Shoot. Bang. Money.
20 May 2019Dixon-Phyre
A whirling cloud of debris bounces off Danger of Death's shields as the pirate ship disintegrates. I'm trying not to grin manically, and failing.Bolg system, compromised nav beacon, an embarrassment of riches.
"Dixie three, pirates nil!"
I've not even been here ten minutes. The Fer-de-Lance is working out just fine. Engineering has squeezed the jump range up to twenty light years, which is good enough for me. And no complaints about the firepower.
Shoot. Bang. Money. Simple enough. More fun than slogging around in a tramp freighter.
I'm discovering the downsides, though. Yeah, there's the risk factor. So choose your targets carefully. Be prepared to run, if needs be. All these things you can learn from grizzled old pilots who haunt starport taprooms, for the price of a beer or two.
There's something I definitely wasn't expecting though: A couple of weeks back, after a particularly frustrating run out, tired and a bit grouchy, walked into my favourite bar on Angus Manwaring. Early evening, station time; the place was maybe a quarter full. Silas the barkeep placed a cold glass of my usual on the faux-wood surface, and grinned at me through his thick black beard. "Hey, Dixie man, see you're getting the famous now, yeah?"
Having savoured the first mouthful of pale ale, I looked at him with a raised eyebrow. Thickset, olive skin and wavy black hair tied back.
"Run that one by me again?"
His grin got wider, and he gestured to the door leading to the back bar. One reason I liked this place was that the television screens were in a separate room. "Seen you on the TV, man! Well, seen that asskicking ship you fly. She called Danger of Death, yeah?"
I nodded slowly.
"Right there, man, on that Bounty Hunters! show."
I groaned inwardly. Typical brainless reality-show rubbish.
"You should do an interview. Get your face on screen! You get pretty girls chasing you!" He winked and moved down the bar to serve someone. I took a long drink, then muttered under my breath, "Bullshit. Fame. Just what I need..."
Asp Scout, harassing a Type-7. Let’s have a look…yep. Fifty-k bounty on that one. He might be a combat rank above me, but Lakon Asps are such lovely easy targets from above. Shoot, bang, money!
The Type-7 lumbers away. I look at it, and remember something else I’ve been told...almost every ship in a compromised nav beacon zone has something to hide. Do I take a peek? Ah fuck it. That manifest scanner is getting dusty.
*Ping*
The scanner finishes prying into the Type-7’s hold, and I bring the results up. Tobacco. Narcotics. And then my chest tightens.
Slaves.
If it was just the first two…well, I couldn’t have given a Thargoid’s rectal orifice. Baccy is legal in some places; and as someone who used to deal dope, can’t really argue the other. But slaves. Not Imperial slaves either. If I could save them, somehow; but I can’t.
Shoot, bang, money. Simple enough? Suddenly, not any more. I can let the Type-7 go, and know that those poor bastards will go on existing in a living hell. Or I can set them free, end their torment.
My finger squeezes the trigger. The Type-7 returns fire, but it merely tickles my shields. It’s all over in a couple of minutes. For the first time since I started doing this gig, I feel sick. That wasn’t justice, it was just plain murder. I can only hope that the slaves, in sleep-time for transport, didn’t feel anything before my guns ripped the freighter apart.
Yet there is something else too. I’d never understood why pirates bother with what they do, surely you can make much more money trading or exploring or mining. But now I realise the appeal. And the fact that I do realise, revolts me.
I stow weapons, turn the ship and jump into supercruise, heading for the system’s main station. I have bounties to cash in and a very big, ammo-hungry multi-cannon to restock. And then I need to find a bar, and have a serious think about things.