NationStates Jolt Archive

[OOC: I noticed that I don't have a canon, IC dump thread for developments in the Collective Protectorates of the Homeland (formerly Liberated New Hope). So, like Vernii, I've decided to make a progress thread. Of course, fellow Raumreich Oversector regionnaires can post if they have something pertanent to say or do within the situation, but it's kinda just my thread. It all begins with Darius's State of the Collective speech a few years after The Attrocious War, or as you guys call it, The Coalition War. Enjoy.]

Trinidan, True Hope, The Morning Star

Few follow the Liberation Year calendar. Few ever did after Vernii arrived and opened up the lonely system to the rest of the Reich. It exists as a nicety, a formality, and a requirement in political process. True Hope makes its round about the Morning Star at great haste, resulting in the popular joke that it means to catch up with older calendars like Alpha Centauri’s. Still, though, every Liberation Year Darius must stand before Congress, just as he wrote would be his duty—as if they even required it of him, and tell of his nation’s doings.

The Collective Congress makes its home in the temporary capitol, Trinidan, while Hamunaptra is rebuilt. The Congress’s schedule, then, indirectly coincides with that of the Trinidan City Assembly as they now share the same building and, while a special hall is still being prepared, the same hall. This often requires that one meet directly after the other, as it is required this day, and pages still move silently up and down the rows, switching out nameplates as the meeting convenes.

The Assembly Hall looks more like a great old Opera house than a government building. Its walls crawl with ornate paintings (who’s frames may arguably out-do the art itself) and each column spirals upward in relief-carved, finished black granite. Balconies and sections and rows and rows of soft, red chairs, each with a desk in front, fill the floor, all leading to room’s business end. On either side of the front are two great pulpits, either one made of yet more black polished stone and allowing whoever speaks to address both the house and the speaker. In the middle, taller than the other two—seemingly a hardened citadel—and twice as wide is the Speaker’s pulpit from which he conducts the Assembly’s business. On either side of the Speaker, within the pulpit, are reserved seats for the Mayor and his Deputy if they can attend. The city’s Speaker and that of the Collective shake hands before the former gives his seat to the later.

When the City Assembly holds its place in the hall, the room bursts with activity. Most seats hold a city representative, if only the occasional sleeping one, and there is much to do. When Congress holds session, though, the room takes on a different feel. It is only required by The Great Charter that each Protectorate be represented by a number of votes in Congress proportional to its population in the Collective, not by a proportional number of representatives; some protectorates only send a few Representatives, each with a handful of votes. Thus Congress only takes up the front three rows of the hall and only that on the date of an especially interesting occasion. The Assembly Hall’s intricate and very expensive PA system, when Congress holds the hall, goes un-used. The hall is a vast echoing chamber, ghostly quiet despite the dronings on of daily business.

The Representatives approach their seats and two sets of eyes meet to the surprise of one. Representative Hamdi Jaheen of the Free Republic of Anies greets his counterpart from his home’s sister star, Milligan. “Dr. Rizq, I’m surprised you found time to attend,” he remarks, taking his seat. His Arabic is less than polite.

“You know how it is, Mr. Jaheen,” the doctor Mostafa Rizq returns in plain English, looking around to see who else is in attendance as he unbuttons his jacket. “Even I need a break from robbing widows and kicking babies.”

“You know, that joke was a lot funnier when I thought it wasn’t mostly true.” Hamdi raises an eyebrow and is suddenly very happy with himself. “And there’s no need to be humble. We all know that if being an evil bastard were an endurance sport you’d have the medal.”

There is a pause and the doctor takes his seat next to Hamdi. “Y'know, you really could out-do me if you practiced. You're just so busy. Kissing asses.”

Hamdi rolls his eyes, which draws their attention to the door where Representative Marion Parsons from New Hope had just entered. He abrubtly changes back to Arabic. “Shit, it’s Parsons—don’t look. Is he coming over here?”

Mostafa dreads as even he begins to codeswitch back to his first tongue. “I don’t know. You told me not to look. Anyway, if he does come over just make jokes about his wife until he gets pissed and storms off again.”

Hamdi holds back a laugh. "Sniveling German. If he comes over here buggering us to support the church vote again I'll whack him with your cane." Thankfully, there is a sigh of relief.

“No worries, Hamdi. We’re in luck,” Mostafa notices that Darius, followed by the usual swarm of additional OCO operatives spreading to secure the hall, had just approached the pulpit, “the speech is about to start.”

Darius sorts through a thin stack of leaflets as the remaining congressmen find their way to their seats. He starts before they can finish. “Gentlemen and Ladies of the Congress, I have come to report the Collective’s progress for this past 316th year of our Liberation.” He lacks his usual whimsy; whatever representatives are paying attention can tell it’s a busy day for the guardian. The event will be televised a few hours later (after proper editing, of course), giving the public a view of the man in this rare form. He either doesn’t care how he'll be viewed or thinks it’s a good idea to be seen speaking to his government in such a serious tone; either one can be argued. “It pleases me to, first of all, report to you that we have successfully secured the new territories.” A seated applause greets what is really a weeks-old, half-truth. “Naval production charges on and recruitment numbers are on the rise. The Silver Fleet now shelters Anies, Milligan, the Evening Star, Achilles, and Yetti’s Star under its wing, ending the threat of foreign invasion and cutting piracy by two thirds in only the past two months.”

While Darius carries on, Jafar Karawain, brother to the former Fleet Admiral and leading representative of Lucion in the Evening Star, does not protest the guardian or remind him that only his system, out of all the new territories, holds a fully functioning defense fleet (and hardly needs it, considering the Vaku are on the other side of the Reich). Neither would Adara Cohen of Yetti’s Star, who struck the deal with Darius’s himself that allowed the Jacobowitz crime syndicate to secure the system themselves with their own private fleet of alien mercenary craft. No one could afford to shed any light: they all had something to hide. They all remain quiet as he rattles off crime statistics that, for all they know, could be true.

“… and while crime plummets in our outstretched Collective, productivity shoots skyward…”

Darius lists off more fun facts about the collective’s growing economy but Mostafa has already drifted off to think about the return trip to his ridiculously expensive home on one of the ridiculously expensive orbital communities recently towed from Vernii (likely towed at ridiculous expense) and put over New Hope. He specifically does not think about the poor Clusterfolk that moved out from afar to the meteors of Milligan for work. They found work and not much else, certainly not much pay. Mostafa makes sure to stay awake, though. He’d hate to drool on his new suit.

“… Let us not forget about Director Kafni and the Bureau of Education’s sweeping progress in expanding to the new territories, as well as taking over the formerly private schools here at home…”

Garret Kafni sits along the side of the hall in one of the many cherry-wood chairs, along with whatever other officials found time to come or knew they were to receive praise. Darius gestures his way: more applause. Garret smiles but so does just about every one else in the room. Darius’s education policies are some of the most well received in the Collective. Hamdi’s applause stands out among many. With the help of Collective funds, the Republic of Anies has built the most progressive and well respected school system in the new territories. Mostafa’s applause is especially energetic, as well. He is at least partially sure that education funding paid for his trips to Sol last year, and possibly that year’s wardrobe.

The speech drones on, checking off progress in “security,” “social justice,” and “civil rights.” Listening in through various planted electrical equipment in a shabby hotel room a few miles away, two Kuma Adad operatives chuckle.

After the meeting is adjourned, the various representatives and secretaries and who-else stand from their seats, either to make speedy escapes or to glad hand whoever need be glad handed. Mostafa extends a hand to Hamdi before leaving. Hamdi raises an eyebrow before receiving it.

“Will I need to wash this hand after we’re done?” he asks.

Mostafa smiles. “You take this far too seriously, Hamdi. Your heart will give out before the decade and the replacements never work as well. I’ll meet you on the green tomorrow morning?”

“10:00 AM tee time as usual.” He finishes the shake. “Until tomorrow.”

[OOC: Soon to come, specific updates on the new territories as well as the remaining two old ones.]

Trinidan, True Hope, The Morning Star. At one of the many artificially-maintained golfing greens atop the planet’s desert surface…

The satisfying click of a well struck golf ball lets gives Hamdi Jaheen enough confidence that he need not watch it fly to its destination. He inhales the atmosphere around him—a deep, cleansing breath—the smell confirming his lush surroundings. “There is nothing sweeter than the smell freshly cut grass.”

“You’ve got an odd choice in real-estate, then” replied the doctor Mostafa Rizq from the golf cart, remarking on Hamdi’s home on Anies, a world enveloped in ocean waves. “And an odd talent for a sea-going fellow. Dear God, Hamdi. If you were as good on the congressional floor as you were on the golfing green we’d all be babbling Progressives.”

“You can shut it, Doctor. Your only skill on the floor is knowing you’ve got a fatter wallet than anyone in the room.”

“It’s a fine skill.” Thinking of his wallet, Mostafa is suddenly reminded of an upcoming trip. “By the by, are you free later this month? I’m planning an outing to Yetti’s Star and figure I could publish some embarrassing, drunken pictures of you and some tart before the next election.”

Hamdi smiles. “You’ll have no such luck. Besides, Adara and his boys are always up for a good time.” Hamdi speaks of Adara Cohen, representative of Yetti’s Star’s miniscule population (of citizens, anyhow), and his sons who run various gambling and discotech establishments (prostitution is assumed) orbiting the gas giants of the system.

Mostafa is mildly disappointed as his places his ball on the tee, preparing to swing. “I suppose. I guess I mostly wanted you there to see these new alien mercenaries that are supposedly crawling all over the place.”

Hamdi’s eyes widen. “Oh, I’d heard! Something about Vaku ex-patriots.”

“Oh, its more than just Tabbies. You remember that show that was on HBO a few years ago, Ape Wars?”

Hamdi nods.

“Yes, well, as it turns out the whole thing was real!” Mostafa swings and is somewhat disappointed with the results, shading his eyes to watch his ball fall short of Hamdi’s shot. “Apparently the local affiliate sold the local race, the Krolor—the apes—ships with cameras and microphones installed and then just edited together the good bits, like some reality show.” The two of them take their place in the golf cart and pursue their shots. “Anyhow, if you watched the show to its end you’ll know the Tabbies come in and ruin everything, causing most of the Krolor to flee in exile. Apparently the Jacobawitzes, not wanting the Silver Fleet in their business, hired a good lot of this exile fleet to patrol the system and guard the all-you-can-eat buffets.”

“That is simply amazing. But there are Vaku working there, too, yes? That would just be too rich.” Hamdi is excited at the whole dramatic prospect, but suddenly feels ashamed for taking so much pleasure in a people’s misfortune.

“Oh, it is too rich. I swear, only under Darius could there be a casino-system run by the Jewish Mafia and guarded by space-apes.”

Hamdi feels ashamed of his humor enough to remain silent all the way through his next swing, but is cheered by that satisfying “click.”

Yetti’s Star

The system Yetti’s Star has always been there, but the establishment—this new orbiting city—of Yetti’s Star had cropped up in only a few years. It started with a few freighter-stops orbiting just off of Y-1. Then came the Verniians to guard the wormhole terminus, followed shortly by anything that could be vaguely labeled as “shore leave.” As the freighter traffic increased, so did the orbitals. Then came the Jacobawitzes.

The Jacobawitz family’s influence in the Liberation has always been subtle. More of an organization like the old Houses on True Hope than a traditional family, they use their weight to sway government and business in the Homeland. Their real capacity, though, is as an open secret: a crime syndicate too powerful for Darius to directly confront. They smuggle, they deal in substances, and weapons. They saw in Yetti’s Star, though, a chance to have more overt control over their own operations.

All they had to do was buy the system, or own more real estate than anyone else. So they created more real estate. Two ‘Island 3’ supercolonies now orbit Y-1 with a third one nearing completion for tow into the system from Erewohn. This is not to mention the uncounted smaller orbitals pulled into the system by the Family’s interest. Casinos, hotels, brothels, and businesses now call their home in these orbitals, a great many of which decorated with huge displays of bright flashing lights meant to draw in shuttles trying to choose their next stop in the system.

And yes. The whole thing is guarded by WIckian, Vaku, and space-ape ex-patriots. Are you happy now?

[OOC: Alright, Gents. The game is afoot. Below is the introduction to the game. The object, whether or not your players know it yet, is expensive and valuable military information from some Raumreich nation on a disk (the likely location of which is about to be revealed). Of course, you’re only here, posting if (by some way) a character of yours would’ve had some inevitable or chance way of knowing about this. There are some of my characters that know more details, some of Valinon’s, and some of Vernii’s. Just don’t be wanky and make it all up—finalize any sort of revelation with me before posting, please (otherwise, for cheap fill-in details go nuts). Now: go forth and grab.]

