Space Freighter Neo Eden

About the Authors

Chapter 1: LEAVING HOME

The rosy glow of sunrise was just beginning to show and the thick misty fog bank gave the paddler the appearance of sitting in a cloud. The long-limbed man lazily leaned forward, letting the long thin blade slice down through the heavy early morning fog into the murky water of the bayou, then pulling, he sent it easily driving through the current back to the stern of the inordinately long canoe. He turned the paddle 90 degrees, levering the flat edge away from the canoe, correcting his course with a swirling backwards 'J' motion, keeping the boat knifing down the dark and serene waterway as the morning mist began to thin in the softening light of daybreak in the dark, beautiful everglades.

He continued in silence, enjoying the hush and peacefulness of the bayou, savoring each moment, knowing it would be the last time he would gaze upon the area for a long while.

The most quiet time in this, his beloved backwater home, was the magical hour before sunrise; a time when the night creatures had all gone to bed and the day shift hadn’t yet awakened.

Paddling on, the morning blush grew brighter and light streams began filtering through the trees. He stowed the paddle and engaged a small impeller motor, allowing him to slowly drift down the middle of the bayou.

Rummaging in his tackle box, he fished out a breakfast energy bar and leisurely munched on it while watching the world come alive in the fresh new day.

A great blue heron lifted off a low cypress limb and with long graceful strokes climbed aloft over the bayou, keeping below the tree-line, giving up its spot in the tree, because of the interloping canoe, but not giving up its view of the water below, wherein swam its potential morning meal.

As the canoe rounded a bend, a couple of huge black alligators slid silently off the bank into the hush of the dark quiet water, their agenda unknown.

Above in the trees floated a cloud of snowy-white egrets amongst the flowing silver Spanish Moss-laden cypress trees. A few of the dozing birds took note of the oncoming intruder in the canoe and made quick and noisy haste to book the same flight up the bayou as the great blue heron. In the wake of their exit they managed to alert the rest of the flock who followed, complaining as they went, and alarming a family of turtles sitting contentedly on a fallen log until, upon hearing the great and sudden commotion, all in one sweep dropped, disappearing into the still pool.

Smiling, as he watched this scene play out before him, the paddler savored this array of the things he loved about the bayou.

Washing down the breakfast bar with an occasional draft from the water bladder under his pack, he made small course corrections while reminiscing about the last five and a half months he had just spent living in his home in this lush tropical swampland.

His cabin on the shady bayou was his retreat and the realization of his childhood fantasy. A history buff with pride in his heritage, he had often dreamed of life in the deeply wooded swamps of planet Earth, specifically, his ancestral home in South Louisiana.

In truth, however, Loos had spent the first sixteen years of his life on the massive orbital space station, Epsolon 12, where he had, since his youth, heard stories about life on the Louisiana bayous, where he was presently coursing through and away from.

The central shaft of the orbital space station, where he and his family had resided, sustained a zero gravity (0-G) as a constant. Growing up in this 0-G environment gave Loos his tall, thin 7’3 build. With the use of dietary supplements, innumerable hours of body building and weight training, he was able to put enough muscle mass onto his frame to be able to function in full gravity" environs, such as on Earth.

Since childhood, he had slept in an all-inclusive tight-fitting stimulation suit which sent small pulses into his body, causing his muscles to flex in prescribed workouts, lulling him to sleep as he exercised. Although most people found it too difficult to sleep in a stim suit, Loos was quite comfortable and rested well, wholly accustomed to the continuous minor vibrations of his lean lanky body as he slept.

His daytime apparel was a skin-tight aril-suit which was extremely flexible; so much so, that he was almost as dexterous using his feet as he was with his hands.

Loos’ life on Epsolon 12 had been highly-regimented. One third of his time had been dedicated to study, another third found him at leisure which included time for social interacting, assisting and running errands for his father (and all the while, he steadily observed and learned about the inner and outer working operations of the mammoth space fortress, all of which gave him experience on many levels). The last third of his time allotment had been for sleep and rest.

During leisure time with his father, Jean Aucoin, Chief Officer of Station Security, there in the upper observation dome of the central shaft of the space station, his father had often regaled Loos with captivating stories of their Creole roots back on good old Earth. These tales of the simple live-off-the-land existence of their ancestors sparked the young boy’s interest in the history and genealogy of South Louisiana and started him on the path to where today’s morning light found him, years later, paddling down one of his beloved bayous.

