Hmm

[Daelix]

Lars Orbskoerr stared at the roiling ionized hydrogen of the nebular cloud he was rocketing through.

It's beautiful, he thought, watching the lightning crackle through the rosy red cloud as it rolled over his shields. The nebula. The control yoke gripped firmly in his hands. Life.

Lars Orbskoerr didn't want to die. All he wanted to do was make money flying, and spend it on flying. It was all he had ever wanted, and seemingly, life had finally granted his wish.

Too bad. He flicked a finger over one of the yoke's many fingertip controls, enlarging the 3D radar. There were six pirates, and he had run out of tricks. He was out of chaff, his EMPs had long since been used up, he had two missiles left, and the damned repair drone couldn't seem to get the cannon mount unjammed. Worse, he had been playing space tag for nearly 18 hours, and he really needed to use the bathroom.

At least the ram scoop works properly. The pirates had been doggedly pursuing, but his fuel converter system had forced them to rotate pilots, and he had goaded them into a few impatient mistakes. Periodically, a bogey would vanish, only to be replaced minutes later. At first, there had been eight at a time, and they had thought to bracket him in.

Except that each of the three times they had spread out, he had pounced on one of their ships and battered it to space dust. The last time, they had tried to counter him by jumping in two fighters on top of the one he attacked, using their own squadmate as bait. Well, one ambusher was sucking vacuum and the other ship had been disabled, but not before the Mjolnir had taken a serious pounding.

And jumping had nearly gotten him killed. He knew that somewhere inside his ship, there was a beacon that lit him up to his enemies from 10 sectors away. Every time he had jumped, they had been right behind. Once, their entire squad had dropped in well within cannon range. Fortunately, Lars had had one EMP left.

"Shield systems nominal. Enemy range, 2000," came the lofty, synthetic female voice of Sigma, the ship computer. "Lars, the cannon mount has been repaired."

Lars licked his lips, but they stayed dry. He gripped the control yoke firmly, took a deep breath, only to find he had no resolve to summon.

Guess I shouldn't have been born a freighter pilot.
And with that comforting thought, he flicked off his inertial dampening system.

"Enemy range, 1500. Missile locks confirmed."

"Sigma, prepare to shunt all power generation to weapons on my first mark. On my second mark, I want you to take over shield management and shunt power to shields."

"Understood. Enemy range, 1200. 1100. 1000. 900-"

"Mark."

The Mjolnir's wide, sweeping form spun around even as it continued to float along its initial trajectory. And the eye of the storm passed.

A hail of particle fire lit up the nebula as Lars opened fire. The nearest pirate was still just teasing beyond his cannon range, but that was alright. The vessel arced away from the small pack that had formed, just a little bit. Quickly, he changed targets and opened fire again. This was the critical moment, he knew. Though the margin created was slim, his ship was moving away from their cannon fire, while their ships were moving towards his. There was a tiny window where his guns would reach while theirs were out of range.

The second pilot had not expected his attack, because his cannons lit up their shields, then, just as the vessel began to turn out of the way, its hull was lit up by explosions as Mjolnir's cannons plowed through the shields. The enemy pilot charged their front shields a moment later, but Lars had scored substantial hull damage.

Then the enemy ships began to return fire. Lars yanked up on the yoke and activated the IDS, and the ship lurched as it nosed down and the engines went full burn. His shields took a number of hits, but he knew they would hold. Not by much, but enough.

He hit his afterburners, and his ship leapt forward. He yawed left, pitched up, and flew straight into the pirate formation, cannons blazing as the enemy ship fire reduced - several of their fighters scattered to avoid a collision. Lars had already disabled his IDS, and let off the afterburner. The first ship he had fired on had trailed a bit away from the pack, and Mjolnir belched cannon fire again, rotating on its axis as it passed between two pirates. Within moments, he was through their shields, and the pirate had little enough time to scream before their ship exploded into so much more debris.

Lars brought his ship through the rotation, firing on another pirate ship as his enemies began to bring their own ships around. Again, he fired his afterburners and gritted his teeth as Mjolnir went from 700 to 0 to 1000 in gut-wrenching fashion. He activated IDS and rocketed after a pirate. The bulky fighter rocked with incoming fire, but he ignored it. His intended target set their own afterburn, but it was far too late. He fell in behind them, firing the whole time, and quickly reduced the second of six to a cinder.

Suddenly, he was rocked as a few shots made it through the rear shields, and he fired his afterburners again, lengthening out his distance from the pirates that had fallen into pursuit, getting out of their cannon range. Smirking, he let off the burners and deactivated his IDS, then swung Mjolnir around again.

