RIG: The Mind of Markus CH01 Services
19 May 2021Alpha_Komodo
ServicesMy name is Nathan Rig. I was born on Earth in the year 3271 to a family of farmers who had long lost hope of ever leaving the system to terraform the now many inhabitable planets discovered not far from home. I was enlisted into the Federal Navy as an installation guard at the age of 16. It was sold to me as noble work, but I hated where I was stationed. Guarding scientists doesn’t exactly make for a fun and exciting way to spend your time enlisted. After thousands of hours at the range becoming familiar with all types of weapons and learning about the different environments of combat, I was promoted and stationed on FNS Striker, a battlecruiser that shames every combat ship in the universe. While I loved the station, I didn’t enjoy being a gunner as I rarely saw any combat during my initial duty period. It took a lot of hard work and getting very familiar with different crews aboard the station, and eventually I was able to be drafted as a fighter pilot in an F-63 Condor after a new pilot friend I had met failed a radiation screening. The physical requirements for being what we call an SLF pilot were strict, as fighters were limited when far away from home and any potential risks of losing ships from pilot error had to be mitigated down to the individual’s health.
Although I believed I had found my calling and my job satisfaction had quickly risen, it wasn’t long before I slowly became jaded with the experience. This isn’t to say I didn’t excel in my duties, I was top of my class and first rate, in the Commanders' own words. As time went on, though, and my youthful outlook became dull and weathered by experience, I found myself lacking motivation. This all came to a rise when I was sent on temporary duty to a research station in the Pleiades. While there, the station was attacked by a Thargoid sympathizer group who wanted to prevent research into anti-Thargoid weaponry and defenses. I had lost a lot of close friends to those bugs, so I certainly didn’t share the opinion of the enemy, but when all was said and done I had killed too many young civilians with rifles to forgive myself. Tod, a suite mate at the research station, wouldn’t shut up about how I seemed like I had just returned from the Thargoid mothership like a zombie. Something inside of me snapped back then, and it’s what led me to defecting from the Federation on my route back to my home station FNS Striker. While stopped in a populated system for fuel and navigation, I got on one of the crew relief ships docking with the station for supplies and never returned. I withdrew what credits I could into a secure account and paid pilot after pilot until I wound up somewhere on the opposite side of the bubble from Earth.
Low on credits and with life in prison waiting back where I came from, I had no choice but to use the skills I had developed over the years to get by. That’s when I met Lucile Backer, an Earth relic collector from the outer bubble who made a fortune finding a painite mining field near his home system. He wasn’t a miner, but he would sell the very sought-after coordinates to wealthy mining companies for millions of credits and devoted his life to collecting and preserving 20th and 21st century Earth relics. Lucile had a fascination with the industrial revolution and the technology developed between the second and third world wars. His specialty, however, was firearms. That’s how Lucile and I got along. As a blue eyed Earth kid with military written all over me, I caught his attention in a European styled pub and we hit it off quickly. I knew a lot about what made a firearm useful in modern combat and Lucile was very interested in how he could take some of his relics and make them into tools for modern bounty hunters with big pockets. All to fund his growing collection of relics, of course.
I remember it was only the second time we had met at that run down pub when he invited me to meet some ‘friends’ of his and see his collection. The rest is a spotted history of explaining battle tactics and using my experience at the range to improve Lucile’s high end bounty hunting trophies. I ended up getting involved with his friends’ hijinks enough that I had built a sort of name for myself in the surrounding systems as a lone wolf mercenary. Before long, Lucile had developed a new method of manufacturing ammunition for relic Earth guns that made them useful in any sort of atmosphere and very effective at range even on high gravity planets where some terrorist cells would hide in an effort to avoid dealing with the large ships that would normally perform close air support or low orbit strikes. Because of my help, Lucile gave me a code for manufacturing the ammunition, and a weapon that could use it. He said it was custom built sometime in 2056 and chambered in .338 Lapua Magnum. Although it had intense recoil and the added ballistic calculator would have to reset between shots because of the nature of legacy ammunition, he assured me it would be capable of handling anything out to three kilometers on Earth. That’s where I had earned my death signature, a bounty hunter’s way of staking claim on a kill, a sort of modus operandi as it were. My signature meant I was recognizable now as a full fledged mercenary capable of being recognized with high regard in the large circle of mercenaries.