Loos’ actual birth-name was Louis, but as oft happens due to poetic pun and slang, his name ‘evolved’.

Many’s the time his father would say, Louis, back in the day, our people had a saying: ‘Joie de Vivre’ which, in Cajun French means ‘Joy of Life’. It’s more than a saying; it’s more like a philosophy; a way of looking at life.

This ‘joie de vivre’ was the underlying theme of so many of the stories of life in the swamps of South Louisiana. His father’s tales of epic fishing, hunting and outdoor adventures, along with true accounts of massive floods, terrible storms and periods of all manner of devastating troubles which, try as they might, could not suppress the message: to always look at the good side of life with thankfulness and joy.

The good side of catastrophes were such things as: the fact that although devastating, floods flushed away dead stagnant water, replacing it with fresh. Destructive storms laid down weaker trees which could then be harvested for building and rebuilding homes. Despite calamities, the contrast of wonderful times of plenty, to those times of despairing meagerness, made one appreciate the good things in life when they had it, and too, which then filled the individual with hope for the future and an eager willingness to work toward that end.

For the past six months Loos had experienced such emotional tugs of the heart as he lived alone in his primitive cabin in the swamp. He may have been alone indeed, but never actually felt alone because of the generations of his family who had gone before. They had stood there on the same soil where he now stood. Breathing the same air they had breathed, he could almost hear their voices from the past; fathers teaching their sons how to hook bait, how to appreciate this same beauty all around them, which was then, as now, teaming with life; mothers and fathers teaching their children how to live off this very land and how to cook the special dishes that this land provided them. He could almost hear the voices of his grandfathers from eons gone by, welling up through the winding course of time, encouraging, guiding and teaching him not only about how to survive in this place where so many could not, and not to simply survive, but how to take joy and pride in doing so and to love this place called South Louisiana.

And so, he did and with such he was content, as were his ancestors, whom he dearly would have loved to have met. He could imagine some of them with dark tans, barefooted in their ragged bib overalls, running along the bayou bank in hot pursuit of supper, whatever that might entail for the evening meal. Or of huge pots of steaming jambalaya cooking over a fire in the yard with the elder gentlemen laughing and joking while tending to the stirring of the big black cast iron kettle as children chased errant chickens or one another around in the grass. The mothers, grandmothers, neighbors and friends gathered together, smiling and happily chatting while snapping green beans from the garden and preparing side dishes for the table, around which they would gather, give Thanks and with this Joie de Vivre about which his father spoke, enjoy the feast with relish, revelry and appreciation.

Shaking away these daydreams, Loos unclasped his hands from behind his head, stretched his arms high and breathed out a long, satisfied sigh as the boat lazily drifted over in the direction of an old dock.

His canoe, 26 feet long and 4 1/2 feet wide was made of an incredibly strong, thin nanite fiber shell, consisting of a one-inch thick layer of webbed fiber-foam sandwiched between inner and outer encasements, making the boat not only extremely durable but, also, weighing in at approximately six lbs., incredibly light-weight for its size, allowing it to slice through the water quickly and quietly.

Spying the dockhand, Loos hollered over, Yo! Jip! I'm back again!

Jip turned to see the big canoe coming downstream toward him, so wrapping his thumbs around the suspender straps of his faded bib overalls, he trucked across the dock in his dingy white shrimp boots, exclaiming, Dang-nation, Captain Loos, it’s been six months a-ready?

"Five and a half months, Jip; I hafta travel on my time, said Loos. It’s the price I pay for having a life down here in the swamp."

Jip just nodded and smiled heading toward a neat pile of rope on the far end of the dock.

Loos pointed the bow (front) of the long canoe into the middle of the bayou, slipped the impeller motor into reverse and backed the stern (back) toward the dock in a ‘downstream’ landing. This brought the back of the canoe to the dock first. Loos flipped a rope over to the landing pier, catching a cleat on the wharf then disengaged the impeller. The flowing current in the bayou stretched the rope tight, causing the bow to swing in gently, and ‘kiss’ the dock, holding the boat taut in the stream while Jip tossed his rope, catching a cleat on the bow of the canoe, securing it.

Loos reached down and hauled up a small ditty bag then deftly stepped out of the canoe.