"Want some more?" he asked aloud. "You boys want to rope this bull, you're gonna get the horns!"

"Lars, we have sustained significant hull damage and the shield booster is malfunctioning. Probability of surviving another pass is minimal."

Lars closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the computer alert him to the decreasing distance between himself and his enemies.

I don't want to die today.

"Sigma, plot a jump course."

He fired his afterburners, reactivated IDS, and yanked down on the yoke. He pitched over a fatal storm of cannon fire, then yawed left and shot over the pirates that were changing course to pursue again, holding the burners hard and turning towards the edge of the nebular cloud.

"Coordinates?"

He told her.

"Done." The reply was nearly immediate.

A minute later, the Mjolnir shot out of the nebula at an absurd velocity, trailed by a long plume of red gas. Without delay, the jump drive engaged, and the ship disappeared into the endless sea of stars.

[49rTbird]

Hello Daelix, good reading. Welcome to the forum and the Sim. Have fun and hope to see you in "Multi-Player" sometime.

[sundalo]

Amazing read, Daelix! You have that natural storytelling ability, welcome to the game and community! Looking forward to your next adventures!:):D

[Maarschalk]

Hi Daelix, welcome to the forum and the game, a great read.......Keep more coming!......:P

[SeeJay]

Hi and welcome Daelix.

Great suff right there mate!;)

[Cindy]

Very nice story Daelix! I'm looking forward to more.

[Daelix]

Yeah. I'm a murderer. At least, I'm a murderer by your standards. Your values. So what? At least I'm not a genetic engineer. Genetic engineering will be the downfall of humanity. But murderers? Don't worry about them - which is to say, as long as they're not about the business of murdering you, in particular or general. Killers present society with a proverbial embarrassment of riches in their countless practical and impractical functions.

Morals? Yeah, I understand that what I do upsets your morals, but hey, they ain't my morals. And don't go asking me what my morals are, or what I 'believe in'. It's a silly question. If I had morals, I wouldn't be a murderer. Oh, people with morals and beliefs kill all the time - killing in the name of something is a good way to avoid that sticky title of 'murderer'. Me? I kill in the name of an endorphin release triggered in my brain. There you have it. Gratification.

You get a lot of looks when you say things like that. But hey, if the Alliance military had wanted me to plant flowers, they would have engineered me to get the warm fuzzies when I tucked those little sprouts into a nice, cozy flower bed. I'd do terraforming work. Instead, they stripped away all of the things people tell me humans are supposed to be equipped with - aversion response to ending life? Couldn't tell you what that's like. Love? Compassion? Affection? Nope. Replace all that with a chemical reward response to killing, and a suite of engineered advantages I won't get into. Then replace 'morals' and 'values' with loyalty to the Navy. Bam. Perfect assassin, combat pilot, whatever you need.

Except the project completely flopped. I mean, give me a break. Attempting to re-wire the human brain? It's tricky stuff at best, and no matter how correctly you do it, you can never, ever make up for heuristics. The brain will eventually overwrite crap it deems unnecessary, through logical leaps or trial and error. Consciously, subconsciously, doesn't matter. Such is the truth of an ever-changing, ever-adapting being.

So here I am. Project Weapon. And hey, don't knock the name - when you're trying to hide something in plain sight, make the box as conspicuous as possible.

My name is Weapon. I can alternatively produce passing identifications that will tell you I am Emma Karr, Ayra Orlovschek, or a dozen other names. But those are just handles, covers, to be created and disposed at will. My call sign - Weapon 1 - serves me well enough, once I truncated the useless numerical designation. There is only one Weapon, because they didn't try again. I was too much for them to handle.

I'm writing this down now because, hey, you can't scrub every aspect of a human personality, and I'm feeling a bit nostalgic, considering the situation. The line of credit the Devil took out for me on his luck, well, it's run dry, and life support is soon to follow. Maybe between now and the time my body - engineered as it is to resist short-term space shock - quits on me, I'll have left behind something of a record on Weapon - not the genetically engineered assassin, but the human. The person. The woman. Maybe someone will read my story.

Oh, hell, who cares? It gives me something to do before my cells start to freeze and burst. So let's talk about how an invincible killing machine gets into this sort of mess. It all started when I accepted this contract - simple stuff. Fill a body bag, retrieve a piece of hardware from the newly deceased. Receive shopping money. Or at least, that was how it was supposed to go...

Two Months Earlier

Lars Orbskoerrr idly fixed his unkempt black hair as he followed the fat ship vendor around his showyard. He asked questions about the various vessels, listening to his concealed scanner quietly relay to his earpiece the various problems with the used ships. The gelatinous, greasy used ship salesman's prices would have seemed really reasonable, if he didn't know what he was looking for.

