Reapers Passage [Fan Fiction] Chapters 0-121 (story arc completed Mon 14th Apr 08)

[Paranoid66]

[Citadel Archive Enabled][Warning System Instability][Warning Suspected Data Corruption]
[Attempting Cleanup & Recovery][System Test Initiated][Test Project Label = HAC Incident]
[Protocol Chosen = Creative Interpretation][Format = Science Fiction][Style = Author P66]
[Subject = Ancient History][Specific Focus = Genesis ‘Limited Access’][Prime Bias = 8C Argon]
[Dialect Selected = Argon Circa 8C][Commence 03-12-764][Output Title = Reapers Passage]

collating_
rendering_


A short foreword by P66 - A key to understanding

History especially on this intimate scale is a darkly distorted record of real life. A corrupted file viewed through the fractured lens of times passage. Consolidated data manufactured as much from accidental error, and intentional emotive rhetorical deceit as any unsullied (in point of fact impossible to encompass) greater truth.

Be warned History is the study of Fictions. Expect no apology for mine when by necessity it contains error, and confusion: consistency, neatness, clean beginnings, and the very concept of an end are all lies - illusionary constructs - that help to make history more palatable, but also in my opinion: too comfortable, too relaxed, too easy to passively absorb as shown! The only real truth is that we each make our own history.

I invite you to question everything argue, and be ill at ease. I am not a God to know it all, I am not a Devil to deceive you that I do. I am just a simulated fictional author.

[Paranoid66][Constrained Subsystem Simulated Construct Nexus][Department of Creative Consolidation][Citadel Archive][Aladna Hill]


Reapers Passage
X3 Fan Fiction By paranoid66


[Revised] Prologue - A Few Introductions

___________________

In - one - universe
The Reapers Passage
for blessed, & cursed
grants little equanimity
not even the beginning
of an end...

___________________


[Historic Records Fragment Consolidation][the HAC Incident #0] compiling_

[12:37][03-12-764][Federal]
[Freedom Station][Deep Space][Elena’s Fortune Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR FRDM HAC 001] initiate_

The ‘Fallen Angel’ Clan member known as Roid sat in one small cubicle (an area clearly converted roughly from some much larger unit). Quietly opposite him an arrogantly relaxed young pilot waited as if nothing else in this Universe mattered.

Briefly Roid (unknown - to his nefarious compatriots an ex Navy - Intelligence - field agent) let his attention alight on his computer pad. Files spewed across the screen the subjects past in the format of a hyper condensed summary. A data cast tailored specifically to jog the ‘Fallen Angel’ Pirates conditioned memory.

Roid grinned, he remembered this one. Frankly he had been looking forward to this duty. Based on the boy’s resume alone this lad had some clear potential. Besides interviews always made a change from crassly mundane activities: robbing, and killing people. Standard Pirate tasks tended to make meaningful conversation or fact finding efforts unfortunately redundant. Eloquence was usually regarded as soft, and talking a waste of time. Roid was bored of such gems as, “Eject from your ship or prepare to die scum!”

In many ways the Interviewer was a rarity among the ranks of the disaffected being something of a social animal. To those who knew him well - it was plain - Roid was a deep thinker. Roid missed the joy of occasionally sharing experiences with a much wider social mix. Individuals with real lives outside of the limited rough, and tumble interactions provided by the somewhat cloistered Pirate subculture. Snared by a past indiscretion the ex officer often felt like a crated space fly just waiting to be used up.

Jorac aware of his underlings odd vice for knowledge liked to utilise Roid to gather information, and to work diplomacy. Yes even Pirates occasionally had a need to converse, and make deals. Roid found this usage ironic he believed Jorac was unaware of his original calling. While these activities made hiding difficult Roid was helped by the fact that his former self was - officially - deceased no one was actively looking anymore.

On this occasion Roid was acting as an official first contact for hopeful Clan candidates. As a sympathetic interviewer he was frequently able to put both friends, and strangers at ease. The Pirates rare - genuine - interest in the wider Universe leaking out through the medium of his stance, and voice alone (getting results well beyond the effect of less sophisticated interrogators). Although a bit dubious to begin with Roid now believed his leader Jorac considered him to be a most effective, and reliable asset.

“So Sabot,” politely began the Fallen Angel with a smile. “If you are comfortable please commence by explaining about your motivation to come specifically here?”

Reaching over Roid used a jug of water to fill two metal tumblers.

Sabot claimed one tumbler, and took a cautious sip almost as if he expected it to be drugged. Meeting Roid was another small challenge to his perception of what it was to be a Pirate. It was hard to believe this Argon nicknamed after a floating space rock belonged to the deadly, reviled, and feared ‘Fallen Angel’ Clan. Roid was not really what Sabot had been expecting. Still he cautioned himself what was more dangerous than an innocently disguised weapon? Sabot knew if he didn’t get past this killer (for a killer Roid was all amiability aside) his bid for membership, would lie like an abandoned hulk dead in space! Jorac was said to value this interviewers assessments.

Carefully Sab considered his position then boldly stated, “The way I see it, it was destiny.”

Only someone so young could keep a straight faced at such an overweening pronouncement, thought Roid, though it was as good a place to start as any.

“I was born on planet in this once Free Sector (legitimately - outside Federal authority) before it was stolen from our brethren,” continued Sabot, “where else should I have gone?”

“Born in the ‘Fortune’ I suppose - that might - be deemed to instil a certain predilection to banditry. Claiming yourself fated though,” Roid remarked with a chuckle, “sounds I hope you can appreciate - at best - a little egotistical!”

“To be honest I didn‘t mean it like that,” said Sabot, “you know how it was: this Sector formed part of a purposeful Federal territorial consolidation. They wanted us as a buffer following the initial hostilities by the Khaak Invaders. All good for Argon Prime, but I never got any say in the matter. I was moved by events outside my control; I suppose I regard that as destiny though not in the sense that I have any special significance.”

“You would have preferred to take your chances against the aliens unaided?” asked Roid.

“I never understood why - my - people had to pay the price, especially for a conflict that might well have passed us by,” Sabot replied.

“You considered the cost unequal to the benefit?” returned Roid.

“While the Navy talked about liberation from threat, and expanded spheres of protection - my friends plus the part of my family that I cared about (my uncle, aunt, and cousins), and myself were casually demoted to third class denizens at best on our own home world. This travesty of justice committed by an Empire we wanted no part of. A negative response to being conscripted into a regime that actively defaming us as evil doers is hardly surprising!” Sabot noted.

“Many might argue the incorporation of ‘Elena’s Fortune’ to the Federation was an inevitability of progress? Was a change of governmental authority really so abhorrent?” Roid asked.

“You have to be joking. Perhaps I could have forgiven them their trespass if they simply disrespected our Independent borders, but no it was as if they didn’t even acknowledge our right to exist - at least not as equals,” said Sabot.

“Was your planet not just one Colony among many?” asked Roid baiting the lad a little.

“Hardly they had the - audacity - to blanket label the entire populace of my home planet as Pirates: murderers, thieves, smugglers, slavers, counterfeiters, extortionists, kidnappers, drug manufacturers, gunrunners, you name it. However this classification was a gross simplification of the ‘Fortune’. We had a strong belligerent criminal element without doubt, but they were a minority. If we had all been well motivated, and heavily armed felons as the Federals suggested I strongly suspect they would have been given a bloody nose. As it was that old political label made a fine excuse for maltreatment. I had believed times were tough before, but everything got so much worse.”

“Your parents weren’t Pirates then?” asked the Fallen Angel.

“Listen I admit my father wasn’t exactly what you would call law abiding not even a nice person. I still hate the evil fekker with a passion, but he wasn’t a Pirate - not as such. The rest of my family were normal folks with mundane occupations. Still the Federals arrived predisposed to treat us all like criminal scum, dirt beneath their boots! I soon decided if that was what they wanted - so be it - more Pirates were exactly what these intruders bloody well deserved. They had barely landed when they put into law various restrictions, and curfews, supposedly - temporary - safeguards. We also found ourselves placed under a heavy burden of taxation. They needed credits to build a larger spaceport, not to mention a fekking huge fortified barracks.”

“A higher tax burden - that was your whole motivation for rebellion?” Roid asked.

“Hardly,” began Sabot, “but why should we pay so their cursed troop transports could park at their own private facility. Why should our oppressors live in comfort, and safety? The fact that we simply couldn’t afford it didn’t seem to figure either. When a few local influential people cried foul they were locked up under anti terrorist legislation for - propagating sedition - they didn’t even get the luxury of a proper hearing. When that action was protested, and riots occurred chaos ensued. Many people were shot, more arrested internment camps sprang into existence. That was when individuals began disappearing without official record. Rumours circulated of state sanctioned assassinations, kidnappings it was even said some Navy Officers had a side deal going with Split Slavers - a nice little earner - I was in no position to discover the whole truth.”

“So you decided to fight dirty too?” Roid questioned.

“Do you even have to ask?” Sabot returned, “I didn‘t really have much choice. Just because my people chose to dwell outside the domination of so called - Federal Argon Space - they were now a subjugated race: branded, and pilloried as criminals, ruled by foreign appointees, and military law. Obviously being free, and standing up for civil rights had become a crime in itself. At the very least we were all tarred as un patriotic insurgents working against the Argon war effort!”

“What about the Pirates who where already here in the Sector how did you feel about those?” Roid asked.

“I came to appreciate their lifestyle. Like I said we had a criminal element: warlords, crime bosses, and the like, but so did the Federal Argon! Hell they just hid theirs a little better. Historically, and cunningly I heard the Argon Federation had encouraged their own lowlife renegades to move out to build their Space Bases in our lightly defended unaligned regions. It was out of sight, and out of mind! They made the fiction of the Pirate Sectors real. They put our law abiding independent governments under criminal threat - then blamed us for the Pirates continued existence in our space. Perhaps this was part of an expansionist policy a manufactured excuse for invasion. The independents got hammered from both ends,” said Sabot, “of course the Federals didn’t invade us they bribed or coerced turncoat members of our own government to invite them in. The land theft was quite legal. We were liberated from the yoke of criminal overlords, and the alien threat hooray!”

“So you only want your revenge on the Federal Argon?” asked the Pirate.

“Look I understood the Pirates position. They were outcasts as well also forced to live on the edge. I became a freelance brigand myself,” stated Sabot, “The Argon Navy might once have been all about protection from the Xenon, and all that, but to us they were a force of suppression. Like everyone says power corrupts! I know it is a question of perspective: one Argon’s Freedom Fighter being another’s Terrorist, one Argon’s Police force another’s Death Squad, one persons Hero a Villain, but I also know whose side I’m on - my own - and that made me anti Federal!”

“You consider yourself highly politicised?” Roid asked glancing at his pad.

“Yes, and no, but lets face it most Federal Rhetoric is sad Imperial hypocrisy so thin, and transparent you could spit through it.” Sabot began. “The State encourages anarchic privateer assassins. They use them freely to kill, and loot other races. They are all about whatever happens to be - politically - expedient at the time. I soon learned new politics on the street with an empty belly, and no prospects. My politics became the harsh economics of survival. I noticed how having values (the self restraint of playing by the rules) just meant failure. The Federals could, and did change everything to suit themselves - so I did the same.”

