113.04.15
“Hey Smirk.”
The face on the other end of the commlink was 20 years older, but still very recognizable. “Metal. Long time, buddy. What’s the occasion?”
“I heard you’re a capsuleer now.”
I should have known. “Sorry, I’m not giving handouts to every ground pounder I used to...”
He interrupted me. “I’m not asking for money. Damn, man, what’s that about?”
“I get charity calls from the old crew all the time. They think a pilot’s license makes you into CFU incarnate.”
He laughed. “I’m just making conversation, man. If I’d heard you were a lawyer I would have said, ‘I heard you’re a lawyer now.’ Next time I’ll just ask about the weather.”
“Station weather report: still boring. What else do you want to know?”
“I have an opportunity for you. Come to Nonni, we’ll talk.”
“Long trip. Make it worth my while.”
My NeoCom lit up. 20 million ISK had just been transferred to my wallet from an agent I’d never worked for in my life. As he closed the commlink, Metal said, “An advance, should cover your travel expenses. If you’re not coming, return it. I’ll find someone else.”
He had my attention. “Where in Nonni...,” I started to ask, but he was gone.
Of course, I knew where Metal wanted to meet. I docked my shuttle at the KK station, cleaned up, and found my way to the planetside transport bay. As I sat waiting, like a mere mortal, for the next scheduled departure, I took in the view. The planet was blocking the Nonni sun, but the night side was webbed with the lights of civilization. It reminded me of a spaceship just before a hull breach, when sparks and fires escape and spread across the broken exostructure. I shook my head. "Been in space too long," I murmured. "Can’t even appreciate a view."
I looked around the room. It was quiet, just a half dozen others waiting for the next transport. Most of my fellow travellers looked like they’d tried to make it in space and failed. One Civire man in particular stuck out: in his lap he held his own right forearm, cauterized at the elbow by what must have been a military-grade laser blast. A child travelling with a weary-looking and inattentive father stared at him. Whenever the Civire glanced up and met the boy’s eyes, he looked back down and sobbed quietly. Once, he tried looking at me instead, but that just made him sob more loudly. In his eyes I glimpsed a shattered version of my own life.
A holo agent stood behind a ticket window surrounded by whirling advertisements and flashing warnings about space travel, mostly intended for planetsiders coming to the station; the concierge didn’t cater much to the jaded few travelling down.
One of the warnings for my direction advised me that all goods brought onto the planet would be subject to confiscation without warning, “at the discretion of the customs agent.” At one time such discretion might have been for sale, but many customs agents are now just heavily armed terminals, centrally controlled. I’d decided to fly unarmed rather than risk attention. Not having a weapon was a disconcerting feeling.
A transport glided into view and nestled up to the station.
The injured veteran shuffled quickly to the front of the line. The wide-eyed boy dragged his father close behind until the father finally noticed the stump and pulled his son back. When the airlock opened I stood up and queued behind the others. The woman in front of me was dressed well and held what appeared to be an important conversation with her portable commlink; it was one of the secure ones, with active external signal cancellation, so I couldn’t hear either side of the conversation. Way too expensive for a trader. I looked closer.
Her braid did not completely conceal the life support jack on her neck.
Capsuleer.
I sat back down.
Coincidence, I told myself. I hadn't been planetside since I got my pilot's license, and I just assumed that my fellow capsuleers were as happy as I was to be rid of the smog and random gravity, not to mention the distinct danger of actual death. I tried to talk myself into the idea that the woman had business on the planet...or, more likely, family. Surely other capsuleers have planetbound relatives to visit, right?
It wasn't working; Mercs have a highly evolved paranoid streak and even though I've tamed mine quite a bit, it wasn't letting me ignore her. She looked too much like a fellow Merc. Chances of a capsuleer Merc arriving at the same station as me, dropping to the same planet as me, at exactly the same time? Low. Low enough, anyway. I pocketed my passcard and walked quickly back to the spacers' hostel, retrieved my KKHB-77, and gave Metal a call.