Finally, he popped the question as unassumingly as possible.

"What about that strip-down over there? What's her story?"

The man eyed the seemingly forgotten vessel tucked away behind a couple of scout classes in the shadow of the buildings next to the yard.

"Oh, that's a Paladin-class frame. Quite rare, but we usually only see collector interest when we have one. They were designed to be big, beefy military space superiority fighters, but really, there were too many problems, so the project was scrapped and the frames sold wholesale to the civilian market."

"What's her rigging rate at?"

"Quite a bit, four-fifty, I believe. Armor's sturdy, too. Ponderously slow, though. That's what happens when you build a fighter so big you almost have to call it a frigate. But I've heard tell a few miners converted her over for the beam mounts and cargo space."

"Hm. How much for her?"

The salesman told him.

"Ah," Lars replied. "And she'll fly?"

"Of course, my boy! Not that I'd fly anywhere with the outfitting she's got, not the way things are dangerous these days, you understand, but she'll fly you true to any port of call."

"Well," Lars replied, scratching at his goatee, "considering the subframe lattice damage, the resultant hull twist, and the seventeen jury-rigging jobs in the primary electrical systems, I'd say she'll get you about halfway to the next star, which is convenient, because your buyer sure isn't making it back, is he?"

"Whoa there, boy, what are you playing at-"

Lars unzipped his flight suit and pulled out the wide, thin pad that contained his scanning device, and showed the man the display. "There's no law against protecting yourself, is there?

"Now I'll tell you what we can do," he said, turning back towards the ship. "This hunk of crap is worth about, oh, twenty. But since I've been having a hell of a time finding one, and it's actually what I've been looking for, I'm willing to make you the very generous offer of forty-five, which is quite a bit, considering the condition the two of us - and only the two of us - know she's in. What do you say to that...Jarell?" he asked, inspecting the name printed on the salesman's badge for the first time.

The man sputtered momentarily, then regained his composure and narrowed his eyes.

"You trying to threaten me, young man?"

"Nope. If you want to hang on to this rust bucket until you sell it to some sucker who's going to come back angry, be my guest. If you want to sell it now, the offer's on the table."

Jarell stared at him for long moments. Finally, he asked suspiciously, "Why are you so adamant about buying a Gibraltar-class fighter?"

Lars shrugged noncommittally. "My gramps flew one of the prototypes in the wars, a long time ago. I've got his system chip and command codes, so I can take it out of 'aftermarket mode'. It's not like that makes it into some kind of great ship, but you tell me where to find a ship comparable in speed, armor, and cargo to a military spec Gibraltar for less than four times the price, and I'd consider it."

"Alright, I'll make you a deal. We can do forty-five, but you handle a few jobs for me freighting. Legal jobs. You'll be at it about, oh, two weeks, give or take."

For a minute, Lars said nothing. Then he looked over at the Gibraltar-class space superiority fighter sitting there. He could almost feel its pain.

"You find me another two weeks' work, and spare me fifteen extra off the price."

Jarel folded his arms. "Fifteen extra? Let's quit our dreaming here."

"Look, Jarel, you want your freight to actually make it to the destination? We both know I'm going to be spending twenty thousand at least making her spaceworthy. Believe me, I could do the work myself, but I don't think you want to wait around for three months to see your shipment delivered."

There was another long pause, then the merchant unfolded his arms, and stuck out his right hand. Grinning, Lars shook that meaty hand firmly.

- - - - - - - - - - -

He sat in the cockpit. It was relatively spacious, designed to accommodate a cockpit crew of up to three, with two seats back-to-back directly behind the pilot's. As a multi-role craft, the Gibraltar was designed with the ability to function as a bomber or support vessel, a dream never fully realized. The modular frame was revolutionary in its day, though similar technology was more common these days. At its inception, though, it was very expensive.

Couple that with a ship of ponderous size, a problem they never managed to overcome in an attempt to make a truly dominant space superiority fighter, on the lines of the modern Leviathan - no, bigger. Tougher. Badder. But slow. Acceleration wasn't a huge deal, but agile maneuvers were too difficult. Too unlike flying any other fighter. Pilots couldn't produce the desired performance levels. The net result? The project, scrapped. The prototype pilots lost their ships, whose mil-spec functions were neutered before the ships were sold to the civilian markets.

He installed the primary sequence key, booted the mainframe. Lars reached into his shirt and pulled out a nanoboard hung from a cord around his neck, and with a stiff tug, broke the cord loose.

Alright, dad. Let's see if you were right.

