____________________________________________________________

I gripped the sticky SMG with all my strength, holding on to it like a security blanket against the darkness. My heart pounded  in my ears. My left ring finger stuck out at an odd angle where it was splinted but the rest wrapped around the bloody metal well enough.  

What was it I’d told Ren in the bar all those months ago? Or was it more than a year now? Funny how memories will pop up at the most inappropriate times. Something about wanting the quiet life? 

So much for that! I thought as I leaned out from behind the wall. I fired three shots down the hallway, just to keep anyone from getting any bright ideas. 

“Eh, Rana!” a voice called from across the hall. I looked over and saw a man in combat armor hunkered down behind his suppressed SMG, facing the same direction I was. “We move on 3, got it?” 

“Got it!” I agreed. I knew I should be in more pain than I was. It should have been more difficult to speak. Adrenaline is a wonderful drug. 

“Ready on that covering fire?” he called behind us. 

“Fuck yeah I’m ready.” came the reply. 

“Alright, just don’t tag us. Here goes. Rana you move first, I’ll follow.” His voice was clipped and sharp, just loud enough for us to pick it up, not loud enough to carry down the hall. In theory our friends down the hall weren’t privy to our plans. 

I nodded, then realized he couldn’t hear that. “Got it.” I said. I resolved not to even look toward the enemy, to just run toward the next cover. The best way I could support the team in this instance was to execute my part as swiftly as possible, don’t get shot, don’t hang out in the open providing fire support. After all, they were there rescuing me. 

“One, Two, Three!” he said sharply. An explosion of gunfire erupted in the hallway. 

I ignored it and ran, sticking to the wall. I was doing my best to be a small target, thinking small target thoughts. I raced down past Moros, bullets slamming into the wall next to me. I got to the corner and dove around into relative, momentary safety. I immediately spun and slid back to the corner. I pulled my gun up to cover down the hallway as Fields sprinted past me. He turned to cover the hallway as well, in a much smoother, practiced motion. 

“Ready Moros!” He said. He fired off two shots down the hallway over my head. As soon as Moros stopped firing we picked it up, alternating back and forth to conserve ammunition. This forced our pursuers to keep their heads firmly down. Moros sprinted for us and made it around the corner as well. The doors to the hangars were finally within sight. 

______________________________________________________________________________

About a year ago

______________________________________________________________________________

“When Duty Calls, Will You Answer?” The banner read. A wide jawed man in a crisp UEE Naval uniform stared resolutely down from it, seemingly into my soul. I couldn’t meet his gaze. My space-gray duffel bag lay at my feet beside the bench, containing all my belongings. 

“Tram nearing the station, please stand clear for departing passengers.” the recorded female voice rang out over the speakers. I didn’t move. My head was still spinning. My father’s voice still rang in my ears. His tone was acid. 

“No son of mine washes out of the Academy.” 

The tram left the station without me. It didn’t matter. Another would be along in a few minutes. People-shaped blurs moved in and out of my periphery, going about their daily lives. I hadn’t wanted to join in the first place. I knew I wasn’t Academy material. I wasn’t Navy material. I joined because of my father. Now that I’d washed out I didn’t have a home to go back to. 

A voice broke through my meditation. “Rough day at the office?” 

I glanced up. A lanky man in loose, baggy clothing stood diagonal to me, observing me with what appeared to be pity. Chunky brown hair stuck out from underneath a gray hat. It was crooked. 

“Something like that.” 

“Brother, you have misery written all over you.” His voice was sincere, honest, a contrast to his otherwise rough appearance. Without hesitation he plopped himself into the seat next to me and leaned back. He relaxed instantly, one leg perched over the other. In a practiced motion he swung a small cartridge from the chest pocket of his jacket to his lips and took a drag, then leaned over and offered it to me. “Take the edge off?” 

“On the platform!?” I asked, incredulous. 

“Well not with that attitude.” he smirked. 

I sighed. Screw it. “Screw it.” I echoed my thoughts and took his cartridge. The hit tasted like burning rubber, and I recognized it instantly- home-made refills. I did my best to keep it in but fell into a coughing fit. 

The stranger laughed, but not unkindly. “Better?” 

When the hacking and coughing stopped I looked around and took stock of my surroundings, then nodded. “Better.” I agreed. 

I weighed a little less. My head was a little bigger. My eyes were definitely too big for their sockets. Everything had a bit of a pink/orange tinge to it. I could hear and feel every heartbeat. Most importantly I no longer cared so much about my father or the future. I didn’t fail to notice that I was numbing the pain with the same substance that had gotten me kicked out of the Academy. 

“So, my new friend, what has you looking like someone just kicked your puppy?” 

I frowned. “Aren’t you worried I’m a cop or something?” 

He snorted. “Sure, Cadet.” 

I stiffened. Then I unclenched. “That obvious huh?” 

The man shrugged. “The clothes, the hair, the bag- come on man.” 

I continued to look ahead. “Well I’m no Cadet anymore.” 

The man uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “Ah, hah, and it all comes together.”   

I looked over to him and asked the obvious. “What is it you want?” 

He leaned back and grasped at his chest theatrically. “You wound me sir! I see a man in pain and offer him sweet succor only to have my motives called into question?” 

I grinned despite myself. A voice in the back of my head noted that this was damn good stuff I had just taken a hit of. “Just curious why.” I motioned around to the oblivious people on the platform, coming or going. “You could have approached anyone else.” 

“Yes,” he nodded, “I could have, but none of them looked remotely as approachable as you. You didn’t even know I existed until I spoke to you. Probably could have walked away with your duffel.” I glanced down swiftly. It was still there. 

He leaned over and offered his right hand, “I’m Ren.” 

I shook it firmly, as I’d been taught. “I’m Rana.” 

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you Rana. How’d Cadet Rana become Citizen Rana?”

I noticed that he hadn’t answered my question. I decided to drop it for the moment. I had to come up with a satisfactory answer to that question. I was going to have to answer it a lot in the future. “Well…” I started, then stopped myself. Keep it short, keep it simple I thought. “I had too much fun.” 

Ren’s face split into a wide toothy smile beneath his brown, sparkling eyes. “I’d say just the right amount of fun. No more Navy babysitter and not in the brig? Judged it better than I did!” 

I glanced back over at him sharply. Ren pulled up his left sleeve to show a UEE Navy tattoo. “I didn’t exactly leave on the best of terms myself.” He grinned a little wider and continued, “Too much fun.” by way of explanation. “How long have you been a free man?” he asked. 

I mimed glancing at my wrist, where a MobiGlass would be if I owned one. “Oh let’s see, what time is it?” I asked, joking. 

He chuckled. “Nice, nice. Welcome to civilian life my friend. At least you’ve got your whole future ahead of you- a good place to stay, a solid job and income lined up, all that good stuff, right?” 

I paused. “Oh… yeah, yeah, definitely!” I lied. 

He grinned. “Good! Glad to hear it! Well my freshly freed friend, can I at least buy you a drink and toast to your freedom and your future?” 

I began to instinctively decline, just as I had the hit. I realized that I had literally nothing else going on. He seemed nice enough.  “Uh… sure. Why not?” I replied. 

______________________________________________________________________________

About 20 minutes later

______________________________________________________________________________

The bar was everything a dive bar by the spaceport should be. Dark and twisty, thumping music playing from ancient speakers, questionable stains older than anyone in the place, plenty of dim corners away from prying eyes and ears, filled with a smattering of patrons that kept their heads down and focused on their drinks when we walked in. 

Ren flashed a smile and two fingers to the man behind the bar and headed to the rear. I followed, trying to observe everything. It looked like there was another exit out the back but I couldn’t be sure. We slid into a booth and Ren took another hit, then passed me the cartridge again. I indulged and passed it back, thanking him. 

“So, not to uh… rub salt in any wounds or anything but uh… how far through Flight School did you get?” Ren asked as drinks slid onto the table from the automated belt in the wall. 

I grimaced and reached for my drink before answering. “I was two weeks from graduation. Nearly had my wings.” 

“Oooooh…. That hurts man….” he slumped in sympathetic emotional pain. “You any good behind the stick? I mean, you must be if you were set to graduate…” 

I shrugged. “I did well enough. Not top of my class or anything but pretty good.” I grinned. “Never crashed.” 

Ren shook his head, “Shame they lost you. The Navy would retain so much more talent if they would just chill, you know?” 

I knew what he meant, but I also knew I would never have operated well under the structure necessary to run a military organization. Some people shine in those conditions. I’m just not one of them. 

“So they still put you through the same old selection and ground training before you get to go learn to fly? Gotta learn how to march and shoot and all that other worthless BS first?” he asked. 

I nodded. “Hated that part of training. Always wanted to be a pilot. Just maybe not in the Navy. Don’t know why I need to know about assault rifles to fly spacecraft.” 

“Aw come on now, ya never wanted to go full commando behind enemy lines and all that jazz?” Ren sipped at his drink.