Another 50 million ISK later, he'd given my practical side all the ammunition it needed, and left my paranoid side lying helpless on the hostel floor. This was getting ridiculous, though. Where is he getting this kind of money?
"Fine, I'm coming. Bring me another gun, though. They're going to confiscate this one."
When I got back to the transport bay I did a double take. Before I could stop myself, I heard myself ask, "Back already?"
The man with the stump looked up. "I...I left my ticket on my seat. They ki...kicked me off the last transport."
I frowned. "You shouldn't drop with your arm like that. Planetside doctor isn't going to be able to fix that. Medical here is better."
"Can't...can't afford it."
Might as well leave that thing in the trash, then, I thought, but managed to keep my mouth shut this time.
Shortly, another transport pulled up to the airlock. A dozen upward passengers disembarked, but it was just him and me this time for the downward leg. I let him go first. He took a seat near the back, on the left. I sat down across from him and watched over his shoulder as the station receded out the port side window.
I glanced at him. He was looking out the window too, watching the massive station get smaller and smaller. He wasn't looking at the floor anymore.
After a few minutes, he looked right at me. The sad, scared face was gone. So was the stutter.
"I'm glad you decided not to take the last transport. I don't think I could have done this with that kid on board."
Time slowed to a crawl as I watched him fumble with his detached forearm. A hinge appeared and it flipped open. His good hand reached for the detonator as I dove across the seats. I had never moved faster, and never felt like I was moving slower.
The bomb fell to the floor as I tackled him, pinning him against the window. My '77 was somehow in my hand and at his temple.
"Talk."
He smiled. I grabbed what was left of his right arm with my free hand, and jabbed my thumb deep into the exposed cross-section. He rewarded me with a scream.
"TALK."
"You're going to die. Really, really die, you cocky fucking egger motherfucker. Where's your precious pod now?"
I blinked. He was right, of course; if someone wanted to kill me, now would be a great time. But...who? Why? And...Metal? He must be in on it.
Keeping the '77 trained on him, I backed away, gingerly picking up the bomb as I moved back to my seat. The wiring was familiar and very simple compared to the pirate faction electronics I was used to dealing with; I disarmed it with one hand and chucked it back at the Civire man, who was still pressed up against his window and flinched as it landed on his seat.
I wondered if atmospheric ships could turn around. I walked up to the front of the small vessel and realized it was piloted by a drone. So much for ordering a change of course. I sighed and turned around. My new friend was back in his seat and fiddling with his "arm" again.
This was already old. I needed to think, so I walked back towards him and when he looked up, I shot him dead.
The retrorockets fired one last time as the transport bounced gently to a stop. After a moment, the airlock hissed open behind me. Looking back towards it, I could see the dirty, hot, muggy city air force its way into the cabin.
I leaned into the aisle with my elbows on my knees and the gun pointed at the blood-covered corpse. And I waited.
I could hear an intercom outside instructing upbound passengers to wait for the arriving passengers to disembark. Inside, a voice said, "We have arrived at terminal C, pad 23. Please exit through the rear door. Be sure to collect all your personal belongings and leave your seat tidy." This repeated about once a minute. After four or five iterations, a uniformed Achura man leaned inside.
From that vantage point I imagined he could see my hands and legs, my '77, and possibly the blood still dripping slowly off the dead man's seat. To his credit, he maintained his composure as he slowly backed out of the doorway.
I heard him urgently whisper, "Security, pad 23, NOW," into a comm unit just outside. Then I heard him address what must have been an impatient ticket holder. "You'll need to wait, sir. We're expecting a cleaning crew before the next launch." They moved away from the door and the rest of the conversation was unintelligible impatience until, half a minute later, a voice loudly said, "That doesn't look like a cleaning crew!"
A pair of Civire security agents moved carefully towards me. One spoke clearly but quietly, so that I could hear her but curious ears outside could not.
"Drop the gun."
I dropped it. It clattered to the floor.
"Hands where I can see them."
I smirked and turned my palms outward.