“So you found yourself on the streets how did you survive?” asked Roid.

“It wasn’t easy at first I was lucky,” replied Sabot, “I was out when the family I was staying with were locked up on conspiracy charges. A neighbour tipped me off from going home. With ID’s being checked young lads like myself without an assured occupation or place to stay were being scooped up, and drafted into the forces or assigned into government work schemes - a fancy name for forced labour camps doing so called public works! I smuggled myself into a no go criminal ghetto!”

“It was sickening we were the supposed felons, but they were the villains,” noted Sabot, “There was no way we were getting the same deal as a normal colony, but they made sure we didn’t have a voice either. Nothing, and nobody got off planet without their permission. Later when I saw some of the manufactured propaganda I was unsurprised that we had been abandoned to our fate. According to outgoing reports our situation had been nothing, but rapid improvements. Only a diehard criminal element - now brutal terrorists - were resisting the righteous imposition of progress, law, and order.”

“So how did you cope with that?” asked Roid.

“It opened my eyes to a whole new way of looking at things,” admitted Sabot, “lets face it even the governments of the other races are the same. Look at what goes on behind the scenes the Split for example: freely trade in illegal Slaves, and endangered Space Flies, the Paranid manufacture non discriminating explosive Squash Mines, and were guilty it now appears of antagonising the Khaak into their rampages in the first place (stealing their nividium), the Teladi manufacture paranoia inducing Space Weed, our Argon make mega amounts of supposedly prohibited (in outer space at least) Space Fuel (Whiskey) from ruddy great distilleries just off their grids. I mean seriously if that isn’t evidence of widespread corruption what is?”

“So how do you see yourself now: as a Pirate, a Rebel, or just a Champion of the underdog?” asked Roid, “don’t you see any contradiction in seeking to becoming what they claimed you to be in the first place?”

“Look I just want what is mine by right,” said Sabot, “I don’t believe I can change the Universe, I’m not even trying. Nonetheless, the way I see it nothing is quite how it seems out here in our New Heavens: not the Argon Federation, and not the Pirates, not even people like Jorac. I didn’t come here blind I studied the Arch Fallen Angel now there is supposed infamy on a grand scale. Notoriety fit to match other legendary figures of old like Moo-Kye, but is he really the villain? Reading between the lines I admire what Jorac achieved on Aladna Hill if only we had been blessed with a similar leader. Jorac brought fear to the Federation, and I am sure they bloody well deserved it. I also know Reputation is everything in space they tried to blacken Jorac’s, he simply turned that on its head, and became the incarnation of their worst nightmares. Jorac became the first Fallen Angel the Devil.”

“Well Sabot you certainly have plenty to say for yourself,” noted Roid, “tell me about how you physically got to where you are now?”

“Even if I hadn’t been on the run, even if I had been a dirty sympathiser when I came of age,” commenced Sabot, “my choices would either have been join the hated ranks of the Argon Military (the usurpers of our freedom) stagnate on a resource poor backward, and deliberately underprivileged planet, or rebel, and go rogue! I willingly stepped outside the box, and I would do so again.”

“First I embraced various underground connections,” Sabot boasted, “in a resisting ghetto you soon meet all the worst people. I found a mercenary source able, and willing to do an identity hack. It wasn’t easy it required doings things even I prefer not to recall. I can’t take all the credit either - I learned how to ride my luck. Fate intervened in part, and I managed to get my hand on enough hard currency for an initial pay off. Later I discovered I also had to promise a future extravagant sum after I got space side. My helper had serious off world connections! It certainly seemed like a ridiculous amount at the time, but that contract was soon honoured from my spoils as an Independent Raider.”

“So you changed your identity to get off planet,” said the Interviewer.

“I became one of a lucky few able to work the chaos to their advantage. Even had I not rebelled the stain of my parentage as Independents (designated Pirates or at best Pirate sympathisers) had branded me. I knew I had no hope of ever being cleared to escape into fuller space side opportunities. Perhaps I might become a lowly labourer, or a janitor type. Some position requiring the lowest security clearance, and no hope of any advancement,” enlightened Sabot.

“Advancement in the Federation you so despised,” reminded Roid.

“Ironically the Job I applied for, and finessed my way into with my fake identity was that of apprentice Corporate Security Guard. It was just a cover though - not a true career choice - it provided the means to an end. Once off planet, and settled in on station, after gaining a degree of trust by playing strictly by the numbers (not to mention fully casing the bays security arrangements from the inside) I stole, and fled with my first combat capable space ship. My booty was a rather battered, but still pretty capable AM5 Discoverer. Sneaking the ship away direct from the dock of the Federal Argon Trade Station in ‘Home of Light’ was sweet almost too easy,” said Sabot with a cheeky grin, “by the time they sussed out what had happened I was long gone.”

“Who came up with that plan, and how did it feel to succeed?” asked the Fallen Angel.

“Myself no one else, and it felt fekking great. I‘ll never forget how happy stealing that ship made me feel! The way I looked on it everything that goes around comes around,” Sabot told him. “I owed the Argon Federation nothing, they owed me everything. They stole my legitimate opportunities from me. I was just collecting on that debt regaining a few of the things previously snatched away including my pride. If I have my way I plan to be compensated in full before I’m done. After all never mind anything else I reckon I deserve redress for being forced to earn a living as a felon with a bounty on my head!”

The veteran Pirate laughed at the idea of that, Roid liked the young lads attitude. With a smile Roid settled back in his seat to hear the rest of Sabot’s story.
[end]



[11:45][06-12-764][Federal]
[The ‘Dive’ Space Fuel Den][Freedom station][Deep Space][Elena’s Fortune Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR FRDM HAC 002] initiate_

The party was vainglory perhaps but Sabot knew he was now considered something of a prodigy. How could he not be on a high? He had just been accepted officially as a probationary into the ranks of the ‘Fallen Angel’ Pirate Clan aged only eighteen - a new record. The probationary bit had surprised him though. The Clans structure was far more organised than he had once imagined. The Wolves had clearly not told him everything. Jorac the ‘Fallen Angels’ Clan Leader known as the Arch Fallen Angel, and by some the Devil usually only enlisted tried, and tested - hard-nosed - veterans, but to every rule there are always exceptions.

Better still Sabot appreciated the fact that he had achieved his victorious achievement a full three years ahead of his rival the already renowned on station (if only for being remarkably caustic) girl called Slip. Slip or Kris Osaka as she had been known back on planet was the female who had been such a bane to him during his childhood - a period when Sabot Kushu had really needed peer support from the other local children. Especially he had looked for help from those a little older, and with more experience on the streets than himself. Sabot had been keen to find allies, and a means to escape his father’s abusive regime long before the Federal takeover. Approaching associates of Kris early had been almost a fatal mistake. Slip instead had not only added to his burden leaving him no immediate hope she, he firmly believed, had deliberately sold him out to his evil parent. That betrayal had resulted in consequences he could not forget.

Now Sabot was more than glad that Slip had only gained her position with the ‘Fallen Angel’ Clan at a respectable, but far from record-breaking age of twenty-one years. It was hard to believe that event had occurred an insignificant seven standard Federal Argon months ago. So much had happened in the Universe during his coming of age as a Harrier pilot it was barely credible. Especially since his campaign for acceptance had barely been three months in duration. Happily three months was an awful lot of combat flight hours when you are pushing the envelope to impress. It was still a matter of amusement to Sabot that rumours of Slips activities out in the Big Bad Universe had helped steer him.

Pirate Clansmen here on ‘Freedom Station’ like many Argon on the fringe currently refused to use Teladi style time references among themselves. In a way it was a poor joke that they preferred the officially obsolete - Federal - timestamp. Then again perhaps being on Federal time was just another part of knowing their enemy.

Currently Sabot was surrounded by friends, and allies all Grey Wolf Clan members. These were individuals Sabot had deliberately courted prior to daring to come to ‘Freedom’ for although he was foolhardy on occasion, Sabot liked to believe he wasn’t stupid or ill advised. As such the Wolves presence was symbolic not just of his overall acceptance, but also a validation of the efficaciousness of his wider plan.

If Slip had arguably succeeded through luck Sabot was sure he had attained his recent aspirations via the conquest of strategic design, and tactical genius, not to mention a degree of youthful charisma. With that thought in mind he easily warmed the more mature, but still to his mind rather luscious female Wolf sitting opposite him with one of his best smiles. Lyn in return raised her tumbler up along with her colleagues perhaps a glint of something interesting in her eyes.

“Confusion to your enemies Sabot,” toasted Amon.

The Grey Wolf Clan Leader as ever stood out in the crowd due to his shock of red hair.

“Confusion,” agreed the unruly bunch of degenerates in a discordant yell of male, and female voices. Everyone chucked their whiskey down in one swallow, then smacked the flat of their empty metal cups on the table in a drum roll. Glasses wouldn’t last long in a place like the ‘Dive’ and were prohibited no bottles either. Space Fuel (Argon Whiskey) came in sturdy canisters many of which had noticeable dents that told their own stories.

“Damn fekking good or what?” exuberantly shouted Tall Tale.

Sabot noted a few of the Wolves seemed drunk already (they had begun without him) even though it was questionably his party. Apparently Amon had done some sort of deal to get all his lads off their scheduled sweeps - for the next forty-eight hours - so they were making the most of this long unusual respite from personal forays, and shared protective patrols to play hard!

“Damn fekking right,” agreed the fiery female called Amber.

Amber Fire was a character Sabot found interesting. By nature she could run hot or cold with an instant between changes. She was a good pilot but also doubled as the Wolves ordinance, and explosives expert under Jorac’s more organised regime.

As Pirates went the Wolves were a level headed bunch, but they still liked to get Fuelled up, and smoke a bit of space weed on occasion. Sabot had come to firmly believe that all true Space Pirates were addicted openly or otherwise to something.

“Just remember alcohol is a toxin,” said Shunt only a little mockingly.

Shunt did the Wolves patching up, and wasn’t a huge fan of self-abuse. To Sabot the aloof, but oddly considerate female Pirate was looking into her empty tumbler as if searching for something she had lost maybe like everyone here her innocence?

“Leave it lass,” replied Amon, “It’s a party, nobody is going to die on you tonight!”

Shunt looked hurt as if she had been stung. Amon to Sabot’s surprise turned away as if mildly embarrassed then turned back looking angry, then something else. Amon was known to like all his females - not surprising - since he had hand picked them all.

“Fek,” said Jake with feeling.

The engineer reached for the nearest canister of fuel to do his own refill as if he needed it.

“Sorry Shunt I forgot about bloody Innis,” cursed Amon.

Belatedly Amon considered that didn’t sound too good either, but what did she want? The living moved on the dead didn’t so they naturally got left behind. Nobody wanted to carry a corpse on his or her shoulders.

“Hell we should toast the mad fekker’s memory,” said Tall Tale turning to his leader as if for approval.

Amon softened a little, and nodded. With a degree of fuss from everyone tumblers were collected, and liquid slopped in. Everyone then grasped his or her cup. Amon stood up a moment as an unforced silence unfolded around the table (if not in the wider Den which remained by contrast as loud as ever).

“To the Reapers Passage,” yelled the Wolf Leader.

“The Reapers Passage,” they returned except Shunt who just said, “to Innis.”