I sipped at mine as well. “Honestly- no. I’ll leave that to the guys that want to get shot at. I want to make my money and go home at the end of the day. No offense to anyone, but I’ll take the quiet life, thanks.”

“Quite the action hero I see.” Ren commented dryly. 

“Oh yeah. I got top marks for aggression.” I said sarcastically. “I was going to pilot cargo. Not some Squadron 42 fighter.” 

Ren leaned back in the booth and splayed his arm out over the back of the bench. “So tell me all about your bright new future and plans! What do I have to toast to?” 

I scrambled mentally to come up with something plausible. What had been my plan before my father had dashed it? “Well, you want the truth?” 

He nodded. 

“I’m gonna move back in with my family. I’m going to go back to work in the shop until I find something better.” 

“And… that’s why you were sitting on the platform looking like someone died?” his voice was flat. 

I shrugged, trying to look casual. “My entire future with the Navy just crumbled.” Don’t over-explain, don’t oversell! 

“Well…,” Ren raised his glass and said sarcastically, “here’s to your bright future in a family shop instead of living your dream of piloting.” 

I raised my glass and darkly said, “Cheers,” and took a drink. Ren didn’t drink, simply setting his glass down instead. 

“Or…” he continued after a long pause, “I might know of someone that could use a pilot.” 

I looked up at him and froze. “For real?” 

Ren looked fairly disinterested. “Maybe. We’ll see, I’ll have to check.” 

I struggled to keep the excitement out of my voice. “What kind of pilot?” 

He snorted, “A paid pilot.” 

Visions of flight filled my head. “I’m interested in the opportunity.” Once again I tried to keep the excitement out of my voice. 

Ren’s smile became a little more tight lipped, “Yeah, well, so are other people- like I said, it’s something I’ll have to check on. What’s your rush? You’ve got all the time in the world it sounds like.” He smiled like a shark. 

I frowned. “Look, if the choice is between standing behind a register or sitting behind a stick it’s not a choice at all, ok?” 

“And what of your quiet life? Wouldn’t that register be the quieter choice?” 

I took a swig of my drink. “Just because I don’t want to be shot at doesn’t mean I don’t love to fly.” 

“Alright Rana. In that case, a real toast.” Ren raised his glass. “Here’s to your quiet future- may you fly again!”

I raised my glass, squirming slightly in my seat. “May I fly again!” I echoed. I clinked glasses with him, took another swig, and set the glass back down. “Now, I’m either gonna find the head or I’m gonna pee all over the bar.” 

Ren chuckled and pointed toward the rear of the bar. “Yonder.” 

I grabbed my duffel (still didn’t trust Ren enough to leave literally everything I owned with him) and made my way to the back, confirming that there was indeed a second way out of the bar. I filed that away under, just in case.  I took care of business, then headed back. As I came back to the booth I caught the tail end of a call, “...ook, line, and sinker. … yeah…. Fully qualified … ok… you got it. Bye.” I slid back into my seat and sipped at my drink to bring it down to his level. 

“Got some good news for you, my friend!” Ren said, beaming across the table. 

“Oh?” I asked. 

“Got you an interview.” He leaned back, clearly proud of himself. 

I was happily surprised and wasn’t afraid to let it show. “Wow, that’s great news!” I said. 

That shark-like grin re-appeared. 

“When and where?” I asked.

“Tomorrow, at Renot & Sons Transport. Be there by 8AM SET.” I patted my pockets for anything to write that down with. Ren rolled his eyes. He pulled out a pen and a scrap of paper himself. “Here kid.” 

_______________________________________________________________________

The next morning

_______________________________________________________________________

Renot & Sons proved to be a disconnected conglomeration of offices, hangars, and warehouses. they spread across the darkest, dingiest parts of the ArcCorp. The parts I’d seen in vids, or seen as I’d zipped by in transports, all grime and filth, covered in spray painted obscenities and competing gang tags. The vehicles were populated with people that I studiously avoided making eye contact with wherever possible. I stood out like a sore thumb. 

The office I arrived at was once painted yellow with chrome accents. Large windows looked out over the street.The view was of… industrial ruination mostly. The dingy blinds were drawn blocking it all out. I was ushered into a waiting room and was asked to sit on one of several uncomfortable chairs. They were designed more for stacking and stowing than for ergonomics. I heard the raspy voice of the receptionist pierce through the thin walls, “yeah, another one of Ren’s… yeah, I’ll send him in.” 

She reappeared and showed me into a corner office with false wood paneling on the walls, dominated by a desk that was far too large for the space. It wasn’t that it was a large desk. It was just a small office. Installed behind the desk was a fat little man with a pencil mustache and beady eyes. 

“Mr Renot, I presume,” I said, smiling and sticking out my hand, trying to put my best foot forward.   

“What? No. Hell no.” He scowled and waved away my hand. “Martinez. You think you get to meet the boss? Ha!” 

I lowered my hand and stood awkwardly in the space between the door and the desk. Martinez shifted gears rapidly. “So I hear you’re some kind of fly boy hot shot.” 

“I wouldn’t say that sir.” I said. 

“Then get out of my office.” he said flatly. “I don’t have time to waste on idiots that can’t fly.” 

I felt my face flush. “I can fly, and I can fly well, but I’m no hot shot.” I said as evenly as I was able to. 

He leaned back in his chair and made a show of looking me up and down. “And what exactly is it that you can fly, Mr. Not-a-Hot-Shot?” 

“Everything from a skimmer to a cargo hauler, but I really shine in light freighter work.” I said. 

An eyebrow raised for just a second, but it could have been my imagination. “And where’d you learn to fly such a variety of craft?” he asked. 

“At the Academy.” I said honestly. I braced for the inevitable follow up. 

“The Academy. Thought as much. Why are you here instead of there?” His voice was sharp and crisp, each word reminding me of the tone of the instructors back at the Academy. I decided that I did not like Mr. Martinez. 

“I got caught having too much fun and was kicked out before I graduated. Nothing serious.” I tried to keep it as matter of fact as I could and prayed he didn’t dig deeper. I needn’t have feared- he didn’t actually care. 

Martinez grunted. “Alright. Go see Rose for paperwork. You’re going to start as a loadmaster and copilot. She’ll tell you about pay and all that. Close the door on your way out.” 

• ________________________________________________________________________

Soon after

________________________________________________________________________

 The next several months were a flurry of activity. I slept, woke up, got to work. Each evening I barely managed to drag my carcass back to the dingy apartment I managed to rent. Then it was time to get back to work again. I was at least as busy as I had been in the Academy but I found I was happier than I’d ever been. The money was good, my expenses were few, and I spent more time in, on, and around ships than I had as a Navy Cadet. Plus, I got yelled at a lot less. 

At first the jobs were simple. Load crates onto or off of the Drake Cutters or Cutlasses in the hangars and secure them properly. Check them in. Record keeping was vital, I came to learn, and shipping manifests became my gospels. Then I got to start flying in the backseat of a Cutlass Black, handling navigation and hailing Air Traffic Control. I was actually getting to use some of my training from the Academy. I was actually getting to fly. 

I loved it, even though I didn’t have anyone to talk to any longer. The pilots I was around were nearly all older than myself. There were three groups of employees I came to learn. Younger employees such as myself were nearly entirely relegated to ground crew. Older grizzled men flew the ships and DID NOT LIKE TALKING as a rule. Security was heavily armed and made up of a smattering of different sorts. I never got a chance to talk to them. When I worked as ground crew I got to bond with the team and become one of the guys. it reminded me of being in my Flight back in the Academy. But in the cockpit the pilots were gruff and no nonsense, uninterested in sharing the details of their lives with a greenhorn such as myself. 

Despite this I was in my element. After some pestering I convinced a few of the old guys to allow me to take the ship off autopilot on a relatively regular basis. Once I showed that I knew my up from down and my ground from my sky I was even allowed to take off and land on occasion. 

________________________________________________________________________

About 7 months after signing on

________________________________________________________________________

Steve Wells was a grizzled man that walked with a hunch and had a voice of gravel.He’d been there and done that and had forgotten more about ships than I’d ever learned. But today? Today Steve was hungover something fierce. He absolutely reeked of whiskey. His 5 o’clock shadow had turned into several days’ growth, and it was clear he hadn’t changed his clothes for at least 48 hours. He didn’t say a word as he hauled himself up the cargo ramp of the Cutlass. He squeezed past the stacked crates and made his way to the bulkhead door. I kept my expression carefully neutral as I followed him. It was going to be a long flight sitting directly behind him. 

Steve slapped at the “OPEN” button without looking and stepped through as the door slid open with a whoosh, a creak, a thud, and a shudder. Nothing like Drake engineering to instill a feeling of confidence, I thought to myself sarcastically. Steve stepped through the doorway and stood in the middle of the open space for a moment. He stared hard at the cockpit in front of him. Then, deliberately, he turned around and climbed into the bunk behind him. 

“Fly fucking straight newbie.” he said, his voice as much a threat as it was an order. 