Lars pressed a few keys and the main computer revealed an access where the system chip could be reinstalled. He reverently snapped the venerable piece of military technology into place, and closed the access, then told the computer to integrate it. Meanwhile, he extracted a bulky case from his rucksack - about a foot square, and four inches thick. While the computer worked to re-integrate all of the military-grade systems, Lars pried back a panel on the left side of the main tower for the primary computer and controls, revealing a recess with cabling running along its sides.

A minute later, the protective shell around his grandfather's custom logistics suite was removed, and it had been installed snugly, and the access panel replaced.

Lars climbed back into the pilot's chair and input his grandfather's command codes.

'ALL SYSTEMS UNLOCKED' flashed on the primary monitor.

He blew out a deep breath and keyed in a series of commands to activate the 'hotbox' - the test pilots' nickname for the interchangeable support software cases designed to help the Gibraltar to quickly change roles.

A list of status updates began to rapidly scroll up the main screen as the software integrated. Suddenly, a warning flashed across the screen, and before Lars had time to read it, the computer and all the cockpit lights went out. The soft persistent whine of the computer systems faded, and he was left sitting in the dark.

"Back end of a black hole," he said disgustedly.

For several minutes, he just sat there, angry at the idea of how long it would take to fix the primary systems that cut off halfway through an update. He leaned his head back over the seat and closed his eyes.

A blinking light woke him from his reverie. The main screen had booted back up, to a black background Fried operating system, he thought.

In white letters at the bottom of the screen was a message. He looked at it, then his eyes widened. It didn't say what he expected. Not at all. Instead, the following words were displayed:

ACTIVATE VOICE RECOGNITION SUBROUTINE? 0/1

He reached out tentatively, and pressed 1.

VOICE RECOGNITION ACTIVE. ACTIVATE HUMAN INTERACTION INTERFACE?

He pressed 1, and nothing happened. For a few moments, he just sat there, thinking, until an idea came. "Yes?" he said, curious, and was rewarded.

WOULD YOU LIKE TO ENABLE THE VOCAL COMMUNICATION SUBROUTINE?

"Yes."

"Hello, Captain. My name is Sigma," began a pleasant, artificial, yet musical woman's voice. Lars nearly jumped out of his skin.

"I am your artificial intelligence system," it went on, "as well as your flight control assistant. You may think of me as your co-pilot. If it pleases you, you may refer to me as 'computer', or 'Sigma'. I apologize for deactivating the bulk of the ship systems, but the power core was not designed to handle the massive power draw required for me to install myself into your ship. I will require the power-down status for another....seven thousand, one hundred, fourteen seconds. If you have any queries for me while we wait, I would be more than happy to assist you."

Lars's head began to race.

"You're designed...to help me fly the ship?"

"Correct. I will function as a practical bridge between the pilot's intent and the ship's response. I am designed to receive your physical commands through the yoke, and translate it to the ship systems to make the vessel to respond most ideally to your input. I will also manage all power systems in order to eke out maximum efficiency and provide power to respective systems when it is needed most. As time goes on, I will suggest software, firmware, and hardware changes that I calculate will be beneficial, as well."

Lars's skin began to tingle.

"Sigma, I can't wait to give you a whirl, beautiful lady."

"I am an artificial intelligence, and neither beautiful, nor female, but I will attempt to adjust to the idiosyncrasies in your speech once I may download data on current lexicon and vernacular. May I make an inquiry, Captain?"

"Anytime you like, Sigma-except when I'm sleeping," he added hastily, realizing the AI's literalness.

"This vessel's designation has been wiped upon reintegration of the military-issue operating system. What is the new designation for the ship?"

He ran his hands along the smooth, five-foot long, arc-shaped command board. "We'll name her after the Gibraltar-class of your creator, Bollu Orbskoerr. We'll have to get some champagne, but I christen this ship the Mjolnir."

- - - - - - - - - -

Three Weeks Later

The flight in was easy. Real easy. The new fake IDcard worked without a hitch. After grabbing a bite to eat, I meandered through the colony to the business district I needed, and grabbed a seat across the causeway from a ship dealer. I watched the trickle of people pass in and out of the place, identified the proprietor, a greasy stain of a man. One-fifty to one-seventy kilos.

His ships didn't look any better than he did, and his customers were sure to be paying for more than what they were receiving - I'd be doing this colony a favor. See, personally, I take much more pride in removing a useless blot from circulation than a contributing member of society. You think I don't appreciate the fact that my clothes get fabbed, my meals get cooked, and the refresher in my hotel room sprays hot water? Like hell are you going to catch me knitting a shirt.