He instructed, Hoist her onto the dock, Jip, but don’t stow her away yet; I’m gonna grab a shower, get dressed then come back for my space bags.

He slung the ditty bag over his shoulder and started across the dock, taking long strides with his stoop-shouldered, bent-kneed amble; the classic walk which was the hallmark of an aeronaut under full earth gravity. This long-limbed, loose-jointed aero’s gait also had a lot to do with his knick-name.

As Loos strode through the parking lot toward one of the large sprawling buildings, he never ceased to be amazed at the size of the complex. The Swamp Land Marina was a large facility located on the edge of one of the most beautiful, pristine South Louisiana swamps imaginable and served as a popular tourist destination for off-worlders. It goes without saying that people from all over the galaxy found the Swamp Land Marina to be a desirable vacation destination, as it gave them the chance to experience and connect with their ancient past.

Many regions on Earth had similar compounds from which visitors could choose, depending upon which old Earth culture they wished to explore. Old Earth still had its cities and technology centers, as well as some of the finest universities and training bases in the Universe Established Alliance, but the major draw to the planet these days was for the historical value and hands-on learning adventures. Here, tourists could assimilate into the environs of the past, visiting ancestral territories where the human species originated.

Today’s Earth had become, for the most part, a pristine park-like environment, a museum-of-sorts for major tourist travel from all over the galaxy.

With the advancement of fu-gen technology, in conjunction with the development of plasma cell technology, mankind, no longer had to worry about energy sources depleting, and were now free to travel through space for extended periods of time.

Fu-gen is the ability to spontaneously create and store energy which does not have a ‘shelf-life’, and cold fusion generators now create clean energy.

Plasma cells provide means for storing and regulating energy output. These plasma banks (cells) were developed in the late twenty-first century, replacing archaic batteries and propelling the exploration of new energy sources, casting away the archaic and destructive practices of using Earth's fossil fuels.

The development of these new power sources was the catalyst, spurring interest in intergalactic travel and which also allowed for large populations to live in the ‘heavens’ permanently.

When space travel began in earnest, this new and exciting enterprise drew many adventure-seeking people en masse out into the stars where they eventually developed other worlds, and where untold advances flourished, leaving those who were devoted to the Earth and their old-fashioned comfortable way of living, earthbound.

Lift stations were created to facilitate the mass exodus of population and travelers from Earth, and to help with the expansion of civilization on newly discovered planets. These lift stations were also used to transport raw materials mined on Earth into space where it was refined and used to build space stations. As these first lift stations were created, far more mass was lifted off the Earth than was returned, ultimately endangering Earth's climates and ecosystems.

Fortunately, when new worlds began being mined for building materials, the demand for Earth’s mining elements eventually lessened. Raw ores and rudimentary supplies began to be imported back to Earth, which hastened its road to recovery.

(To date, ninety worlds in various states of conditions are inhabited by humans and all participate in thriving business ventures, mainly that of importing and exporting. Loos, the captain of a large supply vessel, transports trade goods from one orbital settlement to another.)

It is recorded that over the course of time, as more people moved out into the heavens, those who remained, fearing that their heritage and history might be washed away in the pages of time, rebuilt the world of their dreams under the auspices of the Universe Established Alliance (who were looking at the financial aspects of it). The population staying on Earth lived more simple lifestyles on the land they loved. They worked hard to rid, as best as possible, toxic pollution and communicable diseases, then reconstructed their allotted territories (domains) and local communities as close to its natural state as possible.

Not ignoring modern technology, but rather, embracing the advances to their advantage, they replenished and restored what time and environmental abuse had taken away. (Also, by using new breakthrough techniques, many animals and plants, once considered extinct, were re-introduced, but carefully monitored.)

Each UEA Earth domain created its own Eden, adhering to, as much as possible, the old ways with its original regional identities.

In Mexi-Can-America alone, there were many options of places to visit; from swamp lands, to fishing villages, farm ranches, mountain areas, beach resort communities, etc. Practically every cultural historical section of American life was found to have enough fascinating points of interest to spark the inspiration of any traveler who had a desire to explore the habitations and cultural ways of life in the very distant past and it can be said with certainty that the Swamp Land Marina was one of the most popular.

Those who lived and worked at the marina took pride in their knowledge and preservation of the old ways; the traditions, culture and cuisine of the area. Using their love and appreciation for the past civilization, their wisdom enhanced the tourists’ cultural immersion into the history of the region, which also helped to build the reputation of The Swamp Land Marina with vacation planners.