I grinned widely and didn’t bother trying to hide it. “You got it.” I said, quietly, so as not to make his headache worse than it already was. I knew the startup procedure of the engines wouldn’t help much anyway. With that I made my way to the pilot’s seat for the first official time and began the startup procedures.  Engines, shields, weapons, all the systems and subsystems that need to be fired up in the correct order for a ship to go from a stationary lump to a thing of beauty and grace swooping through the atmosphere. I glanced back and down at the bunk behind me- Steve let out a snore and a grunt. Apparently the startup procedure hadn’t bothered him as much as I’d feared it would. 

I adjusted the Multi-Function Displays (MFDs) to my liking, hailed Air Traffic Control and requested clearance for takeoff. I received it, and watched the hangar bay doors open automatically. Brilliant sunlight spilled in like golden stabs of spears designed specifically to piss off Steve. I didn’t waste much time admiring the morning view. As soon as the doors were open I carefully engaged my bottom thrusters until I felt us lift off slightly. I powered forward gently and taxi’d out of the hangar into full daylight. 

Already my destination was blinking a green diamond on my HUD, giving me a reading of 1,454 km away - not too far at all. Looked like we were staying in the same hemisphere. Once clear of the buildings I powered up a little more, gaining a little more altitude. I nosed the Cutlass up into the sky, and gently eased the throttle forward, careful not to accelerate harder than 2Gs for Steve in the bunk. Sure we had gravity plating, but I knew what a fierce hangover felt like and didn’t want to test him. 

I steadily increased throttle as we gained speed and altitude. As I passed out of the atmosphere I cut power to the engines and said over my shoulder, “Making the turn.” I didn’t hear a response but didn’t want to take my eyes off of my instrumentation. I carefully used my maneuvering thrusters to spin us about 180° to point back at the planet. I took a second to admire the scenery spread out below me. A vast globe of a steely gray metropolis, covered with fuzzy white clouds. The only home I’d ever known. 

I leaned forward and toggled on the Quantum Drive, giving it a second to spool up  I pointed the targeting reticule at our destination. Once the computer finished calibrating our jump (now a bit further than the initial 1,454 km) I simply engaged the Quantum Drive and watched reality warp around me. For a second time stood still, then everything came screaming back. The planet rushed up to greet us. The ticker by my destination marker spun down like mad, counting down to 24.6 km while the Quantum Drive indicator turned red and blinked “TOO CLOSE” in big bold letters. Traveling at 20% the speed of light gets you there quickly. I powered off the Quantum Drive and switched back to primary thrusters, accelerating toward the settlement. 

About 8 km out I hailed ATC and requested clearance to land. They assigned me a landing bay and another small indicator appeared on my HUD, replacing my destination indicator. I simply followed it in and brought the Cutlass in to land as I’d been taught, then powered it down and got out of the cockpit. The entire flight had taken maybe half an hour. 

I made my way to the back, squeezing past the cargo to the ramp at the rear and lowered it. Within 10 minutes a Renot & Sons crew was in the hangar unloading the ship. I felt very proud of myself. From the front of the ship came sounds of vomiting.

______________________________________________________________________________

Soon after

______________________________________________________________________________

From then on, Steve only flew when he had to, when he was being directly supervised. I spent a lot more time behind the stick. He wasn’t too disagreeable, he just… didn’t like people very much, and I was people. So I kept to myself and took the opportunity to get as much flight time as I could. I’m not entirely sure how it worked, but after that when Dispatch put me with other pilots, the other pilots had me do a lot more flying as well. I’m assuming that Steve must have talked to them. Eventually the day came when I was called back into Martinez’s office. He was still too big for the space behind his desk. He looked like he had been permanently installed back there. 

“Ah, Mr. Not-a-Hot-Shot.” he grumbled as I came in. 

I nodded politely. “Mr. Martinez.”

“Got a job for you. Heard you can fly after all. Don’t screw it up. You’re being promoted. Congratulations.” Every word was clipped and sharp, barked. I must have looked surprised. “Well we hired you to fly. Now fly. Shut the door on your way out.” I turned on my heel and walked out the door, shutting it as I went. Sometimes I ask too many questions and ruin a good thing. Other times I’ve got the good sense to keep my mouth shut. This was one of those times. 

________________________________________________________________________

Immediately after

________________________________________________________________________

With that I started flying the Drake Cutter for Renot & Sons Transport. It is a boxy little ship, basically a storage unit with stubby wings and engines strapped onto it with few amenities but it holds lots of cargo space for its size and price. It handled surprisingly well, even better than the Cutlass did, but that was only because it couldn’t go remotely as fast. Still, it was a good model and was as reliable as any Drake ship. As long as it was well maintained it would keep on ticking after taking a beating. Though it looked like it was about to fall apart at any second. 

Renot & Sons treated maintenance as a regrettable chore best left until the last possible moment. If it could be ignored until it went away, it was. Every ship in the fleet had quirks and, “personality,” due to the haphazard repair jobs and the cheapest of aftermarket replacement parts being used to replace worn components. 

It’s one thing if you’re staying on the ground and your vehicle breaks down, but it’s another thing entirely if you’re traveling at 20% the speed of light through the void of interstellar space. There was always a contentious tug-of-war between management and the Pilots over safety. The Cutter I flew pulled up and to the left and had to be trimmed out every time I flew it. The landing gear liked to stick and neither deploy or retract (it took several attempts sometimes), yet it always worked eventually. Despite this I loved the little flying box and contemplated saving up for my own one day.

 My heart lay with a Cutlass Black, but I wasn’t a fool enough to dream that I could ever afford one on the salary I was getting. Those were purchased by organizations- militias, transportation outfits, pirate groups, that sort of thing, or occasionally a well-heeled individual that wasn’t quite well-heeled (at least compared to me) enough for an Origin. They came with all sorts of things the Cutter could only dream of- massively more powerful engines, a copilot seat, a turret, much better armor and armaments in general, and they could carry a hell of a lot more too- the Cutter could only carry 4 SCU of cargo while the Cutlass Black could still dust off with 46 SCU. 

What the Cutter did have was range, and lots of it. I could cross the solar system a couple times before my Quantum Drive needed refueling. I was used for small amounts of cargo that weren’t time sensitive but that needed to go a long way. I flew the odd routes that connected outposts and settlements to larger trade arteries. I finally got to see the solar system, like my recruiter had promised all those years ago. 

I was often picking up and dropping off from those outposts and settlements that didn’t even have an ATC, and often not even a landing pad for the Cutter. On more than one occasion I had to insist on a shipping manifest. I had no idea why they were reluctant to provide one, they go hand in hand with shipping anything as far as I knew. 

Regardless, the Cutter got the job done. I continued to ferry packages around the system from backwater to backwater; from some small processing facility back to Crusader or microTech; picking up and dropping off; picking up and dropping off. 

Eventually I was once again called into Martinez’s office and once again curtly promoted, this time to piloting one of the Cutlass Blacks. I could have danced all the way back to the hangar, but I didn’t for a couple reasons. First, because absolutely no one here did anything of the sort, EVER. I knew it would be an unforgivable social transgression. Second, because I cannot dance even a little bit. 

________________________________________________________________________

Around 7 months later

________________________________________________________________________

There she stood before me, The Black Duchess, glistening in gunmetal gray and blackened steel, half hidden in the shadows of the hangar. She squatted on 4 outstretched pads like a water bug. The sleek lines, forward swept wings and control surfaces near the cockpit gave it a predatory look. She seemed like a spider mid-pounce. The oversized engines burst out of their nacelles, giving it a powerful, overcharged appearance to the rear, somewhere between a pair of haunches and an ancient…. What did the archeologists call it…  a muscular car? 

I don’t know how long I stood there, but my reverie was interrupted with a sharp, “Ay, you’re in the way!” Forklifts zipped to and fro, lifting standardized 2 SCU containers from the neat stacks on the ground into the cargo bed of the ship. I looked up and dodged out of the way with an apology, then wound my way through the machinery into the cockpit. By this point we were well acquainted, I’d flown the Duchess for nearly as long as I’d flown the Cutter and knew it inside and out. Like all of our ships it had its quirks and flaws, but it held together well enough. She hadn’t let me down yet. 

Once the cargo was loaded and the doors were closed I ran through the familiar process of powering it on and requesting permission to take off. Once airborne I set my sites toward Hurston and was off and away. Everything about it seemed like a standard cargo run. I knew exactly where I was going. I’d made several identical deliveries there before. The mine was bristling with security. I figured they were mining something expensive, like Laramite. 

I dropped out of the initial quantum jump and I got my first hint that something was wrong. I attempted to nose the craft down near the mine. The second, more precise jump caused a mighty shudder. I heard a distinct, “Pop! Ping!” come from the port side. I immediately pulled up diagnostics. Nothing was obviously broken, or at least it wasn’t displaying it if it was. The temperature of my left engine was already starting to rise. I faced a tough decision: Have a mechanical crisis in space; have a mechanical crisis on the ground; or potentially have a mechanical crisis on the way to the ground.  