Yetti’s Star

“As I walk down dis terminal of Bezelbe International on a Sachanowitz Orbital, yous might notice a few ting about me aside from me stunnin’ good looks. I me left hand I carry a heavy god damn bag, and under a other arm I gotta dog. Don’t go askin’ me what kind it is, every god damn teller and passerby keeps askin’ me ‘oh, what kind issee?’ Hee’s a furry kind, right? A man carryin’ a dog isn’t much a strange ting for you earth-types a see. Dogs are everywhere on Ol’ Terra. You’s silly with ‘em. Yea, well you may tink a little pissers are cute, but where I come from dere ain’t much market for ‘em, and dis one’s been pissin’ on me boots since I got it. Hairy little cocker.

“‘I gotta carry dis hairball round for none other than Billy Sarkozi heemself. You don’t know heem. Hell, I don’t know heem. Nobody knows heem, dey just know a do what hee says and don’t balls it up. Sos I carry a dog. An’ a bag. I dunno much why I carry either one if ya’ask me. Not me bag, neither. Dey just tell me what gets carried and where what goes.

“Sos how does one end up with a job quite like a one wit which I’m currently employed? Issa strange world where a man can get paid such large sums of money a get hees boots pissed on right thorough. Then again yous don’t know much about Yetti’s Star, now do yous?

“Fore I go much further, me name’s Jeffy. I personally work for an elder gent by the name of Carol Zeevi who runs a clubs an’ a bookies on a Southbottom. As one tends a do, Mr. Zeevi owes Sarkozi something worth sending me up a pipes a Gregor a pick up some… baggage. I didn’t see nobody, I didn’t talk a nobody. Like I know any proles. Anywho, a make it look like I got somethin’ a be dere for, I catch a Marauders game at a Rock ‘gainst a Barons—Barons won as fuckin’ usual dis season; god damn proles couldn’t fight a good scrum for dey own mum—pick up a dog and a bag at the Port before I head back a a Bean. Nobody tells me what iss for, but I get 10k on delivery.

“Sos here I am. Jus’ a shuttle-ride uptown a one’a Sarkozi’s pups, den I drop off a dog. An’ a bag.”

[OOC: Explanation of vocabulary: I’m gonna let you guys figure out his accent, but there is some lingo you might wanna know.
Bezelbe International – Bezelbe International Spaceport, a much expanded upon docking bay on Sachanowitz Orbital serving those coming or going into Yetti’s Star on commercial commutes.
Sachanowitz Orbital – one of the two Island 3 Orbital Habitats in Yetti’s Star orbiting around Y1
Southbottom – there is a north and a south end to an Island 3, as well as a “top” and “bottem” relative to the orbit. “Southbottom” would be at the south, bottom quadrant.
Pipes - Wormholes
Prole – popular term for Verniians
Rock – Rockwell Memorial Stadium in Cardona
Marauders – The Verniian Marauders, Vernii’s formerly great but, at this juncture, failing RRRL (Raumreich Rugby League) team.
Barons – Valinon’s RRRL Team (which has, after picking a new center in the last draft, is the current league favorite).
Port – Spaceport
Bean – popular local term for Y1, it being green and occasionally, because of light from the star, appears to be shaped like a bean.]

Oh, and here's a map (Not to scale AT ALL):
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v251/redarmyagent/planets2.jpg

One week ago.

Richard Ansom crossed his arms and leaned foward in his chair, gazing suspiciously at the corporate suit sitting across from him in his living room.

"So, Mr. Fitzgerald, what exactly do you want from me?"

"My employers want to hire you to do various services for them, nothing as dangerous as what you used to do, or anything too illegal."

"Like what?"

"I can't tell you specifically what right now, but its basically industrial espionage."

"Hiring a former InSec agent is a bit overkill for that type of thing, don't you think? Actually, I should say, 'trying to hire' because you haven't convinced me yet."

The suit's voice took on a tone of annoyance. "Mr. Ansom, let me make this quite clear that when you worked for the People's Republic, you and I both know that you risked your life multiple times in the service of your country for shit compensation, and in the end it only got you hunted by the Valinor when they conquered the People's Republic. That's why I'm guessing you didn't start working for Naval Intelligence or Imperial Security, its just not worth it. However, your tasks in our service are going to be far less dangerous, and the private sector pays far better than working for the government."

Fitzgerald (almost certainly a false name) looked around the living room and snorted, "Besides, you need the money. I've seen your bank records." Ansom's angry protest was cut off by Fitzgerald continuing, "You had, as of three hours ago, approximately one thousand solaris to your name. That number is now ten thousand. You can keep it even if you decline our offer, consider it a gift for your past service and sacrifice for our nation."

"But--"

"Oh please, ten thousand is a paltry amount considering our resources. I'm going to cut straight to the point. We are prepared to pay you ten thousand per month if you accept our offer. You will be given adequate information and support for your tasks, and with limited oversight by us in how you conduct them. We aren't experts at this type of thing, and we aren't going to pretend to be, that's why we want you."

Ansom bit his lip, "Alright, can you tell me just who I'll be working for?"

"No. You've already guessed the basics most likely, shadowy corporate overlords and such. Not that it does any good, they're a dime for a dozen in this region of the galaxy."

"What if I change my mind later?"

"As long as you keep quiet about what you've done for us, there won't be any problems."

"Alright. So what's the first thing you have in mind?"

"You're accepting my offer?"

"Yes."

"Pack your bags then, you're taking a trip to Yetti's Star. We want you to pick up a souvenir for us, you'll find out the rest when you meet your local handler and the rest of your team. You'll be in charge of them."

"My Team?"

Yalta

Sturmbannführer Anton Fitzroy walks in to the windowless room buried in the mazes of one of the buildings officially operated by the Ministry of External State Security. In his thirty-seven year career with the ESS he has become intimately familiar with the drab basically over-large cubicles the ministry uses to debrief its agents before they go on their mission. He has yet to find a way to tell a difference between them, whether they are in Yalta, Alpha Centauri, or any of the other systems in the empire.

Fitzroy clicks his heels together and salutes with his left hand as the women waiting for him at the table stands. She wears a the ESS’s uniform—cut along the style of the imperial military but black and trimmed in white—with the rank insignia of an oberführer. The rank is caught between the Reichswehr’s oberst and a generalmajor. Oberführer were known for being the top run most of the ministry’s field operatives and team leaders would meet outside of formal ceremonies, and were also known for attaching their positions to areas of specific interest to the ministry. The woman’s nameplate reads Donkova, and is not a name Fitzroy is familiar with.

“At ease, Herr Fitzroy, and be seated. We will be here for some time.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Fitzroy notes the sharp, crisp accent to the Donkova’s Standard, common of those from the inner worlds of Alpha Centauri. He sets his crush cap on the table. Donkova returns to the opposite end of the table and her eyes glaze over for a moment. At the command of her n-plant the wall screens of the room activate. Pictures fill the walls with maps of the now-Liberation system of Yetti’s Star and the Dominion of Pelledrine. A hologram of a massive Kira-class super-freighter, a common ship produced by Twin Star Lines, dominates the table. Donkova’s eyes snap back into focus and she sits back, make a steeple with her fingers.

“This is an area of some sensitivity for us and for OKI, Fitzroy. I realize it is also outside of your typical area of operational expertise, but your knowledge of the Great March has meant the Kriegsmarine and the central office has requested you personally.”

Fitzroy nods. This already sounds impressive or not. Anything from the amorphous central office originates from either the office of the director or at least a reichführer, even if it could not be traced back that far by the “lesser” ranks of the behemoth ESS.

“Two and a half weeks ago, the Leoni Corporation dispatched the freighter Rivers of Hydalara to the Great March with a prototype of the Keystone advance recon system being developed for the Kriegsmarine. Specifics on Keystone will be uploaded to your n-plant at the end of this briefing, for the moment just keep in mind this system is capable of surveying a large majority of the system and keeping track of multiple thousands of objects effectively and discreetly. The freighter was supposed to proceed to interstellar space between Klein and Evening Star where the Keystone development team was going to perform a long-range test of the prototype by tracking Liberation vessels present in the star system. The test was considered to be close enough to Third Fleet’s headquarters in Klein and an element of Vizeadmiral Tereshkova’s command stationed out of Evening Star that an escort was not assigned. The freighter was jumped by a pre-war era cruiser commonly produced for private sale in the Collective Protectorates. The Leoni Corporation’s captain immediately broadcasted a distress call across the ansible and tried to avoid the cruiser.”

The hologram of the Kira-class freighter is replaced with the view of a lumbering, poorly maintained cruiser gaining fast on the camera’s position. Its energy batteries are tracking the freighter, and suddenly fire into the freighter’s stern out of view. The freighter is rocked by the attack.

“They destroyed the freighter?” Fitzroy is quite surprised. Donkova offers a sour smile.

“It would have made our lives easier if they had, Sturmbannführer. No, the pirates boarded the Rivers, and after having his gravimetric bloc blown off the captain stood down and didn’t resist. The Leoni Corporation only had a half-dozen security guards on the ship as it was, so resistance would have been futile at its best.”

An image of a mixed boarding party replaces the abrupt chase. Three members wear combat armor marked with the insignia of the defunct Hegemony’s Solar Marines. There is a pair of Vaku, what looks to be several Wickians in power armor judging by their size, and another dozen dressed in cobbled together suits of armor. The only common link among the group is the over-abundance of firearms and the image of a red eye against a black background. The boarding party starts to harass a pair of Leoni Corporation crewmen standing in the corridor leading to one of the freighter’s airlocks, shortly after the hologram dissipates.

“The boarding party secured the bridge and the freighter’s data storage level. They then performed a complete data dump, and upon review of the ship’s computer log singled out the schematics and testing data relevant to the Keystone project. They were working on removing the prototype from the ship’s cargo hold when the HMS Tiger and the HMS King-Raptor responded to the distress call.”

Multiple holograms cover the table, detailing a running battle between the old cruiser and a pair of Lion-class frigates. The cruiser has interposed itself between the freighter’s bulk, which confuses Fitzroy until he sees a shuttle racing toward the cruiser. The cruiser launches a salvo of missiles at the frigates and the Precentor-class fighter-superiority drones starting to scramble from their hangers. A fireball erupts off the cruiser’s starboard side, silhouetting it from the camera’s angle, and seconds later the ship activates its FTL drive and vanishes.

“Did they secure any part of the prototype system?”

“No they did not, Herr Fitzroy. It was left alone, though clearly that was not what the pirates had wished to do.”

“Did OKI have any information on this group’s affiliation?”

“This cruiser is known as the Carrion, although it has operated under at least ten other names the Kriegsmarine has on record. It largely confines itself to the area of space between Yetti’s Star and Dylar, which means they are a long way from home. We are certain they were hired to carry out this operation specifically, and that whoever paid them had the details and itinerary of the Leoni Corporation’s testing schedule for Keystone. The ISS has been digging into the records of some of Leoni’s competitors for the contract, but has turned up no records that they might have carried this out. OKI and the central office believe this is a foreign operation wanting to secure the Keystone system for redistribution. It appears too heavy-handed for the Verniians or any of the Ortagan successor states, so we are estimating this is a private operation. But the Carrion did reappear and received a precursory repair in the Caldris system, where it masquerades as a private security contractor.”

Fitzroy grimaces. The Caldris system is controlled by the Free State of Tyrador, one of the Ortagan successor states, but it has become more or less a free port nominally protected by the Tyradorian navy.

“OKI tracked the cruiser’s manifest and route itinerary to Yetti’s Star. It also confirmed that the Carrio arrived in the system and docked at the Sachanowitz Orbital. But here is where the situation got difficult with the Kriegsmarine. The Carrion enjoys a certain amount of…legality when it operates in the Free State or Yetti’s Star. The local administration is corrupt enough in all three systems to make even this wreck seem official. And the Admiralty has no desire to provoke an international incident with the Liberation, so they want this handled more discreetly than OKI can.”

Dankova waves her hand and the hologram over the table disappears, “You will be put in charge of an operations cell already stationed at Yetti’s Star.”

She reaches below the table’s surface and pulls out a thumbnail sized data disc, “We want you to secure the Keystone’s schematics and operational data, eliminate anyone who has reviewed it, and find out who was responsible for contracting the Carrion in the first place. The central office also wants this done without destroying the cruiser in port and angering the Liberation government. Given how these pirates in the Great March tend to compartmentalize themselves, it should be easy enough to single out those with any amount of considerable knowledge of the Keystone.”

“And the Carrion’s employer?”

“Find out who it is, interrogate them, and then make sure they can never work for their employers again. Understood?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Good, then I will debrief you on the composition of your operations cell before I dismiss you.”