Conversely, I haven't met a lawyer or salesman that I haven't wanted to paste.

Finally, the salesman began to close his yard down for the day, after three walks and changes of position on my part, and I got up, crossed the causeway, and entered the showyard as two other visitors were filing out. He quickly noticed me and oscillated over hastily.

"Good evening, miss," he said, dry-washing his hands. "We're about to close, but if there's a customer who needs a ship at eighteen hundred, you'll never catch Jarel Solus launching early. What may I help you with?"

Smooth. "I work on behalf of a collector," I said as charmingly as I could manage, pulling an idle strand of hair out of my eyes and smiling, as I started to casually stroll further into the showyard. "He heard you are in possession of a vintage Gibraltar-class starfighter, and dispatched me to investigate. Would you be able to show me that ship?"

Jarel Solus's expression turned to a frown as he walked alongside me. "Miss, I am terribly sorry, but a young man purchased our only example of that particular classic frame, just a few cycles ago. However, I'd be more than happy to record a contact address for you, in case I can acquire another of these rare ships on your behalf."

I gritted my teeth. The day really had been too good to be true.

"Oh, my employer is not the most patient of men when something catches his fancy, you understand. Surely you have a contact address for the buyer?"

He shook his head. "It's against colony regulations to pass out that sort of information, but if you would provide your addy to me, I promise I will ask him to contact you as soon as possible."

I had pretty much lost my patience, and we were not in sight of the gate to the yard any longer. I whirled around and smashed a knee into the fat man's sternum, then elbowed him in the face and tripped him to the ground. I reached into the lapel of the kimono-style blouse I was wearing and pulled out a thin, short knife, and knelt down on the man's chest, flipping the blade idly in my hand.

"I think, Jarel Solus, that you are going to give your buyer a call up, and I am going to wait while you do. I truly hope for your sake that he answers you promptly. I am not overly fond of salesmen, you see." And with my most charming smile - I have been told that, in fact, my smile is rather unnerving - I grabbed his hair and slammed his head back off the ground. I would say it was to scare him, but really, I was just blowing off some steam.

[sundalo]

Action packed! I like this mercenary already! Awesome stuff Daelix! :D

[Maarschalk]

LOL...Daelix, a excelent cliff hanger!....I'll be looking forward to the next part!.....

[DaveK]

Don't make us wait too long for the next installment!

[sundalo]

Gotta love this tough girl at the end, the kind that always get what she wants even if it means using violence roflmao. Hope she stays on, perhaps a potential crew member? I can see her butting heads with Sigma roflmao. :D

[Edited on 1-12-2012 by sundalo]

[Daelix]

Lars sat at the helm of the Mjolnir, eating some sort of synth product that was supposed to be meat from a self-heating tin. Despite its generally disgusting consistency, it was really quite good, but as his new copilot had informed him via her biometric scanners, he had gained three kilos in three weeks.

Apparently, her duties include monitoring my vitals and being my mother, he groused. But being stuck behind the helm of a military starfighter was, well, confining. Lars had always prided himself on taking care of his physique, and his previous jobs had always been piloting larger vessels, where space, while not exactly bountiful, allowed for regular exercise.

The Mjolnir was designed to be a long-range fighter, equipped with a 'room' behind and below the cockpit with two built-in bunks and a toilet. It was more like a coffin - the ceiling was five feet high and the bottom bunk was on the floor - a padded mattress set into the floor - and the second bunk was precisely thirty inches above it.

So he had resolved to get a section of one of the cargo bays cordoned off to create a space where he could work out. But until then..

He pulled the cord on the side of another tin, which was actual mashed sweet potatoes, which he was rather excited about, to catalyze the chemical heater, and set it in a rather conveniently-sized hollow in the command console. He cracked open an iced caff and took a long drink, followed by a satisfied belch.

"Captain, I would like to reiterate that warming your meals on the helm controls may lead to serious malfunctions. Please locate another place to set your meals."

He sighed at the pleasant disembodied voice emitting from the cockpit speakers.

"I suppose you're going to tell me removing the panel for the power coils and chilling my drinks on the coolant pipes isn't okay, either."

"I have no objections to that activity, provided you clean any mess if your beverage spills. However, I would like to ask you to relocate your food container at once."

He shrugged and carefully picked up the tin, looking around the cockpit.

"Captain, you are receiving a hail on an FTL channel."

"Uhh....put it up," he replied absently, still looking around for somewhere secure to put his potatoes. Jarel Solus's wide face appeared, projected on the right-hand touch-HUD.

"Hey there, Lars! How are you this cycle?" asked the merchant.

