I've had a vision for a long time of writing somewhat-believable science fiction, specifically about a distant future in which space travel becomes largely mundane, yet still remains dangerous. Small and large groups of people travel routinely over many light years, jumping from planet to planet, some inhabited, some newly inhabited, and some uninhabited.
But I'm planning on focusing on the few that don't make it. Rather, those who find themselves in that danger, and those who risk their lives to rescue them. But, of course, the Salvagers, as they're called, come from many different backgrounds--everything from government agents to de facto pirates.
I'm currently working on a short story (it looks like it's going to end up somewhere in the vicinity of 25 pages of 8.5x11 paper, as I see in my word processor) which I will eventually post on Smashwords.
Here's a sample from my first draft:
I'll post again when I have it done. Thanks for reading.I was a bit surprised when, around four in the afternoon, a sharp two knocks rang out on the front door of the office. Not that I jumped or anything, but I did stop flipping through files and, after a moment's thought, rolled my eyes. Unexpected visitors usually meant scams or particularly rough jobs. Maybe if I wait a minute, they'll go away.No luck. Three more knocks, about the same as the first two. So I put down the files and went to answer the door.Great. A kid. He couldn't be more than seventeen or eighteen. Blond-haired and trim, but with a more refined look than you usually see on kids his age. Hair parted off on the right, and wearing a shirt and slacks that seemed to look like what “business casual” looks like to people who have no business using the word “casual.” He had an oval face, and a small nose, and looked up at me as I opened the door. Light green eyes. If he was a scammer, he was an elaborate one.I decided to try to discourage him a bit.“Yeah?” I tried to make it sound as curt as possible. I think it wasn't what he was expecting, because he seemed to flinch as I said it.“My name is Colton Trauvent. You are Mr. Misevelin?”I paused for a moment and admitted it. “Yeah. Aric Misevelin, of Misevelin Salvage.”“May I come in? I have a job for you.”Well, damn. I guess I wasn't going to scare him off. And I had a vague feeling as though I had heard his name before. “Sure. Come in and have a seat.”He followed me over to my desk, an old oak relic that I picked up for a song at a garage sale. I stepped behind and sat as he dusted off the red leather number I keep for clients. Not that it needed dusting, but it looked like some kind of habit to me.“You said your name is Colton Trauvent? What's this job?”He had a very textbook-proper way of sitting, slightly forward with his fists resting just behind his knees. But it didn't seem natural, more like how someone trying to look polite overcompensates. Not a good sign.“My father's ship... we... I...” he stopped, gulping visibly. “We lost contact with them, suddenly, a few hours ago. We've been unable to reach them, and I want you to go find them before something happens.”“You were in constant communication?”“No, but they were cut off in the middle of a message, and it sounded like something happened, right at the end. I'm not going to waste any time.”Probably a quarter of the really desperate-sounding people that visit me leave unhappy. Not that I don't care, but I've seen enough scams and hopeless missions to know them. So it wasn't looking good for young Colton, who had already made me suspicious enough that I was going to need some pretty good proof that he was who he said and had a real job for me.I decided to break it to him. “Look. I get a lot of people coming to me, wanting swift and decisive action, and they're usually disappointed. I'm not like a lot of salvagers, and I'm not going to run out to the middle of nowhere on a desperate plea from a stranger.”“I know you're not. You're probably the most experienced private salvager in this system.”Great. A wheedler.