I toggled my Quantum Drive and dove hard for the mine, banking everything on making it to the ground in time. I’d rather not die in space if I can help it, and was much more likely to get rescued on a populated planet than floating randomly in the void. Just the same, if I experienced catastrophic failure before I touched down… the consequences didn’t bear considering. Reality bent around me as the planet rushed toward me, a dusty brown blob of sand and mining disputes. 

As soon as reality snapped back into focus I got a reading on the mine- 33.7 km out. I glanced at my altimeter- a little more than 8 km above the ground. Time to lose that altitude. These Cutlass Blacks were great ships but they glided about as well as bricks. If I was going to fall it needed to not be far. I dove for the ground, then pulled up and leveled off about 100 meters above the rugged terrain. Still too far to fall but a hell of a lot better than 8 km. I glanced back at my diagnostics panel. My port engine was overheating at this point. It was bad. 

“Come on, just hold together a little longer…” I whispered as I throttled forward and pointed down toward the ground, dropping several meters per second while also moving forward toward the mine. Inwardly I made a mental note to express my displeasure to the crew chief, if and when I returned. 

Suddenly there was a loud “Bang! Whumph!” from the port side and the ship lost all power to the left. Immediately it twisted violently as all thrust now only came from the starboard side. I had just enough time to think, “oh no, bad, counterrotate.” before I slammed into the 

ground- hard. 

 My hands were torn off the sticks and smashed into the MFDs, shattering one of them and breaking at least one of my fingers. My legs kicked straight forward off the pedals into the space below the display assembly. My neck snapped forward as my skull did its level best to keep going through the cockpit windscreen, but the restraints ultimately did their job and I remained in the seat and in one piece- just very bruised and with only minor broken bones. 

For several seconds I sat in shock, and then began slowly and methodically trying to 

remember crash procedures. I turned off Hydrogen fuel to the engines, though they were both powered off at this point anyway- the whole ship was unresponsive. Slowly, carefully, I tried to trigger the seat release mechanism, but there was little use- it was as dead as the rest of the ship. 

I triggered my radio and began speaking, “Mayday, Mayday, this is…” but it was utterly dead as well. 

I wasn’t overly worried. Every ship has a transponder. Every route is registered. When I didn’t show up, someone would come looking. Right? So long as Renot and Sons were playing by the rules, I’d be just fine. 

I resolved to check on the cargo. 

I pried open the bulkhead door and squeezed through it only to find an absolute mess. It looked like no 2 of the boxes were stacked on top of each other any longer and I could see that several of them had taken pretty severe damage. 

Climbing over three of the crates in good shape I was able to reach one of the damaged crates and was able to squeeze myself in between another crate to get a look inside. I wanted to see if whatever I was delivering was still intact. 

I peered around the edge and in the dim light of the electronic readouts on the crates themselves was barely able to make out… a hand? 

That couldn’t be right!

I jerked my head back in surprise so quickly that it smacked into the crate behind me with 

a loud “bang!” 

 Rubbing my head with one hand I climbed over to the label on the crate and read, “Fresh Frozen Produce - Keep Frozen” then below that a small screen: “Integrity Compromised. Temp. 11°” 

I scrambled to another damaged crate (also “frozen produce”) and this time managed to catch a glimpse of a shoe. 

As realization dawned on me my stomach turned and I nearly vomited in the corner. 

I’d heard stories about this. I knew it existed. I just never dreamed that I’d possibly be a part of it. 

I scrambled for the cargo ramp and stabbed at the chunky, “OPEN” button, but of course it didn’t budge. From the faint lighting of the crates I could barely see where I was going, but I could make out the emergency release handles on the side bay doors- one of them was jammed shut, but the other released mercifully easily, after just a few solid yanks, letting sunlight pour in with a trickle of sand. 

I burst out of the doorway and gulped for fresh air, staggering away from the spacecraft several meters, spinning in disorientation, my mind spinning even faster. 

Slaves! I was transporting slaves! And how many runs had I made? 

I tried to run quick math in my head but couldn’t concentrate to do even simple stuff I knew that I could do. If the Cutlass held 46 SCU and each crate in there was 2 SCU then we were looking at… 23 crates. 23 humans. Well… knowing slavers, 23 sentients anyway. For all I knew there were Banu and Tevarin among them. 

What do I do? What do I do? 

The question pounded an endless cadence, faster and faster through my skull. 

In the end there was only one thing to do, and it was obvious. I climbed back into the tilted ship (the damage didn’t look bad at all from the outside, just looked like a rough landing without the gear down) and to the nearest crate. It looked dented and dinged but otherwise intact. I hoped the occupant was as well. 

I quickly pressed the “defrost” and “unlock” buttons and was rewarded with the standard whirring-clicking of a crate’s internals. The top lifted up and then folded back and to the sides, revealing a girl not too much younger than myself. She was blonde, wearing leggings and a sequined tank top with a short-cropped hoodie emblazoned with something I couldn’t yet read. Her makeup was smeared but I could tell she was a beautiful young woman. Within minutes she was sitting up and shivering despite the oppressive heat of the heavy planet, her core temperature still rising. 

It turned out her name was Nist, and Nist was understandably terrified. Slowly she gave me her story: She’d gotten in an argument with her parents, gone out for a weekend of partying with the friends to blow off some steam, met a guy in a club, gone with him to use some WidoW (by the looks of her forearms, mostly just to piss off her parents, she didn’t have the black stained veins of a regular user) and then woke up here. 

“Will you help me thaw the others?” I asked her. 

What ensued over the next half an hour to an hour (it blurred together) was a barely contained panic as would-be slaves woke in a strange place and had to be informed of their predicament- stranded on a planet they’d never been to with no way of calling for help, having been bound for a life of slavery, less than 30 km from where armed men would force them into that life. 

Some wanted to hold me responsible. Others wanted to thank me for rescuing them.

Some sobbed. Others puked. Some eventually demanded weaponry (as if I had any). All turned out to be homo sapiens.  

One by one we’d opened the crates, thawed the individual inside of them, then hauled the crates outside the ship and clambered back inside. Thankfully none of the occupants were dead or seriously injured- those crates were well packed. 

What none of us thought to do was to post a lookout.      

“Come on, you must have something- at least a pistol!” one of the freshly thawed men demanded.

“Yeah, well, it was just supposed to be a cargo run!” I said, my voice rising more sharply than I meant it to. 

“And just what would y’all do with a slug thrower?” a voice drawled from the open door as a dark silhouette fell across the interior of the ship. 

We turned as one. 

A man in dusty desert armor leaned casually against the crooked door frame, cradling an SMG in his hands. 

“Out.” he said gruffly. “Now.” and swept us all with the muzzle of his gun. 

I froze. Then, ultimately, we complied, hands raised above our heads, no one foolish enough to say anything yet. One by one we climbed down into the dusty, barren landscape below and saw a small group of 3 more armed men standing around a collection of 4 skimmers- their transport out here. 

One of the men made a show of counting us, then caught sight of the girl I’d thawed first and let out a low whistle I didn’t like. 

“Hey Honey,” he gestured at her with his gun, “why don’t you come spend some time with me?” His face split into a wicked grin. 

I closed my eyes and swallowed deeply. Oh no.

“Deacon.” the first man with the gun said sternly, “they all make it back.” 

“Yeah yeah.” he responded dismissively, glancing over for a split second. 

“In one piece.” the first man pressed. 

“Yeah fine.” Deacon conceded. “Doesn’t mean we can’t get to know each other a little better.” 

The first man rolled his eyes and turned to survey the horizon. The other two men silently observed the situation with disinterest, apparently having seen this show before. 

My mind raced but there was little I could do. My powerlessness gnawed at me. 

Nist tried not to make eye contact and to pull away when he reached for her, but the man was deceptively fast and he caught her by the left arm and drug her from the group. One of the men next to her stepped forward and got an assault rifle butt to the face for his troubles. He went down, hard, gurgling and whimpering and clutching at his ruined face. Several people gathered around him, trying to help. I was too far away to do anything. 

Nist struggled against Deacon but he easily held her with one hand, ignoring her protestations. 

Suddenly there were two muffled thumps and Deacon and the first man crumpled without a sound, then two more and the other two men followed them. Blood pooled from their helmets onto the sand. 

I spun, searching for the source, as it seemed that everyone fell into a panic. Movement eventually caught my eye on a berm- well below the edge, not silhouetted against the sky. A man in similar desert camouflage to the men that had held us at gunpoint moved confidently through the rough terrain, picking his way past the jagged boulders with well practiced ease, a riffle of some form at the ready. When he stopped to survey the scene it was always in a shadow, he nearly disappeared completely. When he moved it was always with a purpose, always smooth and crisp. 

“Whatcha watchin?” The voice came from directly behind us. We spun as one again. 

Another man in identical armor leaned casually against one of the deceased men’s skimmers, his rifle cradled in the crook of his arm just like the man in the doorway of the ship had been. I noticed that it had a suppressor on the end of it.   

 “Nist Freeman?” a voice came from behind us again, both questioning and commanding. 

She’d moved well away from the body of Deacon and back into the group of us, huddled together for whatever protection that afforded near the downed ship and crates. 