After downing the fiery liquid in one gulp once again slammed their cups down several people also stomped feet as if to ground any bad luck due to speaking of dead colleagues often a - taboo - pirate subject!

Sabot found he almost felt touched. Sometimes rituals helped - even the most banal of rites had their place.

“We should spill a drop on the ground,” said Sabot reaching for one still in use canister.

Tall Tale however was quicker, and snatched it aside, “No way Argon - that would just be plain wrong,” he said, “Innis wouldn’t have liked that. Hell he would’ve been outraged,” he explained, “never met a more stingy Argon than Innis over a drop of fuel.”

“That’s right,” said Bright with a smirk across her face, “Sabot even you must have seen that. Remember how he used to set all the canisters upside down until every bit drained out before he would let the staff have them back Argon that used to drive them insane.”

“You can have your canister, but you’re not fekking stealing any of - my - fuel,” mimicked Tall Tale.

“Damn that sounded just like him. Innis was a real personality, even if it was the cheapest rot gut in the joint it was still the same old argument,” replied Jake grinning then sad.

“Did you see the way the loon went out? That is the way I want to go - no doubt about it - wham, and it was all over. Instant translation to the other side of the night!” Tall Tale said emphasising the remark by slamming his right fist into his left cupped hand.

“How do you know that? We didn’t stick around to check. He could have been trapped in the wreckage, and burning, or slowly sucking down on vacuum,” said Shunt bitterly.

“What wreckage Shunt? I told you there was fek all left to search over!” replied Amon it was an old argument one he was sick of.

“Damn right. It looked pretty quick to me Shunt,” said Tall Tale, “that asteroid wasn’t taking any prisoners nor was that Khaak Invasion Fleet we was all trying to avoid if you remember. That KM2 alone would have chewed us all up, and spat us out!”

“It might have looked quick, but maybe those last moments stretch,” said Jake with a rippling shudder that wasn’t like him.

Jake couldn’t help thinking how time in space could be very relative slowly cooking or suffocating in the cockpit were amongst his worst nightmares.

“Damn it those are the breaks,” said Amon, “let it go, it don’t do no good to dwell on it!”

“Yeah we should all drink up, it don’t mean anything,” replied Shunt slamming her tumbler back down this time - upside down - to stain the table before getting up to walk away. Clearly she really felt the opposite to her words.

Sabot went to go after, but Amon got up smartly for such a big Argon, and grabbed the young Fallen Angel roughly by the arm almost spinning him about.

“Don’t,” Amon said. “Besides too much sentiment has no place in this business. You had best learn that lesson as a rookie fast, or you might as well find your own asteroid to crash into. You toughen up or you perish - deep down - Shunt knows that well enough.”

“Yeah sit down or you’ll miss your own party. Best let her go Sabot, she won’t thank you for your company anyway - trust me - some stuff you have to work out on your own,” stated Lyn.

Sabot eyed Amon he didn’t much like being pawed, but he sat back down. Sabot mused the Wolf Leader ought to know his own crew - it wasn‘t worth any aggravation! Amon was a dangerous Argon for all that he could appear quite congenial.

“Shunt likes a bit of room to breathe at the best of times,” replied Amber, “I forgot she kind of had a thing for Innis we’ve all been so busy lately I guess this is the first opportunity she has had to think about it. Sometimes a death hits people late. Me, I prefer to avoid serious attachments.”

“Boom, boom and you’re gone eh Amber,” said Tall Tale with a wink, “Nobody lives forever, Hell Innis was last weeks news!”

“You’re all heart,” said Bright pulling a face at the jester in the pack.

“Don’t tell me Innis was Jolly Rogering you too?” asked Tall.

“Always the lowest common denominator with you Tall Tale,” replied Amber.

“Fekker wasn’t that lucky - if he had been - he would’ve died happy,” said Bright stretching back with the white-toothed smile she was almost as famous for as her brains.

“Sure computer girl,” said Jake.

Tall Tale sniggered he knew Jake had tried, and failed, and convinced himself Bright was either frigid under the fine exterior package, or actually preferred the company of girls - rejection could be hard to deal with - a few sad self delusions could help!

“Well I don’t expect anyone to mope over me, and I’m not wasting my precious time feeling bad about nobody else either, especially anybody that forgets how to strafe, and flies straight into a rock in an M5, not even if they meant to,” stated Tall Tale clearly unimpressed with the tactic beyond its speedy effect.

“Anyone can make a mistake,” said the bruiser Bristle speaking up for the first time, “he was trying to dodge some fekking Gamma Kyon Emitters at the time. Obviously the asteroid seemed like good cover.”

“Maybe his braking thrusters failed,” interposed Sabot.

“He was just going too fast nothing could have pulled him out,” said Amon.

“He should have kept a little more distance from that Destroyer, and the asteroid. You can say what you like Bristle, I will continue to persevere not to kill myself,” said Tall Tale, “after all one mistake in space is often all you’ll ever get.”

“Why did Jorac have you dropping satellites in ‘Bala Gi’s Joy’ anyway?” asked Sabot his curiosity still rampant about that mission.

“Who knows, our Great Leader didn’t say,” replied Amon blandly.

“Jorac is into a hell of a lot of stuff,” said Tall Tale, “it could be anything?”

“Don’t you wonder especially when it cost you one of your own? Don’t you want to know why?” asked Sabot unsatisfied.

“Trust me on this Sabot - if you must trust me on anything - if Jorac fails to give it up voluntarily it is best not to pry,” returned Amon with a scowl.

“Well you must at least know if he has shown any interest in Khaak activity in the ‘Joy’ before?” enquired Sabot, “as far as I’m concerned not knowing stuff is as good a way to get killed as any. I never put you down for the blind follower type Amon.”

“If you are that concerned ask him yourself, I don’t know anything, and if I did I wouldn’t tell the likes of you,” he said laughing as if to take off the sting. “You’re a fool if you think blabbing Clan business publicly all over the show is healthy. Besides Sab you’re the damned Fallen Angel around here,” said Amon, “just don’t blame me if you ask, and don’t like the result. Fek it anyway, this is supposed to be fun not business.”

“Yeah Jorac burns cold he isn’t a legend for nothing, and he isn’t much into sharing his secrets with anyone! If you’re wise you’ll let our sleeping Devil lie,” said Tall Tale.

The tale spinner wondered if Sabot was crazy enough to go poking around after hints of the Arch Fallen Angels caches - was that his game. Dreams of Fallen Angel buried treasure had lured many to their doom Tall Tale knew all those tall tales by heart, but had never been interested in trying to suckle from that teat. Was Sabot both that ambitious, and that stupid? If Sabot was that big an idiot he would be destined to have a very short career of which this party could well prove the highlight.

A little later bowls of smoke where making clouds around the table, and Innis, and Shunt’s absence were soon forgot about - the party was in full swing - after that Sabot’s memory of specifics became a lot less certain.
[end]




[23:37][06-12-764][Federal]
[Argon Asylum][Green View City][Argon Prime][Argon Prime Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR FBR HAC AA 001] initiate_

“This makes no sense,” noted the old, small, grizzled, hobgoblin like Senior Consultant with the identity tag of S.C. Fuchima H. Quick.

You’re not joking, thought Owen sadly. The H stood for the rather ordinary name of Henry (at least that was what Owen had once been told by a senior orderly). The Doctor felt inappropriately that he ought to be laughing manically out loud at remembering that fact, at this time! The Argon mind plays odd tricks during periods of extreme stress, yes even to those that regularly obliquely study Argon brain, and psyche function. The orderly concerned, Owen also recollected, had some time ago wisely departed for less troubled regions, good for him! He thought.

I had only just arrived at the AA myself, he recalled, in a flash back of blurry introductions: new faces, and new spaces. It was difficult to forget that first crossing of the ever-pristine, and antiseptic threshold - the ‘notorious clinic’ as Owen had thought of it then. Of course organic memory being an imprecise function - some specific details had grown a little hazy, or possibly become confused, and integrated with later reminiscences; creating he was sure a less than - entirely - factual melange! We write our own past in more ways that one, he mused - unhappily - since he found his particular authorship to be predominantly negative.

How fresh, and full of ideas I was back then? It truly did feel like a lifetime ago! Quick had never used his middle name, not once to Owen’s knowledge. Fuchima did insist though on the inclusion of the H upon all recordings, and documentation. You might imagine the letter held some sacred significance; of course it could just be habit rather than superstition. It was even possible there was another Fuchima Quick (Sonra’s bright warmth protect me) some fellow H. Quick wished to dissociate his work from; perhaps a family member who was also a physician, well anything was feasible? Thinking about his source - the Orderly Eduardo it was almost as likely that the revealed label of ‘Henry’ was nothing but a rumour, or some sad Asylum staff in-joke. A jolly jape (one Owen had not been expected to understand) a quip belonging to a period before the commencement of Owen’s long torturous tenure, both in retrospect, and effect!

At times like this Owen felt like he was the one sectioned here, not his often-recovering patients, after all many of those eventually got to leave while he always stayed on! Certainly the Doctor had to confess to himself that his own mind wandered more than it used to, and dealing with Quick on a constant basis (too frequently these Argon Prime days as the Senior Consultants able assistant) would be enough to test the limits of any ordinary persons sanity; even when compared to the other rigours of Owens job. Quick wasn’t an easy associate to endure - not even at the best of times - which these very plainly were not!

As usual Fuchima was shuffling around in his uniquely, eccentric manner. Owen had often joked that his superior must believe that lifting his feet up would somehow tempt gravity. Owen envisioned the Senior Consultant unbalanced in body to match the instabilities he was convinced bedevilled his superior’s craggy old mind. The fall Fuchima seemed to fear threatening despite of, or due to his otherwise - overly energetic - body movements. There was no way the shuffling could be down to joint pains (in this era such ills were readily treatable). If Fuchima had refused treatment that must lead back to some form of mental disorder? Besides would he be so vigorous in his shuffling if he was in genuine pain?

Everything about Fuchima was unlikely, and discordant. Looking at the Consultant it would be easy to confuse him for a patient. Even when he was standing upright somehow he managed to stoop. Was it the set of his shoulders? Maybe it was an orthopaedic issue Owen didn’t really care, he had little interest in bones - the frame of the body - wasn’t his preserve. Generally Owen endeavoured not to consider Senior Consultant Quick at all. Owen also physically avoided his senior as much as possible. Unfortunately Fuchima H. had other ideas, and had gone out of his way to bind his junior into an altogether unhealthy working relationship. A relationship from which their seemed to be little hope of parole.

Still even if the Senior Consultant had some strange untreated deformity that was hardly the reason why he was forever in motion? Owen always found Fuchima fidgeting with something. Now the Senior Consultant was bending over more than usual - trembling with excitement, or agitation, or perhaps given some of his recent associations shattered nerves! Fussily the SC read various scattered diagnostic screens provided by a mixed plethora of medical apparatus. Owen gazed in fascination as Fuchima’s hands fluttered over the individual, bolted on, pieces of equipment that surrounded the floating stretcher. The way he fondled the composite material it was almost as if physical contact were required for comprehension, mused Owen.