The other agent covered the distance to me in a long step, kicked my gun away, and hit me in the middle of the chest with a blast from his NSD. I'd never actually had my nervous system disabled before; it was more gradual than I expected. My brain and eyes kept working long enough to watch him cuff my paralyzed hands and then consider what to do with my attacker, but consciousness was fading fast by the time he and his partner dragged me out of the transport and into a waiting paddywagon. Maybe it was my imagination, but I think I saw Metal glare at me from across the landing pad.
It wasn't a very good plan, but it was working.
113.04.17
"Prisoner Osaken." I looked up. "You have a visitor," the guard said as he disarmed the barrier. "Come with me."
Civilian prisons in the State are more optimistic than outsiders might expect. Most offenders are assumed to be resocializable and are offered opportunities for productive labor, education, and of course advice in proper conformance with outside society. For someone familiar with the system -- say, a former security operative like myself -- it's very easy to ensure good treatment for yourself with the right words and behavior. So, despite my alleged involvement in a suspicious death, I was allowed to walk unshackled through the halls to the main office, where an attractive 30-something Home Guard officer waited for me with the warden.
"Captain Osaken, I trust your stay here has been pleasant?" she smiled.
"Lovely."
"Warden, may I have a word with my client?"
He nodded and left us. So did her smile.
"You had to shoot him?"
I shook my head and winced, embarrassed.
"There are security holos of the entire drop, you know. Shows you had him safely disarmed and under control, then shot him anyway. More or less in cold blood." She paused. "Dammit, this would have been a lot easier if you had just knocked him out for a while."
"Then they might not have taken me straight here," I explained. "I couldn't think of another way to get off the transport safely." Which wasn't exactly true...I thought of that after I'd shot him. Close enough, though.
"Right...someone is after you," she guessed, a bit too sarcastically for my taste.
"No, seriously. The bomber said he was trying to kill me, specifically."
She looked unconvinced.
"He got off the drop we were originally on when I didn't get on, and waited for me to come back."
She raised her eyebrows. "I take it you think he's not acting alone."
"Metal...uhh...former operative Haldariko gave me a crazy amount of money to show up here that day. He set me up. He must be involved."
She seemed to come around to my paranoid theory, or at least consider it, which made me feel quite a bit better.
I continued, "Or maybe he didn't intend to set me up...he could have been set up himself, to get to me." Though, I thought to myself, the face I'd seen at the landing pad didn't inspire much trust. "Grr...I really trusted him," I mumbled.
"Either way it sounds like we should have a chat with him," she suggested.
"Indeed."
113.04.19
I was just starting to get used to the prison routine when the Home Guard officer returned. She brought good news. "We have your friend Haldariko back at the office."
"Excellent. But..." I gestured at the warden, who responded with a chuckle.
"Lieutenant Tukira is quite efficient," he said. "She's already filled out most of your discharge paperwork."
I raised my eyebrows.
"The State thanks you for your bravery," he added. "You saved the Company a fair amount of trouble. It's extremely inconvenient when one of the space station transports gets blown up. Shuts the entire spaceport down for hours. Of course I apologize for the misunderstanding, but under the circumstances you realize we had no choice but to bring you in."
I nodded dumbly and signed where he indicated. He shook my hand. "Have a pleasant stay in the city. Processing is across the hall."
As we walked out of the secured area an hour later, Lieutenant Tukira handed me a sidearm. "Your gun," she said.
"That's not mine."
"Ah, yes, we took the liberty of giving you an upgrade. Your '77 is on display at a museum now," she smirked.
I turned the KKHB over in my hand. "A '110? Nice. Thanks." I tucked it into the empty holster in my vest. "Though I'll miss that '77...my original Guard issue, you know."
"Oh, I know. You'll get over it."
"Already am," I grinned. Then I stopped. "Hey. I don't work for Home Guard anymore. Why so helpful?"
"I know. We just like to keep track of our friends in the capsuleer ranks."
"Don't think you can suck me back in. I didn't ask for your help, I don't owe you anything." I tried to hand back the gun.