I began running mental arithmetic in my head, trying to decide if I got out of this if I’d ever run another mission without a gun again or not. On one hand it sure would provide peace of mind. On the other hand, if I’d had a gun, either the first group of men or the second almost surely would have shot me dead by now. It’s great to be able to fight back, but I’m no special forces superhero. If 4 armed men come to kill me and have the drop on me, there’s precious little I’ll be able to do. 

I pushed the thought aside and focused on the issue at hand. 

“Where’s Nist Freeman?” the voice demanded again when no one responded, then the voice from the man leaning against the skimmers said, “Got her.” 

I turned. He was gesturing to poor Nist, who looked like she might cry or faint or vomit at any minute now. She trembled. 

“Nist Freeman.” The other man said, sounding official as he neared us. “Your parents want you back home. We’ve been hired to see that you get there safe and sound. No harm will come to you.” 

  Ah. So that’s what this is. I thought. 

“And what about the rest of us?” Demanded a man more blunt than I am. 

The two armed men looked at each other for a second, then back at him. “We don’t have room on our landing craft for more than Nist, but we’ll come back for you in our ship.” He gestured to the man on the ground, sucking air through a gurgling, crumpled, wounded face. “Any other serious injuries?” 

I briefly thought of my finger and promptly discounted it. 

“How do we know you’ll come back?” The blunt man continued. 

The man leaning against the skimmer straightened and shrugged. “You don’t. Name your options.” 

The first armed man started hiking back to the berm, then stopped. “Fuck that. I’m taking a skimmer. Nist, you should ride with me.” 

Nist looked scared but also like she didn’t have much of a choice. She hesitantly stepped toward the skimmers. 

The man waited patiently for her to mount with him, then powered up and zipped off around the berm and out of sight. 

I hope we see her again. I thought to myself. Then, pragmatically, I hope we survive this in general.

Awkward minutes later a blotchy green and tan Anvil Pisces came into view, dust billowing from underneath the thrusters as it swung in for a landing. The rear loading ramp hummed as it lowered and I caught a glimpse of a medical interior- not the standard nearly empty cargo space you’d expect to find. The squat little craft looked like a bulky arrow head. 

The man by the skimmers nodded, apparently communicating over radio. “Ok, everybody sit tight, we’ll be right back with something you can all take a ride in.” 

“Wait, what if they come back?” I was startled to hear the voice coming from myself, then gestured toward the bodies of the men that had tried to capture us. 

He looked over at me sharply. “Then you’re fucked.” He started walking to the Pisces. “Hold on-” he said, then disappeared inside the small craft. A moment later he came back out and tossed us 4 bottles of water and as many food bars. “We have nothing to leave you with but some medical supplies. We’ll be back as quickly as we can. In the meantime, sit tight and post a lookout. If they come back, scatter. They might not be able to get all of you. Look for a Constellation.” 

With that he disappeared back inside for the last time and the Pisces lifted off, covering us all in dust and swirling dirt. It blasted off violently toward the stratosphere. 

“Do you think they’ll come back?” a voice said, plaintively. 

“Bounty hunters?” a snort came derisively, “What do you think? They got what they came for. Didn’t even leave us a gun.” 

“They’ll be back.” I said, with more confidence than I felt. 

“Oh yeah?” said the blunt man. “Got anything to back that up delivery boy?” 

“Gut feeling.” I said evenly. “Now if no one else wants first watch I’ll take it.” I wanted to have the earliest heads up possible to know where trouble was coming from. 

The first thing I did was climb back onboard the ship and splint my finger from the first aid kit (mercifully stocked), which was now throbbing fiercely. Adrenaline had begun to wear off and it was becoming a real problem. 

When I came back out an argument had broken out over who got to carry the guns from the dead men from the mines. I ignored it and hiked around the tail of the downed craft. After that I climbed to the berm I’d seen the first bounty hunter on and began to scramble up it. 

“Eh, pilot, where do you think you’re going?” the blunt man called from behind me. 

“Somewhere I can get a good look around.” I said, sighing. 

“So climb up on top the ship, dumbass.” he said. 

“I’d rather not be a silhouette, thanks.” I replied, and kept climbing. 

Nearing the top of the berm gave me a terrific field of view in nearly every direction, 

including the one from which any reinforcements from the mine would come. A glance over the top of it confirmed that nothing lay behind it but barren wasteland as far as the eye could see. I planted myself in a deep shadow and started scanning in sectors, back and forth, near and far, looking for movement or anything out of the ordinary, anything that didn’t belong in the harsh, desert landscape.  

It gave me time to think, to try to process. 

What the hell was I going to do? What the hell had I been doing? What the hell had I been hauling? How many people had I unknowingly delivered promptly and professionally into a life of servitude and bondage, a life of hard labor and misery? 

For long minutes I sat, contemplating, growing angrier at myself and mostly growing angrier at the buyers and sellers of sentient life forms. How dare they drag me into this?! It was a selfish thought, and I’m not proud of it, but the indignation was poignant and true. How dare they turn me into a slaver? 

Movement!

A ship arced through the sky like a black dagger through a clean blue sheet, trailing 4 exhaust plumes behind it- a Constellation! From my perspective it looked like an angular, long, hull with 4 great engines strapped to the rear. 

“I see the ship!” I called out, pointing, then also saw the dust clouds rising from the direction of the mine. Someone must have decided to come check on their scouts, and from the size of the dust clouds, they were doing it in force. 

The would-be slaves let out a ragged and somewhat surprised sounding cheer at the sight of the Constellation, powering toward us at full speed. From my vantage point it was clear they would arrive well ahead of the force from the mine, but would it be long enough to get everyone on board and take off again? That was a very different story. 

“A large group is coming at us from the mines!” I yelled, once the cheering died down. “Looks like the ship will get here first.” 

Several people began to scramble to climb up the Black Duchess to get a better view. One boy, about 14, ran toward me on the berm and began to climb it instead. 

The Constellation came in on a negative ballistic trajectory, dropping in toward the ground and then leveling out and skimming over the surface toward us, still at full speed, which I was thankful for- it was clear they realized we were in a race. 

Then they surprised me- instead of pulling up and braking at the last moment they blew right over the top of us, showering us in a blast of dust and debris, blowing everyone off their feet (I was already sitting down but still went for a bit of a tumble) and blasting onward, straight for the mine. As one the front facing cannons and the bottom turret opened up, raining hell down into the approaching dust clouds, flashes of red light stabbing forth from the laser repeaters several times per second. The Constellation circled its prey like a shark circling a wounded fish, nose down, tail swinging wide, always maintaining a perfect field of fire without exposing anything except the front-facing shields to any incoming rounds. I can’t say with any honesty whether or not the slavers coming from the mine even put up a fight, but I can say with absolute honesty that I didn’t pity them in the slightest. 

When the dust settled the Constellation made its way back to us at a more leisurely pace, settling down on a fairly level patch of ground opposite the berm from The Black Duchess. Whiffs of ionized air still sizzled off the turrets. 

The cargo bay descended with one of the bounty hunters on board (I couldn’t tell which one, they were both dressed alike at that point) with the familiar mechanical whine. 

“All aboard!” he shouted jovially. 

The group scrambled to comply, recognizing salvation when it appeared, crowding onto the platform not designed to hold that many people at all. 

I raced down the berm and toward the cargo bay, well behind everyone else. As I approached he said something else that I didn’t pick up, and several people pointed at me. I kept running- nearly to my ticket off this planet and away! I didn’t know where the ship was going but I knew that if I stayed here I was going to die. 

Suddenly there was a gun pointed at me. I skidded to a stop and raised my hands. 

“You the pilot?” It was said as a question but it was more of a statement. 

I swallowed hard, wanting to glance around but unable to take my eyes off the gun. 

“Yeah.” 

“You stay put.” His voice was hard and brooked no argument. 

I knew I didn’t have a choice. If he left me, I was dead anyway. “Please, I didn’t know.” I said, trying my best to keep my voice steady. Trying to sound like I wasn’t lying. 

“Don’t care.” His gun hadn’t moved a millimeter. Neither had I. 

“Look, as soon as I found out it wasn’t Produce I started thawing them. AS SOON!” I let desperation creep into my voice. I was desperate. 

“He’s telling the truth.” A voice called faintly from the cargo hold above- Nist. Thank you!

“Please.” I said, doing my best to look sincere, serious, scared, and pissed off all at once. I probably just looked constipated. “Please let me help take these bastards down.” 

Apparently those were the right words. After several moments that seemed to last for an eternity the muzzle lowered and his head snapped toward the center of the lowered cargo bay. “Get on.” he said curtly.     

I swallowed again and promptly stepped forward and onto the platform, careful not to do anything but “get on,” at this point in time. It felt like opening my mouth was a good way to get shot, so I didn’t even say, “thank you” as I normally would have. 

The man with the gun pressed a button and the whole platform shuddered and began to glide upwards, into the belly of the ship. 

