Kip Tips
28 Jan 2023Ned McReady
They say familiarity breeds contempt.They say loose lips sink ships.
They say a secret shared is a secret no more.
That's where you'll find me: hanging inconspicuously --wholly unnoticed-- at the Legrange Point between these things that They say.
There's treasures there. I've made many fortunes. And reliably enough that I can spend them in their entirety, and always make more.
I call them "Kip Tips".
And they can be farmed at another figurative Legrange Point.
There's a point of no gravity just the right distance away from an outpost bar: away from those hanging-around, furtively looking for commander-based solutions to their settlement problems. And just the right distance from a couple of commanders leaning elbows on those high bar tables, that act both as support and pivot-point for glasses of aged Lavian to be moved easily between table-top and mouth.
They'll idly chit-chat, shields still up as I magna-clump my way to a seat.
They'll give me a sideways glance as that magnetism seems to ramp-up, pulling me down heavily to sit, pulling on jaw and eyelids.
And they'll go quieter as I succumb to feigned sleep. Shields at fifty percent.
But it's the loll of the head and that little bit of tongue exposure, out from loosened jaw that clinches it.
They'll often snigger, and I can feel their stares. A sixth sense.
But they've all been there. Dog-tired from the spaceways. Supercruise to supersnooze.
And then it all begins. Familiarity, to lips, to secrets.
Shields down. Here we go.
There's a clink of glasses, and in moments an ego staggers out into traffic, grabbing a secret to steady itself, jeopardising both. And this time --unbelievably-- I actually recognise the ego's voice... Socho drawl with a dash of clipped Leesti: a blend I've only ever heard once before. Whoever said space is big?
Socho-Leesti had had a once-in-a-lifetime super-lucrative opportunity to deliver a specific number of ...ah... "tools of liberation" to a group seeking "freedom from oppression". It wasn't a mission to be found on the 'boards lest these "freedom fighter" lose their all-important element of surprise.
Imagine Socho-Leesti's surprise as he docked the next day, silent-running and with a hideous hangover, unable to offload his 127 units of firearms to a faction that had already mobilised; the first shots already fired.
They say the early bird catches the worm.
And I say loose lips buy ships, not sink them.
"You know when you're pulling petals, solo? And I don't mean your basic flowers..."
Oh dear. Such basic encryption. Socho-Leesti has evidently turned his hand to AX combat. I put him at Basilisk and no higher.
It's funny how quickly the format of a Kip Tip can be established. There's the simple "One-Uppers" where incremental competition is the order of the day. Some are what I call "Charm-Wrestles", where each participant pretends to listen to his companion whilst actually only working on something more impressive to say.
This would likely be full-on "Sermon": a monologue, with occasional pauses for effect and opportunities for the audience to add momentum to the flywheel of the story-teller's ego.
"You boost, ram and then hold the chargers and your nerve. Blam! Shields down!"
Fast ship then. Chieftain maybe; plenty hull reinforcements. Likely those enhanced plasma chargers. Nothing new here.
"And she'll roar in outrage then. Hit that heart. Hard. Then you turn and run."
Sensible. Pragmatic. Pick a petal, dock, fix, rinse and repeat.
"Drop a sink. Two maybe, if your chargers are still hot. High-tail it to the station."
Cool, cool. Fully understood, but these were just notes dispensed to a rookie. I start to ponder whether this Kip Tip will bear fruit, whether it's time for the yawn and stretch, to move to another Legrange.
"But she'll follow you, right? And that's what gave me the idea."
I defer the yawn and stretch, straining my ears once again.
"The bigger the flower, the bigger the ego. That beserk rage! They lose all rationality--"
He falls silent as a commander manga-clunks his way past.
"So," he begins again, a moment later, "I'm spamming boost back to the station with an enraged Basilisk ripping my hull up, and guess what slides-into view across the slot?"
Socho-Leesti's companion is either too in her cups or knows this is a rhetorical pause for effect.
"A friggin' Medusa."
And another pause.
"I turn and boost. Hull at twenty-three. But I glance over, and see my pursuer's salvo hit the Medusa square-on. Friendly fire right? Dead wrong."
Socho-Leesti noisily sips his brandy, the glass hitting the table like a gavel.
"Medusa goes friggin' bananas. Opens-up on the Basilisk! I can't believe my eyes! Basilisk still has the red haze from my petal-picking, probably figures it has the speed, and off they go, blasting at one-another!"
Socho-Leesti realises he's getting loud and lowers his voice.
"I watch it all, ready to run, but gradually finding I'm starting to enjoy the spectacle of it. Like the Gladiator Pits at Kamadhenu."
"Who won?" slurred Socho-Leesti's companion, making two syllables one.
"I almost wanted the underdog to win the day. Medusa won. But barely. Last petal, she was on. Shields down, exhausted. Like there was no-one home. They'd ranged-out far during the fight, but it ended right back by the station. And then I notice the other AX'ers, just hanging there, watching, just like me. And then we all just realised."
"What?"
"We all opened-up on the Medusa. Boom. Payday."
If this was the crescendo, Socho-Leesti's tone didn't betray it.
"That's it?" managed his single-person congregation, as if the spell woven from alcohol and anecdote had broken.
"No," said Socho-Leesti furtively. "THAT'S what gave me the idea."
They fell silent, and my sixth-sense kicked-in. I realised I was holding my breath, crossed the line into conspicuous. I drew a deep, ragged in-breath --like the sound just before an Energy Surge-- held it, then released it with an ugly rasp. I allowed a little drool to drop onto my Remlok.
"Then the Hydras come in. Two of them. What's the rule about attacking Hydras?"
"Don't?"
"That's right. You don't. Unless the other flowers have been lit-up with ten or more lasers, you'll just have noobs around and you can't win. Unless..."
"Unless?"
"Unless you manage to get between them fast enough for one of them to fire... and miss."
Socho-Leesti's audience was not fast enough to even apprehend the point.
"And do what?" But there was a tinge of irritation. "Do what?"
"Do what?" said Socho-Leesti. "Run away, of course! My hull was at twenty-three, remember!"
And I heard that last-moment decrescendo, the emergency brakes. But stupor didn't prevent me from extrapolating the intended crescendo:
One-hundred and twenty million credits to watch. two. Hydras. fight.
The excitement at the opportunity was too much. A yawn and a stretch and I was up, barely able to manga-clunk my way to my Cheiftain's pad quick enough.