A certain criminal flair.
21 Dec 2015Desert Fox CXVII
"Tower, this is Night Witch, requesting docking permissions."Static. I narrow my eyes and try again.
"Tower, Night Witch, request docking permissions."
There's more static for a moment, then someone answers. "Fuck you want?"
I'm taken aback. "Uh... Docking permission?"
The voice scoffs. "Yeah yeah, pick any free pad, and don't shoot anyone while you're here."
The connection cuts. This is definitely an anarchy system.
I crest the horizon of the station and the system's white sun comes into view. The station itself is a ratty old Coriolis model, covered in patchwork repairs and scorch marks. Eagles and Vipers sporting red and black paint jobs buzz around it in the most erratic patrol patterns I've ever had the displeasure of observing. Every once in a while a ship flies into or out of the mail slot. Half of them come up wanted, one or two are on my most wanted list. My finger twitches on the trigger, my old bounty hunter's instincts kicking on for a moment. Not what you came here for, Cassius.
Clenching my jaw and holding back the impulse to open fire, I guide Night Witch to the mail slot, kick off flight assist and drift through, matching rotation as I go.
Once I'm in, I guide her to a pad at the rear of the station and touch down. While the pad sinks into the bay, I send a ping to Lehman.
<Lehman: Just docked. Please advise on rendezvous location>
I knew it would take a while for him to respond, so I head for my cabin to change.
Since this is an anarchy system, it wouldn't be a good idea to head out in my usual attire. So I opted for something a little less ritzy; gray synth-cotton shirt, a tactical vest (complete with armored plates) and black cargo pants tucked into a pair of combat boots. To be fair, the shirt probably cost more than half of these people's entire closet, but at least I didn't look like a toff. As a final touch, I buckle a holster to my thigh and stick my pistol into it. Hopefully I wouldn't look like a juicy target to any would-be mugger, but I would at least be prepared.
Once I'm dressed, I return to the cabin; there is a message waiting for me.
<Nostromo Cantina, 10:00>
Nostromo? Wasn't that... nevermind. I check my watch: twenty minutes. Plenty of time. So I grab some directions to the pub, request a fuel team for Night Witch and head out.
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The streets of the station were dirty, narrow and filled with trash. I had to rebuff the advances of a few old, leathery looking dock knockers and step over the occasional junkie laying unconscious in the gutter a couple times, but other than that, my trip was uneventful.
After fifteen minutes of walking, I arrive at the cantina; It was a decrepit hole in the wall with an old flickering sign over the door depicting a ship being torn apart by some alien creature. Lovely place, I think to myself.
But not really having much of a choice, I step in. Immediately I'm assaulted by the smell of stale beer, tobacco smoke, mildew and frying grease. The bartender gives me a quick once over, and then goes back to counting credit chits. A couple of the other patrons shoot uninterested glances towards me as well, but like the barkeep, return to what they were doing without fuss.
I scan the dim room, my hand resting on the butt of my pistol; there are no more than seven patrons, all spread out around the various chairs, booths and stools in the cantina. In the corner is an ancient jukebox playing some sort of frontier folk tune.
I wasn't standing there for very long before I feel a hand on my shoulder. I spin on my heel and thrust my own hand out to push the person away, while reaching down to my hip with the other.
"Whoah, hey there, Fox. It's just me." Lehman is standing in front of me, his hands raised in surrender, a smug grin on his face. "You gonna shoot me or something?"
I relax, but glare at him. "No, but I might have. What the fuck, Lehman?"
"Sorry, sorry. Couldn't resist." He claps me on the back and starts guiding me towards a booth on the far side of the room. "Now, lets get something to drink. What are you having?"
"I don't think this-"
"Don't be an asshole, Cassius. What are you drinking?"
"Fine; Achenar Blue."
We reach the booth and Lehman signals the bartender with his hand. "A bottle of Old Sol and two glasses." The bartender grunts in acknowledgement and starts rummaging around behind the bar.
"Lehman-"
"So, you need help finding someone, huh?"
My glare deepens, but I nod. "Yeah. Her name is Anastasia Reid. She got onto my ship and-" I cut myself off as the bartender slams the bottle and glasses on the table between us. Lehman uncorks it and pours a healthy measure of the amber liquid for each of us.
Once the barkeep is gone, I continue. "She got onto my ship and-"
This time, Lehmans cuts me off. "Fucked you into a nice, deep sex nap, and ripped out the AI core, classified data drive, and your dignity. Now you need to find her, retrieve the goods, and put the fear of God into her. That about cover it?"
Somehow, my glare got even deeper. "Yeah, that's the general idea."
"So..." He takes a gulp of whiskey. "That's where I come in, I take it?"
I clench my jaw. Goddamn but did he want to drag this out. "Yes. Like I said over the phone, I can't do this the official way; so I figured, since you know certain people, you might be able to help me out."
He nods and takes another gulp, savoring the moment. "Yeah, I can help with that. But you'll owe me one."
"Oh no no no. You still owe me for pulling your ass out of that mine."
"Yeah, but you owed me for scooping you from the black. We're even."
"No way Lehman. I took down the Meat Locker for you. That counts."
"That doesn't count, Cassius."
I was starting to get frustrated. "The hell you mean it doesn't count? You asked for a favor."
"It was the greatest PR coup of your career. Besides, that particular favor didn't involve my ass being pulled out of a fire."
I grind my teeth. "Fine. I'll owe you one. Can you do it?"
He scoffs, adopting a look of mock indignation. "'Can I do it', he asks. "Cassius, I'm insulted." I level my finger at him and open my mouth to respond, but he cuts me off again. "Of course, I can do it. And since it involves a sexy, ship-sabotaging woman, I'll even do it for free."
"Good, when can you have it?"
"Three hours, minimum."
"I'll be on my ship. Ping me when you're done."
I get up to leave, but Lehman grabs my arm. "Since I'm doing this as a favor, the least you can do is pay for the drinks."
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My trip back to Night Witch was just as uneventful as the walk to the Nostromo Cantina. I got hassled by a couple dock knockers and drug dealers, but I didn't have to pull my gun once, so I'll chalk that up as a win. There were a couple skeevy looking types ogling my ship when I arrived, but a couple hard looks and some posturing scared them off quick enough.
And so I sat there, nursing a bottle of Achenar Blue, not that swill Lehman drank, and waiting for his ping. The bridge felt decidedly lonely without Lisa ribbing me about something, and the feeling only got worse the more I drank.
But after four hours, half a pack of cigarettes and the better part of a bottle, my console lit up. Lehman had come through; he had sent me the co-ordinates of a small cluster of stars my quarry frequented, deep in Utopian space. One station in particular seemed to be her stomping ground. It would be a long trip, but at least we have a treaty with Antal; if she had been operating out of the Pegassi sector, I'd have a serious problem.
So I take one last gulp of whiskey, send a sincere thank you to Lehman (I wasn't sarcastic at all, I swear), and plot a course for Carthage. There I'd pick up Boudica, fit her for search and destroy, and head out to Utopia.