New Friends
15 Feb 2018Caffeine Low
The hollow orange icon continued to close with the outpost. It was still thousands of light seconds out, but a decision had to be made.Imperial Tariff Agent Tricia Sanchez rubbed her eyes with her palms and swore at the flight control radar screen.
This was not going to plan.
For months the she had been flagging inconsistencies in the Galaxy trading data. Even amongst a vast network of Black Markets and shady bar-room deals they stood out; at least they did, to Sanchez. She’d uncovered evidence of thousands of tonnes of commodities “misplaced” or incorrectly delivered. A veritable fleet of private craft purchased at shipyards from one end of the Bubble to the other, only to lose track them and they disappear into the Black, then reappear days or weeks later randomly across inhabited space.
Sanchez had dug & dug, all for nothing, but now a link was starting to form. Nothing tangible, but a connection nonetheless, there were whispers of a mysterious benefactor to the deals, rare commodities gifted to low level, and some not so insignificant, officials. All of them referencing the initials A.C., a new unknown quantity in the Galaxy. Imperial Intelligence refused to admit they knew nothing of whom or what AC was. Leaving her with no leads, she’d hit a dead end & her superiors had told her to move on.
But she’d continued to pull on threads & finally one seemed to be unraveling the web of mystery. A low level Commander, operating on the borders of Imperial Space, on the surface his records looked clean; no one was ever clean & she knew it.
Every Commander has secrets, bounties or fines lying dormant out there, and digging through his records she pieced together a pile of paid off officials, scuttled ships & hastily covered bounties. Now looking closer at his seemingly haphazard journey from system to system, she saw a pattern emerge. Every system he touched, a ripple formed. Factions on the back foot of a pending election would suddenly release political leverage over their rivals. Control of stations would swap as evidence of widespread corruption blindsided controlling factions.
Tricia was certain this Commander dealt in the commodity of knowledge, delving deeply into the collection and dissemination of confidential and highly sensitive material. And there, in amongst all, the references to A.C. returned. Tricia knew that this was the last opportunity she had to convince her superiors that they were ignoring a potential threat, and Commander Low was her one shot to uncover the truth.
Her research into Commander “Caffeine” Low, the nickname gained due to his early career as a glorified espresso delivery boy, hit the proverbial Mass Lock prior to his acceptance into the Imperial Naval Officers Academy. His Academy grades showed a level of mediocrity normally reserved for Federal Hauler pilots. Low hadn’t failed anything, he just managed to live up to his name by not being any good either. In fact, he was on the verge of being career land locked, before managing to scrape through his final flight exam. In combat grading he showed, barely, enough intelligence to not to immediately destroy his vessels. Imperial Naval Academy transcripts indicated he was destined for an illustrious career piloting Naval BioWaste scows, but then his own mouth scuttled even that opportunity.
It was Tricia’s all-time favourite vid-cording, and she’d replayed it often enough to know the script by heart. The scene played out in the Naval Academy’s formal ballroom, the recent graduates mingling with the societal high flyers of the Achenar court. Careers were made here & in Commander Low’s case, dramatically self-destructed.
“By all that’s frickin’ holy, what is this swill?”, Commander Low spat his mouthful of Ceremonial Hieke Tea back into the tiny cup he held.
“Ha, it tastes like the watered down residue I scrape from the inside of my flight suit after a run to Sag A…. but lacking any redeeming qualities!”
The buffoon laughed uproariously at his own crassness & then searched the room for reaction. He was met by a wall of mortified Naval Officers and one beet red face, belonging to the apoplectic Heike Ambassador.
“Oh, shiiii….”
Tricia found it hard to believe that anyone could trust such a moronic, loud-mouth to transport sensitive data, but apparently he was not only trusted, but also surprisingly successful. Now she was going to capitilise.
She’d made contact through an Imperial fronted mission broker, in a small trading outpost.
Commander Low had swaggered into the meeting all full of bluster & bravado. Apparently being dishonourably discharged into private service had done nothing to dent his self-importance. “All hull & no thrusters” as they say in the Outer Rim, the saying adequately summed up this barnacle on the hull plate of society.
She’d turned on the charm & spun a sad cover story about needing a good pilot to recover a Black Box from one of her family’s scuttled vessels.
“Lady, you can count on “Caffeine”, I’m the finest pilot in this quadrant & I don’t mind doing the dirty work… if you know what I mean?” he leered at her suggestively.
Tricia had to swallow a tiny dribble of bile that reflexively hit the back of her throat; she covered the action by clearing her throat.
“I’m just worried about my family’s rivals; they’ll be onto whoever picks that beacon up.”
He boomed with laughter. “I can handle the rough stuff too, darling!”
Yet another bald-faced lie, the Pilot Federation rankings had Low ranked as “Mostly harmless”. Apparently he’d stumbled on a Security Force firefight & tagged along behind the Anaconda peppering targets, sufficient to be awarded with enough kills to bump him up the solitary rank.