“Quite the story you’ve got there, menda, you thinking about being an author now eh?” Lucile chortled. His cigar breath still made me recoil to this day as he hung over my shoulder.
“Of course not, old man. I’m trying to write my death writ. It’s bullshit, I know, but I’m human.” I sighed. A writ was like an autobiography of those who died, stored in escape pods and on suit data storage in case of death.
“Bah, nothing but a picture of my chode on mine! AhHaHa!” laughed Lucile as he turned towards the exit of the workshop. “Me and the mikoa are headed out to Rocky’s for a pint brother, stop being a baby over the terminal and join us!”
“I’m coming, alright? And fuck off. You know my old man never made one. I’m not going out like that.” I shot back. My father died only a year after I abandoned the Federation and no writ was recovered. It hurt to have no stories to remember him by, but most importantly it hurt knowing his memory would fade with no record.
“No harm meant menda, honest. Let’s go focus on the finer things like Razla intended!” Lucile jokes. He was lighthearted to a fault, but the consistency was nice.
Following Lucile away from the workshop I turn back to see the terminal log off and power down with no user nearby before I take a deep breath to clear my thoughts of negative things. Today Lucile promised to introduce me to someone at the local Rocky’s pub who ‘has a lot of credits and not a lot to ask’, whatever that means. The hallways of Crimson Exchange were nothing unique apart from being occasionally marked with graffiti from the riff raff who visited the station with stolen goods. A system like hip 10792 was a common place for mercenaries and relic collectors alike to be seen doing business and sometimes residing, as stolen Earth relics were about the only kind of relics that could be bought this far from Sol, and the mercenaries often got plenty of business from nameless faces who had said relics re-stolen. It was a healthy economy of degeneracy, and it kept me on my toes. Not far from the dock Lucile now owned and used as a workshop, one of the main visitor centers of the station was nestled between a few large docks mid-way between the airlock and control center in the back of the pressurized ship bay. With polymer windows covering the ceiling and walls, I could see all sorts of ships passing through. Scrap heaps with disproportionately sized guns slapped onto the few working hardpoints and freshly painted bounty hunter ships who looked about as young as the pilot were a common occurrence. What I wasn’t expecting to see was a majestic looking combat ship docked caddy corner to the visitor center. As if on purpose, it had yet to be lowered below the deck and was facing away from the airlock with the floodlights illuminating it’s clearly old but well maintained exterior.
“Don’t see many of those here.” I muttered, mostly to myself, but Lucile knew what I was referring to.
“That’s his, brother. Our guy. Told you he has pockets, menda.” Lucile replied while holding up a hand to point out the also conveniently situated pilot sitting below the Anaconda in my line of sight.
His face was almost shaded by his classical Earth style haircut, not much different than the style I wore back during my time serving. The way he held his head low and the lights above him shown down, it gave the man an ominous presence. It was a picturesque scene of a mysterious man with too much money and not enough answers. I hate these kinds of jobs, and Lucile knows this. For Lucile to still invite me, there must be a good reason. We keep walking forward, but Lucile turns quickly for the bar to order a drink and take a seat. I follow suit as clearly this client doesn’t want to be too obvious about his meeting with us. Probably never hired a mercenary before, because he sticks out like a slave in a luxury ship dealer.
“He will come over here. Insisted in the voice letter he sent. Must be some sort of hotshot, eh? Buddy from the Navy? Eheheh” Lucile chuckled, which admittedly pulled on a smirk I had been holding in.
“He say anything else?” I ask, curious if Lucile was going to warm me up to his proposition or not.
“Not a peep, just said he’s looking for the mercenary with the relic rifle and that he’s looking to hire. Nothing I know else menda.” Lucile said flatly. Clearly nothing of note, Lucile only ever sounded this bored when the riff raff came asking if I could get hired for under a thousand credits.
“Where is the crew at? I thought you said they’d be joining?” I ask Lucile after realizing I was too focused on the very expensive ship outside to notice it was only the two of us.