“Alright, make yourselves comfortable, try not to touch anything. You two, come with me.” The man pointed at the man with the broken face and myself. 

We followed the man as he moved comfortably through well lit corridors to what I assume was a makeshift med-bay. Various white carts with blue handles stood packed in tightly under cabinets that had actually been designed for the space. I read the labels on a few of them as I entered, “Property of Kelto Medical Facility 9572829.” He gestured at the man that huffed and gurgled next to me, “You’re going to need reconstructive surgery.” He waved his hands around. “Obviously we can’t do that here. The best I can do for you is give you something for the pain. Have a seat.” He pointed to a rolling stool in the corner. 

The man looked relieved, as far as I could tell. His face was a bloody, puffy mass. His shirt and pants were utterly saturated. If we didn’t get him to a medical facility, blood loss was going to be an issue. 

The man with the gun riffled through one of the cabinets for a second, then came back with a black injector that looked otherwise just like a standard MedPen. “Here you go,” he said, “this should help.” and gently but firmly pressed it into the man’s right shoulder, into the meat. I heard the familiar pop-hiss of an injection, and saw the injured man visibly relax. 

The man with the gun turned to me. “What about you, flier? Any injuries we’re not seeing?” 

I tried an attempt at humor. “Broke my finger?” 

He didn’t respond. Too soon I guessed. 

“Alright, with me. To the Bridge.” The man brushed past me roughly and began marching toward the bow of the ship, which by now was thrumming and humming with the familiar sound of flight engines. As we reached the Bridge I felt suddenly heavy as we lifted off, then had to brace myself against the forward acceleration of the ship as we slowly (for a Constellation) began to arc back up toward the sky. 

The Bridge had spectacular visibility aside from the massive struts holding the windshield together, with two copilot’s chairs flanking the Captain’s chair in the center. Whichever Bounty Hunter wasn’t currently escorting me was planted in the Captain’s chair, deftly handling the ship’s controls. I’d never handled a ship this large as a civilian and only operated this class in simulators in the Academy, but I could tell he knew what he was doing. 

“The pilot?” came a voice from the chair. 

“Yeah.” said the man escorting me. 

“Thought we were gonna leave his ass on the planet.” the pilot said without turning around. 

“Yeah well, things changed.” said the man next to me. 

“Changed? What the hell changed? He was delivering slaves!” the man in the seat burst out. 

The man beside me nudged me. “Go ahead. Tell him in your own words.” 

I didn’t like this at all. It felt like I was being set up. I tried to choose my words carefully but in the split seconds I had everything sounded like a self-serving lie. Who in my position wouldn’t say the exact same thing, truth or not? 

“I thought I was delivering Produce. As soon as I realized I wasn’t I thawed and freed them. Ask Nist.” 

“And you bought that?!” the man in the chair exclaimed, clearly not to me. 

The man next to me shrugged. “Nist backed him up on her own. Plus, he says he wants to take them down.” 

“Oh, wants to take them down does he?” the man flying the ship replied sarcastically. He stabbed in a heading into a control panel and swung the seat around to face us, peeling up his helmet to reveal a handsome, olive face with black hair and dark eyes. “And how exactly are you going to go about ‘taking them down’ hmmm?” 

“Look, I just got rescued, I haven’t exactly had a chance to formulate a master plan.” I said, with considerably more pluck than I felt. Outside the Plexi windscreen the blue of the sky faded into the black of interstellar space, studded with the brilliant pin pricks of stars and the swirling watercolors of nebulas. 

“Well, better get to formulating or you’re gonna be walking home and it’s a long fucking walk.” he said, gesturing out the front of the ship. 

My mind spun.

“Alright. What happens if we take this to the Advocacy?” I asked, more to myself than to anyone else. They didn’t understand that and treated it as a standard question. 

The man next to me snorted. “You go to prison for sentient-trafficking. Your bosses claim ignorance and walk.” 

I nodded. “Ok. So we need proof that they’re in on this.” 

The man in the Captain’s chair rolled his eyes. “Obviously.” 

It was heartening that neither of these bounty hunters, a profession famous for its mercenary outlook, seemed to view slavery as something they could ignore.  

The inklings of a plan began to tickle the back of my mind. 

“How’d you find Nist?” I asked. 

“What?” the man to my right asked. “What’s that got to do with this?” 

I ignored his question momentarily. “You showed up soon after we crashed- how did you know she was there?” 

The Bounty Hunters glanced at each other, then shrugged. “BioTracker.” said the one in the chair. “Soon as she thawed it activated.” 

I nodded. Bits and pieces swirled together. I felt like I had all the components, I just needed to put them together into a coherent whole. 

“Ok, how’s this sound?” I asked, and I laid out my proposal. 

________________________________________________________________________

About five minutes later

________________________________________________________________________

“Well…” the man in the chair said, leaning back, “it’ll either work or you’re a dead man.” With that he spun back around and took aim for ArcCorp. 

_________________________________________________________________________

I came to learn that the louder mouthed of the two bounty hunters, the one in the pilot’s seat of the Constellation, was Moros, a former Marine, while the other was one “Mr. Fields,” (I never got his first name, he didn’t seem to have one) a former Special Forces combat medic for the UEE- I wasn’t sure exactly which branch. Both seemed to open up far more to me when they learned that I’d washed out of the Academy- as they put it, they didn’t care if I’d made it or not, they cared that I’d at one point sworn to put my life on the line for the UEE. The Constellation was Moros’ ship while Fields owned the Pisces- a “combat ambulance” or “the Bambulance” as they put it. 

The first thing we did upon putting down at ArcCorp was get the man with the broken face to an emergency elevator while everyone else went free, then went on a shopping trip. My expenses for the last year were few and my work schedule was rather vigorous, and I didn’t have much of a life outside of it, so I’d saved up quite a small amount for just-in-case. This was just-in-case. 

A pistol (something small and concealable, I wasn’t trying to draw attention to myself) and some light body armor that likewise didn’t stand out were easy to come by, but a BioTracker proved a little more challenging. Eventually I found one in an electronics supply store, shaped like a large blue pill. When taken my stomach acid would dissolve the casing and activate the beacon, which would lodge itself in my small intestine and remain there harmlessly until I took the removal pill, which would allow all components to pass on through naturally. 

The next stop unfortunately required some surgery. I didn’t like it but didn’t have much of a choice. Carrying a recording device wasn’t much of an option- I had to BE the recording device. A recording implant worthy of any media type behind and below my right ear for sound and behind my right eye for vision, then a few days of recovery and I’d be good to go. 

Well. As good to go as I’d ever be. This wasn’t going to be easy or fun. 

______________________________________________________________________________

4 days later

______________________________________________________________________________

The large blue gell capsule sat in my left palm, a bottle of RealWater in my right. Mr. Fields sat on the corner of my bed while Moros leaned against my counter. I stood in the kitchen between them. I still felt the pressure in my skull from the extra hardware. 

“Well. Here goes.” I swallowed the pill. 

______________________________________________________________________________

3 hours later

______________________________________________________________________________

I stood before Martinez’s door, the red/brown veneer wood grain peeling and faded. It occurred to me that this was the first time I’d be going into this room without being officially summoned to it. I’d told Rose there was a problem with the last delivery but didn’t explain further. 

“No shit Honey, you fell off the galactic plane.” her raspy voice responded. Just the same, she shooed me onward to Martinez. 

We didn’t actually know that Martinez, as unpleasant as I found him, knew that we were transporting slaves. This would tell us that. 

I knocked on the door twice. 

“Yeah, come in.” his voice pierced through. I tensed my back, feeling the pistol press against me. Just in case… I thought. 

 I entered the room and stood before him as usual. 

“Ah, you return.” he said. “What do you want?” 

“A raise.” I said simply. 

“Ha!” he snorted. “How about this- you’re fired.” 

I felt the blood rising in my face and could feel my heart pounding.

“How about this- I meet with Mr. Renot, I get a raise, and I get to pick my routes.” 

“Fuck no kid. We’ve got a business to run. Where’s the shipment to Hurston?” He glared.

“I’ll tell you after I get my raise and my meeting.” I said, as calmly as I could. 

“No.” He said flatly. “That’s not the way this works. You don’t take our cargo hostage and get paid for it.” 

I decided it was time to go for it. I felt light headed. “You do if you know what’s in the crates.” I said. 

Martinez stared at me for a long while, then slowly leaned back in his chair. “I see.” he said, more slowly and measured than I’d heard him say anything. 

In a flash he was yanking open a desk drawer and reaching in it- but I was faster, ready for it. I’d been practicing the move for the last 4 days while I’d recovered. Before I fully thought about it my pistol was in my hand and level across the desk, his hand still in his drawer. 

We froze that way for another long second. 

“I’m going to walk out of here Mr. Martinez.” I said, surprisingly calmly. “I don’t want to harm the organization. Just want my cut.” 

Martinez didn’t respond, just stared at me with steely eyes. 

I reached into my left pocket very carefully and brought out a scrap of paper with an address and a time scrawled on it. “Want to meet. There’s a time and a place. If I don’t make it out of that you don’t get the cargo and everything goes public.” 