Yetti’s Star


To: Sand%Water@HomeAddress.net [Free mailing addresses! Register a friend]
From: DropBox%Händler@ISCom.org [Private remailing since 751 AL]
Re: Business affairs in the CP

{Encrypt Profile Req: **********}
{Accepted}

Your services are once again required by our occasional mutual employer, my friend. They want you to supervise a transaction in Yetti’s Star. Reservations have been made for you on the IMS Flanders under the ID 346 in your records. Its shuttles depart from the Julian Arkinia Imperial Aerospace Port, and it is scheduled to leave in two days.

Further details and instructions await you in account number 33-01-992-X77-32 at the Pholus Guild bank branch in the Old Empire Hotel. Once you arrive there ask to speak with Herr Delphiki, he will insure you are not troubled.

I will act as an intermediary for the contract, contact me again when you reach the hotel. Reservations await, use my direct address account.

And secure me a bottle of pre-war Liberation wine celebrating Setties’ inauguration. I will compensate you for this separately.


**********

Ein Rickenbacher, perhaps the man with the least ethics and morality of any in Valinon, wanders slowly toward his suite in the gaudily opulent atmosphere of the Old Empire Hotel and hums an off-chord refrain from the newest Kohler piece raging through Alpha Centauri. He opens his door and starts to make a drink at the room’s mini-bar. There is a sudden chirp and a voice fills the room.

"Incoming holo-call, Alpha Centauri redirect from Herr Händler, do you wish to accept?"

"Of course," Rickenbacher finishes pouring his drink and moves toward a chair as the avatar of one of the SI’s commonly called Endless shimmers into existence in the armchair across from him. Der Händler's hair is waxed back, his suit is black with a deep red shirt under the vest, and he looks like a transplant from upper class France before Old Earth's First World War. The SI looks around the room with strange grey eyes.

"It is nice to know your tastes have not declined, nor has our employer's willingness to entertain them."

"I am good at what I do. It did take you longer than I anticipated to return my call, Händler. Slowing down in your old age?"

"Despite his wishes, I do not work solely for Herr Turin. Occassionally more pressing matters require my attention."

"If you say so."

Der Händler looks at the contents of the safety deposit box, neatly arranged on the low coffee table. A bag from the branch office, looking very much like a postal bag from Old Earth is folded neatly in the floor beside it. The SI gestures to the table.

"I take it you have made yourself aware of the contract, its terms, and what it requires?"

"Do you underestimate my abilities so?"

"Only when you choose to be so..annoying."

"Yes, I have."

"Your immediate plans?"

“I will start observation on the underbosses the data specified tomorrow and see which one Captain D’Argent approaches tomorrow. I assumed I would use the Birschmarc i-dent you so kindly provided, as he was the least like the tawdry scum that built this glittering pit.”

Der Händler inclines his regal head, "A good beginning. The payment guidelines are acceptable?"

"Of course I wish the expenses stipend was larger."

"Don't we all? You might have to live below your normal means for awhile, God forbid."

"I suppose I will have to suffer with the rest."

Der Händler actually rolls his eyes, "I think you will survive. Contact me again when you reach discover who the pirates have sold the system to. We will work on a standard report basis for the first three months, once again use my direct address. Reports will be on demand, either you can contact me through the direct address or using one of my supplied drop accounts," he gestures again to the table, "or I will contact you on behalf of our employer."

"Your efficiency is commendable," Rickenbacher raises his glass.

"My efficiency is necessary in my line of employment," Der Händler replies tartly. "Now, I'm afraid I must leave you to your own devices."

"There is one last thing."

"Yes?"

“A bottle of wine?”

”I find there are sometimes clients with very unusual tastes and demands, but that it ultimately has no downsides for me to indulge them. You have a considerable pedigree when it comes to sorting through the imitations that flood this particular market, and you were already going to be in the system where I know a stash of Setties Casks are present. I am an economical being, and I saw no reason why I shouldn’t use the United Guild’s money to cover some of my own expenses.”

“You find their pay insufficient.”

”I find it easy to cut corners in the system if no one is significantly aware of it or annoyed by it. And I think that serves as enough of an answer.”

Rickenbacher dramatically bows his head and salutes with his glass, “As my mother once said her family’s manservant use to say: harkening and obedience.”

”A Dominionite manservant, how enjoyable. I may have to find a few of my own…Do have a good evening, Herr Rickenbacher.”

Yetti’s Star, Outer orbit of Y1

“And just like that…” gloats a superior-sounding man from his hastily-installed ‘captain’s chair’ and disheveled Solar Navy uniform, “we’re back in the fleet once more, not-a-hint we even left.” It was by no stealthy maneuver that the cruiser Carrion made it back into its patrol pattern assigned by YComm (Yetti’s Star Command). Neither was it any genius plan on the part of the captain or his crew. It was a wire transfer of $3,000 to a Command Coordinator on Dorfman Habitat.

The ship is run down. It looks like it were ages old though it was shot off the assembly only a few years ago—and when it was it looked just like so. HBO (yes, the channel on which you pay extra money to watch The Sopranos) paid good money for ships that looked ages old for the set of Ape Wars while it was still one of the highest-rated dramas on nu-space before the Vaku ruined it all by invading. Now the ship, though, carried a truly international crew, perhaps paranational or even supernational. Ex-Solar Navy, ex-Vaku, ex-Wick, ex-Krolor clan members—just about anything that started with an “ex” you could think of walked the surprisingly wide corridors (which allow for better camera angles; the cameras are now all gone, though).

The only easy ones to spot are the aliens, though. Hard to miss big walking cats or space apes (oh, and aside form the Wick there are Krolor, too [also known as “Krunks”]). The captain’s uniform says nothing of the captain’s former nationality, either—he took it off the last captain, as well as his rank, in a game of seven card stud on Canary Point. There was a time, only a few years ago, that YComm’s boats were almost entirely segregated. Krolor boats like this one were populated entirely with Krolor, the same the Wick and Vaku and anyone else. As those larger species became more and more desireable as guards and security on the orbitals, though, they were taken off the boats, leaving a need to integrate crews. There were power struggles—even a few knifes to the back—but the men and women of these broken fleets aren’t fighting for anything anymore. They just want their money.

“Just a few laps around the Bean then our turn’s up.”

The black-haired Krolor sitting at the all-too-visible weapon’s command (for dramatic presence, of course) turns in his visibly small seat and asks in the croaking English his race tends to belch “Where we headed when our turn’s up, Boss?”

“The Sacher’s Southbottom. I know a guy.”

On “The Sacher” (Sachanowitz Orbital), with Jeffy

“I always hated waitin’ for a trolly when I din’t have a dog. An’ a bag. I’d pay for a cab, but aside from a money I intend a pick up in a bit from Mr. Sarkosi’s associates, I don’t really have much anything in a ol’ pockets at the moment. Hence why I took a job getting me boots pissed on so right thorough. God damnit there hee goes again.

“Not havin’ money on iss own ain’t much a problem, though, issit? Iss when you ain’t got much money when you should be givin’ somebody a good lot of what you don’t even have. Yetti’s Star iss’a good place a make a lotta money. Iss also a good place a owe a good lot. Maybe to a large, chimpey gent by the name of Doyle. Nobudy could pronounce Doyle’s old name, him being a Krunk n’ all. What’s amazin’ about this fellow is hee’s self employed. He ain’t a guard for any casino. He’s right up there with with some of the other bosses, whether they like to admit it or not. And hee’s just as scary.

“Oh joy. the trolly’s here. Maybe there’s a bum I can get to piss on a dog. See how hee likes it.”

Saturnia may have been built by Kiel Industrial Group, but its interior had been designed by Blue Water, one of the Liberation's most highly regarded architectural firms. The main lobby that greeted Richard Ansom was stunning. In the typical Liberation style of going over-the-top, the centerpiece of it was a giant sphere of water floating several stories above the floor while spherical lamps orbited it. He checked in as Jackson Presly using a credit card provided to him by his new employers. He found that his room was very nice by the standards of most hotels but not in the top tier of things here in Yetti's, and in contrast to the public areas, with a more restrained decor.

Ansom had barely unpacked his luggage when there was a polite knock at his door. Opening it he found a rotund man with red cheeks smiling happily at him. "Rich--I mean, Jackson Presly, correct?"

"Yes. And you are?"

"Aldous Stewart," the man leaned in and whispered, "your contact."

"You're new at this aren't you?"

"Yes, I've never worked with spies before, I have to admit I'm quite excit--ach!"

Ansom had reached out and grabbed Stewart by his tie, pulling him into the room and slamming the door. He pulled the frightened man close to his face.

"Now you listen, this isn't a game, this is something that people can get killed doing. By acting so amateur about this, you can get yourself killed, or worse, get me killed."

"But I am an amateur!"

"Then keep your mouth shut unless you have to talk, and learn from watching what I do or don't do. You can ask questions though, just as long as there isn't anyone around. Are we clear?"

Stewart nodded, eyes bulging.

"Good. Now first, you do not call me by my real name, you do not call any of us by our real names. What exactly are you here for?"

"I'm your method of contacting your employers. If you have questions or information for them, it goes through me first. Likewise, information and orders from them are delivered through me."

"Alright, that is what you are going to stick to doing, and nothing else. Now, when am I meeting the rest of my team?"

"Tonight, we have dinner reservations at the Calypso. Meet us there at 7:00 PM."

"You're having us meet in a public area?!"

Stewart smiled, "A private dining room, and there are no cameras or microphones in it." He smoothed his tie, and then stared hard at Ansom. "I've used it before and management there knows my requirements. I may be new to spy work, but I am not new to planning white collar crimes. I'll see you at seven."

With that said, Stewart turned and left.

Yetti’s Star

Anton Fitzroy idly plays with the sleeve of the blazer draped across his arm as he and Hauptsturmführer Robert Leckie, the head of the ESS operations cell in Yetti’s Star, make small talk, take in the antics of the other guests, and look at the ludicrous “fountain” Blue Waters had graced the Saturnia’s lobby with. Neither had an official i-dent card to speak of, Fitzroy wondered how many years it had been since Leckie had even heard his real name. He had been on-station in Yetti’s for over four years, and he had transferred straight to this station from another operations team in Gadsen after a two year stint there.

“It’s not bad once you get past the Liberation’s innate need to be totally fucking over the top, Tony,” Leckie says to Fitzroy with a shrug and a well-imitated Yaltan accent. “That and the fact almost everyone here would sell off their wife, their mother, and their left nut to get ahead.”

Fitzroy chuckles a little, “So I take it the stakes games at the tables are good then, Jackson?”

“Not for you, you freshly-arrived wet blanket, but I think me and the guys can give you a crash orientation course. Did you find your rooms?”

“I know where they are, but I had one of the porters take my luggage.”

“Brave soul, you probably have nothing left but a toothbrush,” Leckie stops and looks up at the fountain.

“Sometimes acting like you are too trusting is the best way to hide some extra cash. If this place is anything like the casinos in Acler, the porters assume if you actually give them alone time with your luggage you must be a poor, stupid drunk.”

Leckie turns back toward Fitzroy, his eyes widening for a moment before narrowing. Over his shoulder Fitzroy hears the harsh vowels common in the accent of Verniians for Gregor, but he pays it no mind.

“So do you want to meet the rest of the boys before we hit the tables tonight?”

“Knowing you, Jackson, you’ve already arranged it.”

Leckie holds up his hands, “You know me too well. Dinner and drinks at the Hyper-Tap at half-past 8:00, local standard, can you make it?”

Fitzroy smiles, the Hyper-Tap is a chain-owned bar and grill that ultimately stretches up the empire’s corporate ladder to the Reich Entertainment Group. It’s nice to know even the Liberation can’t get away from sending some of its money to Alpha Centauri.

“I’ll hit the head first, but I’ll be there. Make sure everyone else is, too. I’m hungry and I’m not going to wait.”

“The ride out from Yalta is a bitch. I’ll make sure no one keeps your stomach waiting. Take care, Tony.”

Later, on the Southbottom

The Captain and his men charged into the joint, a less-than-reputable dancer’s establishment on the Southbottom (which is, admittedly, a less-than-reputable part of town) a bit ago like they owned the place—had enough cash they may as well. Had, anyhow. It’s been a good night for the girls and the bartender. As the boys carouse around with the, lets just say, odd assortment of women (the bar was as integrated as YComm), a few more well-dressed figures enter the place, a human in the middle flanked by two Krolor. The human looks short compared to his friends, and he stands out even more for being shaved bald. They all three took off their sunglasses, a matching set, to let their eyes adjust. The Captain sits at the bar, having a drink. The well-dressed human takes the barstool beside him. One Krolor watches the door and another puts himself behind the Captain.

“Boat came in from Yalta today,” Shiney comments casually, tapping the bottom of his gold-ringed fingers on the bar.

The Captain eyes the expensive suit and the shiny head sitting on top of it but is too drunk to be suspicious. “Lotsa boats come in from everywhere.”