Deep inside Owen felt like screaming. Fuchima insisted on reading off the values from each cursed output - out loud - firsthand; one very slow piece at a time. Owen wondered if his superior did these things deliberately to antagonise his junior? If he was such a battered old wreck why didn’t he retire? Why wasn’t he forcibly retired by the Asylums trustees, was it possible he was blackmailing them as well if so to what purpose? Did the Consultant fear retirement that much?

Returning to the Senior Consultants current actions Owen wondered did Fuchima really distrust the veracity of his computer pads wireless link up? The Senior Consultants expensive hand held was the proper interface for patient diagnosis, even equipment diagnostics yet Fuchima rarely seemed to use this personal accoutrement. The powerful Pad was capable of so much more than just downloading the data from every system in the room. The hand held could integrate gathered information into a sensible coherent whole, not to mention organising, and displaying all the data in whatever esoteric format might be desired including: various comparisons. The Senior Consultants pad would even render predictions based on altered values - simulations of the effects of potential induced drug treatments! Yet Fuchima seemed to prefer using his questionably worthy raw brain tissue instead of the able technology in a manner that was not so much Old School as Pre School!

To his associates perception Fuchima was moving around like a senile old Goner priest with failing eyesight fumbling about a technological alter. No doubt the old fool was praying in vain that it was some kindly systems malfunction. Not a true diagnosis indicative of a deepening crisis with their important charge. In truth neither Physician really wanted to intervene directly. Neither wished to shoulder the grave responsibility (at least that was Owens immediate analysis). Unfortunately pretending wouldn’t make it all go away either. Owen was sure they were caught fast in the trap of their vocational commitment - as usual - the cursed intelligence community knew exactly how to play the doctors!

“That is exactly why I paged you,” replied Doctor Owen Andrews.

Owen believed he was getting a grip on his spiralling thoughts when he conversely began wishing he had escaped to somewhere - anywhere - else! Home would be good, his mistresses apartment even better unfortunately that was how he got into this mess in the first place. It had been such a small thing; a little banal blackmail by his senior. One tiny slip that led to the grip of a tragically enforced servitude. An association that had dragged Owen kicking, and screaming into his current freefall - a drop without relent - given the nature of this particularly bottomless pit. Yet every journey must come to an end sometime? Owen imagined he could see the fatal ground rushing to meet him.

Even ignoring their actual words - from the outside - it was obvious by body language alone that both of these physicians were distraught, flustered, and challenged by some predicament! At least it would be if anyone else were permitted to watch. Luckily for the two nominally law-abiding specialists even the electronic surveillance was blind to their presence; at least while they remained in that singular padded chamber retaining its most unique guest. Steps had been taken to insure maximum anonymity by the fell people who had originally pressured the Consultant, and his junior into becoming diabolical nursemaids to the currently ailing Professor Febr! Elsewhere the security scanners showed this room as empty of visitors. It was amazing what some electronics could do - even almost real time editing of a small portion of one reality; it was as if they had fallen through a tiny hole in history.

“I simply can’t explain this level of brain activity can you?” Owen asked.

Remarkably the younger physician managed to sound: angry, frustrated, and scared all at the same time possibly due to far too much practice.

Quick didn’t reply he just contrived to sweat, and fidget under the cool air conditioning. The exposed areas of stretched skin that spread over those sharp bones glistened unhealthily. Owen felt that covering should have been dry flaking, and dusty - desiccated by times ravages. As it now appeared it seemed somehow all the more obscene like a festering wound.

“Look at it Fuchima,” demanded Owen with irreverent acidity towards his superior, “I won’t be held accountable,” he insisted, “not this time. That is anything, but normal - especially under this heavy mismanaged regime of medication,” he argued aggressively.

Owen was prodding desperate to get a fuller response from his trembling colleague something he could work upon. The doctor lifted his pad to once more peruse the shockingly large administered drug list. He felt like hitting his senior over the head with it. It was clear the automatics had tried more than one solution, and everything had failed. A curse on all uncreative machine software routines, he thought it would be a miracle if the Professor fully recovered from this insanity.

“I don’t like it any more than you,” replied the Senior Consultant having finally finished his interminably circuitous inspection of the stretchers gizmos, “Don’t you think I am well aware of what we are tampering with, and we both know exactly - who - the powers will blame if anything happens to our honoured guest here - verbal - orders or not,” emphasised Quick with a hiss of breath that would have served well as a death rattle on a more honest corpse.

Verbal orders that weren’t worth the digital space - they very purposely - were not recorded on. If only Quick hadn’t dragged me into this one, thought Owen with another sigh, just as well melancholia as a diagnosis was long out of fashion.

“Damned if we do, and damned if we don’t,” Owen muttered then protested loudly (he almost hoped to some wider audience), “It’s intolerable, and increasingly unethical,” he continued feeling like a poor actor playing out a role he didn’t really understand, “going on that trace - we could do permanent damage - through simple ignorance. Do no harm this is breaking that oath,” he finished unfortunately the conviction in his words seemed in his own ears like nothing more than empty wind.

“I concur,” surprisingly agreed the aged Consultant.

Fuchima’s wicked old eyes narrowing in a most alarmingly sly fashion.

In truth both healers knew ethical considerations with this client had been flaunted from the onset.

The Senior Consultant knew Owen was venting as he often did battering at the cage of his prison - a healthy enough release if an irrelevant one to the wider debate!

“I feel like the villain who perpetrated this outrage in the first place,” confessed Owen recalling Febr’s unique plumbing, and merciless upbringing.

Owen was keen to make his blackmailer understand the depth of his conviction this time, while thinking it was unfair that he was forced to do all the leg work, and voice the guilt Fuchima must also feel being the one truly in charge. Owen had just been hit with a tractor beam against his will, and dragged along into perdition. Yet the Senior Consultant was being out of character as well - his seeming acquiescence arriving far too easy, usually it took a long argument to make the wizened troll agree to anything. Normally Fuchima enjoyed being contrary just to stimulate heated discussion!

“Maybe this is an opportunity rather than a calamity,” noted Quick actually managing a grim smile, “certainly the prognosis is poor if we persist,” he said looking uncomfortably direct at Owen with those cold flinty grey orbs.

“So what are - you - going to do?” Owen asked still striving to shift the weight of the load on to his superior.

“The way I see it, these readings leave - us - no choice,” returned Quick, “we will have to slowly take him off all medication. Keeping our friend here under via the normal methodology is not a viable option anymore, if it ever was? We simply can’t continue to support all these impossible demands put upon - us - they are incompatible,” replied Quick now annoyingly cool like he was lecturing his students while doing the rounds.

“They should have just put Febr straight into stasis if they wanted him on hold,” insisted Owen angrily spitting out the words.

Owen really did hope they were watching and listening now? He was a professional, and decided he would only be shoved so far. The question though was what game exactly was Fuchima H. Quick playing, how far was he really willing to go in defiance?

“Of course, but they couldn’t pretend deep sleep was a treatment,” noted Fuchima as he raced around putting new values directly into the machines inputs by hand - again ignoring his pad, “information has a way of leaking out,” he stated with a continuing unexpected boldness, “our hands have been forced yes?”

Owen didn’t like the sound of that. Did the old crank think his computer pad was bugged or rigged in some way was that it? Questioned Owen internally.

“If we retain Febr as a normal conscious inmate the stress caused by his incarceration alone becomes a serious factor,” reminded Owen fearful of the worst consequence.

Owen was now convinced the old villain was contemplating something underhanded, and drastic. I should have feigned illness or run away when I had the chance, he thought.

It was just possible the agency wanted a bad outcome to happen here. Owen had no doubt the Asylum, and its staff would be held responsible if Febr died or his famous mental faculties became permanently impaired - certainly no shadowy Argon Intelligence service was going to step up, and be judged culpable of such an outcome!

“Well according to these outputs despite being paralysed the Professor is already conscious - on some level - even now!” complained the decrepitly old one.

What was that a hint that Febr might act as a witness against them? Otherwise Fuchima was just stating what was obvious as if his junior was a medical neophyte or an imbecilic inmate. Of course it was possible his tormentor had worked in the Asylum far too long, and had finally lost the plot altogether.

Both physicians eventually paused to look at the venerable white haired old Argon strapped down upon the floating medical stretcher. Owen knew they had very clear precise instructions, which he felt sure they were now going to break. Every precaution was to be taken to prevent any possibility of escape. Febr was not even to be allowed brief association with any other inmates, or staff! How could they tend him conscious under these restrictions - they both had other patients, and responsibilities? Owen had a very bad feeling that Fuchima H. Quick was about to put more than his juniors career into jeopardy - it wouldn’t be the first time!
[stop]



[Supplemental Emotional Insight]
[SEI FBR HAC AA 001] initiate_

Everything was shifting it felt like a fall but there was no local zero, no horizon. Febr’s sight was obscured by what appeared to be a nebula of particulate matter. The obstructing material swirling all around him, but he wasn’t in a vacuum suit so that didn’t make a lot of sense, or did it? Something about the effect seemed oddly familiar.

The old Argon didn’t know why - but he was sure he was searching - however, how do you search systematically when you have no control over your principle direction of movement, and can‘t see where you are going. All Febr could do was look around as far as his neck would turn, and his body twist their was a paradoxical feeling of both freedom, and confinement despite these restrictions. Then Febr just knew - beyond question - that everything was waiting hidden, waiting to be uncovered! That was when he first heard the voice loud, and clear; it was lecturing, and sounded rather eerily like his own. Ominously - especially given Febr’s limited perception - the voice noted like a warning.

“There are things out there!”

To his own amusement however, it was embarrassment not fear that at first grasped the Professor. Do I really sound like that? ‘Things’ out ‘there’ how imprecise, how dramatic, what kind of things? He wondered, really I should know the answers to these simple questions, what is wrong with me? As if in reply to his unspoken queries the voice continued innocently enough at first before waxing sinister hinting at some edge of horror through its tonal depth alone!

“Remarkable things, old things, wondrous things - terrible things!”

Now that was just plain unnecessary, and rambling, Febr thought, get to the point sir!

“Technologies long lost, and forgot about.”

At last a bit of sense - so this was about the so-called Elder Sciences - Febr felt he ought to be able to predict every word, and yet somehow each syllable took him by surprise. It was almost as if the utterances until loosed were as cloaked as his vision each arrived gasping at the surface like a half drowned Argon from out of the depths of the murky gloom?

“The wreckage of past civilisations - the leavings of creatures now ashes, and dust.”

The sermon was relentless - if grown obvious, thought Febr exasperated, from where else would long lost technologies appear?

“Or entities departed to cast their shadows, or in some instance their light over other regions!”

That was certainly one theory - that the old races had moved on to explore more rarefied places leaving such items as the Jump Gates behind in their wake, agreed Febr, but it was a bit naughty to set it out as a fact; an apparent absence is hardly foolproof evidence of a definite departure, indeed their was some small evidence around to the contrary, such as gate realignments, and occasional sightings of unidentified unknowns!

“Items left behind by accident or design.”

Febr wasn’t sure which of those two options scared him the most the accident or the design. This he realised must be why he was searching here, wherever here was? Febr was convinced; he had lost something, something vital, something important!

“Some of these lost items misused even by their previous owners could potentially make a Hell out of our starry Heavens forever!”