“Uh-huh.” He grunted, clearly not believing me. “So what you’re telling me is…” he picked up the scrap of paper and examined it, taking his hand out of the drawer unconcernedly, “we’ve got… 14 hours to get the location out of you before we have to start worrying?” 

I frowned. “That’s not…” 

Then I heard the, “Snick, click” of the gun behind my head. 

Rose!

“Should’ve stayed gone Honey.” she rasped. 

I swallowed. Or tried to.  

______________________________________________________________________________

Not sure how much later. Don’t know where.

______________________________________________________________________________

The smartass in me wanted to say things like, “You couldn’t have sprung for nicer digs?” but I knew that would do nothing but earn me another punch to the gut, or perhaps another broken finger. 

My head rang and throbbed at once. Martinez had not been pleased that I’d pulled a gun on him and had expressed his displeasure physically, once he’d squeezed himself from behind the desk. Somehow I’d also managed to keep from commenting on that. 

I was bundled up at gunpoint after taking a few solid hits from Martinez into a small delivery van- one of those last-kilometer jobs. From the back I could tell we drove for a while and that there were many twists and turns- at first I tried to keep track of them but I quickly lost count and was lost. 

Now here I sat, strapped to a metal chair in what appeared to be an abandoned medical facility, emergency lighting giving everything that red glow. 

“Ok, here’s how this is going to work.” a big man said, and he stepped forward and punched me, hard. If the chair hadn’t fallen over and gone sliding I would have taken far more of that blow than I did, but even so the wind was knocked from my lungs and I gasped in pain and shock. I tried to draw breath but couldn’t for a time- then, slowly, my diaphragm relaxed and I was slowly able to draw in small gulps of air like a fish out of water. Every breath sent a stab of pain through my ribs- I wondered if he’d broken them, then put the thought aside. It hurts like hell, but not THAT bad. 

The man stepped forward and looked down at me on my back without expression. “You’re going to talk.” 

“You could’ve just asked.” I croaked. 

He pulled out a wicked looking curved knife. “You’re going to tell me the truth. And when I’m done, I’m going to know it’s the truth.” 

“Wait, wait, wait-” I said, “why don’t I just tell you the truth and you can verify it easily?” 

He grinned. “You’ll tell me the truth either way.” 

The man bent down and with his left hand grabbed the top of my head, easily wrapping his fingers around my skull. Without apparent effort he lifted the chair back up and set it on its legs. 

“Look,” I said, trying my best to remember my training, (How the fuck do you establish a rapport with your captor in these circumstances!?)  “I’m sure you’ve got a job to do and all that but you’re under a time crunch, right? Why don’t we work something out here?” 

“Work something out?” The knife flashed down and stabbed into the seat directly between my legs, entirely too close for comfort. “I already told you how this was going to work.” 

I swallowed deeply. I know that technically a dull knife is worse to be cut with than a sharp knife but there’s something scary about a knife that can punch through a metal chair like it’s butter. 

“Ok.” I said. “What do you want to know?” 

“Everything. Start talking.” 

Ah. I thought. So we have some time left. 

“What, like my mother’s maiden name?” I couldn’t help myself, it was out before I thought. 

The meaty backhand caught the left side of my face and knocked me sliding again. 

Once again he set the seat back up without apparent effort. I tasted blood in my mouth. 

“Where’s the ship?” He growled. 

“The Black Duchess?” I asked, “Somewhere about 30 kilometers outside of a mine on Huston.” 

“Bullshit.” He glared and pulled back to strike me again. 

“No no wait-” and then he hit me. 

As he pulled me back to vertical I wondered why he wasn’t using the knife, but I was happy about it. 

“I swear,” I said, looking him dead in the eye, “it went down on Hurston.” 

“Then what the fuck is your scrawny ass doing on ArcCorp?” 

“Got rescued.” I said simply. 

“Good.” He said. “Now then.” the knife was suddenly in my face, pressed against my 

cheek bone, cutting edge against my nose. “I find people are a lot more honest when I start taking bits off their face. I think I’ll start with your nose.” 

“I told you the truth!” I protested, nearly screaming. 

“Well then, you’re going to tell me the truth again aren’t you?” he said, smiling calmly. 

“Don’t play with your food James, just get this over with.” A voice came from the 

darkness, “Is the cargo intact?” 

“The ‘Produce’?” I asked. “Or do you mean the slaves?” Gotta get the evidence!

“The fuck do you think I mean? We’re not here because of lettuce and carrots.” The voice in the darkness stepped into the light, revealing a man dressed far too nicely for his surroundings. 

“Yeah,” I said, “As best I could tell they were fine. Frosty.” 

The well dressed man steepled his fingers. “Mr. ‘Rana’ (He said my name like it tasted bad), do you have any idea how long those crates will last before the contents will thaw and our cargo will spoil?” 

I tried to choose my words carefully, considering the knife was still on my face. “You mean before they start escaping?” 

“No, no…” he sighed. “I’m afraid those crates are quite inescapable from the interior. They don’t require much in the way of ventilation either- in fact, it’s antithetical to their purpose. No, I want you to imagine what’s going to happen to you, Mr. Rana, when you wake up in one of those crates after disappointing me like you have today.” 

I felt my face flush. 

“Now I want you to carefully consider your answer. Are you SURE that your ship ‘went down’ on Hurston? Are you SURE that my cargo was, ‘fine and frosty’?” 

“Sir, I have nothing to gain from lying to you and everything to gain from telling you the truth.” I said, as earnestly as I could. 

“That’s not an answer.” he said astutely. 

“I’m SURE. Please. Check.” 

The well dressed man nodded to James. “Bleed him.” 

Muffled shouts and shots rang out from directly behind James, behind the closed doors.

The well dressed man sighed in exasperation. “Deal with it.” and waved toward the door. 

The big man grunted and rolled his eyes. “I’ll see about this and get right back to you.” He 

slapped my face twice with the flat of his blade. “Sit tight.” 

He turned his back on me and strolled unconcernedly to the door, drew a heavy pistol from his waistband, and threw open both doors dramatically. His body jerked twice and then his head twitched as the back of his skull disappeared into a fine pink mist. He toppled straight backwards and hit the ground with a heavy thud. 

Well. I thought. Glad I wasn’t the one to open THAT door. 

Two figures swept into the room, muzzles sweeping opposite directions as they entered, clearing the corners as they went. Fluidly and smoothly they moved, never more than a pace off of each other, moving as one without openly communicating. Both muzzles converged on the well dressed man as the shouting started. 

Shouted variations of, “On the ground, NOW! Show me your hands!” rang out.

The man complied calmly and swiftly, spreading his hands palms out and dropping to his knees. He didn’t look very surprised or upset. 

In moments he was face down on the ground and forced to stare at a wall, hands zip tied behind his back. 

Their attention turned to me. 

“Heya fellas.” I said, desperately hoping I was right. If I wasn’t it wouldn’t make a difference anyway. 

One of the figures nodded toward the door and turned to take up watch while the other moved to me. He came to a stop right before my chair, in the same place the big man had stood. 

“Honestly, shit plan Rana.” 

I recognized Moros’ voice and grinned. “Yeah, I’d say so myself.” 

“You good?” he asked. 

I nodded, my head reminding me that such movements were a very bad idea. “Yeah, they were just getting started.” 

He busied himself about unstrapping me from the chair for a moment, then stepped back and watched as I unsteadily got to my feet. I found that I was in slightly worse condition than I thought, but if it meant getting out of here in one piece I was happy to take it. 

“Heads up,” Mr. Fields said as his suppressed SMG thumped three times through the doorway, “time to go.” 

I stooped and pulled the pistol from the still-warm hand of the big man as we passed him, then followed the bounty hunters as they ran down the halls. 

With that we were off- a running battle ensued. 

The medical facility we were in had at least two parallel hallways, connected by a series of perpendicular hallways, and as we sprinted down one a seemingly endless swarm of men sprinted down another parallel to us, swapping gunfire. Windows shattered and paint chips flew as bullets gouged divots into the walls, floors, and ceiling of the facility. 

The pistol was heavy in my hand as I ran- I contemplated firing down the hallways as they flashed past but knew I had no chance of hitting anything, and the withering bursts of fire from Moros and Mr. Fields left little that a pistol would contribute to. 

“Hey look, he’s still got the elevator for us,” Moros called, gesturing as he ran. Ahead I could make out an opening and closing elevator door, looking like it was slow-motion gasping for air like I’d been minutes before. A few seconds later I saw what they meant. 

A body lay sprawled in the doorway clutching an SMG, blood pooled underneath him. I yanked the SMG out of his stiffening grip as I stepped over him into the elevator and helped shove his legs out of the doorway. 

“Hangars?” I asked as the doors closed. 

“Hangars!” Mr. Fields nodded. 

I stabbed at the button repeatedly. Elevators go swiftly enough when you’re on time to work or something, but take a small eternity when someone is shooting at you. 