Despite the marina’s Conservation Panel carefully limiting the number of visitors to the park and requiring that guests be accompanied by board-certified guides, there was a very long waiting list for tourists to sign up. The marina hotel, bar, restaurant, gear shop, outfitter’s store, rides, gift shops and other sundry enterprises on the grounds all enjoyed lively business, every one of them operating at full capacity.

As would be expected, the tour guides were all knowledgeable in the local flora and fauna, as well as all the intrinsic ways of life in the very distant past of South Louisiana. Much of the information was still applicable to basic human survival. The guides taught visitors basic skills such as fishing, hunting, trapping, gathering and general woods lore.

It may not have been a truly authentic experience since many techno-wonders and comforts, by today’s standards, had to be utilized to keep guests comfortable and safe. For example, outfitting the patrons with bio-suits kept body temperature at a satisfactory level and emitted an undetected field that kept insects away. The secluded cabins were installed with connections to the plasma grid and had all the amenities of today’s world.

Authentic exposure to antiquated Cajun swamp life or not, all essential modern conveniences were cleverly camouflaged to make one believe that they were truly, presently, occupying a page out of history.

It was uncommonly rare for anyone to be able to buy a plot of land in the protected historical reserve; however, Loos was able to purchase his own cabin in a remote area of the swamp which included a small patch of land. Despite many governmental regulations and ‘red tape’, and having to jump through one ridiculous hoop after another, he finally managed to accomplish his dream of a lifetime. One part of the deal required Loos to be qualified by the Universe Established Alliance (UEA), which necessitated practically every facet of his life in the swamp to be regulated and checked upon with regularity. Having grown up with strict prescribed ordinances on Epsolon 12, this seemed a minor drawback for him to be able to realize his lifelong ambition of owning a piece of Cajun heaven.

In addition, because of his vast knowledge of the history of the area and skills of the trade of the region, which he, himself, had learned over many years as a frequent visitor to the park, the UEA required him to volunteer his services as local flavor for the tourists.

Loos had practiced all the essentials of Cajun life until he’d gotten it right. With a truly remarkable affected Cajun accent, he loved to regale the park visitors with stories and lore with humor and wisdom that his daddy had taught him. Loos felt that if this was part of the land bargain for him to pay his way, working a few hours each week, teaching eager tourists about the swamp life that he loved so much, then it was no work at all, but rather more of an honor and a privilege to pass on part of his heritage to the next generation.

Chapter 2: THE SWAMP LAND MARINA

Loos hoofed it across the parking lot, smiling as he savored his last glorious five and a half months on his beloved bayou.

Swinging the door open to the Marina Bar and ducking slightly for his tall frame to clear the doorway, he stepped in from the bright morning glare into the cool darkness. Waiting momentarily for his eyes to adjust, the smell of stale beer mingled with cleaning solutions welcomed him with a satisfying familiarity. He usually entered the establishment on Friday nights when the whole place was alive with noisy customers and loud music, but mornings when he was on his way back to work, the bar was just opening and the early crew was on.

He loved the place with its rough wooden floors and horizontal log beamed walls. The Marina Bar was one exceptionally long room where floor-to-ceiling shuttered windows lined one wall over-looking the bayou and where several square marble-topped tables were scattered on that side of the room. Along the opposite wall ran an eighty-foot-long bar fashioned from an ancient, pitted, knotted cypress preserved with techno-resins to preserve its warm antiquated glory. Although it was divided in three places for service workers, it was originally hewn from one exceptionally long ancient bald cypress tree.

Gleaming bottles waited in neat rows behind the bar and above them replicas of various animals dolefully peered out into the dark gloom with seemingly unseeing eyes.

Two pool tables with ornately carved lion-footed legs owned a good chunk of real estate in one corner of the room and it was here that Loos spent plenty of time in friendly competition.

It’s all just a matter of simple geometry--just simple math, he’d explain over and over as he laughed and counted his winnings. During his growing up years of jumping around in 0-G, this cumulative experience had given him the ability to see angles, judge distances and an innate understanding of the science of physics. The torque of his ship’s engine thrusters, as they responded during maneuvering procedures was very much like the spin of billiard balls. Loos likened his knowledge of how objects moved through space to that of the ‘art’ of billiard mechanics and thus, had an appreciation for how well the two ‘sciences’ complimented one another.

