Shit out of luck.
11 Dec 2015Desert Fox CXVII
I woke up in the big bunk aboard Night Witch the next morning, expecting to find her next to me. But when I turned over, her spot was empty. Her clothes were gone from the floor as well. The only thing proving that the events of the previous night weren't some bizarre dream was the lingering scent of her perfume. I sit on the side of the bunk, looking bleary eyed around my quarters and scratching the back of my head. Probably for the best; saves me the trouble of kicking her out, in any case.
With a yawn and a mighty stretch, I haul myself to my feet and shamble over to the head for a long hot shower. Christ knows I need one after last night. So I shower shave, and start brushing my teeth.
Through the toothpaste and the brush, I call out the door and into my quarters. "Hey Lisa, prep the ship for departure. I want to be cleared for takeoff in twenty minutes."
No answer.
I grunt in frustration and spit into the sink. "Did you hear me? Start prepping the ship. It's a long way back to Carthage."
Still no answer.
"Jesus Christ, what did I do NOW?" I storm out of the head, wrapping a towel around my waist as I go. "Hey! are you listening?" I glare at one of the cameras in the room. The light is out and it isn't panning like it should be. My frown deepens. "You're not malfunctioning are you?"
Still, no response.
"Goddamnit. I'm coming down there. Don't make me do a factory reset on you." I grab my rail-pistol from the nightstand and tuck it into the towel at the small of my back. "Goddamned piece of shit AI." I grumble all the way to the lift and down to the reactor deck. I stomp to the door to the AI core and punch the botton to open it. "I swear to God, if this is- Oh shit." I stop in my tracks, dumbstruck at the sight before me.
The core had been savaged: cables had been exposed and shredded and the massive quantum computer had been slagged. But the worst part, the part that made my heart sink into my stomach and my head swim was the fact that the personality matrix and the data storage drive were missing. Not destroyed, not torn out and tossed across the room; fucking. Missing.
"Oh shit." I frantically tear the room apart, throwing shredded plastic and melted metal everywhere in my vain attempt to locate the two parts. "Sonofabitch, she fucking took them."
And then I stop, crouched low, head tilted, listening for any out of place sound on the ship, drawing my pistol at the same time. Nothing but the low, whirring hum of the reactor and the creaking of the ship. Slowly, I creep into the hall, sweeping the muzzle of the pistol to each side. Clear. Time to move on to the rest of the ship.
I must have looked so stupid, crouch walking around like a crab, clearing Night Witch deck-to-deck in nothing but a towel. It was slow work, and she was a big vessel, but I did it. Every room, on every deck. The woman was gone.
And with her, the records of every system I'd visited, the locations of Legion military outposts across the galaxy, our troop counts, everything the Feds or, God Forbid, Emperor's Dawn would need to give us a right old fucking.
So here I am, pacing back and forth in the bridge, still in that fucking towel, trying to figure out what to do. I called the manufacturer, to see if they could track the matrix; no dice. I couldn't call Imperius; he'd have me enslaved for incompetence. The Inquisition would have me executed for treason. My only option was to do this the old fashioned way.
I got dressed in my most intimidating black suit, put on my most over domineering glare, and settled myself in the cockpit. With a few quick keystrokes, I call up the local authority office.
"How can I help you today sir?" Damn; they just had to put the greenest looking rookie imaginable on duty.
"This is Praetor Fox of Lavigny's Legion. I need the records of every ship that passed through this station in the last week, along with all passenger manifests and crew files. Now."
"Um... sir... I don't believe that information is available to the public. Maybe-"
"Do I look like a member of the public? I am a representative of Her Majesty the Emperor!" That's not technically true, but these yokels don't know the difference. "Now, get me those records. I haven't got all day."
"Uh... sir..." The officer stammers. "I don't think I can... What I mean to say is... I don't have the clearance to release those files..."
Jesus H. Christ. "Well find someone who can." The officer hesitates. "Now," I growl through gritted teeth. He all but squeaks in fright and scurries off screen. These clowns are lucky I'm in a hurry; if I had the time, I'd get the Inquisition down here to flip this system so fast it would make these bumpkins' heads spin.
After a few moments and some quiet muttering, a thin man slides into view. He looks me up and down and scratches his rather long nose, obviously sizing me up. "I'm Captain Connolly; my man here says you need the spaceport records. Can I ask what you need them for?"
"No, captain, you may not."
"Uh huh. Well in that case, I'm going to need to see some identification. Can't believe everyone who comes through and says they're a 'Praetor of Lavigny's Legion,' You understand," the man drawls.
Inside I want to scream and order the man to 'give me the fucking records now or I'll have this station dismantled for scrap,' but I keep calm, maintaining my mask of haughty disinterest. "Of course, captain." With another set of quick keystrokes, I forward my Pilot's Fed and Legion IDs to the captain.
I hear a soft 'ding' as they are received on his end. "Uh huh. Mmm... Hmm." He studies the IDs for what seems to be an hour, but what is in reality and extremely frustrating few seconds. "Seems to be in order, sir. When did you need those records?"
"Yesterday, Captain." I certainly could have used them yesterday; might have avoided this whole situation.
"Well, sir, I can't do that. But I can get them to you today," he says. "Give me one moment."
I sit in my chair, tapping my finger on the throttle impatiently.
Finally he speaks. "There, you should have them now, sir."
"Thank you, captain. That is all."
"Anything for Her Maje-"
I cut the connection. Thank god for jaded and overworked police captains.
---------------------------
For the next hour and a half I pour over the station records, sifting through Joe Blows and Tits McGees, looking for the woman with that deep purple-red hair. As I was nearing the end of the list and starting to loose hope, I found her.
Anastasia Reid, flying the Core Dynamics Vulture, Golden Tide.
I all but whooped for joy. I had a name. Now all I had to do was track her.
And I knew just the man to call.