The elevator gave a brief moment of respite. I used it to check the ammo in the bloody SMG I carried. 33 bullets. Plenty to do some work with. 

Both of the other men used the time to reload. 

“Rana,” said Mr. Fields, “When we get off this elevator we’re going left. The hangar is down the hallway, then left, then through the double doors, got it?”

I nodded. “Got it.” 

“Good,” he said, pulling a small grenade from his belt, “because visibility is going to be limited coming out of here.” 

“Ding!” as soon as the elevator doors began to open the grenade was sailing through them, tumbling end over end, thick green smoke pouring out and enveloping the corridors. I tried to move like them, heal to toe, gun held close, tight on the man in front of me, muzzle off to the right- but I knew I was just aping their movements. 

An explosion of gunfire and shattering glass broke the otherwise silent traversal, and the 

fight was back on. I ducked instinctively, then tucked myself in behind a medical cart that looked sturdy enough as I saw the other two take cover. 

  I gripped the SMG hard and peered around the cart. I couldn’t see anyone, but I knew they were there. 

“Eh Rana,” said Mr. Fields, from across the hall, “We move on three, got it?”

“Got it,” I said, nodding. I knew I should hurt more than I did right then. Oh well- that would come later. 

“Ready on that covering fire?” He called behind us. 

“Fuck yeah I’m ready.” came Moros’ voice. 

“Alright, just don’t tag us. Here goes. Rana you move first, I’ll follow.” He sounded calm but firm. Direct. 

I nodded, then repeated myself, “Got it.” I resolved to run as fast as I could. 

“One, Two, Three!” came the count and then I was off, a burst of gunfire accompanying me on my way.  

Bullets slammed into the wall by my head showering me with splinters and paint chips but I made it to the corner and dove for safety. Mr. Fields was right behind me. 

In a flash we were back at the corner, guns trained down the hallway, back into the dense green smoke that now concealed our enemies. 

“Ready Moros!” he said, firing into the smoke. As soon as Moros stopped firing I picked it up, trying to pace myself and conserve my ammunition. 

…30…27…24… I counted to myself as I pulled the trigger and felt the gun buck back against me. 

Moros sprinted past us in a blur of urban camo and armor, taking the corner much more gracefully than I had, as human shaped forms began to appear in the smoke. Carefully but quickly, I took aim. Two shots, “Crack! Crack!” and the body dropped, writhing back into the denser, lower smoke. 

22, 22, 22, 22- I chanted to myself as we sprinted toward the double doors at the end of the hall, emblazoned with the word, “HANGARS” in big bold letters. 

We crashed through the doors and onto a large open air landing pad. Across the landing pad, maybe 250 meters away, stood half constructed hangers and landing bays. In between, though much closer to us than to the hangers, sat the most beautiful green and tan Pisces, idling and waiting for us.   

We ran for it. 

Moros reached it first and slapped the ramp-lower button, then took up a firing position aiming back at the double doors we’d come through. As soon as the ramp was down enough to start boarding (I swear it takes longer when people are chasing you!) Mr. Fields and I were rushing aboard, but by then Moros was starting to fire back at those doors. I spun and threw myself flat in the belly of the craft, off to the port side, trying to be as out of the way as I could while minimizing my target area, facing out the rear. 

Moros smoothly backed up the ramp, firing as he went as I heard the engines spin up. The double doors continually banged open as whoever was behind them thrust at them and fired at us through them, but wasn’t about to come rushing through. I fired right back. A lucky shot shattered half the glass partition between the loading ramp and the medical bed in the Pisces and lodged itself in the display above the bed, causing a small shower of sparks. 

As Moros passed the green OPEN/CLOSE button he smacked it with his left hand, never taking his eyes or his SMG off the double doors. 

The speakers of the small ship crackled to life. “Everyone on?” Mr. Field’s voice came over the intercom. 

“Yeah!” I shouted as Moros responded with a crisp, “Yes,” into his radio. 

All the sudden I was flattened further against the floor and Moros was thrown off his feet as the craft fired its thrusters and shot straight up into the atmosphere. 

“Ramp up…” I heard him mutter to himself, intercom still on, then, “Here come the Gs,” before the nose of the craft pitched up and I was sliding toward the rear in a hurry. I found myself in a pile of bodies, armor, guns, and shattered glass piled against the loading ramp. 

Hell, if it means getting out of that mess, I’ll take getting tossed around in the back of a Pisces any day of the week. 

______________________________________________________________________________

About 8 months later

______________________________________________________________________________

You ever try to convince a dog that you don’t have their treat when they’re sure you do? Well it’s even harder to convince the Advocacy that you’re not a slaver when you’ve been running slaves, even when you bring the proof I brought. 

They promptly arrested my ass and didn’t believe a word of my story, until my lawyer actually did his job a bit and the evidence was finally reviewed. 

Once again, Nist’s testimony (along with two of the other would-be slaves that we were able to locate), saved my ass. Her parents looked on from the stands, both in crisp suits. They both screamed money. No wonder they could afford to hire bounty hunters to track down their daughter. No wonder she had a BioTracker implanted.

The Advocacy don’t inform you of their plans or who they’re going after when you’re incarcerated, so I don’t rightly know exactly what happened to Renot and Sons, but I know that when I went by to check it out later (much later) the old yellow and chrome building had been painted red and and a new sign proudly declared, “Gainman’s - Transportation you can trust!” 

I was given 6 months for my sins, such as they were, because apparently bringing down an interstellar drug and slave smuggling ring isn’t enough to fully clear your name of participating in such a thing. By mining for the prison corporation I was able to get that down to 3 months, 4 days, 5 hours and 12 minutes. I hated prison with every fiber of my being. I won’t get into it here. 

  Apparently volunteering to take down Renot and Sons (ok “volunteering” is a strong word, but still) left an impression on Moros and Mr. Fields, as they were waiting for me on Port Tressler, the dumping ground for freshly freed inmates. I’d maintained a correspondence with them but was still surprised to see them. 

Days later we were arcing our way over Hurston in the Constellation, heading toward the mine. At about 30 km out we began a sweep, keeping it off our starboard side, maintaining our distance, circling the mine at a slow but steady pace from about a kilometer to a kilometer and a half altitude. The dusty, rugged planet swept by below us, scraggy rusted rocks giving way to barren dunes, then back again, the ecology of the planet long since destroyed by corporate greed in a race to plumb the riches that this rock had to offer. 

Hell, it could be a symbol of the whole Stanton system. 

“There!” I said, painting a nav point on a black blob in the distance, “That’s got to be it!”

Sure enough, as we neared it the twin engine hull of the Cutlass Black came into sharp relief against the searing tan sands. The cluster of empty 2 SCU crates stood beside it, right where we’d left them. I had been afraid it would be confiscated as evidence but apparently a few pictures had been enough- no one wanted to haul the wreckage all the way back to ArcCorp for no good reason. 

Moros set the Constellation down beside it gently as I flipped the “Exit Turret” toggle switch and began to descend back into the ship. 

I made my way to the cargo bay, already loaded with the requisite supplies, and lowered myself down to the wind-whipped surface. 

For the next three days the two of them were kind enough to park the Constellation next to the wreck while I got to work on it. Mr. Fields would take his Pisces or Moros would take his P52 Merlin (the snub fighter the Constellation carried in the rear) out on a regular basis to scan the area from above for any threats, while I dedicated myself wholly to repairing the Black Duchess. 

It turned out that we’d lost a thermocoupler for the port side coolant system that should have been replaced about a year ago, and experienced catastrophic overheating because of it. The engine had shut down to avoid exploding, which I was ultimately grateful for. 

The hard landing had taken some paint off and tweaked the front starboard control surface, but it was nothing I couldn’t trim out, at least until I got it to a proper mechanic. All in all, the ship was in far better shape than it had any right to be, and after a new MFD (which truly never did get calibrated properly to Comms) and a full systems reset (and a new thermocoupler), powered up roughly, sputtering and shaking to life. I didn’t know if I trusted it to be space worthy just yet, but it would hopefully get me as far as Lorville, the primary settlement on Hurston, where I could have it properly repaired. 

Moros and Mr. Fields left me in Lorville with a promise to meet back up with them as soon as I could, and I paid the rather exorbitant fees it was going to take to have the entire ship gone over. I was close to broke after that, but as far as I was concerned it was worth it- I was getting a Cutlass Black out of the deal after all, one that no one was going to come looking for. A fresh start in life, nothing but myself, my ship, and endless opportunity waiting for me in the endless void of space. 

I made my way to the tram and took it downtown, looking for something to eat. “Man can only live on vending machine instant noodles for so long…” I quoted to myself. 

Passing through the station I was lost in my own thoughts, mind on my coming meal, when I heard a familiar voice. 

“Brother, you have misery written all over you.”

I spun. 

There, 20 meters away, facing a dejected looking young man with a red and black duffle bag stood the unmistakably scruffy figure of Ren. 

Well now… I thought Sometimes this is a small solar system after all. 

This time it was my turn to grin like a shark. 

So much for the quiet life.

______________________________________________________________________________