Oolite Bulletins

Eventually I was discharged, but that didn’t mean I was ready to fly again. Due to the way I’d lost my ship I was almost in danger of being in breach of insurance statutes and losing it all. Twenty-Five million credits down the drain in one super buffed up Asp shaped fireball.

Fortunately what little pull I had with Lakon Spaceways was enough to get them to overlook this, and honour the insurance agreement. I suspect the recent exploits of Ranger M was bad enough press and figured it would only get worse if I made a stink about the whole thing if I lost it all… which I totally would have.

I mean, in a way they’re the one responsible for this. I never asked to be made a celebrity. I was just selling my data and they come along and force a mask on my face and put me in front of a bunch of cameras. It brought back all my bad habits. For a moment I was a kid again, and I don’t mean that in a good way. The sense of privilege and entitlement, and having the money to back it up…

I wonder if they have a Spoiled Brats Anonymous support group?

But it’s not a total loss. I still have my Asp, and it is pretty well kitted out, mostly B rated equipment. Not bad. Not bad at all. B rated stuff doesn’t come cheap. I could sell her, I suppose. Recoup most of the money. The Asp is a solid ship though, other than an uncomfortably exposed power plant, and for the most part it’s built like a tank. I think I’ll hold onto her for a while.

I’ve put the Viaticus Rex II in a hanger on Abraham Lincoln in Sol, right next to my Cobra the Lonely Heart.

As she currently stands, this Asp can carry almost as much cargo as the Type 6, but at the same time has more firepower than the Cobra. She’s not as fast or manoeuvrable, mind you, but she’s no slouch either. Here’s hoping Dumbass doesn’t mind her new quarters.

So, it looks like I’ll be stuck here for a while with the… what the heck did I name this ship anyway? I vaguely recall being asked to designate a name with Starport Services when I bought her, but I was also arguing with the sales rep who though I might not be ready to fly her. It looks like I officially named her…I’m Not Drunk.

Aaaand it looks like I wanted to be rather emphatic about that point, because I added a rider to my insurance forms stipulating that any replacement Asp I get must keep this designation or it forfeits the contract.

Swell. Just swell.

I know that ship, it has a sister called "au contraire"

mossfoot wrote:

I added a rider to my insurance forms stipulating that any replacement Asp I get must keep this designation or it forfeits the contract.

Oh to live in a world where us ordinary plebs actually get to negotiate contract terms, or impose our own conditions, on contracts with Corporations. Sigh.

"Agreement between equals", my arse.

Well, I figured out why Violet has been so quiet for so long. I can only assume some readers or listeners will have figured this out by now.

Let me start at the beginning. I’d gotten the I’m Not Drunk checked out and spaceworthy again, but was still a couple of days away from feeling like flying again. So I’d gone back to the spacer bar to catch up on some sports.

The Asp is a comfortable enough ship (more so than the Type 6, since it’s designed for long range exploration) but it doesn’t feel like home yet. And I can’t get that stupid name out of my head. So I needed a different kind of normal to touch base with, and the local bar has always been that place.

Unfortunately it turns out that I hadn’t only made friends at the bar that fateful night before I was shot down.

“Did you say my old lady had a moustache?”

This was coming from a very large man. Large enough that he had his own satellites orbiting him, in the form of smaller, but no less intimidating men. They were wearing the black and red colors of the Satan’s Choice gang.

A thousand years ago they’d have driven motorcycles. Here they flew fighters. Not pirates, mind you. No, they were careful to stay just on this side of the law. They smuggled drugs and slaves, whatever paid the most, and they took contracts to take out whoever if it paid enough, but they left regular shipping alone.

Scumbags, but smart scumbags. And big scumbags with muscles and chains and black leather and I really really really didn’t want to be there anymore.

Unfortunately one of the satellites broke orbit and blocked my exit.

“You offered her two hundred thousand credits for a kiss. You think my old lady is a whore?”

“Hey, I was drunk. I was just having fun, letting off steam.”

The bruiser cracked his knuckles. “Yeah. Letting off steam. I like to do that to.”

“Maybe he’d like to let me kiss him for two hundred thousand credits,” one of the little moons said.

The bruiser nodded. “Yeah. Maybe he’d like to give us all that much. We’re open minded that way.”

Looking around, I was guessing the fee to get out of this mess with my bones intact was somewhere around a million credits. Which I didn’t have.

Now if Violet was here she’d no doubt have taken them on while I ran off somewhere or helped from a safe distance. Unfortunately I was here alone and for such a big guy that bruiser’s fist flew really, REALLY fast.

After that? Well, I’ll tell you the rest once I go to bed, no doubt.

---

After that? That’s where I come in. That first punch knocked Mossfoot out cold, but it also meant I could take over.

I’d been testing my ability to use his body while he was asleep for some time now, partly in case something like this ever happened, but also… well, look being trapped in someone else’s body is really not a picnic. I don’t know if I’m really me or just a simulation of me, but in either case it’s very isolating and I was going crazy.