“They are coming brother, busy helping that guy with his ship. So many cannons take a lot of shells you know? Offered to pay ‘em double the rate if they got him extra hot stuff.” Lucile explained casually. It wasn’t uncommon for the crew to offer premium ammunition for a premium price, but double the loading rate seemed off. This guy either took them for a charity case or has some other motives.
And just in time before the conversation went to drinking games and Lucile had a chance to lose his cool, I became aware the pilot in the corner had taken a seat next to me. This close, I can clearly tell at this distance he isn’t nervous like I thought he would be. He seems to be extremely calm and also sits with great posture, something I learned was common with Navy folk. But the ship, the suit, nothing but his character and hair screamed Navy, so he must be either fresh out or very familiar with their customs. He orders a drink as I take one last moment to note his sandy blonde hair, his aging but youthful complexion, and not all uncommon blue eyes. Nothing about him appeared to be synthetic, and I would guess he is likely no older than 50 years. Pretty young for a retired Commander but old enough for a seasoned independent fleet owner. Probably some kind of entertainment personality from the inner bubble, or a political figure’s relative, but not one I recognized right away.
“You are Nathan Rig, right? I’ve been looking for you.” The pilot said calmly while also portraying a sense of seniority in his tone. Not quite degrading, but commanding.
“That’s me, I prefer just Rig now. What’s so important you find me?” I ask, trying to gauge his motive for finding me in particular.
“I have a need for your services, and I think you’ll particularly like what I have to offer if you succeed.” He replied steadily after a sip of the drink he had ordered. So far, he was looking forward staring into what seemed like the black of space and avoiding eye contact.
“Got a lot of credits then I suppose?” I ask bluntly.
“I’ve got credits, but I think you’ll be more interested in the position I can offer you if you succeed. You’ll still be paid of course…”
I cut off the pilot before he can waste more breath, but I try to remain polite. “I don’t do tours Commander, I do jobs. Whatever position you are offering, I’m not interested.”
“It seems your mind is made, Rig. Call me Kade. I’m not your commander yet.” Kade replied evenly, and as if to add punctuation he finally made eye contact during his last sentence. There was nothing about his face that was alarming, but his composure was still rather authoritative and my instincts from the military training responded by leaning a few centimeters away.
“Nice to meet you, Kade. So, assuming it’s still on the table, what’s this job you’ve got?” I ask cautiously. This guy seemed well off and I wouldn’t mind having enough credits to hire a pilot with a decent ship rather than pay for a taxi.
“Forty-five million credits. Activist by…” Kade is cut off when I cough on my drink before apologizing and letting Kade continue with his outrageous offer.
“Activist by the name of Markus Ifukube. You may have heard the news he was dead, well, he isn’t. I think he is working on the edge of the bubble and plotting some sort of terror act after his campaign failed with those NMLA groups. He’ll have state of the art security, he’s got a lot of political power in the outer bubble and a lot of loyalists, and his last known location is where he died.” Kade paused so I could think for a moment and he could down some of his drink.
I had heard of this Markus guy in passing, but nothing concrete. Just a few overheard conversations about political campaigns that I didn’t care to listen further into. Politics never was my strong suit, but it did raise concern that someone would be willing to pay so much for me to kill a political figure I had hardly heard of. Most small time heads of the chair or activists usually only rake in half a million on the high end, and most of that cost goes into the risk of the job.
“I take it there is more to this. What’s so special about this activist that he is worth forty-five million credits?” I finally ask.
With what sounds like a suppressed chuckle, Kade looks me in the eye, “It’s not what he’s done, boy. It’s what he is doing and what he is going to do. I have reason to believe he got his hands on ‘goid tech and plans on using it to attack civilians to make a point. Either that or he is going to bring it to the heart of the Federation and the Empire each and see how many important lives he can take in one go. But at that price, I’m sure you aren’t all that concerned. It sure is surprising you took no offense to me not having any idea where he is. How do you plan on finding him?” Kade asks with a hint of a smile.
“It’s a trade secret, but I can make it happen. Depends on when you need it done whether I can do it or not.” I state, expecting a response.
