Chapter 2
Midbulk transport, standard radion-accelerator core, classcode 03-K64, "Firefly".
She was beautiful. Absolutely stunning. A fine piece of work, brand new off the lot, according to the salesman. He claimed she'd never been flown, but the young man didn't have to be psychic to know that wasn't entirely true. She'd been taken around the block a few times, tested out for compatibility with the pilot. But she was never truly flown. She had never soared. He touched his hand lightly across the outside paneling, feeling the cool metal underneath his fingertips. He closed his eyes and felt something. She spoke quietly to him.
My captain. She said to him.
My ship. He replied.
She was his. Even without seeing the interior, he knew she was meant to be his. Nevertheless, he allowed the wizened old salesman to finish the tour. They stepped onto the ramp and into the cargo hold. The young man was vaguely aware of the salesman chattering on about her many features as they made their way toward the bridge. He stepped inside the cockpit and ran his fingers across the console. For a brief moment, he caught a glimpse of something. A memory that hadn't happened yet. He saw a girl with long dark hair and beautiful haunting eyes. For a moment, he could have sworn she looked back at him. Then, as quickly as it had come, this moment passed. Why the ship had shown him this future, he couldn't be certain. However, he was certain of one thing.
He turned to the salesman and said, "She's mine."
The salesman nodded, pleased with the sale.
"Very good, very good, sir. Have ye thought much 'bout what ye'll be naming her then?"
"Mnemosyne," he replied quickly. The salesman raised his eyebrows.
"That's an unusual name. Does it have some significance?" he asked.
He looked at the man. "No," he replied. "It just came to me."
The young man quietly wondered to himself why, in that moment, he chose to christen his ship after the ancient Greek goddess. Mnemosyne. Memory. Why would he want to remember when all he wanted to do was forget. The salesman nodded, and turned.
"Well, alright then, let's go get your papers in order," the salesman said "And I suspect ye'll be wanting to hire a crew. Lots of folk hang around here looking for work."
He looked at the salesman and followed him off the bridge.
"I have a crew," he stated. It was true. He hired them last week. A mechanic, a mercenary, and a second-in-command who could also pilot. Common folk from common planets. They were loyal to neither the Alliance nor the Independents, which is the way he liked it and exactly what he wanted. He knew that if things kept going the way they were politically, there'd be a war before the year was over. He couldn't risk having his crew run off and leave him empty-handed. He didn't want any delusions of grandeur, and he definitely didn't want any so-called heroes. That was just the way he liked it. If they had no loyalties to either side, they'd be less likely to object on moral grounds to the work he had for them. There would be no personal vendettas to get in the way of his mission. After 500 years, it was time to take down The Company once and for all.