I considered this arrangement a win-win. Whenever Mossfoot’s asleep, I can come out and use his body. His brain actually still goes through its REM cycle while I’m in charge, so he wakes up as if nothing happened. Once or twice he had a few bruises he couldn’t account for, but it’s taken me a while to be able to use this body like my own.

And as upset as he might be with this new arrangement, he couldn’t argue with the results. The gas giant’s lackies were a piece of cake, even basic aikido moves let me redirect one into another over and over until I could land a solid shot and take one out, then rinse and repeat until the lackies were whittled down from four to three to two to one.

The last one I used to trip up the behemoth, because while Mossfoot works out, he was not cut out for that fight. Heck, I wouldn’t have been cut out for that fight – I’d need at least a baseball bat to work with, and for a sports bar, this place was surprisingly lacking in improvised weaponry.

Call it “pulling a Mossfoot”, but I took the opportunity to run away.

So… yeah. Guess the cat’s out of the bag now. Surprise!

---

She forgot to add that when I woke up I was back in the I’m Not Drunk, flying to another system because those Satan’s Choice dudes decided to chase me.

That’s when Violet came clean about everything.

So, yeah, this is my new reality. Like the old one wasn’t confusing enough. You know, every once in a while I run into a fan out there who takes the time out to tell me they like my stories and ask how much of it is actually real… you’d think ONE of them would have warned me that this crazy chick was taking over my body. Thanks a lot, you bunch of filthy animals.

Still, she probably saved my life. It also explains what happened with Ivan and why Violet had been quiet for so long. My guess is at the high level of inebriation I was at, Violet was similarly affected and our consciousness were swimming into one another, so I was saying things that I normally never would, and she was taking over during my frequent blackouts.

So, in other words, just like getting really drunk.

I’d like to say I’m mad, but I’m not. I am, however, concerned. Despite her reassurances that this is as far as our connection goes, I cannot shake the words of one of the great classics, where the villain in a deep rumbling voice says:

“I am altering the deal. Pray I don’t alter it any further.”

I’ve been in the Federation for a long time.

As I’ve mentioned before, it’s not through any sense of loyalty. I grew up in what’s called the Alliance now, but the world I grew up in a hundred and fifty years ago was a lie so I haven’t been keen on returning since getting defrosted.

No, I was in Federation space at first because of its novelty, getting to visit the birthplace of humanity and all, and then because I got comfortable there. I got myself allied with a number of systems because it’s always smart to have friends. When the universe is full of people trying to kill you, it would be stupid not to.

But I tell you, sometimes the bureaucracy here drives me nuts. The number of forms I have to fill out every time I stay in dry dock longer than five minutes... ghah! And sure they’re all about law and order and keeping the peace, but it’s in that same frustrating paperwork kind of way.

And every single time I think I’ve got things figured out they throw a loop on me. Okay, so I learned about the perils of smuggling cargo early on. No harm done, just meant that Fed ships kept a closer eye on me for a while. Hey, back in my time salvaging was a way of life. Stuff like that is easy to remember. But then every once in a while they hit you with things you had no idea about, and make no sense whatsoever…

After the Ranger M fiasco and the encounter with Satan’s Choice, I decided to make myself scarce and make a few credits in my Asp. The I’m Not Drunk is a capable fighter (when, er, I’m not drunk) but in its current layout holds almost as much as my Type 6. That made it ideal for stocking up on rare items and taking them to the edge of populated space where they’d be worth a small fortune. I could make a million credits that way easy, and not have to worry about pirates along the way.

I’ve compiled a list of systems near Sol that sell these unique items, everything from rare booze to boner pills to weight loss drugs that are really parasitic lifeforms… hey, I don’t judge. Hitting them is just about enough to fill my ship to capacity.

After finishing this game of galactic hopscotch I came back to Sol briefly to put Dumbass in our rented room on Galileo. She needed the gravity and I didn’t know how long I would be out for delivering these goods. That’s when a representative of the Federation’s came out to greet me. Not a military man. Not in the least.

“Welcome, trusted ally!”

Well, that was new. “Hello to you too.” He was a thin, bald man in work clothes that probably cost as much as my ship.

“Careful,” said Violet inside my head, “He might be trying to convert you to Pastafarianism or something.”

“Quiet, I’m still not talking to you.”

“You just did.”

“Shhh!”

The rep didn’t notice me muttering to myself, fortunately, and came to shake my hand. “I like to come out and meet with every pilot personally who makes the list.”

“The list?”

The man grinned. “The Federation recognizes your achievements, Lieutenant Commander,” Hey, I got promoted and didn’t even realize it. Nice. “But that is strictly a military concern, and not one that reflects your importance to us as a whole. At this point we would like to convey upon you full Allied status within all Federation systems. Congratulations.”