The last sentence finished with the measured yet in its intensity frenzied cadences of some ancient prophecy - appearing to echo out of the shade - like the tolling of a vast bell cast long ago to summon all within hearing distance to the finality of an expected, and predestined disaster.

Still feeling somewhat weird what worried Febr at first was mostly the nature of the sentences delivery, and the deliverer (not any extrapolation of the consequences of the content) though the content would bother him later - all the more - as if to mock his initial lack of attention.

The voice he initially noted hardly seemed like the Febr he knew at all - it was: so negative, so paranoid, so cursed religious, when did I start sounding like that?
[stop]



[01:16][07-12-764][Federal]
[Argon Asylum][Green View City][Argon Prime][Argon Prime Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR FBR HAC AA 002] initiate_

Senior Consultant Quick was back in the main observation booth - its cameras now operating normally - Febr was genuinely alone. With a shake of his head because he despised the technology Fuchima tapped into the establishments secure files employing the special access of his prioritised wireless computer pad. He didn’t believe anything that was wireless was secure, in this case he knew it wasn’t, but their was no direct cable connection port here - such stupidity is deemed progress, he thought.

His patient the Professor Febr was famous a renowned genius a Xeno-archaeologist, who also held a doctorate in computer sciences among many other topics in fact an almost impossibly long list of qualifications scrolled past reminding the Consultant of a resume made up by some over imaginative but under skilled conman. However, this tally of credentials was no confidence trick.

However Febr was so much more than his non-stop education his intellect was the result of unique neural plumbing. Illegal, and horrific experiments had been carried out upon the Professor as a child - along with many other poor young souls. Febr’s intelligence was the product of research by a monster hiding behind a flaccid Argon Doctors face; his benefactor a fiend who cared nothing for the sanctity of the Argon genus or the self-restraint of the civilised - in short - a scientific barbarian. Febr’s adulterer had paid the ultimate price for his crimes, but only after he had created many abominations, but Febr wasn‘t one of them, Febr was perhaps his only real success maybe the end that justified the fiends means.

Fuchima sighed, who was the abomination now? Febr didn’t deserve to be here in the ‘Argon Asylum’. Whatever had brought him here was probably the product of too much sanity not too little. Rationality was currently going out of fashion or so it seemed it was a fact that many of the inmates made more sense than the jabbering politicians in the Federal Senate or their stooges to the universe weary Consultant. The Argon species was going through many changes, and change by growth or destruction was suffering!

Recollecting all that frenetic brain wave activity the Senior Consultant couldn’t help but visualise that boosted mind as a trapped feral animal. A potent creature worrying not at the unbreakable snare the soulless grip of the ever tightening wire that held it fast, but instead forced to gnaw, and slash at the weaker flesh of its own body in this case the Professor was ripping into his own trapped psyche. The almost out of his depth Consultant Neurologist, and Psychologist was certain that the sentience resting in that cramped skull would rather destroy itself than be artificially constrained which explained the increasing storm of activity under the drugs. Shockingly Fuchima Quick despite his disciplines or because of them believed sentience was more than just chemistry or electrical impulses it was something more inexplicable - that was why he had secretly contacted some friends.
[stop]



[Supplemental Emotional Insight]
[SEI FBR HAC AA 002] initiate_

In the padded cell on the level below under the scrutiny of several cameras - though still physically strapped down - Febr had moved on. Now the Professor saw it all, the end of the bright universe (as he knew it) an apocalypse for his species among others. The new insights were a torture for it was an unnatural calamity, plus a fate Febr judged rightly or wrongly as his own crime. Lately the Professor had come to believe that only the enlightened - the self aware - can perceive the full depth of their fall from grace when they stumble, and Febr was convinced he had tripped, and in the process cast not just himself, but everyone into a bottomless abyss!

Fortunately not everyone disagreed with Professor Febr’s less than approving stance on his latest project, already forces were mobilising to effect another cynical alteration in the old Argon’s condition. To this end figures prowled among the shadows, and electronic defences were skilfully compromised. A break in, or more precisely - a break out - was in progress. Sadly Febr’s liberation was moving at a slow, steady, sure, and careful pace for the rescuers didn’t want to be identified. In the short term Febr was left to struggle for his continued sanity against implacable forces of horrific despair.
[stop]



[03:30][07-12-764][Federal]
[Argon Asylum][Green View City][Argon Prime][Argon Prime Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR FBR HAC AA 003] initiate_

Owen registered late that that Nurse was a new face while she approached him smiling. He was about to engage her in conversation when - to his shock - she struck him in the neck with an injector. The item had been concealed in her right hand. Instantly she moved in even closer to grapple with him - all this happening in one smooth motion. Owen soon found his face was being forced against the wall.

“Hnrrrr,” he coughed.

To his alarm he couldn’t move. To Owens embarrassment the Nurse had swung him around effortlessly. The Argnu had completely overpowering him both his arms being twisted painfully up his back. At his attackers mercy all he could do was squirm a little. Condescendingly she snuggled in close placing her cheek next to his - almost like a lover - to whisper in his ear. This close he could smell her scent a slight fresh soapy perfume.

“Be quiet,” she snapped, “shush good boy - not a word - not if you want to live. Listen I have just injected you with a lethal dose of a timed fatal toxin,” she explained too casually as if it was a small matter.

Owen found it very hard not to groan out loud.

“If you would rather not die - screaming in agony - you will do exactly what I say in which case in due course my associates will provide an antidote. Quibble, hesitate, cause me any trouble, and we mightn’t bother - you got that? Nod once if you understand,” she ordered.

Owen nodded oddly he found himself thinking how tall she must be to hold that position over him - why had he only noticed that now. Otherwise he just felt sick, and wondered whether that was an early symptom of the shot, or plain shock?

“Wonderful Owen I see we are going to be firm friends,” said the Nurse, “trust me - it will be better that way. Be aware I have been assured your people will never find the - right - antidote for this one in time. If I get caught the obvious consequences for you will be dire. It is in your best interests to assist me - beyond the call of duty - understand.”

Owen nodded.

“Fine,” continued the Nurse, “by the way - I have no idea exactly what my associate put in the injector either. I trust you appreciate the full gravity of your position! Demonstrate a little common sense, and you should be able to boast of this potentially - life changing - experience to your wife, and children. Of course if you prefer you can relate your travails instead to that hot little minx in the apartment you are paying for instead.”

The nurse let him go and stepped back still smiling. Slowly straightening her uniform before cheekily reaching out to smooth Owens clothing. Owen could hardly believe what was happening - his calm assailant looked as if she had all the time in the Universe.

She had to be a professional, Owen decided then wondered, who was watching the security cameras? Involuntarily he found he was looking up to were the corridors surveillance devices where hidden.

“You won’t get any help from that quarter - the camera lies you know. I’m glad you are willing to cooperate,” continued the Nurse, “please follow me.”

Please, as if I have any choice, Owen thought, he was afraid he knew exactly what she wanted as well. No doubt though the detailed specifics would only be revealed on a need to know basis. A thousand curses on you Fuchima - Owen was sure his sneaky underhanded Senior Consultant was responsible for this latest outrage to his person.
[stop]

[Paranoid66]

Reapers Passage
X3 Fan Fiction by Paranoid66

[Revised] Chapter 1 Grim Reaper

[Historic Records Fragment Consolidation][the HAC Incident #1] compiling_

[06:09][07-12-764][Federal]
[Argon Asylum][Green View City][Argon Prime][Argon Prime Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR FBR HAC AA 004] initiate_

Senior Consultant Fuchima H. Quick awoke with a jerk checking the time he hoped his alibi was complete. He had been snoozing in a reclined swivelling ‘easy medic’ chair in his own cramped office space aided by some medication. Really it was more of a closet than a room. Yet Fuchima regularly stayed overnight at the Argon Asylum. He had no home life to go back to - just an empty apartment - Quick didn’t even have a cat anymore.

‘Split Splat’ had died of old age - prematurely - just to spite him. The beast had been cranky anyway. The cats worst habit being defecating on his futon - Fuchima was convinced the feline did this action purposely out of pique - when it considered itself unfairly ignored. Normally perfectly house trained it had easy access to, and from the apartment. A patented well stocked self-cleaning cat toilet box, and fresh food / water dispenser provided all any feline should need. You simply can’t please some entities?

Technically the Senior Consultant also shared this office with another. His assistant - young Owen Andrews - however Owen avoided the place. Fuchima didn’t have to ask why? Owen’s reticence to keep him company had long amused him. How ironic that ‘Split Splat’ had hated him for his absence while Owen despised him being around. Fuchima had to admit he had never been good at relationships not even incidental ones. Now Owen would be tied up anyway - perhaps quite literally - that at least made Fuchima smile which maybe proved the earlier point! The Senior Consultant also felt a paradoxical thrill of terror knowing he was currently resting in the eye of a metaphorical hurricane.

Fuchima H. Quick reached out a shaky hand to hit a button activating the powered chairs elevating mechanism that smoothly went about its business. Despite the chairs slow measured action the old Argon let out a gasp, and spluttered out a wracking cough. It would have been easier, from this response, to imagine he had been grossly assaulted not stately uplifted by the operation of the aid. Momentarily the consultant neurologist, and psychologist felt the full weight of his unassisted fragility - it filled him with unreasoning anger - he felt useless. Fuchima wanted to curse the whole Universe including himself.

“I really must stop doing this,” croaked the Consultant trembling.

Grasping the desk as a drowning Argon might clutch at a bit of floating debris Fuchima shook, and coughed some more. Mornings were beginning to be painful it made him wonder why he bothered? What was his imperative to keep going? Why not just slip away, and fade into kind nothingness? That final journey also held some mystery worth exploration. Once again he found himself contemplating his position on the afterlife? Sometimes to his own despair he believed, sometimes to his own despair he didn’t! The concept of letting go clearly had some appeal, but it would be just too easy - Fuchima didn’t really hold with making his life easy. You never know what you might miss if you leave the game early? Nor did Fuchima doubt that it was a game - a big glorious sporting event - a gladiatorial contest to the sweetest, and bitterest of all ends.

It made the good Consultant remember spying on his parents. Fuchima had often sneaked around to spy on adult conversations or (at the time) their bizarre physical activities. Fuchima hated being kept out of any loop. He had always wanted to know it all - to see into the dark recesses, to uncover secrets. He loved mysteries, and puzzles, but like many only when he eventually got to see the final solution - how the pieces fitted together! Fuchima had always studied being perversely interested in everything while managing to feel disconcertingly aloof, and detached. Life had been something that happened to other people. Maybe that was why he had never married, and chosen the mind as his speciality - where better to discover truths hidden deep beneath the surface except perhaps… well he could certainly see Febr’s attraction to Xeno-archaeology especially now!

As soon as his bleary eyes cleared he used the seat to roll forward. Carefully at first he commenced to sluggishly fidget with the apparatus littering his desk. Expertly he took a few biological readings including a blood sample. He then commenced to manufacture a drug cocktail his own recipe - a mixture capable of putting fire back into tired muscles, and veins not to mention his weary old bones - maybe that was why he kept going? They say you can judge a person by his vices, but he thought of the drugs as a means to an end these days - not an end in themselves - as he once had in his youth. Long ago he had studied the effects of chemicals upon his own consciousness, all that experimentation had taken its toll!