“I s’pose. You came in yesterday, Cap-i-tan.” He stretches over the bar and grabs a bottle of rum and a glass, then pours himself a shot. The bartender does his best to look distracted at the other end of the bar.

The Captain skips suspicion and goes right into paranoia, then. “Says who?” Despite his new emotional state, he finds it hard to turn away from his glass. It was about then, though, he noticed the Krolor breathing down his neck.

“I hear some uptops are all aflutta’ about some two-bit pirates gettin’ ‘ere asses followed back to Yetti’s Star after a raid. Now that wouldn’t ‘ave nuffin to do wit you, would it Cap’n?”

The Captain suddenly feels like he needs another swig.

Shiney leans over to his uniformed friend. “Your piece-o-shit boat, Cap! It trails like me gassy aunt, got it?”

“Where’s the Yaltan?” The Captain leans away as best he can without falling off the stool.

“I dunno, Cap.” Shiney makes sure to wait until he gets eye contact. “I tink I’m lookin’ at one right now.”

It was about then the well-dressed Krolor behind the Captain bent over and sniffed the his head with two uncomfortably powerful snorts. He croaks “He smells like Kriegzmarine.”

“Funny your choice in uniform, Cap. Then again uniform don’ mean much to deserters.”

The Captain finishes his glass, severely wishing he had another.

“I tell you what. You got one chance to make this right with the tiptops and save your own arse from from gettin’ turned over to your former brudders-in-arms.”

“Who is he?”

“Oh, ‘ere was a whole boat-load of ‘em, came in this morning. You’ve been put in charge of findin’ the right one. Out’a the kindness of me heart I got ya’ the passenger manifest, iss in ya mail. 20 souls. You want one, maybe two. Choose wisely: we can’t afford any tourists disappearin’, eh?”

Up Town with Jeffy

“I always get an odd feelin’ as I approach any place owned directly by Sarkozi, kinda like the one ya get around your mum’s nice glass vases, that you should be real careful lest you get a whippin’. Or in this case a bullet in a forehead. He’s got two Baldies out front watchin’ the door and a man pretendin’ he’s just sittin’ on a bench.

“Inside’s not much more comfort. I’d swear it were a Baldy lodge if I didn’t know much better. I just wander up a hall and follow a pointed fingers till I get a shut door I can’t do nuthin’ but knock on.

“ ‘Come on in!’ a man says, so I do as told. ‘You did a good job,’ a man says an’ pats me on a back. ‘Yous can double your money,’ a man says, and I’m all about it till he says ‘Dorfman Habitat.’ I don’ make too many trips to the Short Side, not since I ran up me tab wit Doyle. But then again, he did say ‘double me money.’ "

[OOC: More Vocabulary: "Baldy" is a popular name for WIckians in Yetti's Star. "Short Side" and "Long Side" are the two different chains of orbitals (depicted in the map on the first relevant post). *The More You Know!*]

"Ah, Presly, so glad you could join us." Stewart stood from the table with a broad smile in greeting. He waved his hands around at his company, "Allow me to introduce you to everyone." Stewart gestured to a young and attractive blonde woman sitting next to him, "This is Sarah Goetze, formerly a Naval Intelligence analyst." Next was a brown haired man of middle age with a round face, "Here we have Tom Pappas, who until two months ago worked in a counter-intelligence unit for Imperial Security." Finally there was another brown haired man, also middle aged, but tall and thin, with a face to match. "And last but not least, Robert Twardy, who's services we have leased from Decisive Solutions Incorporated, a Solarian private military contractor. Please, have a seat."

Ansom sat, blandly returning the glances of his new coworkers. "Pretty fancy restaurant, I think I'm going to like it here in Yetti's." If you don't get me killed first you fat useless sack of crap. "Also, I think we should leave introductions where they are, and not reveal anything more. From now on, I want personal information revealed on a need to know basis. Now, Mr. Stewart, why are we here?"

"Very recently, the plans to a piece of prototype technology for the Kriegsmarine were stolen. We are not sure what this piece of technology is or what it does, though we have a few basic ideas that its some sort of sensor or electronic warfare system. We also don't know who stole it, other than its one of the power groups here in Yetti's. We do, however, know who its going to, and that is that it will be delivered to the Silver Fleet. Your task, is to somehow procure either the disk or a copy of it.

"Why do you want it then, and why the hell are we interfering in what the Liberation wants?"

"Because self-interest comes first, and we want it for our own purposes, none of which you need to know."

Jackass manages to keep his mouth shut on that at least.

"Alright, that's fine, do you have any preferences on how you want this --- wait, you said Valinor right?"

"Yes."

"And I'm guessing these plans are for something top-secret since you don't know what it does."

"That would be affirmative."

"So chances are OKI wants it back then."

"Hm?"

"Office of Kriegsmarine Intelligence, they're probably going to come after it to retrieve their stolen property."

"And that is why we've hired all of you."

"Are you insa--," a waiter chose that moment to interrupt, and conversation ceased. Awkward silence reigned as they each ordered, sharing uncomfortable glances with each other. Finally, the waiter left. Stewart seized the opportunity to head off Ansom's rant.

"Of course we know the Valinor probably want it back, do you really think we'd go through the expense of hiring you if all we had to do was deal with two-bit mobsters? Hell, we'll probably just buy the damn thing from them, or a copy at least. At most we'd hire some goons for escort. That's why we've hired you, because if the Valinor show up, they aren't going to be anything but opposition, and they're certainly going to be a lot more dangerous."

"What do we have in terms of weapons?"

"We've paid off a cargomaster, there's a shipping container in one of the bays that's packed full of weapons and communications."

Nice, they thought of that at least.

"Anyway, to continue on with the details..."

Anton Fitzroy sets the pint Durandel Sweetwater, one of the more popular exported oatmeal porters, on the table and looks around at the gathered members of the ESS operations cell Donkova had put under his command. Robert Leckie led a surprisingly well-developed cell, considering the ESS presence in Yetti’s was a little less than two years old. It even had an extra two members, which made for a total of eleven when Fitzroy included himself.

Besides being the hauptsturmführer Leckie also served as the cell’s tech and data specialist. Arthur Bunt, Janson MacMillian, Diedre Steiner, and Alexei Kritikos were the primary combat and weapons specialist. Lucius Valera, who Fitzroy had worked with before when they were both stationed at one of the Roum operation cells, was an explosives expert and a half dozen other things. Jerome Faulks was the acquisitions and clean up man. Dexter Carrington was on loan from OKI—and surprisingly in Fitzroy’s opinion didn’t look like some naval officer uncomfortably crammed into a civy suit. Apparently Carrington had quietly funneled in additional supplies and equipment for the cell a few days before Fitzroy had arrived, and it was apparently enough to send Bunt—who had served with the Reichswehr before signing with ESS ops—drooling. Julian Febre was an odd man out in the cell, a spotter and a redundant tech specialist, but he was there for one clear purpose—and that was the last member of Fitzroy’s cell

Fitzroy studies Katrina Vedder at the other end of the table. He knew her by reputation only before this assignment, but the reputation was impressive enough. Vedder had terrorized the old Hegemony’s SecInt as one of the ESS’s top snipers and ranged weapons specialist. It was rumored that she had been the one to kill the Solar Marine general who tried to turn St. Ives into his own personal fief, but those files were still so classified Fitzroy doubted if even someone like Donkova knew the truth about that particular incident. Still, in person Vedder didn’t stand out as much as Fitzroy had expected she would have. The one telling feature is her precise control of her movements and her very well collected nature. Well, that was the telling features in Fitzroy’s eyes as a member of the ESS. Vedder was also quite the picture of physical perfection, and Fitzroy wondered if her parents hadn’t been one of the growing number in the Star Empire obsessed with gene-modding.

“You should really take a look at Devon’s ship before we hit the tables tonight, Tony,” Leckie says, polishing off a rather stoutly filled glass of Old Earth rum. “It’s quite the little number.”

“Oh?” Fitzroy looks at the OKI officer sitting to his left. Carrington shrugs.

“It’s not that much really.”

“Please it’s a custom built job from Twin Star’s personal craft division. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if Whitmore designed it himself,” Leckie adds. Sir Xavier Whitmore had been the president and CEO of Twin Star Lines for years, but shortly after the war he had retired to head of shipbuilding firm’s personal ship division and, supposedly, its research department. His son, Nigel Whitmore, was no the corporation’s head.

“Sounds like quite the little yacht,” Fitzroy says. “Jackson isn’t easily impressed, and he has expensive tastes.”

“We can swing down to the slip after we’re done here if you want,” Carrington takes a moment and downs the rest of his beer. “I doubt I stay out long tonight. I took some heavy hits yesterday.”

“Because you were playing on those rigged house poker tables,” Valera says while polishing off what appears to be some sort of noxious concoction of fried chicken in a pita. “Still, you win some you lose some, don’t you, Boss?”

Fitzroy smiles at Valera’s comment, “Fair enough, Luke, fair enough.”

Fitzroy looks around the table and notes most everyone has finished their drinks. He tips back what remains of the Durandel.

“Well, I supposed I should head out and see this vaunted little dingy. I take it you’ll be coming along to Jackson.”

Leckie snorts loudly, “Would a jeweler miss a chance to take a look at what the Aldermans have hidden away in that fortress of theirs?”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Are we going to meet up before we make the rounds tonight,” Vedder says in her slightly husky tones and once again Fitzroy wonders just how far some people may or may not go with ‘modding.

“Let’s say outside the Blue Lounge in about an hour, hour and a half,” Leckie adds. “That way Tonys and I have plenty of time to get back.”

Vedder nods, and gets up leaving about a quarter of a cocktail behind as she drifts away while hanging on to Febre’s arm, “See you all then.”

The others start to drift away, but Valera joins Fitzroy, Carrington, and Leckie, “I think I may tag along. I’m sick of hearing how glorious this ship’s keel and head are from Jackson. It got annoying about two days ago.”

They make toward one of the lifts that will take them to the Old Empire’s private docking slips.

**********

“Mother of fucking God, what are they expecting us to take on—half the Liberation’s army?”

“Half is a little generous, but I think we could reasonably take on a quarter and still have a few bombs left over to flatten Hamunaptra,” Valera quips, and it certainly isn’t entirely a joke.

Tucked away below Carrington’s Sigmund-class executive yacht’s main cabin areas is a cargo hold the Kriegsmarine apparently had designed with an eye for how full they could cram it with munitions. Fitzroy’s well-studied first glance had picked out eight full suits of the last generation of Reichswehr power armor; seven scaled down Corleigh Armaments and Development Corporation danger-suits; enough Gauss and Impaler rifles to equip a platoon; a pair of the IRASR-18 sniper rifles Fitzroy swore had been no farther than the design board the last time he went to the Grunn-Joachim Armaments Convention in Yalta; and what looked like one of the new shoulder-mounted beam rifles the Reichswehr had designed to punch a hole in the armor of even the new Verniian tanks just to top off the more obvious pieces. Someone at the Glockhauser-Engelmann Complex and on the General Staff was pissed that the Kriegsmarine had lost one of its latest toys, pissed enough to be willing to fight a not so small war to get it back.

Fitzroy turns to Carrington, who looks more confident now that he’s aboard “his” ship.

“I’ll take it this, the electronic dampening field, and the added hull plating isn’t all the Admiralty graced this arsenal with?”

“There’s also a pair of dedicated tactical RIs, a dedicated high-bandwidth ansible transceiver, and a nice sensor package upgrade,” Carrington adds with a wolfish grin. “With the gravimetric package Twin Star gave her, this ship can make sure we stand a very good chance at running anyone down who tries to make off with the Keystone information.”

“Just how mad is the brass on Sanctuary?”

“I was debriefed by a rather harried kapitan zur sternen who was heading the liaison side of the Keystone project. From what I gathered, he had just had his balls handed to him by Grossadmiral Gorgas right after he had just gotten his new rank. His predecessor is now beached and has moved down more than a few pay grades.”

“Jesus…” Fitzroy mutters. Grossadmiral the Earl Stephen Gorgas was the Second Star Lord of the Kriegsmarine and served as the head of the OKI. Fitzroy was willing to bet the former boss of the poor sap who had briefed Carrington wasn’t the only one wishing he had been put before a firing squad rather than face Gorgas’ notorious wrath for sloppiness. Anyone who had been held accountable for this would be luck if they ever saw something other than beached officers’ pay again, and would probably have a better chance of finding a billion reichmark loan from the United Pholus Banking Guild than getting another promotion.

“Do we have a general outline for when we want to try and get back this apparently quite valuable little disc collection?” Fitzroy turns to Leckie, who is fitting a full clip into one of the Impaler assault rifles.

“Have you and Febre found out anything about the Carrion?”

“We’re working on getting more from some of our more hesitant sources, but it the cruiser in question did dock on the orbital habitat Sacher’s Southbottom. It’s more commonly known as the Sacher. Apparently the Carrion’s captain has also secured himself a contracted commission with YComm.”