That was the best news I’d had since I lost my Ranger M gig. Like I said, it’s always good to have friends. Being an Ally meant that any Fed system I’m in, even if they’d never seen me before, would send out ships to help if I got ambushed and attacked, plus I could expect all kinds of basic discounts on stations and accommodation.

“Wow. Thank you. Thanks a lot.”

“Well, we do what we can to honour those who spend so much time in our… systems… Is that what I think it is?”

My cargo ramp had been lowered, and my consignment of rares brought out for a routine inspection. Among them were kegs of whiskey.

“Is that… is that Eranin Pearl Whiskey?”

“Sure is,” I said. I had a growing sense of pride in me, as if I was part of something bigger, and they were welcoming me with open arms despite my face that’s made for radio broadcasts only. “Going to take it out to the edge to comfort our deprived Federation cousins out there. You know, I really shouldn’t, but tell you what, let’s open one up and have a glass to celebrate. My treat.”

“Oh my. No. This won’t do. This won’t do at all.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Uh oh,” Violet whispered.

“What’s wrong? This whiskey is illegal.”

“Illegal? Buddy, I’ve imported enough hooch to this station to power it for a year. Alcohol is a legal drug in Sol.”

“Yes, but Eranin succeeded from the Federation thirty years ago and this… this travesty is their way of rubbing our noses in it. It’s clearly marked on our prohibited lists.”

“What? Where?”

“Chapter 12 of the Imported Goods Act, Subsection AA-23, as a footnote to Paragraph 7.” The man brought up the obscure section on his datapad as if it was the title page. “Oh, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to fine you for carrying this. This cannot stand.”

“But I’m a trusted ally, remember? I’m on the list.”

“No, Mr. Mossfoot, I’m afraid you’re on the other list now. Please pay your fine promptly and be on your way. If you stay away from such subversive elements in the future, we may reconsider our position at a later date. Good day.”

And with that he was gone, just a gleam of bald partially blinding me as he turned and left.

I checked my watch. “Well, that was the shortest turnaround of fortune I’ve had in a while.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s a new record,” said Violet. “You didn’t even get the secret decoder ring or learn the Feddy Handshake.”

My teeth clenched. I was still trying to ignore Violet, but she was probably right. A new record.

I waved to the cargo personnel. “Load it back up. All of it. I’m leaving.”

“What about Dumbass?” Violet asked.

“She’s coming with us,” I said, which confused and scared one of the dock workers who thought I was talking about her. I went back inside and prepared for takeoff.

“You’re not going to just go out to the edge to sell the stuff and sulk out there, are you?” Violet asked.

“No, I am not. That’s not the only place these goods will be worth a fortune.”

“Well, distance makes all the difference,” Violet reminded me. “The further the better.”

“I know. That’s why I have the perfect destination in mind. These guys want to have me join their secret club just to kick me out again? Fine. We’re taking this load to the Empire.”

If conscience, ethics and spite ever met in a perfect storm it was this week. No sooner do I leave to haul my rare cargo down to Empire space that I hear the news on GalNet. The President of the Federation ordered an attack on civilian ships in Lugh. Nine thousand civilians were killed, on purpose, all because they thought they had intel that an enemy leader was among them.

My God.

Look, I’m no angel, and never claimed to be. I’ll stoop to all kinds of lows if the price is right and far lower if I believe the target has it coming to them, but knowingly shooting refugee ships? Let’s just say I didn’t want to be in Fed space for a while. The stink was getting to me.

Ivan was good enough to fly escort to me into Empire territory. He had some pull down there and said he could smooth over any rough edges I might have settling in.

The Empire is… interesting. I stopped off at Liabese, near the capital of Achenar. Mostly because I figured making a name for myself closer to the capital would get me a permit faster. Turned out I was right. It took me less than a week to get an Allied status with them—they gave me a fancy pin to wear on my cape and everything. Not that I have a cape… but capes seem to be an Empire thing. Why don’t I have a cape? Capes are cool! Note to self, get a cape.

Anyway, it had taken over three months of nonsense to get the same results with the Federation, only to lose it five minutes later. I made a few runs back to Fed space to pick up more rares for quick sale back in the Empire, which seemed to please these fancy pants types to no end. It also managed to somehow smooth things over with the Feds, so I’m technically allied with both sides.

Hey, who am I to complain? If it means they send out rescue ships faster I’ll game. But for now I’m staying clear of the Feds except for when I need them. It just doesn’t feel right to hang out there.

Politics is big and complex and I know there are no easy answers, but some things ARE easy. You don’t shoot down refugee ships because you think a single bad-guy is on board.

---

So it looks like Ivan had a similar idea to me. I don’t know if it was Lugh that got him to shift bases or just wanted a change of pace, but he decided to hang out in the Empire for a while as well. He seemed to think there was good money to be made dealing with all the faction in-fighting in the area. But I had a funny feeling the way he talked, as if I should already know all this. I checked my status on the control panel…

“Violet?”