The action of his current task - as a procedure - was a perfect show demonstrating an adherence to casual habit. This morning had to look no different to any other. The deed in fact was so familiar that it left his mind almost blank like a meditation while he measured poured mixed then injected. Somehow the routine helped steady his hands as well proving that his mind still had some control over this matter. Fuchima H. Quick juddered, shivered, and sweated in his seat then gave out a lengthy sigh - Paranidia, but that hit the right spot - just like it always did! Well it should too since it was tailored each day, the quantities based on self-diagnostics perfected over time.

Leaning back he waited for the drugs to take their full effect the relief from pain being just the preliminary. He was sure they were watching him. Somebody was always watching, but now that he knew all about them - they were the worst lot of all! If only (much earlier this morning) I hadn’t listened to the ramblings of my so-called patient whilst he was - far too quickly - coming out from under his medication.

“They record it all - miss nothing - privacy was is an alien concept to these watchers”.

Everything according to those comments was their public domain - everything! Would they act against him for knowing a little about what was found on Bala Gi’s Joy? Fuchima even wondered if Febr could have deliberately spilled his words as a belated revenge designed to bind his jailor into the wider conspiracy. It was best not to think about it, but like an itchy scab over a poorly treated wound it was difficult not to scratch - even when you appreciated that your action would inevitably leave long term scarring!

The Consultant had always lived under some observation. Fuchima, nonetheless, still had his secrets like everyone else - who could live under full disclosure? The idea of an existence under the microscope made him perspire as much as any drug. Maybe his elevated temperature now though was just chemical sorcery (or necromancy) if such can be committed upon an only half dead corpse?

Fuchima got up now deeply invigorated. With his standard odd gait he shuffled over, and unlocked the door. The Consultant found he was thinking about his as yet unreported missing, but no doubt still very much absent guest. Fuchima reminded himself that Febr probably wasn’t the first soul to be tormented by knowledge, nor would he be the last. All that was happening now he was sure had happened before, and would happen again somewhere sometime. Archaeology was the science of the past, time moved in cycles, and it was a bloody big Universe. What event was so unique that it had not occurred before? Fuchima deluded himself that he understood the mechanics of nature. The consultant liked to believe misunderstanding created the real terror especially in relation to fears about the unknown. No enemy was more scary than one that was half glimpsed, and unfathomable. Fuchima’s eyes widened yes he could understand that!

Nonetheless, if only they would relax, and let it go, but no they would have to have their alerts. They would have to have their investigation their alarm! Why? He surmised because if they didn’t have a threat - they wouldn’t know what to do with their time. Without a menace to counter all the agencies would be out of pocket then out of business! Didn’t they have enough enemies already without digging up more? Fuchima could imagine how they had pushed Febr - maybe even unknowingly - into his abject Paranoia. It would have been all their precautions, their deep secrets, their night terrors a slow but steady pollution of the famous scientists rational mind. It was a fine Paradox.

Now it looked like they could have found a means to shine a light on all the shadowy corners - how interesting was that? Would they see what was really there though, or just what they believed should be there? What about the others? Those ultimate outsiders of Febr’s, what would they see in their - boundless - catalogue of data? Fuchima doubted they would recognise the facts, or truth whatever that was? Maybe Febr was right to be worried - even if it was a waste of effort. People forgot the consequences of the old myths far too soon; because Prometheus stole fire people were still burning. Reality oh so rarely bowed to the good intention!

Well soon when it got out, Quick imagined, his chosen rather than enforced associates would give them all something to chase. The hunt should at least reveal a lot about every player’s nature. Febr’s removal would also either solve the Consultants immediate problems, or drop him so deep in it that he would disappear from sight, never perhaps to behold starlight again! Oddly at this point in the morning with the drugs surging about his system Fuchima felt only curiosity - fear was temporarily obscured.

The draw of the dancing flame was upon him. Fuchima was no more above that seduction than anyone else - it would be good to know - to be truly on the inside. The Senior Consultant wondered could his insights (such as they were) into Febr’s mentality be enough! What credit would be required to buy his way in, and whom should he approach - dare he approach - about such a transaction? Maybe a pretend full cooperative defection to the officially appointed (soon to be hunters) would do the trick! Fuchima knew he was dying being long past the point of denial. It would be good to be involved in one momentous project before the lights went out - whatever the end consequences might be - was that selfish, and wrong? Did he care one way or the other? Funny, thought Fuchima that I had to throw the key away in order to pick the lock.

When Febr had been taken off the drugs he had recovered rapidly - if anything too quickly - it made Fuchima wonder about some of those chemical imbalances that had played havoc with the automatic machines routines. Just how much control did the Professors unique mind have over his internal chemistry? Quick acknowledged it was more than possible that consciously or subconsciously Febr was playing them all for imbeciles - the idea made him chuckle - the Professor was such a fascinating subject! Ironically Fuchima thought yes, to his great surprise he truly would miss the peculiar nemesis of his once sleeping adversary, but maybe a reunion was inevitable.
[end]



[Supplemental Emotional Insight]
[SEI GO HAC 001] initiate_

Garrin Omega was a stark contrast to most of the individuals shown so far, for a start since going space side the Courier had lived a charmed whimsical existence of self-indulgence. Garrin considered the Universe nothing more than a big playground. Further while he had a few eccentricities including an arguably mild obsession with Death nobody had ever - seriously - questioned his sanity, and he was generally well liked. Of course the Space Courier was certainly no genius either, even if he was smarter than he sometimes looked, (at least a few people had happily told him this questionable fact) something Garrin had prudently decided to accept as a compliment. Garrin believed he had a good enough face - certainly one that appealed to the females of his species!

Surprisingly the degree of separation between these individuals: the young arrogant Courier Garrin, the bold neophyte Fallen Angel Pirate Sabot, the old jaded Scientist Febr even the cranky old Senior Consultant Quick was not as wide as might be expected. In fact in many ways their stories (though each had their own tale to tell) had commenced to naturally converge being destined to intertwine - in one instance any moment now to almost collide! In part due to the modern speed of travel combined with another elder science (long accepted, and embraced) despite hiding many mysteries the Jump Gates.

In this age Jump Gates dominated space. The colossal artefacts not only made the universe seem much smaller than it was, by facilitating the ability to pass from one star system to another (through linked wormholes) - with startling speed - they also fundamentally altered the way in which the majority of the Intelligent Races perceived, colonised, and utilised the vast territory of Outer Space itself!

Shockingly the average personage of any extraction now tended to view the heavens as busy, but tightly limited parcelled out boxy grids - parking allotments filled with productive space stations, and ship traffic. Nobody seemed to care that it was an artificial existence lived inside artificial borders. Nobody seemed to notice any false psychological boundaries caused by the placement of the mysterious ancients ponderous portals.

Familiarity meant that travellers hardly ever contemplated that the heavens might subtly be being cordoned off. Almost no one had any interest in what might lie beyond in the seamless infinite stretch of emptiness outside the gates immediate domains or across even wider gulfs. Fewer still took the time to appreciated the concept that the Universe was in actuality a gigantic ever-expanding bubble of increasingly thinly spread matter with a supposedly empty majestically dark core. It was deemed impossible that such a place could hold other creatures or anything of worth. Even the Governments, and the Military viewed expansion as: the discovery of more Ancient Gates, and therefore other Sector Grid Space territories. Nobody saw any profit in the vast real estate outside the boxes except those on the fringes of society like Pirates, and even they barely wet their toes in that frigid ocean.

Practical law abiding Spacers like Garrin rarely had any reason to question the Gate Grids at all - it was just the shape of the known Universe - the Universe they were familiar with. This was how it was, and how it had always been from their birth until the Reapers Passage carried them gently or roughly into Death’s embrace. Besides G like his contemporaries was more interested in profit than mysterious arcane astrophysics.

In this age a rarefied scientific knowledge of universal dynamics wasn’t specifically required to fly - in fact if anything it was more likely to prove a distraction - all you needed was a decent reputation, some credits, a ship, and an all too easily obtained pilots licence. All the hard work of space travel was done by computation (fly by wire electronics that constantly governed, limited, and interpreted thruster, and engine output) these advances made movement in the Grids easy for organic sentient beings, maybe too easy? While Garrin was no genius he did have some insight on occasion, so he was well aware that accidents - sometimes fatal - were increasingly common in Grid Space.

Still despite higher mathematics generally being of little interest to G he would be the first to admit that like many Argon he was not entirely logical, or fully consistent in his thinking! Therefore while Garrin was primarily motivated to experience the universe directly he hid an abiding interest in statistical analysis - probabilities - while nonetheless perhaps at odds desiring little more than to have a good time! Not that you might think this from his mobile home, and workplaces name. As Garrin’s AM5 Discoverer class scout ship was labelled the ‘Grim Reaper’ its hull decorated with sinister dark scythe wielding hooded figures grotesquely outlined in a cheesy corona of fiery orange red, and yellow flame hinting perhaps at some unpleasant burning depository for slain lost souls.

While this strange mascot initially seemed like, an ill omen, and a poor choice, one likely to cause future difficulties, in fact it was all part of a deliberate mind set a wider (Garrin would later argue with some success) cunning strategy! Although the symbols looked a little too similar to those favoured by pirate clan members never mind the obvious deliberate, and unsettling association with capitalised - Death! Garrin nonetheless had little intention - in the long term - of relying on skittish (standard fare) passengers.

Admittedly in the beginning the ‘Grim Reapers’ name, and the paint job caused a stir including extra attention from Sector security forces. Luckily just as G had suspected these custodians of the law soon grew bored scanning his legitimate business. Conversely few customers ever forgot seeing the ‘Grim Reaper’ logo. Plus it was a reminder of something his addicted but occasionally wise father had constantly preached “No one really lives son until they learn to be unafraid of dying” a fine sentiment Garrin tried to adhere to even though he also believed a degree of measuring the odds was prudent.

In space death was always there - a spectre of menace hidden in the empty night - waiting watching Space was the ultimate hostile environment capable of freezing, and irradiating you at the same time even forgetting the obvious dangers of depressurisation, and oxygen deprivation! While some people avoided thinking about their ultimate demise Garrin preferred to imagine the concept of - his - death as a personified figure haunting him almost belonging to him! A wraith like dark denizen always fractionally beyond perception, a deeper shadow in an unseen spot over his left shoulder. The Pilot believed it instructive to embrace this familiar, patient, and implacable adversary turning it into a bizarre totem.

Not even the protection of all the multiple redundancies the safety systems required by law on his ship meant much to G. Instead the pilot ascribed to a personal faith that even the most space worthy vessel was only a hairs breadth from fiery, and total obliteration which was very much a fact. All it took was one casual little pilot error, one fatal misjudgement. Such hard truths comforted rather than alarmed him. By embracing his fears - Garrin imagined that - he turned all the negatives around.

It had been the vicious outbreak, and continuation of the Khaak war that forced the young Argon to sell up. Garrin decided to cash in the meagre planet bound holdings left to him on ‘Home of Light’ by his moderately successful family instead he seized upon newfound risks, and interesting opportunities trading among the stars.