“Well, if you’re certain you can come through for me…. I mean my family.” She corrected herself flirtatiously, “I’ll be happy to hire you.”
Caffeine Low grabbed her outstretched hand & shook it.
“Accepted, maybe when it’s all done & dusted, maybe, uh, we could share a drink in the pilot’s lounge?” he asked, a touch less confidently than his previous persona.
“There’ll be plenty of time for us to get “acquainted” later.” She winked.
Sanchez couldn’t help but snort at the speed Commander Low bolted from the office.
And just like that the trap was set.
The “Black Box” was a spoofed decoy filled with illegal narcotics. Low would drop in, scoop up the box & return it to the station. Right into the waiting cordon of Imperial Security Vessels. Caught with a cargo of illicit goods, she would have the leverage needed to flip him and finally get to the bottom of A.C.
That was the plan, but it was definitely not playing out how she had envisaged.
"Interdiction Evaded” blurted the auto alert from the fourth unsuccessful attempt to drag him out of SuperCruise.
Any competent smuggler would’ve high-waked out of this system to allow it to calm down, maybe swapping vessels & slipping in unnoticed. Not so with Caffeine Low. He just kept slipping interdiction tethers & realigning his course to the station.
“Interdictor screen stand down. Let him through” Sanchez sighed.
Unable to control the incident in the emptiness of space she’d have to rely on clearing station witnesses from the landing bay & jumping on any leads before news of Caffeine Low’s apprehension made it onto the info channels.
“Clear Landing Pad 07, tell him to dock there” she ordered the Station Flight Control Officer, “And get a security detail down there to greet him.”
Sanchez stormed out of the Control Room & made her way down to Landing Pad 07. While Commander Low’s Imperial Courier went through docking procedures the security team set up.
Finally the sleek banana curved nose of The Emperors Bitter Bean entered the hangar bay. After the display of Interdiction evasion, Sanchez half expected another commander to walk down the ramp to greet her. But there it was, the same smug, gormless face she’d had a meeting with only hours before.
“I think this is what you were looking for.” He indicated the bog-standard black box container being unloaded from his cargo bay.
Sanchez checked the transponder details of the Black Box and smiled viciously.
“Commander Low, I arrest you under the Imperial Tariff and Contraband Act 173, for the importation of illicit narcotics into an Imperial held facility. How do you plead?”
“Whaaaa?” Commander Low’s face became a beautiful amalgam of confusion, fear & desperation. “I never done nothing of the sort lady. I just done brung you the data as you needed.”
“Open the black box, access code two-niner-Sierra-Echo, and show him exactly what he’s 'imported' into this station.” She ordered the security team leader.
She could hear the hiss as the decoy black box split apart.
“Uh… Ma’am?” the confused voice of the team leader cut through her good mood, “You need to see this.”
Sanchez stalked off to the opened black box, which lay open and empty. Well almost empty, a single data stick sat inside.
Snatching it up she whirled and thrust it at Low, “What the hell is this?” she snarled.
“I dunno, I just brought you what you needed.” He shrugged.
The hanger bay was silent as Sanchez grappled with her thoughts.
“So, can I get paid now?”
Low’s insipid, odious voice made her scream with rage. Sanchez glared at him before snarling.
“Get off this Station and out of this system…” the unsaid threat hanging in the air between them.
Sanchez turned and marched off, fuming with rage, to her rented quarters.
The data stick turned out to be just as useless as Low. The Imperial decryption techniques at her disposal indicated that the stick was simply full of gibberish and junk code. A virtual middle finger to herself and her now imperilled career. She sat in her bunk considering how she could explain away the resources lost in this failed endeavour.
An incoming communication alert dragged her from her self-pity. She almost didn’t answer.
“What do you want Low, come to gloat?” she snarled at her tormentor.
“No.”
The straight forward answer caught her off guard; she squinted at the image on screen, gone was the veneer of bluster & ineptitude. Instead, looking back at her was a face of calm and calculating menace. A cold even stare locked eyes with hers and she shivered.
“I meant what I said in the hangar bay, Agent Sanchez. I’ve delivered to you what you needed. All is to be found on the data stick…”
“I’ve looked; it’s all… just rubbish.” She interrupted.
“The decryption protocol is voice-keyed to you. You should be able to work out the pass code. Just remember, what you think you want & what we decide you need are often two very different things.”
“Why? Why should I trust anything you say?”
“Consider this a gift from friends. After all it’s always better to make new friends than enemies.”
With that the screen went blank. Tricia looked over again at the data stick, the conversation intrigued her. She reinserted the data-stick and looked over again the garbage displayed onscreen.
“Ayy Cee” she whispered.
The screen resolved into screeds of data. A career’s worth of mined data, communications channels, smuggling logs and piracy evidence against the Empire’s highest ranked criminal elements scrolled in front of her.
Sanchez couldn’t help but smile.