“You know, this Asp does have two seats but the other one is directly below you. Who thought THAT was a good idea? How can I mentally project myself somewhere I can’t even see? Lame. What’s up?”

I looked at my current combat rating. “Um… you haven’t been ‘practicing’ your flying skills, have you?”

“What makes you say that?”

I noticed that wasn’t a denial, and knowing she could see what I could see, focused on my current rating of Competent up from Novice.

“Oh… well, Ivan called a few nights and asked if you wanted to make some easy money. So I figured, you were asleep and I could use the practice…”

“And the fact I’m a Squire now in their military?”

Violet actually managed to sound sheepish, so I could only assume even she felt guilty about whatever nightly hijackings she was doing of my body. “Ivan found out about some bad people and I figured you wouldn’t mind if you knew how bad they were… I put the money to good use, you know. You’ve got better thrusters now.”

“What rating?”

“A.”

My eyes widened. Those were worth five million credits. My personal greed was competing with my sense of self preservation. “Please just don’t get me killed. And if you think you are going to get me killed… please don’t wake me up.”

“Deal, boss.”

Ivan didn’t know about my “arrangement” with Violet, and I wasn’t about to tell him. Heck, I have yet to find anyone to believe that it’s actually true. People following my story either assume I’m simply being colourful, suffering some kind of PTSD, or am mentally unstable. So I’ve given up trying to convince folks. You want to think I’m just spinning yarns? Fine. My invisible laser frogs will take our pancakes elsewhere.

Despite Violet’s promises of keeping me out of harm’s way, the continuing influx of funds and upgrades to my Asp tells me she’s lying her ever loving fool head off… dear God I wish there was a way to lock her in her room when I’m sleeping.

Ivan always seemed to wonder why I was so much more cautious in a fight when I was the one in charge, but didn’t say anything. Instead he was interested in profit and advancement. We had similar philosophies that way – make money and make friends. The key to a successful life in space travel.

But there was always something a bit mercenary about him. Like the only thing that mattered was the money and the friends were just a means to an end.

I don’t think it’s sociopathy. Not in the way we commonly think of it. Maybe it’s just because he’s raised in this never-fail ejection seat age I talked about before. Maybe to him it’s all just a game and nobody ever gets hurt. I dunno, maybe if he realized real people were getting hurt during his rampages in hot zones he’d change his tune.

But I doubt it.

Why am I so sure? Our last cargo run together. He’d traded up to a Type 7 Lakon transport, hoping to work his way up to something big with lots of guns and armor. He wanted to know if I’d fly escort duty for him. “You’ll get 5% on the profits, along with whatever you make yourself along the way.”

Not a problem. “What’s the cargo?” I asked.

“Slaves.”

At first I thought I didn’t hear him right. “What?”

“Imperial Slaves. Not the unlicensed kind. Good profit margin on these ones.”

I’ve said before that I don’t truck with slaves, and there’s a very simple reason why. In another time and place I could very easily have been one. Of either kind.

First off there are your straight up old school slaves. People who are forced against their will into labor. These people are sometimes rounded up by pirates on fringe worlds during raids (all the more reason to hate the buggers), and the people who buy them treat them as badly as those who kidnapped them in the first place. As much as people like the Federation try to stamp these things out, there is always a market for them somewhere.

Back in my time, sometimes these slaves were made up from pilots who ejected, only to get their pods scooped up by the guy who shot them down. Some people made a sport of it. And on more than one occasion I was almost on the receiving end of that.

Then there are Imperial slaves, which is a form of indentured servitude. People who get into various forms of debt can pay it off by signing a contract to work as a slave for a set period of time. The Empire considers this honourable, claiming it promotes a strong work ethic in its citizens and provides redemption for those who otherwise would have become a burden on society.

The problem is, there are so many ways to exploit this – loopholes that can stretch out a one year contract into ten, new debts added onto old, interest charges, and various legal loopholing that can, and have, turn these people’s lives into hell. What you see on the vids of hard working Imp slaves doing their duty does not necessarily reflect the reality. Rebellions have been fought over this, only to be crushed in the name of order and honor.

Even if it was all above board, who cares? At the end of the day it’s still slavery.

And I could have been one.

Think about it. When I first lost everything over a century ago? I literally had nothing. It was only because Brother Mathias gave me a beaten up rust-bucket of an Adder that I was able to start rebuilding my life.

And then again when I was defrosted in the present day. Since I was found technically dead, in Imperial space the ship I was found in might have been deemed Empire salvage and my entire recovery bill (assuming they even tried to revive me) would be placed on me as debt I’d have to work off.

Do you see where I’m getting at here? It’s a hard universe out there, and as we all know I’ve had my share of bad luck. But there are so many others out there, countless others, with less luck than me. How can you not feel sorry for those poor saps?