“So the Liberation government is covering for the cruiser?” Fitzroy looks a little surprised.

“I doubt it goes quite that far,” Leckie moves smoothly into a firing position. “The local authorities in YComm are not known for their clean and appropriate records. Febre’s review of the Carrion’s certification has it pre-dating its last operation by at least eight months. Its captain no doubt likes taking money from every side of the table you could name.”

“Do we know what the officers and crew are doing at Sacher?”

“Not yet, I didn’t want to give the go ahead to Bunt without your approval.”

“Consider it approved in post-haste then” Fitzroy says quickly and turns away from the OKI munitions store. “I want to recover the disc when the Carrion tries to sell it. Central wants to know who paid for and orchestrated this whole scheme and see what their motivations are. We can recover the schematics, but destroying them is also acceptable if recovery conflict with securing whatever field agent comes to get the disc from the pirates?”

“And the pirates?” Valera adds, looking at the munitions Fitzroy had turned away from.

“Expendable would place too much of a value on them.”

Carrington smiles, “It’s nice to know other people are coming around to the Kriegsmarine’s way of thinking.”

**********

Even after making some minor cosmetic changes to his face, dressing down—severely in his opinion, and changing i-dents twice, Rickenbacher feels horribly overdressed for Sacher’s Southbottom. But he has begun to wonder if he could ever feel like he could be anything else at this particular wonderful orbital.

It was rather nice that der Handler’s little sideline on the main operation allowed him a relatively believably cover for being on Sacher. After all, it was not entirely reputable to be buying up either pieces of Hegemonic history or pilfering bottles of wine that were now invaluable treasures of Liberation history since the Observers had seen to it that most of Hamunaptra bought the wrong end of a quantum singularity reactor in the last war.

Rickenbacher moves along through the booths and shops—if they can really be called such—in one of Sacher’s more open market areas. He idly studies a piece of revolting Solarian modern art that only a Vaku could love.

“Your friends weren’t hard to find at all,” a quiet feminine voice says a few steps behind him. Rickenbacher turns with a playful smile.

“Julia! It has been years! Tell me, how are things since the last shift in international affairs?”

The woman, disheveled and wearing a rather spartan uniform marking her as a member of Sacher’s virtually irrelevant security staff glares. Like all of the former members of the ESS Night Watch special service, she has fallen on hard times—especially since the Ortagan Hegemony followed Hamunaptra into oblivion.

“Piss ass poor, of course. Now where is the money?”

“I’d like the information first if you please….”

“The cruiser’s captain and most of its crew have been favoring one of those ‘exotic dance studios’ a few sectors over. I’ve bounced the location off your drop-box. I had one of the patrolmen shadow them last night back to the ship from it. They seemed excited.”

“Did they meet some wonderful new people to go bar-hopping with? This place does seem to be all the rage.”

“No, they didn’t as far as I can tell, and I’m not here for small talk. The money?”

“Was being wired five seconds ago when you walked up.”

The woman’s eyes narrow. She had obviously been expecting Rickenbacher’s eyes to glaze over and him to use his n-plant.

“I have a friend that’s good at crunching numbers and keeping tabs on me,” Rickenbacher saids, moving his hands outward expansively. “And I am, after all, quite a generous man.”

His right hand moves quickly, and the woman jerks backwards with her hand moving toward her side. But a small boy is now dangling in the air between Rickenbacher and his contact.

“Give the woman back her cards and whatever else you lifted.”

The boy looks scared. Rickenbacker starts to twist his arm ever so slightly. There is a yelp and several pieces of plastic and electronic chips fall to the ground.

“Danke,” Rickenbacher says as the boy runs off. “Do be careful, Julia, and I may have to contact you again. Rest assured, I don’t think I will endanger your job here by doing so.”

The woman snorts and storms off.

[OOC: Sorry guys. Don't mean to pull a WIck, but when I posted this last night I wasn't really awake and just wanted to get something up, so I'm making a few changes in regaurds to Vernii-related things. I'm gonna keep from doing this again]

The Southbottom, moving West

“Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit…” It’s not something you don’t expect to hear from a man in a threadbare Ortagan uniform, hastily walking up the street. He’s followed by a Krolor, a Vaku, and a heavy-set lady up the back that’s none-too-bashful about carrying an uzi as a sidearm outside of what’s left of an old Liberation Army uniform.

The Krolor croaks “We could just leave. This isn’t the only mercenary fleet.”

“Barry has point, Boss,” ads the Vaku. “Ger’czk sick of Yetti’s Star anyvey.”

The Captain starts to twitch and wave his arms in front of him. “No, no no, they’re watching the boat. They’ll know if we leave. They’re waiting for us. We head to the station and catch the next ride … to … fuck where are we?”

Barry and Ger’czk reply in odd unison “I dunno, Boss.”

Marla with the uzi rolls her eyes, allowing her to catch a pretty young thing in her periphrial storming off from some poor sap standing on a street corner. *He looks like he tried to look poor. Odd poor sap. “Hey, you there! You! You happen to know the way to the trolly?”

[*cough, Valinon]

Meanwhile, on Saturnia of all places…

Saturnia is a pretty orbital. Not everything in Yetti’s Star is pretty; the exterior of any orbital is no polished surface, especially one bought on “discount” and drug over three systems and made to sit right where every meteorite in the system would like to be. So when asked to put lipstick on this pig, designers got creative. Instead of a static, solid sign, they put up gravity manipulation to draw in dust and lit it up via laser projection. The inside was no simple task to doll up, either. In the large list of things orbitals are typically built for, four-star Casino is strangely absent.

Still, though, there remain unattractive portions in the Saturnia where guests aren’t meant to venture. Supply depots, waste facilities, side corridors—few of these places were improved beyond a good hosing down, and even fewer have been hosed since purchase. It’s all terribly mundane; so of course that’s where anything interesting happens. Its in one of these ill-scrubbed corners of the station that our story takes its turn.

“Hheelloo…” weezes a slow, slithering voice as the door cracks in a tiny office, then firls it open to reveal… a gorilla in a vanilla suit. Well, a Krolor to be politically correct—but that doesn’t rhyme with “vanilla,” now does it? In the office there sits a sickly little human, pale and in bad need of a protein-rich diet and a haircut. He stares at computer monitors lining one wall opposite the door.

The pale creature swivels in his chair to face his ape-ish employer “M-mm-m-Mr. Doyle.” His stutter is habitual, but it’s not helped by the lack of normal conversation.

“Geeevess.” The Krolor stretches his words as to avoid the belching, coughing noises that usually accompany his species’s attempts at English. “Doo youu haavve any neewws for mee?”

“J-jj-j-just a f-few s-s-s-smartguys at the t-tables this morning. Th-they was scammin’ ev-vv-erybody’s tables, nnot just yours. B-b-b-b-b-ut I mmade the call and they got t-taken care of.”

The vanilla suit (with a Krolor inside it) steps carefully the door and reaches out one hand to pat it on the pale man’s moppy hair. “Goood woork.”

Recoiling a bit—he didn’t much like being thought of a pet, the pale man turns in his chair and goes back to the monitors, bringing up some new images of far-away faces. “Th-there’s this, too.” The image zooms and focuses, revealing two familiar rosy-red cheeks on top of a hefty man. “S-s-Stewart is up to it again in the d-dining rooms in the C-c-Calypso.”

“Hee’s maade paayment for the rooom, yees?”

“W-w-well, yea, but guests are what’s interesting.” The monitor scrolls over to Ansom’s face, then scrolls through pictures of the other team members as they enter the room (there are no cameras inside). “B-background check ssays they’re aa-a-ll V-Verniian. Aa-a-ll c-corporate sch-ch-sch-ch-schmucks. Its b-b-b-boring enough to think they’re c-c-cops.”

“Ssteewart issn’t the tyype to deeal with forreeign copss… buut hee iss the tyype to deeal wwith verry riich schmuucks. Wwaatch themm.”

Just outside the door wait Doyle’s two Vaku guards in equally fetching attire, one dressed in a dark maroon the other in a cold ice blue complimented with a black shirt. Doyle steps out and they begin a walk toward the door and Doyle grunts in Vaku “Tourists or foreign cops, either way. They know I’ve got my eye on them in my restaurant.” A phone rings, the maroon vaku takes it out of his pocket and hands it to Doyle. He changes languages once more: “Hee’s in Dorrffmann? Wherre?”

Dorfman Habitat

On a night-lit city street in the Dorfman Habitat, a Krolor, with little success, tries to look inconspicuous while crammed halfway into a bright red phone booth. He croaks “Jeffy just got off a shuttle, then started walking downtown. Dunno where.”

“Get somme mmen… humannns… and ffolloww himm,” the very uncomfortable Krolor can hear coming across the line.

“Yes,” croaks the Krolor, still uncomfortable, only to hear a disconcerting *click* at the other end. He exits the phone booth.

Alpha Centauri, Three days before...

Oberführer Talia Donkova follows closely on the heels of the young korvettenkapitan who serves as Grossadmiral the Earl Stephan Gorgas' chief of staff as they make their way through the winding corridors of one of the areas making up the administrative offices sections of the Kriegsmarine headquarters aboard the vast HMSS Sanctuary. The unadorned door centered in the upcoming T-intersection of the spartan corridor is flanked by a pair of Reichswehr troops bearing the unit crest of the units detached and trained for duty aboard Kriegsmarine facilities and vessels.

“I apologize for the delay, Oberführer,” the korvettenkapitan adds hastily as the two guardsmen snap to attention. “The grossadmiral had to exchange a few words with Kapitan Rothburn privately.”

“I take it this appointment must have run over schedule then?” Donkova adds absently.

“No, ma'am, the kapitan will be joining yourself and the grossadmiral. He is our liaison to the Leoni Corporation on the Keystone Project.”

“Ah...,” Donkova makes a small mental note. Just a few days earlier when she reviewed the reports on Keystone, the name Rothburn had not been the liaison officer attached to the project. It seemed the Second Star Lord was less than pleased with the recent outcomes of somebody's carelessness.

Donkova and Gorgas' chief of staff walk through the door into an office that matches the corridor in terms of spartan decor. Other than a few scattered framed awards, a degree from the Imperial University of Pholus, and a single painting of a pulsating nova, the room could have been one of the conference rooms the ESS used to brief and debrief its agents.

The only bit of drastic color added to the room is that the wall opposite the door is dominated by a view of the Sanctuary construction slips dedicated to the construction of dreadnoughts, super-dreadnoughts, and super-carriers. Donkova has no doubt the ants' nest of activity shown as crews and drones move across the various warships' skeletal frames is a hologram given Sanctuary's well armored nature.

“Oberführer Donkova,” says Earl Gorgas as he lays a comp-pad on the oak conference table and turns his chair to face the door, “it is a pleasure. I am sure Edwards already apologized on my behalf, but I will reflect my own sentiments just to make it clear—apologies. Now, if you would be seated we can move through this business expediently to make up for our lost time.”

Donkova moves toward the seat Gorgas had indicated at his left—and across the table from a very uncomfortable looking kapitan zur sternen. Donkova doesn't envy Rothburn at all. Gorgas' fanatical attention to detail and utter devotion to providing the Kriegsmarine with intelligence were acknowledged even by the ministry. And the personal disgust the grossadmiral had shown in the failure present in this operation were causing people to take note of it from the Central Office on down. The only element noted more was that Grossadmiral Adonis had not in any way moved to stop it while Gorgas acted in her absence. Obviously the First and Second star lords were of one mind on this issue—probably much to Rothburn's disadvantage.

“I have been following the reports the ESS has forwarded so far, and have been impressed with what Herr Fitzroy's cell has been able to garner,” Grogas starts as his fingers twitch. A hologram of the Yetti's Star system dominates the center of the table and the room, including the recently constructed Liberation habitats, mines, and single Verniian defense station hovering near the system's wormhole terminus. “But I would be lying if I did not say I wish they were leading more tangible results. Have they been able to secure any further information on where our records might have gone once they reached the Sachanowitz Orbital, or any other reports at all?”

“No, sir,” Donkova sits forward and clasps her hands together, “there have been no definite discoveries from Sturmbannführer Fitzroy's cell, but a report I received today did say they were following some leads on the cruiser Carrion's crew. An addendum to that report also mentioned the level of supplies OKI has provided for the mission, and there was some question as to whether all of them were to be used.”

“If it is needed they all can be. I wanted to be prepared for as many contingencies I could consider. I will trust in the discretion of your men in the field to decide what is appropriate, though. But I was concerned since we still have no clear understanding of who orchestrated the theft of the Keystone Project.”

“Sir, if I may interject,” Rothburn starts to add, “there is also no clear distinction as to what the pirates did-.”

