How I Got Here: "The Racketeer"
04 Oct 2023Columbuss
Commander Justin Estok. Stardate 4-OCT-3309."Desperation is... predictable."
They call it "going on the lam". This is the term people in 'The Life" use when they know indictments are coming down. With any luck, your organization will have someone on the inside who's on the payroll to tip you off to this kind of thing. Some investigator, somewhere, down on his luck who can use a couple of extra credits to let you know when things are happening. To let you know when the Federal Investigators show up. Those high level government detectives. Not your local "bulls". The kind of detectives who go by “agent” instead of “officer”.
Guys in "The Life" like Ardulo, or like me, we always looked out for these types of people. Divorced detectives. Cops with child support payments. A security chief with a gambling problem. That was always a plus. Guys like Ardulo, they survive on the corruptibility of your average, upstanding citizen. Never underestimate the susceptibility of the impoverished and underpaid. Never let anyone tell you that the people in positions of authority aren't for sale. Everyone needs something and everyone's loyalty has a price tag. Everyone except Aly.
If anyone else had been running the operation to go after Ardulo, he might have had time to run. If anyone else had been orchestrating what had happened after Ardulo's mining ships were adrift, he might have had time to charter a ship somewhere, out of system maybe. Perhaps even out of the Federation all together. He might have had time to burn his engines somewhere safe until the heat let up enough for him to come back and smooth things out with his bosses before they pumped his body full of plastic bullets. If it was anyone other than Aly, we might never have seen him again.
On Aly's command, Federal authorities executed search and seizure warrants on a handful of Loha Council properties just days after the Yellowstone was cracked open, spilling her crew and cargo into the void. This operation saw the arrest of dozens of key, high and mid level, Loha Council figures. There was only one, however, that interested me.
Onboard Whitworth, standing next to Aly and looking through the interrogation room glass, I take a final slow drag off of my cigarette before putting it out in the empty coffee cup in front of me. Exhaling the smoke, I glance over at Aly who takes another sip from the coffee cup still in her hands. Steam rises up from her cup, flowing over her lips and mouth, rolling up over her cheeks before disappearing just above her eyes.
"You bugged his club?" I ask.
"Before I handed over the...," she says, rolling her wrist in thought. "What are you calling it? The Norma Jean?"
"The best ships are always named after women," I reply.
"Then you'll have to name one after me," she says, glancing over at me before stifling a laugh and turning back toward the man behind the glass. "Anyway, yes. I knew he'd get jumpy once everything started to fall apart. Desperation is... predictable."
"How long have they been in there?" I ask.
"The attorney showed up about an hour ago. I laid it out for him before you got here. Put all the cards on the table. Even played him the recordings. Not much he can do now. Not with his voice on tape talking about murdering Walt and losing millions of his bosses credits." she says.
Taking a few steps away from the glass, Aly picks up the hot coffee pot on the nearby table. Holding it just to the right of her cup, she begins pouring, letting the Coriolis effect pull the coffee in an arc, watching it fall perfectly into her off center cup before placing it back down and stepping back toward the glass.
"It's all up to him now," she continues. "He'll either cooperate with us and live or he'll walk out of here and die on the street. They know who's fault this is... and he knows they know. It's only a matter of time."
I light another cigarette and exhale as the attorney straightens up, motioning toward the glass that they’re ready to talk. Aly sets down her coffee, straightening her jacket before heading for the door.
“I know you want in there... but it’s best you stay here, yeah?” she says looking back at me. “You can watch from here. I’ll get you the information you want but if they know we had a hand in Ardulo ending up here then my case is blown. Are we clear?”
With a nod, she turns the door handle and walks in the room letting the door slam carelessly behind her.
“Agent Sole’,” the attorney says. “My client is willing to cooperate with your investigation under the condition that he be exempt from prosecution for the crimes he’s currently being held for and any that may yet come as a result of the governments recent operation against his former organization.”
“Not going to happen,” Aly says confidently. “Your client is on record talking about the murder of a Federal Investigator. Your client is on tape admitting to interplanetary hijacking and conspiracy leading to theft of undocumented ore in excess of 500 million credits. One transmission to a Federal prosecutor and your client will serve a minimum forty years on a penal colony so far from civilization he won’t remember what water tastes like unless he sucks it off of a concrete floor. That’s if he isn’t killed by his own people first.”
“From where I’m sitting,” she continues. “Your client isn’t in any position to make demands.”
“Agent Sole, please,” the attorney continues, straightening his tie in a faux display of assertiveness. “You want what my client knows and he’s willing to provide it. Do me a favor... meet us halfway.”
“Give me a taste then,” she says, turning to Ardulo, sweat beading on his forehead. “Give me something Lorencian. Show me that you have something I can use. Intrigue me.”
“What do you want to know,” he asks, with a distant hint of Imperial refinement in his dialect. It’s an accent that a life time of living in privilege will give you. The kind of accent that knows there's an order in how silverware is laid out on a dinner table. The kind of accent with a trust fund behind it. The kind of accent that years in the underbelly of society, hadn’t quite washed out.
“Tell me about… Al Mina.”