"Cramped. I'm starting to understand why you pay more for a civilian ship. These military designers didn't spare a centimeter for accommodations."

"Well, that'll teach you to twist my arm! Heh."

Lars looked over at the display. "Whoa!" he exclaimed. "Jarel, did you get hit with an asteroid?" The big man's plump face was marred by a tremendous black eye.

"I had a client who was dissatisfied with his purchase."

"Imagine that," Lars replied dryly. "So, what can I do for you, most eminent and generous employer?"

"How soon can you make it here? I've got twenty thousand extra for you, something big just came up. But I need you to get here, fast."

Lars took a swig of his drink and set his food on the floor, then punched some keys on a data console.

"Well, I'm reluctant to give an exact ETA, since these dockies unloading your freight right now, well, they're slow. But, for twenty thousand cred, I can be there in six hours, one way or the other."

"Good. Come right up to my office."

"Will do. Out."

He ended the transmission and picked up his food tin off the floor. The container radiated heat into his hands.

Jackpot.

Just as he was peeling back the top, Sigma's voice alerted him again.

"Captain, you have another inbound FTL transmission."

He sighed and pressed the button on the console. "Jarel," he began, "I'm trying to-oh." He stopped as he saw the face on the monitor. "Hi."

"Lars, why in the abyss won't you stop stalking me?" asked the round-faced, dark-skinned woman that appeared on the screen, none too kindly. "It's a big sector. There are a lot of people in it. Why must you continue to contact me?"

"To be honest, El," he replied casually, "it's because you won't stop being nice to me. If you try being a little hostile sometimes, you could probably drive me off. But more importantly, I would like to point out that I didn't call you up, my company accepted a contract with your company. You actually called me." He took a long drink from his caff.

"Well, you aren't working for me. I don't want to type your name on a pay auth, I don't want you in my warehouse. I don't want you in the same sector as me. And I certainly don't want you asking your captain to let you make a detour in his ship, Lars."

"I'd just like to say that you are infinitely charming when you're calling me space scum. And for the record, I have my own ship now. Being single has its perks, El, like saving. Anyway, that's fine, I'll drop the contract back onto the FTLnet. I had something better come up, anyway." He dug his spork into his potatoes and took a bite, swallowing quickly, and went on.

"But listen, since I love getting together for a tirade like this, when nobody's picked up a contract to move 1200 crate a twenty-hop for the price you're paying, once I'm done in a week with what I've got going on, I'll grab it again. Then you can call me up and insult me some more."

"Just drop the contract. And don't try to take any work from me again!"

"Elhaza, I don't know what you got yourself into with this shipment, but when you realize that nobody - nobody else, I mean - is going to take that shipment for less than double, you can call me, and if I am not busy making money, I'll move the freight for you, even though it'll be a wash after I fill my deut."

She ended the transmission on him.

"I thought that went well," he said blithely. "Sigma, can you jettison that contract with EHM Bio?"

"Certainly, Captain."

He slouched down in the pilot's seat.

"Sigma, we have -got- to get you a body so I can ask you out."

- - - - - - - - - -

Once the ship was secured in dry dock, Lars climbed down the ladder as quickly as possible and stretched luxuriously. He flagged down the pressure-suited dockworker handling his vessel.

"Hey, friend, I need this thing turned around in an hour, and I've got five hundred cred for the guy who makes it happen. Can we do that?"

He received an affirmative, slapped the guy on the back, and jogged off down the causeway. Since he actually had over an hour to spare, he went to get a proper meal in him and hit the rec park to take a walk. He would have jogged, but he was in his pressure suit, and three weeks in a cockpit, so he decided on baby steps. Afterwards, he took a tube up a few flights to the business district, and a few minutes later, took the steps up the side of the small building next to Jarel Solus's shipyard. He knocked quickly, then slid his IDcard, and the door slid aside with the high-pitched ping it always made.

"Hey Solus," he called out as he walked into the office, "I'll fix that door for a-"

"Kid, watch out!" Solus shouted. He was sitting behind his desk, and his face was a mess. His dark hair was matted and the side of his face was covered in something red. His eyes were wide and panicked, and he wasn't looking right at Lars as he shouted the strange warning.

All of this, Lars took in in a moment.

"Huh?" he asked dumbly, turning to the left, and there was a woman there. She was tall - a little bit taller than Lars, who was about 150cm. She was wearing skin-tight black pants and a fancy, sashed-off pink top. Her hair was really the defining feature - fiery red-orange hair cut in a simple bob - or it would have been, if the look in her eyes didn't make Lars want to jump out of his skin.

Then he saw the glint of light in her hand, just before she lunged.