“There is clarity enough, Kapitan. Clarity enough to know both Kommodore Gersten and yourself have completely fucked this situation. The 'clear distinction' of us not knowing what was stolen makes this more evident. Then there is why your own frigate was not detached to cover the freighter during the operation to throw this into greater clarity, Rothburn. You would do well not to draw attention to your rather painfully stupid excuse as to why the King Raptor was still in Yalta at the time this incident of gross negligence occurred. You would also do well to remember that if Gustav II and First Star Lord Gibson still ran this service you would have been headed to join a Verniian intelligence operative in some detention camp on Markham under the supervision of Donkova's colleagues. And that was if the decision had not just been to vent you out the most conveniently located airlock. I will freely admit the latter option is still looking quite tempting at this moment, and I have no doubt I can get the paperwork—or make the appropriate paperwork vanish—to at least make a reasonable attempt at pulling that off. Hopefully now we are understood that you will continue to sit in that chair unless I or Oberführer Donkova need to pry into the resources of your brain—although I suspect we would reap more rewards by prying into the resources of a rotted piece of horseflesh.”

Rothburn has the good mind to simply stare at the table until Gorgas turns back to Donkova. Donkova thinks it of good mind on her part to look idly like she might have activated her n-plants to avoid most of the discussion.

“Moving forward, I appreciate the efforts Fitzroy has made in the field so far, Oberführer, but I want to consider the possibility of planning for a failure on that front as well. Did the ministry's Central Office forward my proposal to you already?”

“Yes, sir, it did.”

“Your thoughts, Donkova? And I want frankness from someone who had more of a hand in the last round of operations of Q-ships.”

“In all honesty, sir, I will admit I considered it to be rather bold at my first read. But the merits of having another parallel operation to prevent another escape by either the Carrion or whoever it is working for are clear. Does the Kriegsmarine have a vessel in mind?”

Donkova is not sure whether she should be appreciative or concerned by the smile Gorgas flashes.

“Not an existing vessel of the service, Frau Donkova, but I do have something in mind. The ship is currently at port in Yalta and I have a naval Reichswehr detachment securing it. But I require an officer of your expertise to oversee the conversion and modification operations it will need in the next week at Archangel.”

Donkova arches an eyebrow, “I'm not sure I follow you, sir.”

“Quite alright, mein frau, this issue was decided in some haste. I'm afraid you will find that I have detached you from your normal duties with the ministry in order for you to assist me with the mess Kapitan Rothburn and his immediate predecessor have left us with. There is a freighter of...shall we say even less than ill-repute that is known to OKI and currently at port under an assumed name. It has been secured, and I think you will find it's master will be most pliant when it comes to assisting us with our joint operation.”

“You intend to use it to assist with the operation in Yetti's, sir?”

“I intend to use it in case Fitzroy does—quite unfortunately in my opinion—fail to secure his objectives. I intend to make myself a Q-ship specifically designed to allow us to intercept and destroy any ship from the Carrion on down that may try to make off with the property of the Kriegsmarine and the Leoni Corporation. Do you have a few minutes to garner some details on this project?”

“I think I may, grossadmiral,” Donkova says and once again finds herself confronted with Gorgas' less than comforting smile.

Yetti's Star, Present

Julia Anders looks suddenly at the woman who had shouted for her attention. While turning around she wonders if it wouldn't be better to just stop wearing her uniform so she didn't have to deal with crap like this. But her annoyance vanishes when she looks at the person who hailed her—or rather the people with the woman carrying the antiquated artillery piece. She curses in her mind as she feels her eyes widen, but then realizes that could easily be excused because of the stench pouring off the Krolor.

What do they all bathe in reclaimed shit?, she wonders for a second. And that Vaku isn't much farther behind. Where the hell does Rickenbacher find these people?

“Give me a damned moment,” she barks and accesses her n-plant. But before bringing up the local sector map she loads the IM program and Rickenbacher's drop box.

Party in front of me is your target. No clue as to where they are going. Hope you enjoy yourself and get off my case.

Julia pulls up the sector map and looks for the nearest lift station. She doesn't even care if it's working or not. The sooner she can get rid of this garbage and Rickenbacher the better.

“Go down that way three blocks,” she points down the lane of shops and shady office buildings, “then take a left. The station will be two more blocks down. Have a bloody wonderful day.”

Julia moves away from the Carrion's crew and starts heading back up the street away from the station. In the corner of her vision a small blip from her messenger blinks. She opens it once she is several steps away.

Many thanks, enjoy the afternoon.

“Fucking prick,” Julia mutters.

**********

Rickenbacher turns around briefly after Julia sends him the first message, acting like he was curious to see if she had run into someone else they both may have known. He look for only a few seconds before turning back around with a shrug to look at the piece of Solarian art. Then he picks it up and moves toward the vendor, pulling out a disposable credit chit stamped with a reichsmark emblem.

“How much for this?” he says idly and rests and elbow with on the counter.

While he starts to haggle with the vendor—and his moronic prices for the piece of Solarian crap—Rickenbacher looks off, watching as Julia starts to move away from the pirates. As far as Rickenbacher can tell this bunch is on hard times, even with the bit of luck the Turin Combine had arranged for them. Rickenbacher wouldn't be surprised if whatever money they got from this, either from him or another Combine agent, was blown before their rusting scow even left the orbital.

He watches as the watch Julia stomp off. She still does the angry, affronted officer routine very, very well. He plays with his chit, rolling it over and under his fingers to tempt the street vendor. And also giving him an idle excuse to keep his eyes on something other than the vendor's heavy-set Erewohnese face.

Just two hours later, Ansom sipped the last of his wine, with the remains of a fine meal on the plate before him. One of the Calypso's specialties was a regional variation of the Old Earth combination of steak and potatoes. In this case, from beef raised on New Tyrolia, and potatoes imported from Acler, both of which had been modified long ago to adapt to local climates, and thus gave them subtle differences in taste. It would have made any nationalist proud.

"That," he paused to tongue a piece of food stuck in his gum, "was delicious."

The other members of his team murmured in agreement, and Stewart raised his glass in mock toast with a smile.

"And that is precisely why I chose this restaurant to conduct business, besides the privacy it allows me of course. Anyway gents, dinner is on me, or rather on our employers. They allow me a fund to draw from for business expenses, and I see no reason why this wouldn't count."

The group rose from their table, and Stewart walked around to Ansom.

"So what now?"

"Right now, I'm going to visit the gaming floor."

Stewarts face began reddening in anger, but Ansom cut him off.

"Before you even start ranting, I want to make it perfectly clear that I know I'm not here on vacation, but there's nothing useful to be done until tomorrow morning. I already have a plan, but there's no point starting it right now. Besides, it would be a bit conspicuous to stay at a casino and not do any gambling, don't you think?"

"Fine. Your point is made, but I expect you to start actually working tomorrow, we don't know when the information is going to be handed off, and I'd really rather not report to my superiors that we missed our window of opportunity because you wanted to gamble."

Ansom smiled, "It's a risk I'm willing to take. So, does anyone care to join me?"

Heads nodded in agreement, and finally Stewart shrugged, "Sure, why not?"

Three hours later, Ansom crawled into bed after popping an alchohol absorbtion pill. He'd spent most of the night playing roulette, and the results had not been productive. Thankfully his wins had almost balanced out his losses, and his wallet was only four solaris lighter. Sarah had done better by limiting her betting to lower odds, and neither of them knew how the others had done. Pappas and Twardy had went off to the Blackjack tables and were still there when Ansom had left, and Stewart had disappeared to go play Baccarat with the other high rollers.

+++

0800 System Standard Time

Electromagnets gently kicked the team's travel pod from one of Saturnia's docking bays, setting the pod into an orbit that would take it around Y1 and into one of Sachanowitz Orbital's receiving fields. Ansom broke the silence first. "Alright, now that we know no one is listening, I'll explain the plan. I picked up a list of information brokers from Stewart, some he's used before, some he just knows of. Since we're here to make a business deal, I figure the best way to find out which party has the goods is to attract their attention. We'll hire some of these brokers to put out the word that there's a party interested in buying some expensive and stolen goods that have recently arrived. Now obviously this is a pretty dangerous method, since whoever has the goods may be more interested in getting rid of us than finding out why we care, but they don't know who they're up against either, and we'll take precautions. Our first stop is going to be Sachanowitz, as its home to both most of the local bosses and information brokers. Pappas and Twardy, I want you two to find us two apartments. They need to be across the street from each other, and if possible, one needs to be able to easily observe the other without the opposite being true. Rent both for the next few nights. Sarah, you're my backup. "

Pappas frowned, "What if the targets ignore us instead, or worse, since we're essentially tipping them off that someone is looking for them, they choose to hide?"

"Then we'll have to come up with an alternate plan, probably resorting to bribery and intimidation, maybe a couple murders if needed." He rubbed his hands together without realizing it, "Some good old InSec shit."

"You do realize how many potential points of failure your plan has right?" said Sarah.

"Yes Sarah, I do. If this was a Naval Intelligence operation my plan would probably never be greenlighted, and I know for damn certain that InSec wouldn't have given us a go on it. However, allow me to summarize why we're here. We're here because someone stole something from the Kriegsmarine and our employers, who are yet another someone, want to buy or steal it. The only thing we actually know is who the victims of this particular robbery were, and that they are probably incredibly pissed off about it. Actually, I take that back. We know the buyers are as well, which is the Silver Fleet, or someone affiliated with it anyway, so we know whoever has the goods has connections with them. Of course, anyone and everyone important here has some sort of connection with the Liberation, so that doesn't help. But anyway, yes, I am quite certain that my plan would never stand up to any sort of official analysis, but neither of our former employers would have ever put us in this sort of situation where we know fuck all to begin with, so please bear with me for coming up with a plan that runs with the precious little information that we do have."

Sarah flushed, Ansom couldn't decide if it was embarassment or anger at getting lectured. He continued, "Listen everyone, I know you don't enjoy gambling with the mission or your lives like this, and I don't either. You certainly don't have much reason to trust me, given that you met me last night and you don't even know my actual name. Well, since you're trusting me with your lives, I can at least show you a measure of trust in return... my real name is Allan Newman."

Eyes widened in surprise at the breach of opsec protocol, and Ansom kept himself from smiling.

The travel pod shuddered slightly as receiving fields funneled the craft toward one of the hangars of Sachanowitz Orbital.

Ansom clapped his hands together as the light above the airlock flickered to green and the pod doors slid open.

"Alright, let's roll."

“I just ‘ad an interesting conversation, Mister Ekkos.”

The office of Elwood Kerry, around back of the Streetside Saloon in Sachanowitz

“Really, Meesta Kerry?” The voice of another old soul rasps through Kerry’ phone.

“Indeed, a conversation of interest.” From his chair, Kerry leans over his desk and eyes a brass statue, shining it with the sleeve of his old gray jacket.

“Well on weeth eet, then?”

“Well a ‘ansome fella stolled in ‘ere with a strking young lady ‘e called Sarah… or Tara... They was both Germans, but they were nice folks, the both of them.” Kerry actually manages to correct his own deviation and finishes polishing the brass statue. "Anyway, the fella starts telling me about some ‘rare merchandise’ that’d come to town ‘very recently’.”

“Sos what?”

“Well the fella says it ain’t guns and it ain’t dope. He also says it ain’t ice or else dug outta the ground.”

The filtered voice rasps again, “Sos what?”

“ ‘e then proceeds to drop a stack of C-notes on the bar and advises I make it known he’s looking for said merchandise and leaves an address—an apartment ‘ere on the Sacher.”

“Whitey sounds like he’d like to be found.”

Kerry agrees.

“Whitey sounds like he’s a dumb cocker, too.”

Kerry agrees again.

“Well then, Meester Kerry. I have a few friends would like to meet this ‘handsome fella’ and have a nice long talk about where he gets all those convenient stacks of money.”

Kerry agrees again.

A Trolly Station on the Southbottom, Sachanowitz

“I hate these goddamn community comms,” blurts the Captain, slamming the palm of his hand on the side of the monitor inside the large red “Communi-Comm” box at the 832 stop of the Sachanowitz South Trolly. Barry and Ger’czk stand just outside, smoking, while Marla looks around suspiciously—fully suspecting anyone else at the stop as being up to even less good than they. Inside the box, the Captain finally smiles when he sees the “CONNECTING” signal on the screen.

“What?” rasps the man on the other end of the line.

“It’s me,” replies the Captain.

The line rasps “Me who?”

“Ekko, look at the god damn screen.”

“Oh. You. Sos what?” he starts to wander from the screen to pour a drink.

“I need some information.”

“Don’t everyone?” Ekko takes the lid off his brandy and starts to pour.

“I’ve got a boatload of Yaltans I need you to check out, see where they are and what they’re up to,” the Captain pushes a few buttons on the filthy screen to send the manifest he’d just received.