I told Ivan I was sorry, but I wouldn’t be able to fly escort for him. He asked why, and like a moralistic fool I explained. My point was lost on him. Either he bought the Empire line about honourable indentured servitude or he just didn’t care. But in the end it was profit margins that won out.

So with a nod we parted ways, and I was a lot less keen on getting a cape.

Rummaging somewhere inside my head, I could have sworn I heard Violet say, “I knew I was right about you.”

----

For those not in the loop, what I meant by that goes back to the first time I met MF a hundred and fifty years ago…when I had a body and I blew his ship out of the sky.

It was supposed to be an easy hunt. I spent some time tracking him down, had read his full portfolio. Heck, I’d even gone undercover as a flyboy bunny at the spacer bar he hung out in to get a feel for the man, and he was a grade A jerk the universe was going to be better off without.

Then, before I could move in for the kill while he was on a delivery run, he answered a distress call. A passenger liner, the Princess Cruise, was under pirate attack, and to my surprise he ran straight for it to help.

Outnumbered, outgunned, and outmatched, he joined in the system defence forces and helped turn the tide… but not before the Princess Cruise itself was lost.

I still shot him down the next day, mind you. Right through the cockpit, though I was careful not to hit him. Hey, a bounty is a bounty, but that bounty was on his ship, it never specifically specified the pilot being dead (I figured I could still collect on that technicality. I was wrong, but that’s a whole other story).

So I scooped him up before he was cold and took him back to the station, and when he recovered, I let him know why I did what I did.

I told him I saw a different man that day, someone that maybe the universe wasn’t better off without. I’d hoped he’d prove me right.

MF is fond of reminding people that he's no angel, but I'm even less so. I have a code, and I like to think I have ethics, but at the end of the day I'm still a killer. Despite all his bluster, Mossfoot doesn't run away from fights just because he's a coward...though that's certainly part of it.

We’ve done a lot of good together over the years, but one could argue there was always enlightened self-interest at play in some fashion. But today was different. Slavery is perfectly legal in the Empire. There was no trouble for him to get into, no possible downside to accepting the commission. Heck, the profits would have been good and helped his standing in Empire space. He was even friends with the other pilot. And yet he still said no.

It might have taken a hundred and fifty years and my own death to find out for sure, but it’s nice to know I was right about him.

Violet/Mossfoot wrote:

“Deal, boss.”

Are you sure you haven't read "..Fear No Evil"?

I think the dual personality works really well. Certainly one way to get two different viewpoints on the same tale. Still loving the exploits, as DW would say "write on cmndr"!

SteveKing wrote:

Are you sure you haven't read "..Fear No Evil"?

Dammit! I knew it was reminding me of something.. couldn't quite place it, though. Well called.

Again. Haven't read it.

If anything I would have gotten the idea from "All of Me" starring Steve Martin and Lily Tomlin

Pirates. God I hate pirates.

I’m not against making a dishonest buck, but I am much more a con and swindle the unworthy sort of cad. You know, people who are making tons of money but make that cash through questionable means so there’s no harm in making them…share…some with…me.

Oh crap. I’m that guy now, aren’t I?

I’ve been making decent money in my Asp for a while, collecting rares in the Federation, trading them in the Empire, and then buy rares in the Empire for the Federation. It hauls in close to a million and a half each way if everything goes smoothly. I’m sure I could make more finding a nice reliable Palladium route somewhere, but this way I get to see more of the galaxy.

Of course the trouble with rares is, pirates tend to know that traders like me will be coming there. Bigger traders don’t bother with the rares routes, due to the small quantities most stations offer of those prised items. Instead those traders make more faster and more sticking with standard trades.

And small ships like me can be mass-locked by bigger ships, giving them plenty of time to blow you to pieces if you don’t heave-to and prepare to be boarded.

That’s what happened outside of Vega.

Now I’m no stranger to interdiction, but this guy was different. You could tell right away he wasn’t your generic pirate, and he sure as heck wasn’t one of the stupid ones who didn’t carried shields so they could carry more loot.

No, this guy was smart, and he was in an Imperial Clipper.

My God, what a ship. If I wasn’t busy crapping my pants I’d have had an erection when I saw it.

You can’t buy these babies in the Federation, or the Alliance, or anywhere else for that matter. It’s exclusive to the Empire and is a work of art. A deadly work of art.

“What’s the CODE, lad?”

Ah crap, a code pirate. This group was well known for offering “safe passage” to traders by paying a fee for a code that could be used to bypass any of their interdictions. These guys were pros, so that meant I needed to be doubly worried.

“I said, what’s the CODE, lad?”

“Um… swordfish?” It was worth a shot.

“Disable your engines and drop your cargo. You have ten seconds to comply.”

I snapped out of it. Okay, there was no way I’d outfight this ship. He clearly knew what he was doing. But then again, so did I.