A makeshift bandstand was spread out in the far corner. Loos thought to himself, Man, if that rickety old platform could only talk. Some nights that place would rock! Favored was the old Zydeco music from ages past, to which folks still danced the traditional Cajun Two-Step. That dance never got old, ever…and all this lent itself to the belief that one was actually visiting a typical old Earth tavern, centuries past.

Down the length of the tall ceiling ran a row of large ‘old-fashioned’ ceiling fans pulling cooled air in toward them, then pushing downward, forcing the warm draft toward the walls where hidden vents drew it in, where it rose through conduits to pass through cooling strips, repeating its perpetual circuit. On hot Louisiana summer days this operation, combined with several other marina systems fed energy into the local power grid for the surrounding areas.

Loos strolled along the long bar under the fans, heading for the shower facilities. He spied Myrt, the white haired old bartender, down toward the middle of the bar, pouring a cup of coffee for an early customer. Half a dozen locals were all seated close to the terminal in the center of the bar out of respect for the old man, but Myrt could easily manage to traverse the length of the bar due to what he considered light gravity on this planet.

Myrt had spent his life in the mines on a 3-G heavy world, having only recently retired to Earth for health reasons. His short, wide, heavily-muscled frame had slowly begun to feel the years of heavy gravity, so he had retired to Earth for comfort, taking the job of barkeep in the marina. He often mentioned that his decision was made mainly for the pleasure of being around people, something he had missed the many years he had spent mining. Seeing Loos approach, he smiled broadly.

Loos grinned back and several of the group turned and nodded his way.

Morning folks. I owe, I owe, so off to work I go, he sang, spinning one of the empty bar stools as he strode on by. I’ll take a cup of that hot coffee ya got there, Myrt, when I get out of the shower.

Myrt answered, Use shower ‘2’, Loos, ‘1’ is out for decon this cycle.

"Copy that...two," said Loos as he pushed open the bathhouse door on the far wall.

This was one of the services the marina provided, and before sealing himself into his work gear, Loos always looked forward to a nice long hot shower.

He walked up to door number ‘2’ and hesitated while the door’s sensors scanned his face and retinas to ID him and charge his credit accordingly. Ducking into the sanitation unit, the door secured itself behind him.

He undressed down to his aril-suit in the changing room, placed his boots, pants, shirt and big brown floppy canvas hat into a sanitation unit. The unit closed and began cycling through its disinfectant stage.

Loos removed his all-inclusive aril-suit, lined up the backpack part of it with the specialized wall sockets and plugged it in, which put the suit charging and running through its refreshing stages.

This particular model of aril was more advanced than the bio-suits worn by tourists. It was the one he wore for leisure, specifically outfitted for Earth. It completely enclosed his body up to his neck, had a molded backpack with state-of-the-art energy conservation, cooling, waste recycling, and fully equipped for protection needed for life in the swamps. It also provided some support for Loos’ body structure in full gravity. He removed it nightly to sleep in his stim-suit, which, to folks in ancient times, would liken to pajamas.

He ducked into the shower unit where a soapy mist sprayed his body with a foam which Loos rubbed onto his skin with a hand brush. The aril-suit had kept him clean for the last five months, but the sheer pleasure of a deep-soaking shower was so relaxing and refreshing. He stretched under the warm waterfall and twisted out any remaining kinks. It was as though this usual ritual washed away his vacation--his leisure time, in preparation for the work persona he would don along with his work suit. The preset water-jets switched to a clear warm mode, so he turned and stretched, raising his arms, getting the foamy, soapy, lightly scented solution rinsed off. He lingered a while longer enjoying the warm water massage, then finally shut it off, replacing the water with a dry breeze of warm air which chased the water and dampness from his body, making him feel completely exhilarated and fresh.

Back in the dressing room, with a deep sigh, he took his work aril out of the ditty bag. He shook the suit loose, hung it up and hit the expansion button which seemed to make the thing almost come alive with a gentle, almost inaudible exhaling sound. He stepped into it, taking time with each foot, positioning the glove-like boots that gave his long flexible toes the freedom to move independently, shrugged and twisted his legs and torso into the unit, then stretched his arms and adjusted his hands in the gloves built in at the end of the sleeves. Once all that was in place, he pulled the hood over his head, covering all but his face and activated the sealing sequence of the suit, which then began closing over him, comfortably forming itself to his frame, straightening his posture and supporting his body. As the unit powered up, it actually began to feel lighter.

