The Laying Low Life
21 Sep 2023Harry The Hatchet
Going Underground8th January 3308.
Kopyl Mineralogic Claim, Nisa, Nang Ta-khian
Push button, alarm stops. Push button, coffee comes out. Push button, shutter opens and an SRV limps in. Unload rock, crack it, send it. Rinse and repeat. According to all outside observation Harrier Perry lives a very normal life. I know this because I've meticulously maintained Harrier's identity in my down time. I pay people to take on Harrier's ID and go to a restaurant, or take a holiday, or purchase personal goods, or experience what ever the local trend is this cycle. I pay top cred for data nerds to fabricate imaginary communications between Harrier and his imaginary family. This gives Harrier a fleshed out life for me to take on for the day I need to step out of the grey trade.
When I received a message from CMDR BlueMonday asking to meet him, I hoped he had good news for me. I'd paid him a lot to find traces of a good friend of mine, Sabbatine, who had disappeared during the Thargoid attack on the Gnosis. The whole event was a wash. It landed me a hefty fifty million credit federal bounty, and therefore the attention of every armed psycho in the galaxy. When I arrived at BlueMonday's hide out it was a smouldering crater. Someone had applied moderate ordinance to make sure my hacker was quiet. Then my bounty suddenly increased; up to one hundred and seventy million.
Thus, Harrier Perry's life is about to get slightly more active and Harry the Hatchet's life is coming to a swift end.
Normie Cycle
21st March 3309.
Kopyl Mineralogic Claim, Nisa, Nang Ta-khian
Today, like most days, Andria is telling me all about her big trouble with her current boyfriend. The base is small, and break room is smaller, and so it doesn't take long for news to orbit the whole staff. I don't mind listening to Andria and she's easy on the eyes. The challenge comes when I have to insert some gossip myself; I'm running out of things to make up and I'm beginning to repeat things. You can only make a fake identity stretch so far, and I'm pushing it with the hundred or so locals.
When I first arrived at the base I was sucked into conversations mercilessly; small work bases like this one don't get much traffic and even less staff transfers. Harrier Perry was the only transfer for eight months. The hundred and seventy million credit bounty did not arrive with him, thankfully. Now, a year on from transfer, this cleverly constructed identity is starting to thin. I need to get out of here. If any one of these bozos figure out who I am they'll tear me to shreds cash their shares of the bounty. One and a half million is a respectable bonus for any duster. Hell, I've shot a man for under half that. Am I getting paranoid?
Just as Andria gets into full swing, the base announces that a crawler has arrived. It's the perfect excuse to cut away and I'm not patient enough to let it go. I take my leave and tactically ignore my colleagues until I get to the loading bay. The crawler is perched there under the catwalks with this big hunk of moon rock strapped on it. It's one of the biggest samples I've seen in a while. The bigger they are, the more I enjoy cracking them. The rock is unloaded and the crawler rolls back out onto the surface obediently. Over the next several hours I carefully beat away rock with various loud drills; a hunk here, a hole there, pop the top, crack the sides. After a few days my work area is filled with irregular shaped rocks that shine with different ores and compounds. The boys down in processing are gonna love it.
The Fuzz
11th August 3309.
Kopyl Mineralogic Claim, Nisa, Nang Ta-khian
If a runner lives long enough a he develops a sixth sense. He tunes into the background radiation that law enforcement emits. There's a sort of dust that gathers around the edges, an odd look here, an inconsistency in your story there, a new face one the security force, a lull in local news as if it's clearing a slot just for you. A static builds and you can feel that nervous energy bouncing around the corridors. It's at times like these where a man runs for his gun. It's an amateur thing to do, but we all have our weaknesses.
I enter my coffin, open my stash, and rummage around. My money, my documents, and my gun are all gone. My Karma P-15, with its perforated barrel for decreased recoil, lazy mag well for speedier reloads, and it's all black anti-reflection paint job, has gone for a walk. The next morning, after our pre-shift scrum, I pull Tony aside. As our shift lead and, more importantly, defacto base lead, he'd be the man to talk to.
"Tony." I says. "Whats the protocol for a missing weapon on-base?" Tony scratches the muddy tattoo on his head, kicks the metal grating with his half-laced boots.
"There ain't one, Harrier. There ain't a protocol for that. And that's for a real good reason." He says. He looks at me sternly for a moment.
"What?" I ask.
"I'll explains it you, will I?" He replies. He walks me down the loading bay, slightly further away from the rest of the dusters.
"This is a civilian base, Harrier. There's no protocol for missing guns 'cause their ain't no guns here in the first place to go missing, see?"
"But" I begin. But he interrupts.
"If a gun is reported missing, well that is a very serious thing. Management would have come all the way here and run checks on everything. And everyone. It disturbs the peace, Perry. Really unearths everything. The rules don't say we gotta report a weapon on base, because their ain't any. We're a civilian base. Now, if a weapon's gone missing, we gotta report that. But if there isn't a missing weapon, we don't gotta. You understand?" We look at each other in silence for a moment.
"Yeah. I understand." I say. I head to my work station and busy myself with paperwork and tools. Tony knows who I am, and he's got my gun. I gotta get it back and get outta here. I gotta get back out to the black...