“I don’t think so, buddy.” Escape vector set, full power to engines, boosters on, engage frame shift drive…

The FSD whined and complained, a warning popped up on my HUD. The mass of the Clipper was slowing my FSD’s charge rate to a crawl.

“Oh crap.”

The pirate started opening fire. I switched power from engines to shields, but this thing had two large weapons mounts as well as two medium ones. I knew my shields wouldn’t last.

“Let me take over,” Violet said. “Let me take this guy. I can do it!”

“Knock it off, Violet! I’m busy running away!” I didn’t think Violet could actually take over unless I was asleep or unconscious, and I wasn’t about to hit myself over the head with a bottle.

I jinked and swerved and boosted, and Violet kept yelling in my brain.

Personally, I blame her for what happened next.

She made me panic. An expert coward such as myself knows exactly what I should have done in this situation. Running away directly was the stupid thing to do. All I did was make myself an easier target. I couldn’t outrun his Clipper, so all I was providing him was long distance target practice.

No. First off I should have jumped systems. Using the FSD to go to another star works differently than supercruise, and isn’t locked in the same fashion, though it does take longer to charge under normal circumstances.

I also should have turned into him and got right on his back, kept him busy and spinning around trying to keep up with me while my engine charged. Even if he got some solid hits on me, so what? He was getting them on me at range as well. Chances are he’d have hit me less and the next thing you know the engines are ready to go.

And chaff. I also forgot to use my chaff. A Clipper’s big hard points are on the far ends of it nacelles, and those are almost certainly going to be gimbled to give the pilot better fire control.

Had I had a calm head and not so distracted by Violet, things might have ended up differently. Instead I ended up drifting dead in space with my engines blown.

The pirate’s voice came back over the comm: “Care to reconsider your stance there, lad?”

“Um… on second thought, I guess you can have my cargo,” I said.

“Thank you. Much obliged.”

I braced myself for getting spaced after I unloaded my cargo. It didn’t happen. “So… um… you’re not going to blow up my ship?”

The pirate snorted. “No. Why would I do that?”

“It sort of seems to be the sort of thing pirates do.”

“Maybe the stupid ones. Doesn’t exactly encourage repeat business, does it? Consider this, lad. Next time we meet, you’ll probably be more inclined to give me what I want instead of this song and dance, am I right?”

The logic was sound, even if I knew in my gut I wouldn’t make it easy for him. “Sure.”

“Exactly. You kill your target, that’s one less person out there who will make things easy for you later on. And what have you lost, really? Sure, your ship’s a bit of a wreck, but that’s on you for running. Still, it’s a heck of a lot cheaper to fix her than to replace her, am I right?”

Again, I had to agree the logic was sound. “True.”

“So you walk away from this wiser, and I walk away richer. Besides, those ejection seats aren’t as fool proof as they say. I’d hate to have your blood on my hands.”

Well, of all the things I expected, this conversation was somewhere down with finding a space unicorn. “Wow. Um, okay then. Thanks… er… thanks for not destroying me.”

The pirate finished scooping up my rares, which, now that I thought about it, did not represent a significant financial investment on my part. Rares were worth a fortune to sell once you got over a hundred light years from their source, but they were cheap to buy.

“No problem,” he said, turning his ship around and leaving me alone. “Now just remember that if you run into me again.”

Oh, I intended to, but not the way he expected. Next time I needed to prove to myself I had that calm resolve to escape this guy the way I should have. But before I jumped systems, I’d be sure to drop him a few tons of cargo for his trouble.

No reason a gentleman pirate can’t be rewarded for showing some basic decency. Of course, I was still stuck here dead in space with no engines.

“Any chance you can give me a tow to the next station?”

“Sorry, lad. Consider this the price you pay for not following the CODE.”

Very basic decency.

“Okay… how about this?”

The lights flickered and died in the cockpit. All I could see were the spinning points of light outside the window. “Good job,” said Violet. “You killed life support. Glad you put Dumbass in the life support carry box first.”

The visor slipped down over my helmet the moment power was cut. “It’s only for a minute. I need to access the FSD and the life support power runs right through it.”

We were still drifting in space, engines dead, spinning like a sleepy ballerina. When I was exploring I had an auto-repair unit taking up some of my cargo space. It was a life saver when out in the deep black and you were ten thousand light years from the nearest station. But in civilized space, I never thought I’d need one. Just about every system had at least one station that could perform repairs, and I kept the I’m Not Drunk in tip top shape, like all my ships.

Violet thought I’d have to ditch my ship, use the distress signal on the ejection seat to get someone’s attention, but I wasn’t about to give up my ship like that. Besides, the insurance was insultingly high.

“So what exactly do you plan to do once you’ve accessed the drive?” asked Violet. “The thrusters are swiss cheese right now. You’ll never repair them.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I don’t need them to be fully functional, just functional enough. If I can strip part of the hyperdrive element and bypass the safeties, I should be able to use those parts to get thrusters back online. We can get her properly fixed at the next station, it’s only five hundred light seconds away.”