He had grabbed another iced caff from a vending machine, and it was still mostly full. He threw the drink at the woman's face and dove back out the door. He hit the railing, and had just enough time as he looked over his shoulder to see the female figure right behind him. Without thinking about it, he started to run, tripped immediately, and went tumbling down the metal stairs. He landed hard on his side at the bottom, scrambling and clawing at the wall to get his feet under him. He dared look up, and immediately rolled.

Where he had just been, his attacker landed. The blade almost got him on the leg.

Lars finally got his feet under him and started running. He burst out of the small side alley onto the main causeway, nearly getting hit by a hover-car. He looked around, panicked, then took off in the direction of his ship.

- - - - - - - - - -

You know, just when you think you have a person figured, they go and do something that defies the entire rationale that defines them. That's what makes assassination so harrowing, really. No, Mr. Politician, it is not okay that you decide to 'shake up' your daily routine on the day I'm waiting in an office along your daily route to work with a PPC rifle. Chances are, if I have to improvise, bystanders need to die, my clothes are going to get burned, and I'm going to be spending money replacing the cover ID I'm going to have to blow.

Frankly, you're not that important.

So here I am, twelve feet from the man holding the keys to the ship I need. Two dead guys later, I'd be cashing an auth for a million creds, and after that, I'd be hitting the one of clubs near the Onyx mining stations.

But no, the fat salesman has to grow a set at the last possible moment. With a frustrated sigh, I jogged after the kid, changing my hair color to black and letting it grow until I could draw it back into a pony-tail. If you're thinking of going on the lam, I highly recommend some of my genetic enhancements.

So the guy nearly does my job for me - wouldn't that be nice? - but the driver stops. And then this Lars kid surprises me. When he bumbled and stumbled out of the way and fell down those stairs, I thought he wasn't much of an athlete - and most pilot aren't - but then he went taking off down the causeway, and I had to go full throttle to keep after him.

Dodging through the crowds was a handful - plenty of people nowadays ride those damn Hov-scooters on the sidewalks, and banging your leg off one of those things sucks. But I kept pace with him. I was a bit disappointed that he didn't stop, thinking I wouldn't gut him in the middle of a crowd of witnesses. They're so cute when they die with that shocked expression on their face.

Finally, after about two minutes of chasing, we were past the crowds, into a quiet area of the ring. Then he started trying to cause me some trouble. He found two damn NavSec officers patrolling the district and ran up to them. I slowed to a jog, watching warily as he pointed at me, talking frantically to the beret-wearing pigs.

They approached me with hands on their holstered blasters.

"Excuse me, miss, are you chasing this man?"

I panted, trying to look distressed, panting as I walked towards them "Officers, you need to grab that boy...he picked my pockets back on the causeway."

One of the men paused and looked over his shoulder at where Lars was standing. In that moment, I threw my knife and leapt forward. The blade buried in the neck of the officer looking at me, and I slammed my elbow into the face of the other one as he looked back. I tore his blaster free and took aim at the kid, who turned and ran. I took a few shots, but at forty feet, he was a bit past reliable range for a pot shot.

So the chase continued. I quickly grabbed my knife out of the dead officer, and hid it and the gun in my blouse, as I took off after the target. For a moment, I thought about offering to let him live if he would just give me the damn sequence key to the ship, but then I decided against it.

After all, a contract without a little excitement, a little risk, and a little spilled blood is really just a job.

- - - - - - - - - -

Lars ran for minutes, until his lungs felt like they were going to explode. Three weeks crammed in the cockpit of a fighter had really done him in. He periodically looked over his shoulder, and she was still behind him. Finally, he ran around a bend in the causeway, and slowed down.

Ahead, he could see stars. The causeway down from the business district ended in a pair of containment fields that let out into the spacedock, so hovertrucks could easily offload freight onto caddies. He looked around again. His pursuer was still following, doggedly, and reaching into her blouse. Without another thought, he turned and broke into a run again.

A few workers stopped to look at him. His hair stood on end as he crossed through the first electromagnetic atmosphere containment field, a few hundred meters from the end of the line. A man ran over to try to stop him. Lars put his shoulder down and charged straight through the worker, sending him flying to the ground. Suddenly, he had an idea and stopped, turned, and grabbed the handles at the base of the man's pressure suit helmet, and twisted.

The helmet popped off, and Lars grabbed it. He looked up just in time to see his assassin aiming a blaster at him, and dove to the side just before a flare of deadly particles shot past. He scrambled to his feet and ran again, ducking behind a hovertruck, then veering straight for the end of the causeway. A few more blaster shots sizzled past - much, much closer than he would have preferred - and he found himself ducking as he ran. He slammed the helmet over his own head and held it on with one hand while he tried to lock in the base ring with his other.