The outer shell of this aril suit was covered with minute scales made up of fiber platelets, allowing for full range of motion. Built into the waist area and along the inner sections of his forearms and outer thighs were ‘protuberances’ containing working tools of the trade. The controls for the suit were located on the left forearm and were touch activated and, too, customized with voice recognition initialization to prevent accidental deactivation.

The face covering, a silver visor, was fashioned behind his head in the suit’s collar area when not in use and could be activated by arm control, voice command, a specific prescribed motion of the neck or by an involuntary emergency operation activated by the suit itself, in micro-seconds, if the sensors picked up a sudden change in pressure, temperature, or any other dangerous environmental factors. With the visor in place over the face, sealed and activated, the suit was fully capable of functioning in any environment from deep space to that of any planet’s hostile atmospheric living conditions, yet discovered.

Loos, now having gotten into his skin-tight work aril, reached again into his ditty bag and brought out a small package. Shaking it out, the deep red mahogany-colored parcel unfurled into a loose-fitting jumpsuit. (Mahogany, the color worn by GIT ship captains.) He easily stepped into it and zipped it closed. This work uniform concealed his aril, but the six-inch thick backpack and the hidden protuberances gave a little more girth to his appearance.

He murmured, ...guess my Louisiana play clothes are all washed by now, so he opened the sanitation unit and fished out the clothing he had worn in the swamp, then unplugged his leisure aril from the wall unit. Everything was now sanitized, recharged and ready for the next time he’d find himself ‘on vacation’ from off the ship.

He repacked everything into the ditty bag except his beloved, comfortable floppy canvas hat, which he parked atop his head, tilting and positioning it ‘just so’.

Wearing the mahogany colored jump-suit and hat camouflaged the fact that he was wearing a top-to-bottom aril. He could discreetly pass through a crowd unnoticed, (his height not withstanding) unless one inspected him too closely.

Before stepping out of the bath area, he took one more look in the mirror to inspect the recharged captain mode that he needed to affect for the next six months.

He smirked, Yep, dude, you still got it, and, ditty bag over his shoulder, he stooped out of the door, back into the barroom.

By now, the servers had the place settings arranged on the tables and a few early tourists were already sitting and ordering breakfast.

Loos strode over to an empty barstool where Myrt was pouring him a steaming cup of coffee. He settled onto the stool, hooked his foot on its rail, and snared the coffee cup in his gloved hand.

I sure am gonna miss your coffee, Myrt; the artificial space stuff just isn’t the same. Taking in a deep breath of the cloud of steam rising from the hot liquid and his first satisfying sip, he said, Coffee is one of the few things that smells as good as it tastes.

Smiling proudly, Myrt beamed, It’s real Columbian beans, Loos. We have it here for the tourists to get an authentic experience. I consider it one of the ‘perks’ of the marina.

They quietly chuckled.

Myrt continued, leaning over the bar on one arm, The ‘nutrition techs’ swear that the stuff they’re making has the exact identical chemical make-up, but I agree with you; it just aint quite the same. Maybe it’s all in our heads like the techs say, but I don’t know. It certainly seems better coming from real beans and then, too, having a nice hot cup of it while sitting here on the bayou bank sure makes it more enjoyable, too, don’t ya think?

Yeah, agreed Loos, "there is something to be said for aesthetics. It’s kinda funny, but I enjoy the artificial stuff when I’m on the freighter. When we’re up there, for instance, dropping from a space jump into the next solar system and making our approach, at that point I don’t notice how good or how bad anything tastes, as long as it’s hot and keeps me alert.

Speaking of work, you know, after six months I start to miss my job. He added wistfully, It is truly beautiful up there...truly beautiful and you feel good enjoying the view while riding through the heavens anticipating the next port-of-call."

Myrt chuckled, For a hard-nosed freighter captain, ya sure have what they’d call a romantic soul, Loos.

Taking another sip and nodding, Loos reflected, Yeah, guess I do. It was the way I was raised. My daddy instilled that ol’ ‘joie de vivre’ in me, Myrt.

Well, agreed Myrt, deep space is a young man’s game, Cap, enjoy it while ya can.

I do, Myrt. Ya know, it’s kinda funny, but right about the time I go to missing it, it’s time to ship out anyways. Works out kinda good that way.