"Keep it. If you're right about this little vacation of yours, you'll need it, and then you'll owe us a favor someday. And if not..." She shrugged. "Send it back when you get home."
I nodded. "Appreciated."
Then I realized I was still a bit vague on one important point. "Not that I don't appreciate you bailing me out, I do, but, ah, I thought you said there were some...incriminating holos of my drop."
She replied, "The Company...chose not to share them with the local constabulary. So far. The evidence is, you shot a guy with a bomb on a transport. Nice work, Captain."
"Ah." So not only do I owe you a top of the line handgun...but you have something on me, I realized. "Lovely."
We entered a waiting Home Guard ground cruiser and soon arrived at a massive Guard facility with an impressive-looking security barrier. I didn't recognize it, or for that matter much of the rest of the city that had flashed by outside the tinted windows. The barrier let us through, and we drove into a vehicle elevator and out onto a tenth-story parking level.
Tukira got out of the front seat and opened my door. "Time for our chat."
I followed her through a floor full of windowless offices, the white walls interrupted only by doorways almost invisible except for their security pads and gleaming metal handles. She entered a code on one of the pads, pulled open the heavy door, and showed an ID to the guard inside, who waved us both into what was clearly an interrogation room. Metal was already inside.
He gave a half smile, a little upward tilt of the chin, and said, "Welcome home."
"Nope, home's in space," I replied. Always was, I just never knew it until I got there, I realized for the first time. I guess I had to come "home" to find out.
Tukira folded her arms. "Let's get started, gentlemen. Why was Captain Osaken invited to Nonni, Inspector?"
Metal chuckled. "'Inspector', still? You're too kind. But anyway...yeah. My outfit got a call a week ago. Client said she wanted to hire us, the money was good...really good...but we didn't have all the assets she needed. She contacted us because she needed someone with Home Guard contacts...well, I'm sure you know, Lieutenant...we're all ex-Guard. So we're good, right? But we needed a capsuleer on the job. And we don't have one. But I knew where to find one."
A flood of questions poured into my brain, but before I could pick one to start with, Tukira asked, "Your client is a capsuleer, then?"
Metal shrugged. "She's a Minmatar with money. You figure it out."
I figured out my first question. "The agent who sent my advance?"
"One of my guys."
"How'd you...wait. The client pre-paid that much?"
"Oh yeah, always. It's a fixed bid to hire us, paid up front. I knew we'd need a capsuleer. So far, you've been under budget, actually."
"Nevermind," I said. "I don't actually care about the money. Tell me what the job is. Why ex-Guard, why a capsuleer?"
"There's an agent, Ahmala Arawaiken, operates out of the Testing Facility station here in Nonni. The client needs you to..." He looked at Lieutenant Tukira, who raised her eyebrows expectantly. He continued, "...work with him."
I was lost. "Huh?"
"I...really can't say more."
Lieutenant Tukira gave him a practiced glare and said, "Oh, you can."
Metal glared back. "Don't waste your time, Lieutenant. I'm a Merc."
The Merc ethos of secrecy has saved me a lot of trouble over the years. Like all Civire, Mercs are good under pressure, but the oldest Merc families follow a tradition that takes it a step further. Many of us are trained from a young age to instinctively recognize torture -- whether it's physical pain or emotional manipulation -- and then, as adolescents, trained to neutralize it. Some choose to sever key nerves at the spinal cord, then train themselves to act as if the nerves are still there, or get bionic replacements that they can control at will. Some choose suicide implants, or learn to stop their own vital signs. And of course, some Mercs just rely on everyone else's hard work and get by on reputation. I don't know which kind of family Metal came from, but in practice it doesn't matter much. He probably wasn't going to talk if he didn't want to.
Tukira was obviously all too familiar with this response, and said only, "This isn't my problem." Then she opened the door, snapped her fingers at the guard in the antechamber, and signalled us both to follow him. "Captain Osaken, it's been a pleasure. Remember who your friends are next time you're in State space. Mr. Haldariko...I'm sure I'll see you around."