Before he knew it, he was out of real estate. Lars slammed the visor shut on the helmet and slowed down just enough to rip a cheap banner off the side of a truck. Before him, a twenty by twenty meter gaping hole, and an endless sea of stars, tinted blue by the spacedock's containment field. He looked out into the cavernous space, then held the top of the helmet and wrapped the banner around his neck, guessed at a trajectory, and jumped off the end of the causeway into space.

- - - - - - - - - -

I'll admit it. I swore. I ran all the way to the end of the causeway and looked out, and what did I see? He hits a transport caddy perfectly. Half a mile of vacuum, and he leads it perfectly.

So I cursed to the deepest abyss of space the human survival mechanism, just as I felt my own kick in. At the other side of the dock, an large troop of NavSec officers were conferring with some dockmen, who I had probably almost shot.

Looking around, I saw a woman nearby, who had stopped what she was doing to stare at the spectacle. I took aim at her with the blaster and pointed at a molehatch for engineers.

"Open it," I growled threateningly, "or I'll open your face."

The woman froze, so I waved the pistol menacingly to emphasize, which got her moving. She ran to the hatch and entered a code, making the crawl space door slide away.

I grabbed the back of her suit and pressed the blaster to her helmet. "What's the fastest way to the engineering level?" I demanded.

"I-I-I d-d-d-d-don't know..please don't kill me!" she wailed. The woman was physically shaking.

"You're about as useful as missiles in my deuterium tanks," I growled disgustedly, and threw her out of the way, then crawled into the hatch. I managed to find a position where I could crouch - practically chewing on my knees - and hurry along, in a most undignified manner.

I had a smile on my face, though. Knowing NavSec, they would have a battalion in main engineering right around the time I popped out of the mole hole - on the flight deck, forty decks away. Realizing I had no idea where I was specifically going, I grabbed my comm out and called station reception. A pleasant, cute girl named Natlia answered.

"Hello, Natlia," I said nicely, with a core system accent. "My beau just landed, and the space rock didn't tell me where he was porting in. Now could you just look him up for me? He's Lars Orbskoerr, and he flies a bit of an unusual ship - Gibraltar-class."

It took nearly twenty minutes, and my back ached, but I popped out on flight deck 6. I knocked out a flight deckworker, and let myself through the warehouses with his card, sprinting full-speed. Finally, I mashed the button at the door to Berth 13, and ran out into the drydock. The containment field was to the left, and to the right, the Gibraltar-class sat there in all of its wide-bodied glory, a few hundred meters away.

Lars Orbskoerr was running towards it, yelling into a comm. I broke into a run myself, even though I knew there was no way I could win the foot race. A deckworker approached Lars, who had spotted me, and increased his pace. He threw the man out of the way just before I took a few pot shots at him, then made his ship. The access ladder lowered by itself, and I've never seen a man run up a ladder quite like he did.

It was too far. I yanked my blouse up at the back and pulled out a thick, foot-wide black disk tucked into the back of my pants, grabbed the handle set into the disk and pulled it perpendicular. The device hummed to life, blinking a blue ring around its edge. Looking back up, I saw the ship lift up slowly, then fly forward, straight towards me.

It was too far, and yet not far enough. I jumped just as the ship passed over me and slammed the disk against the belly of the bird. As the magnetic tracking device locked on, I was momentarily connected to the ship by my grip on the tracker, which nearly wrenched my arm off. At least it felt like it. But it was entirely worth it, as I was sent sprawling, sliding along the deck of the drydock. I sat up and rubbed my shoulder as I watched Lars Orbskoerr's ship fly through the containment field and into space.

I had a smile on my face. There was nowhere in the universe the kid could run. The low-band pulse FTL tracker would make sure of that.

I thought about going back to the dealership and cutting the fat salesman's face off, but decided against it. The guy showed some gall, and you know, you've got to respect that. Anyway, what's a contract without a little excitement?

I thought maybe I should send him a gift basket instead, after I took out Orbskoerr. That would be a delicious piece of irony.

[Edited on 1-14-2012 by Daelix]

[Maarschalk]

Wow, excelent story...waiting anxiously for more!.....:P

[sundalo]

Amazing stuff Daelix! Not a dull moment, and great pacing, I'd buy this if it were a novel. :D

[Daelix]

Last week, the informations is flowing from fingers like the blood of bomb victims in home country. That is problem. In country, not in fingers.

This week, the writer's block. It is problem.

[SeeJay]

Excellent reading mate.