No planetary venture offered the same fast track to potential prosperity for the upwardly mobile. It was almost as if space commerce was driven on the space-time compression technology known as seta - everything in space happened quicker - including the amassing of credits. To cut a long story short he founded his enterprise on the axiom; that only Death his final ‘Reapers Passage’ would prevent the completion of - his - personal contracts. Then Garrin took to less travelled, and at least to the ill prepared more dangerous voids in his Discoverer using speed, and a Jump Drive to overcome!

At first the scheme had seemed like a cold carefully calculated business decision, unfortunately against his better judgement G found himself hooked on the thrill, and spill stimulation of his new reality, business, and pleasure became impossibly blared, and even though he could long ago have easily upgraded to a bigger ship, and invested in expanding his tiny prosperous operation; he had no desire to head up a fledgling merchant fleet. Being forced to employ staff, becoming a desk bound Administrator, didn‘t appeal to his child like sensibilities.

Instead of accepting adult responsibilities Garrin was still making the runs himself - a few Argon Prime years on - as a lone trader unwilling or unable to release the reins. The very idea of being tied to a desk or even operating from the cosy home of a single Station still - mostly - gave him the shudders. Luckily with fear rife never before had so many contracts been available for carting high value low mass cargoes, and lone personnel through less secure border sectors. Never before were remote stations so isolated, and needy! Lately Garrin found himself doing more jobs for one particular operation though a Corporation called ArgonForge who specialised in weapons.

Working with an arms manufacturer had its own perceived risks, and thus the potential to generate good profits. Luckily once again the perception of peril, and the hard calculated reality of the facts was not always equal. Garrin found his safety, and profitability were questions of diligent accurate assessment of both job, and client qualifying risk was something he believed he excelled at. Unfortunately - mostly - due to a vast increase in pirate activity in some areas recently including ‘Elena’s Fortune’ it had started to go a little bit wrong!
[stop]



[06:51][07-12-764][Federal]
[The Grim reaper][Federal Argon Grid Space][Elena’s Fortune Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR GO HAC 001] initiate_

After just entering the Sector Garrin jerked the joystick around seemingly at random while frantically kicking at the strafe pedals hopelessly full of joy! His ‘Grim Reaper’ responded with a series of bone shaking movements around a maelstrom of just missing green glowing plasma fire. Oddly the potency of the Pirate Falcons High Energy Plasma whose ambient glow momentarily illuminated the M5 Scout ship including its almost manic pilot was Garrin’s friend (slower than the less powerful but equally deadly Particle Accelerator Canons also employed by pirates).

With a degree of perhaps - unreasonable - confidence Garrin skirted around the hot traceries in his nimble ship while powering almost head on towards, and then narrowly veering past his opponent. Skilfully G made the most of the strafe thrusters to slide sideways whilst maintaining his full maximum - fly by wire - forward momentum. Garrin felt wonderfully alive, more alive than he had felt since the last attempt to erase him from existence.

Garrin’s last attacker had been some predictably aggressive fully mechanical Xenon (malfunctioning - questionably - artificially intelligent ships). That attack Garrin had also outrun leaving the unexpected products of a foolish enterprise in self-replicating machines behind for the Argon Sector Security to deal with. Interestingly it was now believed the Xenon had been designed to make planets suitable for colonisation by the Argon’s once lost ancestors from Earth. Now many generations later the machines were still running amok on defective programs trying to wipe the universe clean of its pre-existent organic infestation, but that was an old story.

As the Reaper sped past Garrin’s current and possibly more devious (flesh, and blood) foe his internal cockpit speakers blared out an exhilarating engine roar to complement an ambient music track. The white noise was a fading-rushing wall of sound tonally communicating the data of the near miss.

“Kiss my afterburner you dirty fekker,” screamed the Courier unable to resist the impulse.

Garrin didn’t really count the Teladi designed M3 Falcon as a massive threat - although maybe he should as it was exceptionally heavily armed, and armoured, but he knew his ship could easily outrun the sluggard. Unfortunately Falcons tended to be accompanied by TM5 Harriers the standard versions of which were almost as fast as his own ship, and without question better armed. Not to mention M4 interceptors such as Teladi Buzzards, and stolen, and refitted Argon Busters.

From experience Garrin understood the M4 medium fighters were overly fond of using missiles to supplement weak power generators, and energy weapons. So far he had seen neither class of faster ship, visually or on scan, for G the Pirate wingmen’s absence only added to rather than suppressed a delightful feeling of alert apprehension. Lone Pirate Falcons were now an uncommon sight in Federal Argon Space; even such bandits had discovered it was advantageous to hunt in packs. Proving that even the lowest scum could adopt a degree of military strategy. Now some pirates almost approached the efficiency of the Argons navy squadrons. With this in mind where - by the holy three of the Paranid - hid his antagonists standard support ships? Garrin wondered.

“Missile warning,” announced the seductive female voice of Garrin’s computer.

After launching the missile the Falcon although hopelessly falling behind swung itself about for a fools chase. It would seem the pilot had decided to play dirty. Luckily Garrin’s own vessel countered effortlessly by engaging the preset launch of agile mosquito anti missile, missiles. The Grim Reaper’s Gravidar sensor data instantly converted this action into sound files that played out a comforting whoosh through the otherwise soundproofed cockpit announcing the successful deployment as a new HUD monitor activated to show the high speed countermeasures turning around from their frontal deployment to streak away purposely behind him locked on, and self guiding.

“How do you like that?” asked the Pilot to the empty cockpit before laughing.

Garrin loved the computer generated sound effects. The pilot perceived them as an effective instinctual input (an extra sensory perception) plus they were fun! Space was far too silent, and boring. What was better than the simulated sizzle of energy weapons, the roar of the engines, and the - boom - of explosions all about you?

The Couriers opponent’s action was a waste of credits. The Falcon’s pilot was either frustrated, or an idiot. His choice to launch a slow heavy duty Hornet - perhaps his only other option - had no chance of success. The fleeing AM5 would outrun the bulky old tech warhead (virtually a bomb) best used against slow or stationary targets. Unless G stopped, and waiting for the device it would be left far behind, anyway his mosquitoes should track it down, and forcibly decommission the lumbering projectile - instants later his anti missile missiles did just that with another simulated boom. So far so standard, he thought.

Maybe it was another lucky day after all. Calling up a target camera view Garrin watched the garishly painted Pirate Falcon that had attempted to ambush him. Why he wondered had this - it would seem - lone pilot targeted a ship he was obviously ill equipped to handle? Maybe it was a drink or drug fuelled whim? Usually these rogues preferred to attack ungainly freighters; still nothing about the encounter had seemed quite the norm although Garrin had to confess he was no expert on desperados.

Heading on into the sector Garrin shrugged, chances were he would never know why the Pirate had attacked. At least the assault had been an interesting if momentary distraction. That was what he loved about his work, although it had its brief periods of monotony, you never really knew when something unexpected was going to happen. Casually he brought up his Sector Navigation Map, and selected the ArgonForge Complex Four as his destination.
[stop]



[06:53][07-12-764][Federal]
[Hawks Wind][Federal Argon Grid Space][Elena’s Fortune Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR FRDM HAC 003] initiate_

“What the fek!” unhappily cursed the young Pirate named Sabot Kushu flying the Teladi Falcon Heavy Fighter called ‘Hawks Wind’.

What had just happened. Sabot felt woolly headed so much for that stimulant shot.

No doubt the whole spectacle had been captured on camera drone by Amon. Not just to monitor the success or failure of the straight forward wager either, but also for the purpose of future mockery should Sabot somehow contrive to fail, as he had.

The pilot of the recently aggressing Falcon felt the: hot, sweaty, uncomfortable, irritability of imminent disgrace. It was an unpleasant sensation. A feeling Sabot liked to imagine he had divorced, and left behind. He had no immediate desire for any reconciliation - it was true after all - pride does come before a fall.

Upon his HUD Sabot glared at a Target Camera view showing the AM5 Discoverer Scout Ship the ‘Grim Reaper’. The same ship (piloted by Garrin Omega) that had just merrily escaped his clutches.

“Damn: fek witted, slime ridden, rectum kissing, abortion, of an indiscriminate slut,” Sabot screamed in impotent rage.

The tirades profanity was proof Sabot had involuntarily been in earshot of Slip - far too much - recently. Well the little tart had been stalking him all over ‘Freedom Station’ from the time when he had first arrived. No doubt his female nemesis had been trying to put him off his stride. Everywhere he went she was there watching - willing him to fail - with that ever-spiteful gaze, but she hadn’t succeeded. Sabot knew he had made few mistakes up until now.

Now to Sabot’s embarrassment, and consternation the ‘Grim Reapers’ hull (as far as he could tell) bore not even one tiny little scorch mark to testify to what should have been a very lucky escape. By statistics alone the AM5 had been completely outgunned, and outclassed (in Sabot’s head so had been this Omega fellow) Sabot saw himself as a legend in the making. This incident wouldn’t look good on his previously exceptional if unofficial resume.

Sabot recommenced cursing, “dirty fekking…”

All the young Pirate could do to his mortification was log the offending Argon Pilots details for a future senseless act of revenge, and learn from the humiliating escapade to - in future - keep his mouth shut when drunk, and high! Especially since jealousy seemed to have raised its ugly head among his old associates the ‘Grey Wolf’ Clan.

Shaking his head as if to clear it Sabot looked around while smartly checking the Duplex Gravidar Scanner for repercussions. In a few fast pre-programmed flicks the sometimes quick to anger young Pirate shifted the devices range outward. Since he barely took the time to read the results just taking in the overall picture the scanner soon reached its maximum capable efficiency.

click - a few extra icons appeared.
click - those were joined by many more.
click - and the output became so crowded it was difficult to decipher.
click - Sabot stepped it back one setting then changed his mind, and placed the pilot aid on auto.

“Fek it, I suppose it could be worse,” he grumbled not sounding convinced.

The Sector was busy enough. The Gravidar was displaying a host of symbols that for a moment seemed to blur before his eyes that watered profusely. Hastily he blinked, and switched to the sector map while still moving away from the West Gate at a low velocity of 35m/s. The data now displayed in graphic format arrived - in real time - from a concealed advanced satellite hovering below the ecliptic plane. The spying device was one of many belonging specifically to his new ‘Fallen Angel’ Pirate Clan. This latest utility showed a much clearer overall picture including menacingly symbols representing: two patrolling Navy capital ships. Sabot found he felt a little dizzy.

Military traffic had continued to steadily increase - ever since - the cursed Federal Argon annexed ‘Elena’s Fortune’. Luckily - and this was vital - the entire bulk of the security forces including the Titan Class Destroyer, and the visiting Carrier languished far away. Sabot meanwhile still haunted a position (comparatively speaking given the scales involved) just in front of the West Jump Gate though he was slowly leaving it behind as he ventured in to the Sector Grid proper.

Sabot did a double take - what the hell is up with me. Without any further delay he swung his ships nose about, and gunned his engines. This was no time to relax - fek it! The in sector Argon Navy ships or those in another system altogether could still challenge his presumption. It was possible to jump to or across the sector to enter via the West Gates aperture. A tactical leap could position enemies directly ahead of Sabot’s necessary flight path - effectively blockading his escape - or place foes right on his six where they could take him out from behind. Sabot understood his immediate future depended on the speed, and nature of any security response. Like many combat pilots Sabot hated being in a position were he might have to react rather than act.