“I also don’t know how long. All I know is it needs to be done before he can do anything terrible. If it helps, I’ll give you every bit of intel I have as soon as I get it, and I’d hope you can do the same.”
“That would be helpful for sure, but only if you tell me everything. Any missed details are a death sentence.” I remark. It’s true, in this line of work secrecy between the client and hire can mean dangerous situations.
“Of course, Rig. You have my word. All I need is for you to take Markus off the playing field for good. Hell, I’ll even pay you a part of the reward if you can at least get me and my crew close enough.” Kade offers.
“I’ll take that, but you must already know I have a solid track record, so it shouldn’t be necessary.” As I finish speaking, Kade is already touching his left wrist, and I hear a chime that lets me know contact information has been saved.
“I’ll be in touch then. I have other duties to attend so I won’t be of much help outside of intel. Good luck Rig.” Kade finishes his drink and stands, now seemingly not worried about whether or not the meeting is obvious. Strange, but I don’t focus on it too much.
I stand after Kade and he offers his hand to shake, and I grasp it firmly before giving his hand a single shake like I had done with so many Commanders before. I may refuse to salute, but after offering me a lifetime of credits for one moderately difficult job, I felt it appropriate to show some respect. He stood a few centimeters taller than me, myself being around 182cm meaning he was likely 185. He was leaner than I was, not uncommon for his type, but he was clearly in shape. As he left I sat back down in my bar stool and finished my drink. My heart finally felt safe enough to start beating with excitement and at that moment I looked over to Lucile who had been quiet most of the discussion. No wonder why, his jaw was still agape after what he had just listened to.
“Killa ni deom menda, that’s a fuck ton of credits for one kill… I… Are you sure about this? I mean I thought one, hell maybe two! But forty-five?! BaHaHa! This is either one stupid pilot or one tough maka!” Lucile bellowed loudly, likely relieved to let out his anxiety over the profit. Forty-five million was more than half of the credits he had likely ever made in his entire career selling hot ammunition and trading relics. Still only a portion of the money he made selling coordinates, but an absurd amount of credits for one kill.
“I still don’t know how I’m going to find the guy, you know as well as I do that the trade secret is a quarter luck and three quarters taxi fees. This mark doesn’t want to be found and it sounds like he’s got the resources to stay hidden.” I reply, still relaxing from the rush of excitement. This is the kind of score I’ve been waiting for, something to get away from all the killing. Retiring early with a light ship of my own.
“Bah, menda, it’s easy. I’ve heard of this guy Markus before. Yeah… sneaky fuck but like that fedma said, he’s into politics. All we gotta do is some data chasing. You let me take care of the finding for say… five million? The rest is up to you! HaHaHa!” Lucile was optimistic as ever. I had relied on him to help scope out sneaky marks before, but I still feared it would be some time before I got some useful information. Until then, I was going to drink like it was payday, cause this was time to celebrate.
“That sounds fair to me old man, but you better come through” I reply with a smile.
Finally the crew appeared at the entrance to the Rocky’s. Among the three were two riff raff named Tom and Elias who were born slaves in the middle bubble and found their way out here, and the third was Klein. Klein was a fixer born and raised in hip 10792, and she is the reason Lucile stayed. She was able to get a busted manufacturing unit running and even programmed it to work with tweaked tools that could handle the harsher materials for Lucile’s premium ammunition. All she wanted? To be the exclusive technician for any of Lucile’s future endeavors and free drinks at Rocky’s. Lucile and I stood to welcome them in before we all took our usual booth seats next to the bar and ordered a few rounds, and as Lucile softened up he went on and on about everything I could do with the credits, and even got Klein to hop in by offering to fix up any ship I bought ‘real good like grala’ like she always said. It always got a laugh out of the group, as grala was the nickname she had given to a modified Imperial Eagle that came to the workshop and left with less on it than when it had arrived. Sure, the pilot got what he wanted, but Klein was essentially paid double.
Klein stood and cleared her throat, “To na menda and his many treasures!” Klein exclaimed, holding her glass up to beckon a sort of cheers, to which the rest of us happily joined in. “To Razla!” We exclaimed in unison before finishing our glasses and moving on to the next round with rosy cheeks and young smiles.