Violet seemed unconvinced. “I really doubt you can just fiddle around with it a bit and get it working again.”

She turned out to be right. Oh, I could get the parts I needed from the FSD, but I then needed to house it and bracket it to stay in place, and that required me stripping parts from other parts of the ship. Then to power it, I needed to rewire it and provide an alternate energy intake to the distributor, which meant more parts were stripped.

By the time I was done, just about every subsystem in the ship had some parts borrowed from it, and the thrusters looked like a science fair project.

“And this, to you, is a better solution than ejecting. You’ve more or less loosened everything holding this rust bucket together! You’ll fly apart the moment you turn it on.”

“Hey, trust me,” I said. “It’ll work.” I was running out of oxygen on my life support, so I really really really did hope it worked. “All right. Power on.”

The ship’s computer acknowledged and powered up the ship. The lights came on and oxygen was restored to the cabin.

“All systems online,” the computer said.

“See? Online.”

“I’ll believe it when I see the engines work.”

“Would you relax? You know how to blow things up, I know how to fix them. I worked on my dad’s collection of classic ships for years.”

“Learning how to hotwire them is not the same as learning how to fix them.”

“Very funny.”

Okay, I’ll admit I wasn’t as confident as I sounded. But even the diagnostics systems agreed I’d restored some functionality to the drives. Granted, this was the same computer that had just called me Mass Effect a moment ago. What the hell did that even mean? Was it calling me fat? Suddenly the name “I’m Not Drunk” seemed to have more to do with the ship than with me.

I got in the cockpit seat and strapped in. “Think of it this way, Vi. Worse case scenario, the ship blows and we eject anyway like you wanted. Call that Plan B.”

I turned on the thrusters and the ship stabilized itself. “HA!”

Violet humphed. “Okay. I’m impressed. Now what about getting us somewhere? How long at normal speed to the nearest station.

“On thrusters? Something like six months. No, we’ll hit Supercruise.”

“You mean the FSD?”

“Yeah.”

“That part of the ship you cannibalized most to get the thrusters back online.”

“Right.” I locked in on the nearest station and engaged the FSD.

“Friendship Drive charging.”

“Did it just say Friendship Drive?” asked Violet?

“Um… I needed some of the parts from the ship’s computer as well.”

“Roger that. Preparing for Plan B,” said Violet. “Nice knowing you.”

“4…3…2…1…enrage.”

And about ten seconds later I started breathing again. We were on our way.

A few minutes later we were docked and the talk of the space port. Engineers from the opposite side of the station hitched a ride on the auto-loaders that loop the station in order to see what was left of the I’m Not Drunk.

At first I was flattered, then it got boring. After signing a few spanners (for luck, I was told), I asked how much it was going to be to repair properly.

“All that? Well, we got a special on refabricated parts and should be able to take care of that mess for, say, 11,000?”

Eleven thousand credits to repair a ship worth several million? Talk about a deal.

Once left alone, Violet stood next to me inspecting the damage.

“Should have let me fight,” she said.

“Not happening,” I said. “And stop asking. I don’t think you can take control unless I’m out cold.”

“So? Keep a mallet handy. Your life might depend on it.”

“Whatever. If you weren’t yelling in my head so much I wouldn’t have panicked.”

“Sure, blame the disembodied spirit. Still, you did a good job patching it up.”

“Thanks.”

“And I hope after all this you learned something about dealing with pirates that know how to count higher than their IQ.”

“Oh I did,” I said. “I learned that I want an Imperial Clipper. Bad.”

An aside.

Ranger M's story made GalNet's YouTube channel, at first as an innoccuous mention of his return last week, but this week they covered his unveiling.

I had to change the company from Lakon to a non-canon company I made up for various reasons, and may change the story to reflect that.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lt0IZdDjjug

My new goal of getting a shiny new Imperial Clipper hinged on two things: getting on the good side of the Empire, and earning more than twenty million credits—for the storeroom model. It would cost a lot more to get one in decent shape for anything I had in mind for it.

Going up in the ranks in the Empire wasn’t too difficult. The Empire is very merit-centric. You prove your worth, you go up. You crash… don’t expect a safety net.

I did mention the nature of Imperial slavery, didn’t I?

Obviously there were lines I wouldn’t cross, but for the most part it was above board…well, mid board. It depends where you set the board, really.

Combat stabilizers, for example. Drugs to help soldiers stay alert in long engagements. Illegal in most systems on the open market, but a few outposts manufacture the stuff directly for the military. But not everyone in the military gets the priority they’d like, so discrete requests for people to help them get priority are put up on the local bulletin boards. Find the right station, grease the right palms and you can load all you need.

Oh, and, um, I think Violet tracked down a renegade general and blew him out of the sky when I wasn’t paying attention. I decided not to ask about it.