Ekko mosies back to his monitor with drink in hand, scrolling over the list. “Funny.”

“What?”

He rasps, “Ain’t none of these cockers the one I had in mind.”

“Um?”

“Right, I’ll get the info on these if you do us a favor. Go to this address. There’s a new fish tossin’ around money like he’s got it, eh? And not in any kinda way he’ll be tellin’ the cops about. I get 50%, see you at me office.”

“CONNECTION LOST” says the monitor to the Captain.

Just outside the box, Barry, Ger’czk, and Marla hear a loud, muffled “GOD DAMN IT!”

On the Dorfman Habitat with Jeffy

“Sos ‘ere I am on a shortside, smack on the Dorfman, walkin’ plain as Tuesday ‘long a side a the rode. Double money or no, I ‘ave no business bein’ where I am at this point in time. I s’pose you’d like a know why.

“See, there’s that apey gent I mentioned a good while ago this side a a Bean by a name a Doyle. Doyle happens to run a good lot a a fights this side. Now it ain’t me proudest point, but one a me few vices is occasionally makin’ a few small bets on a fights. On a bad streak, I happened to come into the debt of Mr. Doyle. Now hee seems a think I got no business this side lest I be carryin’ a lump sum a money for him, and while I might just be carryin’ said lump on this particular trip, I got a few other things I’d like to pay for before I hand everything I got to a gorilla in a white suit. Like food. An’ a water bill. An’ Mother’s Day is comin’ soon, y’know. Etcetera.

“Thass not all thass scary about this trip, which I am more and more beginnin’ to regret. If I’m deliverin’ this dog, an’ a bag from a Sacher to a place on a Dorfman, then that means whatever the hell I’m carryin’ is important a somebody big on both sides. Somebody so important himself that I don’t feel very comfortable even thinkin’ about who it might be.

“That an’ I get a feelin’ I’m bein’ followed by this cocker in a green coat about thirty paces behind me.

“Sos here I approach the address handed a me. Lots of tabbies. They’s on a corner, near a door, an’ lookin’ out a windows. Double me money. Right."

"Congratulations Tom, you managed to find the one apartment in a five block radius that's only crappy and not a total shitpile."

Standing behind Ansom in the living room of his new apartment, Tom Pappas crossed his arms defiantly.

"Well, given your requirements for two apartments across the street from each other, and the need to keep things on the downlow, that didn't exactly give us a big list to choose from. Personally, I think it suites you."

Ansom started to retort, but Tom continued, "The way I look at it, the low quality is an advantage. The nicer the rental, the more paperwork we have to do, questions to answer, and so on. Now, since you've gone and dropped the address around, our potential supplier is probably going to send someone to come and take a look around. They know you have money, and if you were in a really nice place, they'd suspect that you were either someone important or working for someone important, and that might scare them off or see you as a threat. This place gives the image that you don't really want to be found, but dropping the address implies that you're new at this type of thing. They'll underestimate you, think you're an amateur."

"Point taken. Anyway, Robert, are you finished rigging the place up?"

The Solarian man rose from an old couch and grinned. "Yep. The place across the street has line of sight onto most of the living room here, and part of the bedroom itself."

Ansom frowned, "So if someone shows up and I end up in a fight, I'll have to keep it here if I want your support."

"Not quite. I got a few tricks up my sleeve. I stuck a couple thermal cameras in each room, usually inside the ceiling vents. Now those are linked up to a wireless transmitter in your bedroom, tucked under the bed itself. It'll transmit everything they're seeing to a computer in the other apartment. It can use the positions of the cameras to each other and it to triangulate the positions of heat sources, and then update me with the required number of degrees to turn and elevate or depress my weapon."

"So you can shoot through the walls."

Twardy's grin enlarged, "Bingo. The walls are pretty cheap material, and I don't use those puny pulser darts you Verniians are so fond of. I prefer actual bullets, and they'll punch through these walls with no problem."

"What about me?"

"They'd shoot through you with no problem either, unless you were wearing a vest or armor."

"No, I meant how will you be able to shoot them and not me, if there's a fight?"

"Oh, you'll be wearing this." Twardy produced a small black card from his pocket, and inserted it into the pocket of Ansom's jacket. "It's an RFID tag, the system is programmed to filter it, and thus you, out. Don't get in front of or behind anyone though, especially if I can't see you directly, because the system won't tell me you're in the way."

"Nice work then, and I'll be sure not to."

Sarah coughed to get their attention, "Now if you boys are done playing commando, I'd like your reasoning behind all this set up for a fight, particularly since we don't even know if anyone is going to come and talk to you. For all you know, they might just send a messenger with an invite to meet elsewhere, and that's providing they don't ignore you. Not only that, but provided that you've interested them enough to check you out, and that they do send someone here to actually talk, there's no guarantee that things will turn violent."

"Those are very good points Sarah. First, if they ignore me, I'll just keep trying until they talk to me or try to get rid of me. Second, if they want to meet elsewhere, I'll tell them that I'm really not comfortable leaving my belongings unattended, and that I would feel more comfortable discussing the matter in a location of my choosing, here, where I feel safer. Given that I will be alone, may be forced to imply that I have substantial sums of actual cash with me, and will have no obvious security, they will most likely come to the conclusion that I'm new to this type of thing and thus no threat to them. However, because of this, they may be tempted to try and take my money anyway, and may intend to do me harm in the process. Thus, that is the reason for Robert's preparations. Now, as they may have someone monitoring the building now or shortly, you should probably all leave before they discover I'm not alone."

Ballwort Apartments – The Southbottom – Sachanowitz Orbital

The Captain steps lively up the stairs of this among many dilapidated apartment buildings in the “worst” part of the “worst” part of town, his three faithful compatriots in tail. “K, here’s the plan. I knock on the door with Marla, say I want to talk about the merchandise, whatever the hell it is—Marla, try to play along.” Marla rolls her eyes, again. “Gr’czk and Barry wait down the hall. I’ll keep Barry’s number ready on my comm.—if I have any trouble I give you a ring, you burst in and fix the situation. Right?”

Gr’czk offers some advice, “I do not know, Boss. What eef guy shoots you. You cannot make call.”

The Captain sighs. “If you hear gunshots I’d hope to God you’d come running.”

“Oh,” it all seems so simple to the Vaku, now. “Right.”

They reach the top of the stairway, where Gr’czk and Barry wait. Down the hall, The Captain knocks on the door.

Jeffy on the Dorfman Habitat

"I can’t tell if these tabbies is just watchin’ me, or if they wanna eat the dog. Do tabbies eat dog?"

Yetti's Star

Fitzroy was enjoying the lingering moments of a substantial breakfast with Leckie, Valera, Bunt, and Katrina Vedder. He just started to finish his coffee so he could ask the approaching waitress to warm it when he sees Carrington and Febre enter the restaurant. The two look in opposite directions, scanning the restaurant for the rest of the party. Fitzroy raises a hand, flagging them down. Leckie and Valera on the other side of the table turn their heads to see who he is waving to.

“Devon, Jerry. Anything up or did you guys just recover from last night?”

Carrington flashes a grin and Febre smiles nervously. Fitzroy knew the two stayed at the black jack tables for most of the night while their data mining programs plied through the Liberation networks servicing Yetti’s Star.

“Jerry was given some problems by our Verniian partners at the table. But don’t worry, I compensated nicely for it all. I thoroughly sent one back to his room in a state of bankruptcy,” Carrington winks at Valera. “Perhaps I can spare some of the winnings to buy you a drink tonight.”

“Supposing I don’t find some better way spend my time.”

“What could be better?”

“Ahem,” Leckie fixes the OKI liaison with a stare. Carrington looks back and his smile grows a little smaller. He looks at Fitzroy.

“Oh, Tony, Jerry found your jacket on my ship last night when we got back. Care if we swing by and get it before we start the day?”

“I don’t see a problem,” Fitzroy sees the look in Carrington’s eyes and the message with a body text of only two periods in his n-plant’s inbox. “Want to come along, Jackson? We can hit up the markets like we planned afterwards.”

“I’m game,” Leckie has activated the table’s limited RI pay system. He lets it scan the credit voucher given to him by the Liberation currency exchange service and inputs some other information. “But you will not be beneficiaries of my largesse tonight at dinner.”

“You used the coupon you found in your room didn’t you, Jackson?”

“Sometimes, Tony, I find that you simply cannot keep a secret that is worth keeping.”

**********

“There is no way this can be a coincidence,” Fitzroy eyes the information found on four Verniians, two of them that had just secured a lease on two apartments in the lower rent portion of the Sacher orbital.

“The cliché about there being no coincidence, especially in our business, is valid no matter how overused it is,” Leckie looks at the information. “But none of these guys look like Verniian intelligence, military or otherwise.”

“They’re not on any database we have from central,” Febre was sitting at the terminal, manipulating holograms. “And this one—Stewart—has an extensive record of being active in Yetti’s. He’s a corporate contractor.”

“The system is rife with corporate espionage. Hell, even half of our companies take care of their dirty laundry here,” Carrington mutters.

Fitzroy shakes his head and looks at Leckie, “We can’t pass it up. The Keystone data is big news, even here, and it’s going to attract almost anyone we care to name. The Verniian government may just be playing it safe and letting one of its contractors play the boob. Or one of their contractors could just have gotten wind of the whole situation and wants to reap the benefits. Either way this smells of an old intel op and could be the Keystone data.”

“You want to send someone in?”

“Send Bunt, Steiner, and Valera to check it out, Leckie. Judging by what we have on these guys I think they can get away with danger-suits and pull out the Inter-Solar System Security Force i-dents we have to look like some grunts in between contracts.”

The ISSSF was the largest mercenary corporation in the Star Empire, and most likely the Raumreich. It had contracts and people everywhere working for corporations, governments, and private individuals. Reprogramming the danger-suits smart paint panels to match the ISSSF colors and to dub in the company’s codes would take a few minutes at the most.

Fitzroy was glad he had some of Carrington’s store sent over to the hotel across from their own by a registered courier from Valinon last night. His combat specialists could check into the rooms and be ready in ten minutes, fifteen at the most.

“Let’s get on it. Febre, you and Leckie are going to go out and play your roles in the casinos. Carrington and I will stay here and give our forward team support. All of you need to be ready to move if this goes south.”

Leckie nods and turns to go. Fitzroy activates his skull-phone and conference networks the three operatives he wants. His sinuses buzz as the ‘phone activates. Sometimes he misses the days before it became required wet-ware for the empire’s operatives.

**********

Rickenbacher continues his lazy stroll through the market following the part of the ship’s crew Julia had begged at a considerable distance. He enhances the magnification again as the officer and his crew secure a public comm terminal.

Your friends are making a local call. The number is concealed, but I am working on it.

I was wondering if you were doing more than shuffling money about.

A lot more, more than you can ever be expected to understand.

Rickenbacher smirks.

But, my friend, there is one thing you can’t do. You can’t follow them if they decide to stop using cards and leave the comm terminal.

They are harder to find than most. But then anyone who wears a Solar Navy uniform and is still alive cannot be incredibly stupid.

We will see. I must run.

Rickenbacher cuts the connection with der Händler and follows his targets as they leave the terminal. It is starting to look like someone showed interest in what this captain got a hold of. Now it is time to see if Marius Turin’s plan to make military contracts easier to get for companies he invested in is going to work, or if the backwards hick that commands the Carrion is going to fuck things over by talking to some third party he shouldn’t.

Either way, Rickenbacher doesn’t care. He gets paid for just coming here, and mentally he adds up the charges as he trails in the captain’s distant wake.

OOC: Hey, guys. Since at this point I think I need Vernii to post before I can contribute to the story anymore, I’m just updating the infosheet of vocabulary and places just for easy reference and use on you guys’ part. If you’ve any questions, etc, just IM me when I’m on.

I plan to build this sheet and leave it on this page as time goes on.

Places:

“Shortside” / “Longside” – The orbitals of Yetti’s Star, orbiting around Y1, are loosely divided in about half into those controlled by the Sarkozy faction and another less centralized faction of the Jacobawitz Crime Syndicate. While they technically are required to peacefully coexist by higher-ups in the family, they operate parallel to one another and rarely interact except on Syndicate business.

Bezelbe International – Bezelbe International Spaceport, a much expanded upon docking bay on Sachanowitz Orbital serving those coming or going into Yetti’s Star on commercial commutes.

Sachanowitz Orbital – One of the two Island 3 Orbital Habitats in Yetti’s Star orbiting around Y1, nicknamed "The Sacher" by locals.

Southbottom – There is a “north” and a “south” end to an Island 3, as well as a “top” and “bottom” relative to the orbit. “Southbottom” would be at the south, bottom quadrant.

Pipes – Wormholes

Bean – Popular local term for Y1, it being green and occasionally, because of light from the star, appears to be shaped like a bean.