Taking another gulp of coffee, he said, Reminds me, I’m gonna check in and download my schedule, but I’ll take a plate of grits, sausages and a couple of fried eggs, if ya don’t mind. Oh, and maybe a few beignets to start with, if they got ’em already made back there.

Sure thing, Cap, I need to get ready for the morning rush, anyhow, and don’t worry, I’ll set you up with a good hearty breakfast to send ya off with, said Myrt, heading through the kitchen doors behind the bar.

Loos smiled at the sudden sound of loud voices and clattering pots and pans coming out of the kitchen as Myrt got his staff started on their morning routine.

Sometimes Loos wondered if they actually cooked back there or just rattled pans around while a robotic chef-unit cranked out facsimiles of real food, but Myrt had assured him they indeed did prepare mostly real Earth-grown ingredients. It was the mostly part that bothered Loos. Of course, the occasional guest insisted on simulated food because, never having had anything else, they were apprehensive about eating the real thing.

While waiting for his meal, Loos pulled up the sleeve on his left arm to expose his communication panel; his com-unit. He tapped in an access code, checked in with the shipping agent, downloaded schedules and shipping contracts, then arranged a ride in an hour from now at the main gate of the marina. From there he’d ride a trolley to the public transportation depot and after that, a lift up to the orbital station where his freighter was being loaded for another run.

He was just finishing when Myrt brought a plate of beignets, set them in front of Loos and refilled his coffee cup, saying, I’ll be right back with your breakfast. Meanwhile, enjoy them beignets; I figure they’ll be the last ones you’ll be seeing for the next six months.

Thanks, Myrt, said Loos, stuffing a sweet powdery square doughnut into his mouth and washing it down with fresh hot coffee.

Picking up another beignet, he swiveled around on the stool and took in the view of the bright and sunny shimmering bayou outside the windows.

Yeah, he thought, that’s not all I’m going to miss seeing this next six months.

He saw Meg, one of the servers, or waitresses, as they used to be called, standing over one of the tables in the corner, pencil and pad at the ready, waiting for her customers to decide what they would have. She was already coyly looking in Loos’ direction, so when he returned her gaze, she gave him a quick wink then turned her attention back to her guests. She was wearing the staff uniform: a peppermint striped shirt, tight slacks and a small white ruffled apron.

Mmm, Mmmm, murmured Loos absentmindedly.

Glad you're enjoyin’ ’em, said Myrt, clinking a heavy plate on the counter behind him, I can get you a bunch more beignets to take back with you if you want.

Blushing, Loos pivoted back around.

Naw, this’ll be good, and seeing the huge loaded breakfast platter, he continued, I’ll be lucky to finish half of this. You really out-did yourself this time. Thanks, man!

Noting the time, he wolfed his breakfast, took a last gulp of coffee, grabbed his ditty bag and turned to leave, when Meg hurried out through the kitchen door at the far end of the bar, adjusting her hair and uniform.

Loos watched as she glided across the room with a saucy gait to take orders from two customers seated over by the windows.

Playing her part to the hilt, although she carried a touch pad, she had a pencil stuck behind one ear, for effect, that held back her long dark shiny hair.

Noticing that Loos was headed toward the door, she turned and sashayed up to him, crooking her finger in a come here gesture. He bent way down to her head level where she planted a kiss on his cheek and said in a throaty whisper, Well, I guess this is it.

Yep, Meg, he said, glancing at his wrist, My ride will be here in a few minutes. I wish you could reconsider and ship out with me. You are a great bio-tech and we could use you on the Intrepid.

Meg sighed deeply and breathed, Maybe next year, Loos. For now, you know I need to stay here. I am so close to upping my rating that I need to finish my training, then I could be your medic with a bio-tech rating.

As she turned to leave, she added with a tender but forced smile, Comm me when you can and stay safe out there.

Loos caught her arm, gently turned her back around, bent down and kissed her full on the lips, right in front of God and everybody, as Cajuns like to say.

You be safe, too, Meg, he said huskily, and when I get back, we gonna paint this joint red! He straightened up and looking down at her, nodded slowly, smiled and gave her a wink.

Tears suddenly filled in her eyes. She turned and rushed back to the kitchen.

Watching her go, Loos enjoyed the view. She probably wasn’t aware of it, but the vision