I managed to make my way up to Lord that way.

I wonder if you get your own planet once you make Baron? Baron Mossfoot. Hmmm. I like the sound of that.

Shame I don’t like the company I keep nearly as much.

“Okay, so tell me again why this isn’t the stupidest idea you’ve ever had?”

Violet’s always been my rock of confidence.

“Shhh! We’ve almost got it!”

I’d been formulating the plan for weeks. Keeping an eye on traders, looking at who had a certain focus on trading slaves.

Funnily enough it was Ivan who clued me in to my final target. It seemed he’d quickly changed his mind on trading slaves and this a-hole was the reason.

Baron Leon Kingsman. Real piece of work. Dressed in Imperial foppery like he was high grand duke of the Emperor’s chamberpot, putting on airs, and someone who didn’t just trade in slaves, he created them as well.

Ever heard of Kingsman Microloans? It’s one of those institutions that end up being a last ditch effort for people trying to avoid indentured servitude. The “micro” part of the name is for legal reasons, the company is in fact willing to back you for as much as you’re desperate enough to ask for.

And through the magic of compound interest it was also the last stop before you became an Imperial slave…something Kingsman’s catchy adverts conveniently failed to mention. Half of the people who take out loans with them end up on the commodities market.

Their justification is that they’re in fact saving the other half, but given how they end up making more profit from those who become slaves than from those who repay their loans, it’s an excuse that rings hollow. Add on top of that a couple of scandals involving cargo that was “lost” because it was financially advantageous to do so, and you have one unlikeable dude. Ivan had dealings with him, and that ended up opening up his eyes and dropping the slave trade like a hot potato.

And Baron Kingsman flew a really nice Imperial Clipper.

The Empire is full of good sorts too, of course, just like anywhere in the universe, and just like anywhere in the universe, I’d made my share of friends and contacts during my trade runs. The kind who could get me into Kingsman’s hanger after an “emergency” docking reassignment that another friend arranged, depriving him temporarily of his private hanger. Then his ship was discovered to be contaminated with trace amounts of a radioactive element that required immediate treatment, at least two hours. But the VIP lounge was on the other side of the station…

None of those involved had ever had loved ones trapped by Kingsman’s loan company. Nope. Not at all.

So here I was inside the good Baron’s “Kingmaker”, a custom Imperial Clipper painted in the color of Imperial credits, trying to essentially hotwire it. I’d had lots of practice on my dad’s collection way back, and some of those had even better security than this.

Violet made herself virtually comfortable in the co-pilot’s seat. “At least I can picture myself here,” she said.

“Aaaand, bingo!”

I hopped up from under the console and turned on the computer. The factory reboot took a bit longer than I would have liked. If his security was on a separate grid he might already be informed about the hotwiring and on his way back. But I doubted it. Something about this guy just said “privilege” and guys like that tended to assume the world and everything in it was made for them. He wouldn’t take the kind of precautions a guy like me would.

The factory reboot finished and the ship powered up. “Greetings Commander. Please insert your identification now.”

Perfect. Blank slate, the way I’d hoped. Without wasting time I gave it the new pilot info, gave the ship a new name for this very occasion, requested clearance from the docking bay, and got ready to run like heck.

To protect those who’d help make this possible, it was important they seemed to do all they could to stop me, once they “discovered” the mistake. That meant station weapons would be online. Fortunately this guy had chaff installed.

“You’re going to have to boost,” said Violet as the landing pad rose.

“I know.”

“You realize this Clipper is docked at a large pad for a reason.”

“I know.”

“Okay…” Violet leaned back and prepared to enjoy the show.

“Docking released. Engines engaged,” the computer trilled.

“Attention Kingsman’s Taint, you are in possession of a stolen vehicle. Disable engines and prepare to be boarded or we WILL open fire.”

“That’s our cue.”

I rose off the pad and gunned the afterburners, dropping chaff and hoping to hell something like a Type-9 wouldn’t come lumbering through at that moment. The letterbox on a station was narrow enough that there was very little room for error on my part. Tilt too much while going too fast and the nacelles would snag on the cow-catcher and rip right off, shields or no shields.

Luck was with me, though, as I blew through the station exit in a hail of laser fire and chaff, clearing their perimeter and with local security in pursuit. I punched in a flight path out of Empire space and was gone in a blip.

While cruising in witch space, I leaned back with a satisfied smile on my face.

“Nice job,” said Violet.

“Thanks.”

“So, tell me, how much does a Clipper go for?”

“Around 25 million or so.”

Violet nodded. “And you had to leave your Asp behind, right? You know they’ll impound it to make up for the loss.”

I shrugged. “That only costs around 6 million.”

“Aren’t you forgetting all the upgrades you had on it? A-Class FSD, thrusters, power plant, life support, that sort of thing? What do you figure the net value is of that Asp right now?”

I did some quick math in my head, then frowned.

“Shut up.”