problem if the fantasy most people have about commanders were true; that whatever happens, you can just fly away, find another system, another station, your ship is your home. It might be like that to some, sure. But the rest of us? We’ve not completely shaken off that small caveman instinct. We still like to hold on to the familiar, even if the familiar encompasses a system several thousand light years wide. Some of us still have the need to belong, so we join a group, guild or faction. And in joining that, get responsibilities and commitments. Responsibilities, in my case, that required me to visit Stromgren Orbital more often than I had before.