Names:

Germans – Any white person (non-semite) from outside the Collective Protectorates

Prole – Popular term for Verniians

Krunk – Local term for Krolor (apes)

Baldy – Local term for WIckans

People:

Doyle – In charge of the Saturnia Hotel, Gorilla in a Vanilla suit

Sarkozy – Head of Syndicate operations on the Longside

Carol Zeevi – Bookie based in Sachanowitz, employer of Jeffy

Aldous Stewart – Local entertainer of rich, foreign clientele and *SPOILER ALERT!* secret Verniian contact!.

Elwood Kerry and Israel Ekkos – Two aging but single-minded “information brokers” on the Longside, of the old school of Syndicate small-time operations.

And, to quote Dora the Explorer: "I'M THE MAP, I'M THE MAP, I'M THE MAP, I'M THE MAP, I'M THE MAP!"
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v251/redarmyagent/planets2.jpg

Ansom's head jerked up as his doorbell rang. He stood up from the couch but left his TV running, (the sound would mask the noise of his footsteps approaching the door), and cautiously looked through the door's peephole. One man, no others in view.

He stepped back from the door, "Just a minute! I'll be right there." he called loud enough to be heard through it. He brought his wrist up to his mouth to whisper into his 'watch', "Twardy! Someone's at the door, I'm going to check it out. Maintain radio silence unless you think I'm in imminent and critical danger."

The TV was muted, and Ansom opened the door just a bit, leaving the chain lock secured and peering through the gap. "Who are you?" he inquired to his visitor.

Across the street, the barrel of Twardy's rifle would be pointing at the spot on the other side of the door, or at least where Twardy assumed that the visitor would be. Unfortunately they hadn't placed any sensors in the hallway, so if a fight started he would literally be shooting blind, nor would he be able to react until something happened in the apartment that he could see, and he silently hoped to himself that it wouldn't be Ansom's body hitting the floor as the first sign of trouble.

The Captain looks up and down the hall, then at the man looking at him through the door, lifting his arm to tilt back the ragged Ortagan officer's hat.

"I'm here about some ... eh, merchandise." Marla nearly steps forward but Cap signals with a hand she should stay out of site. He still needs to sell himself before he pretends to sell anything. "I've got good authority saying you're a serious buyer, so let's not fuck around. What're you lookin' to buy?"

Ansom's face remained blank, but his mind was racing. First contacts in any spy op were always dangerous, given both parties (usually) knew little about the other and both obviously had their own survival and self-interest at stake. He was tempted to ask if his visitor had come alone, but no answer would be truthful and the question would only arouse suspicion.

For now, it was best to go along with things but not to volunteer too much information...yet. He kept the door narrowed.

"I'm a collector of electronics, particularly the brand new stuff that no one else has yet, if you know what I mean. I heard a neat new item was here in Yetti's, and I may be interested in purchasing it. Perhaps you can be of assistance then?"

The Captain makes a brief consideration to himself. On the one hand, he’s got no need to kill the guy, and he might need him alive to find the cash. On the other hand, he’s already done talking.

“Right.”

He looks over to Marla and signals again with a more abrupt nod. She gets the signal. She kicks in the door—hinges, locks, and all—knocking Ansom to the ground, the door on top of him.

The Captain looks down at the nigh-split door. “Jesus Christ… Fucking tourists!. Stay down there and you’ll make it through this alive, eh!” He then steps back in the hall, and stands to the right of the door—Marla mirrors him—and looks to Barry and Gr’czk and shouts down the hall. “Gr’czk, you think you can take a shot?”

Gr’czk’s massive hairy frame recoils. “No fair, Boss. Gr’czk took shot last week.”

“Fine. Barry it’s your turn.”

Barry grumbles as he makes his way down the hall, belching “Man, fuck this. I tell you what—I get a bigger share then all three ‘a you assholes.”

Just before Barry makes his entrance to the room, the Captain shouts, “Alright, motherfuckers! If there’s anybody else in there, I got a five…” he glances at Barry “… six hundred pound Krunk on his way in. Let’s not fuck around!” The Captain is, of course, uninformed that there is no-one else in the room.

Barry pulls his Ortagan surplus assault rifle—the kind meant to be carried by medium armored suits and makes his way inside, stepping over the door. His sheer girth has to squeeze through the door, and the Verniian thermal viewers can’t help but be confused by the strange, massive cloud of intense heat entering the room.

Ansom had only been half-expecting trouble, despite the extent of his preparations for it. The initially civil conversation with the Captain had lowered his guard (he was retired after all, skills and habits degrade if not used), and so he had actually been surprised when Marla had kicked the door off its hinges and on top of him.

To his credit, he was not stunned into helplessness though. Retirement may take the edge off one's skills, but the basics will stay with you for a while. He nodded meekly to the Captain's demand that he stay down, hands held up where everyone could see that he had no weapon on him, and slowly dislodged himself from the door to crawl into the corner.

This is going to get ugly.

+++

"Goddamnit!"

The "click" noise of the safety disengaging on Twardy's rifle was barely audible over his curse, but he held his fire.

Sarah hissed at him, "What are you waiting for? Light those bastards up!"

He kept his eye on the scope, his gun swinging on its mount as it tracked the sensor signature of the big guy intruding into Ansom's apartment, and replied to her, "The hallway is a blind spot, if I shoot now, I can only get one of them without shooting blindly. I'm going to wait a moment, let other targets enter the apartment, then take out the one in the rear before moving onto the others. Then their asses are mine."

The apartment is small, so Barry clears it quickly, checking the other rooms, closets, etc. He reports back to the front room. "Nobody else in here."

The Captain sighs and steps in front of the door, looking down at Ansom with more compassion than before. He feels sorry for the guy, though the situation doesn't really encourage outward pity. Back to business, he tells Gr'czk to watch the hall and steps in the door, Marla behind him. While the Captain varies his approach to various muggings, he decides to pull the authority card in this case.

"Do you know what you're doing is highly illegal?" He pulls out his wallet, flashing his Y-COMM badge.* "See that? It's Y-COMM. Dealing in stolen technology is a serious offense--even offering to purchase." Of course, the Captain is counting on this poor schmuck not knowing that Y-COMM officers have no police authority in the orbitals. Behind him, Marla jimmies the door back into place while he speaks. "Yes, we've been following you for a while... you've been to all the regular places. BUT, I can tell you're new to this." He looks around the apartment. "You're no smuggler, just some fella lookin' for a deal, right? Well I'm gonna make you a deal. You give me the foldin' cash you have on you--and I know you've got it, you've been throwing it all over town--and we'll just... drop the charges." He gives Ansom a big smile.

*YCOMM technically operates on a deputizing process. It manufactures the badges in mass, with no name or rank, and issues them to "officers" who are only known to the system by their number.

(OOC Note: Transactions in Yetti's Star are, as it might seem alien to outsiders or even you and me, almost all in cash. I'm just explaining this so as to avoid "its in an account.")

"You think I'm stupid enough to keep all my dough here and not in a casino deposit box?" Ansom grinned smugly, "Oh sure, you can have the contents of my wallet, its probably a few hundred solaris worth, but I don't think you'll consider that worth the trouble for either of us."

+++

"Got 'em." Twardy's barrel swung toward the last figure to come through the door, lined his crosshairs up on their torso and squeezed the trigger. His rifle nudged back with the recoil as he squeezed off a three round burst through the wall of both apartments.

+++

Ansom bolted from the floor as soon as part of the wall above him exploded into dust as Twardy's shots punched through the drywall. Not even waiting to see what happened, he hurled his body straight into the cheap and damaged front door, punching through it and tumbling clumsily into the hallway beyond.

Marla flies sideways to the other end of the room, leaving a spray of red mist in her wake. The Captain doesn't even need to turn around before shouts "JESUS!" and drops to the floor, shortly followed by Barry.

Outside in the hall, Gr'czk hears the ruckus and bounds to the door, bursting in--the door lands on the Captain, bringing about another, equally emotional (if muted by the door) "JESUS!"

Gr'czk now has the misfortune of being the only standing thing in a room marked by a sniper. "Boss. You ok? Where iss Marla?"

Yetti’s Star

Lucius Valera peers through the scope of his Impaler from the apartment Faulke found across the street from the Verniian “encampment.” The unit was closed had been a renovation, though in this neighborhood Valera doubted if a renovation counted for much. The work crew hadn’t even bothered to activate the card lock for him to even worry about breaking.

As easy a time as he’s had on the sturmbannführer’s fishing expedition, the Verniians are catching it in the ass. This meeting with the Carrion’s captain has gone south…far south. Valera pulls up his link to Bunt and Steiner who stayed on the street.

Does it sound as bad down there as it looks up here?

Yes, if they keep this up much longer local security is going to show up, Bunt comes back.

Even in this neighborhood this much ammo being kicked around can’t be ignored. I still can’t tell what happened. Whatever it was, the Verniians did something real wrong real fast, Valera looks away from the firefight to watch as Steiner drifts farther down the street, closer to the Ballwort Apartments.

Do we have the go to snag the Carrion’s CO in this cluster fuck?

We need verification. Hold the comm.

Valera pulls up the connection to Carrington’s spook ship.

“Ops Central.”

“Actual.”

“Hold…”

“Actual,” Valera shifts his rifle as Fitzroy’s voice enters his skull.

“Field one reports contact between targets has turned hostile. Multiple hostile contacts between ship’s contingent and unidentified Verniian agents. Request further instructions on observation parameters.”

Valera swallows when he sees the drywall in the apartment explode and a mist of red appear in his scope. The seconds continue to tick by.

“Field one, do not engage targets. Monitor and report back on outcome. Main objective is to continue monitoring ship CO. Do not lose sight of him. Confirm if KIA. Actual out.”

We do not have go. Orders are to monitor the firefight and keep tabs on the Carrion’s CO.

Understood.

Received.

They’ll leave in a hurry. You two handle the initial pursuit if the captain and his team bolt. I’ll catch up.

Valera leans in; pulling the table he was resting his elbow on closer to his body. One thing is for sure. The Verniians and the pirates won’t be getting much done in the way of business dealings.

**********

At the corner of the street, Rickenbacher looks down the block as the sounds of gunfire echo around him. The neighborhood shows it colors when the people on the street barely even bother to look up at the noise and instead start casually drifting out of the street. Rickenbacher starts to estimate how long he can stay here without making his lingering look to obvious, but then he notices a pair of ISSSF troops looking toward the building the Carrion’s captain and his two escorts went into.

Did our employer give any word on who might be after our good friend the captain?

The Leoni Corporation is likely to send a team unless instructed otherwise by the Kriegsmarine. It was expected OKI would investigate the incident, but as of now they don’t have a team in the field.

The closest OKI team would come from…?

Klein and the HMSS Pergamum. Is someone there?

There is gunfire coming from the captain’s location, enough to attract attention in short order, and a pair of ISSSF personnel in the street—one male and one female. They are both looking at the building, one just moved closer down the street.

Leoni must have sent someone. It is unexpected, but not unanticipated.

You don’t seem worried.

There’s no reason to be worried, even if they succeed Leoni’s ability to carry off this or any future contracts with the Kriegsmarine has been damaged enough by this incident. If they recover the Keystone data it will only partially right the damage, at best. They’re not going to do anything more than further embarrass themselves with two ISSSF grunts. It even works to the advantage in this particular situation.

Care for a more detailed explanation?

Our employer’s main purpose for steering the Liberation’s black marketers in this direction is already accomplished. All that is left to be insured is that no potentially damaging consequences may be traced back on them. This gives us an opportunity to do so and throw the blame on the Verniians. If the opportunity presents itself kill the Carrion’s captain. The rest of his crew will be too stupid to know what he actually took from Leoni.

And if you have underestimated his crew’s stupidity?

Then I will hack that scow’s systems and find the data, you may retrieve it, and send whoever grew more than a brain stem to join their captain.

The Verniians?

Must I spell out everything today? Use the Verniians for what they have been good for since the beginning of time—blame the mess on them. I recommend your friend in the security services unless she’s too busy bemoaning her lost career in Nightwatch.

Ah, so you do know who she was.

It was not that hard to uncover, but ultimately it does not matter. She was so far down the hierarchy even the ESS doesn’t care about her any more. She can continue to wallow in obscurity thinking she is being pursued until the gene baths stop having impact on her aging for all I care.

So she was found out?

Four years ago the ESS marked her and even tracked down her quarters. She was filed as no immediate threat with no need to terminate or turn over to the ISS. You should tell her. The most amusing and worthwhile she can do right now, in my eyes, is hurl herself out an airlock.

Perverse, when it is considered you don’t have eyes.

Perform your job so that we may return to more profitable business of a vineyard based nature.

Rickenbacher joins the general move to get away from the gunfight while he calls Julia again.