Sabots ship had no Jump Drive nor was it speedy. Grimly, and a bit late Sab realised he could be in real trouble here - fleeing slowly through open space was a bad tactical combination. Used to the option of a quick clean getaway via the benison of a fast over tuned engine Sabot groaned out loud. Pirates like him tended to bend or break any rule they could just to secure the smallest advantage. In his own Light Fighter few standard ships could catch him - Sabot was used to playing to that strength - now he felt clumsy, and vulnerable (like a young Argon going to a formal dance in a borrowed overlarge suit) he didn’t like it!

This time his enemies would be able to chase him down. Sabot knew if he were caught only two options remained: fight his way out, or die trying! He had sworn he would never be locked up like some caged animal, not ever again. The Pirate found he was cursing his fathers memory although the fekker wasn’t dead yet - Sab certainly wished he was - then he could let that part of his past go!
[end]



[06:53][07-12-764][Federal]
[The Grim Reaper][Federal Argon Grid Space][Elena’s Fortune Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR GO HAC 002] initiate_

Garrin activated the autopilot (using the move to position command) fixing it to a spot he considered safe - though not too far out - from the still distant weapons forge complex. Like many other pilots Garrin was wary of overuse of automatic routines as they seemed prone to glitches - not uncommonly fatal. Onboard he was carrying a sealed box full of apparently sensitive data chips. His light cargo coming direct from the ArgonForges HQ on Argon Prime.

It was to be a quick drop off, and pick up as he had a passenger already waiting on the complex anxious to return to Prime. A rapid turn around - wasn’t to be scoffed at in his business - even if he wished he could hang around to have a drink, and a bite to eat among other things with his friend Elaen. It would be good to burn off the excitement of that close encounter - with one of another variety - real good! The job however had come from Anna Dei the PA of the weapon forges rather imperious Administrator Gregor. Anna was a useful new contact, and somebody he didn’t want to disappoint so begging off wasn’t an option. Sometimes Garrin hated the necessity of proving his reliability.

Anna could probably give him a lot of future work, and while employment opportunities seemed plentiful right now G was aware things often changed quickly. Garrin remembered how he had been introduced to the PA via his on station paramour his AF Corporate Security officer: the Police Lieutenant Constable Elaen already mentioned.

Their had been a time when G had kept up relations with several girls at several ports of call - resisting - temptation not being his strongest virtue, but for the last few months the others had faded from his interest like dying stars much to his amazement. Elaen, however Garrin had realised with a shock after waking up one night feeling deliciously content now took up more, and more of his thoughts. Come to think of it Elaen now took up the majority of his free time as well.

As a result of his infatuation AFC 4 was becoming very familiar. Sometimes G worried the complex was getting to be: too much of a home - away from the home - of his beloved ship. Garrin wasn’t really sure why or how this had happened - the idea of settling down still didn’t appeal, also Garrin kept recalling that he had dated better looking females in the past. Not to mention doing the wild thing with much more outrageous, and fun individuals. The idea that he might want to ease up was inconceivable to the Courier, but he just kept coming back here for more of what on the surface looked like less.

Garrin had met Elaen when she had insisted in turning his docked ship over for contraband. Luckily the only thing he had dodgy onboard at the time was a rather fine canister of Space Fuel. Happily AF had a lax policy on alcohol using it as a little incentive here on the fringes of the Federation proper. As long as he wasn’t intoxicated while flying it wasn’t an issue. Garrin had of course cheekily offered to show the Police Argon around his ships interior properly later (when she was off duty).

Elaen naturally snubbed his advances, but unsurprisingly that only made him all the more competitive about getting his way. Like most things in Garrin’s life it became a game unusually this time however when he finally rolled all the sixes instead of it being game over, and move on - it just proved to be the beginning of a new level. Elaen wasn’t like any other girl he had ever dated - she wasn’t some: easy, brain dead, all surface, and no depth toy, or a casual collision never to be seen again. Elaen was a real whole person who demanded respect maybe that was the key to her exceptional success with him? G decided to let it go after all - if he was happy - and he was, what did it matter?
[end]



[06:53][07-12-764][Federal]
[The Lost For Words][Federal Argon Grid Space][Elena’s Fortune Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR LFW HAC 001] initiate_

“Damn bold,” said Fay on the Bridge of her Colossus Class Carrier, “I don’t like it.”

“I’ll order a pursuit,” said the ships Captain sounding eager.

“No let it go. I won’t be drawn into a conflict especially a possible escalating distraction,” replied Fay, “let’s not link any more attention to AFC 4 than we have to either. Keep more or less to the established patrol route, but adjust this leg here she indicated one area with a laser pen to keep us well away from that West Gate - just in case - after all no harm was done.”

“Yes Sir,” replied the Navy Officer unhappily deferring to his obvious superior.

Their was little doubt who was in charge here even though the uniformed female bore no insignia of rank. Captain Evan’s couldn’t help wondering what Fay thought the pirates could do against this mighty war machine. However that was Navy Intelligence for you - all cloak, and dagger - while he yearned to clash shields, and let loose with the sword.

“Tebbin,” said Fay.

“Yes?” asked another Argon.

The aged figure standing to the left of Fays command chair looked even more out of place on the bridge dressed as he was in out, and out civilian clothes - like some mere corporate suit.

“Tebbin before you leave do me a favour organise some - discreet - people to look into the Courier for me. I want to know what Garrin had for breakfast, who he has been in contact with on Four, and exactly what he was carrying this trip. You never know the ‘Fallen Angels’ might have targeted him for a specific reason - I don’t like oddities,” finished Fay.

“I’ll see to it Fay, do you think our old friend knows something is going on at the forge?” asked Tebbin.

“I don’t know, but we can’t risk ignoring the possibility. However just in case the Infernal One doesn’t - like I said Tebbin - discreet! If our Arch Fallen Angel got his hands on (you know what) it would be a disaster,” admitted Fay.

“Why don’t we just blow that Pirate Base straight to hell Sir?” asked the Captain.

“It never pays to do the obvious when you are dealing with the Devil,” said Fay with a grim smile that for once did nothing to improve her hard wrinkled looks, “like I said ‘I won’t be drawn by a possible distraction’ The Fallen have plenty of Jump Drives. At least we know where the scum are right now - even if we don’t know exactly what they are up to.”

“It offends me having those murderers dwelling in Federal Argon Space,” said the Captain.

Fay struggled not to sigh. The Captains demonstration of what would - in some quarters - have been an admirable stiffness of righteous indignation unfortunately didn’t impress any of the Veterans here especially not her.

Tebbin winced inside - Fay didn’t suffer fools lightly - the sooner Evan’s learned that simply having a commission in the Navy didn’t mean squat here the easier it would go with him. By now Tebbin thought the Captain ought to have got the message, some people however insisted on learning the hard way.

“Evan’s did you ever think that is exactly why he is roosting here? Stick to what you do best, and leave the wider strategy to those who can see beyond the obvious,” snapped Fay.

Evan’s had to suppress a rising tide of rage he hated it when Fay was on his bridge.

Sometimes Fay wondered why she had resisted having Evans transferred, now the Captain had seen, and knew too much to be trusted under another outfit. The only way Fay could think to let him go at this stage would be to transfer him to the ‘Fortress of the Damned’ or to an even more certain, and permanent afterlife via an accident! Really he was competent enough within his limitations - if only he could just learn to keep his mouth shut - unless he had something worth saying!

“Our Arch Fallen Angel - Jorac - is a bit close for comfort,” noted Tebbin out loud to his own surprise he hated stating the obvious in particular to Fay.

“As far as I’m concerned Tebbin having our - Bane - anywhere in this Universe is too close for comfort!” Fay confessed.

To Teb Fay looked weary around the eyes he wondered how well she was sleeping? Tebbin knew Fay had been personally less than happy with the new test project leaders solution to her difficulties with her mentor. Even if officially Fay had applauded the demonstration of the Professor’s commitment, and the necessity of the confinement.

“With your permission Admiral?” Tebbin asked.

“Sure get going, but keep me informed Teb,” replied Fay.

“I will Admiral I remember how you never did really like surprises,” noted Tebbin.

With very good reason, thought Fay, wondering if this duel would ever end. Fay also questioned why Tebbin was using her title of Admiral? Then when it dawned on her Fay felt a little bit slow. I must be tired, she thought smiling to herself, no doubt the incorporation of the title was a reminder for the Captain’s benefit - Tebbin could be amusingly protective on occasion! Well they went back a long way to another lifetime altogether thinking about Faith however wiped the smile right off the Admirals face.
[end]



[06:55][07-12-764][Federal]
[Hawk’s Wind][Federal Argon Grid Space][Elena’s Fortune Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR FRDM HAC 004] initiate_

On a fresh vector Sabot moved directly towards the stupendous Jump Gate. He planned to use the vast circular superstructure as partial cover (an old pilot trick used by hunters, and hunted alike). As Sabot looked at the looming construction he marvelled that the device no longer filled him with quite the same awe. For Sabot like most other truly active pilots the portals had grown too familiar to stay dumbfounding, but nonetheless they still remained a pretty damned impressive sight!

It was hard to contemplate that - anything - could shackle the mind-bending energies housed so passively within those great circles. It made him wonder if the Ancients where still around, and if not why not? What could have challenged their dominance of space, logically could anything?

Sabot’s eye was naturally drawn to the glowing swirling blue disk shaped maw that the device generated. That seemingly flat plane led to a stable tunnel, a wormhole between separate solar systems. The mechanism provided an almost instantaneous transit. To Sabot the concept of wormhole travel defied all non-esoteric logic, and made a mockery of his limited understanding of physics. How could that fail to impress anyone? Yet it was a well-known object one of many - most sectors had four representing fake cardinal points on a compass that was really meaningless in three-dimensional space: North, South, East, and West. However add an electronically generated ecliptic grid, and the portal’s names more or less made sense even if some Gates were far adrift on more than one axis from a perfect cross shaped placement.

Recklessly the Pirate cut across the flow of dispersed incoming merchant traffic. A still distant but obviously nervous TS Dolphin freighter pilot veering sharply aside. No doubt the creature at the helm of the scintillating (semi organic dark green skinned) craft feared an attack. Dolphins were favourite prey for heavily armed brigands. The Boron manufactured small transport had no protective rear turret (this fact tended to make those that flew them - a bit edgy - especially around a felon like himself).

This particular Dolphin registered with a Boron at the controls - which also explained the early manoeuvre. The aquatic species being insignificant physical weaklings had no stomach for a fight. Boron preferred to cower, and beg for mercy rather than put up even a marginal defence - they really were pathetic creatures - with quavering synthesised electronic voice boxes that sounded on the edge of a constant nervous breakdown!

Sabot found since taking to villainy he had learned to despise the Boron even that ‘Black Rat’ Clan member. He now cared very little for any of the other species - they were all unfathomable, and untrustworthy. Although he didn’t consider himself a racist he didn’t want anyone other than a Pirate Argon on his wing. Sabot had also learned it was always easier to guiltlessly shoot non-Argon down - it was just a fact of life! Killing aliens didn’t feel like murder it was like hunting an animal. At least the Dolphins manoeuvre put a brief smile back on his face. Sabot had learned to enjoy being feared. Fear, and respect were perks of his occupation. The Pirate felt no shame at bullying the innocent creature. If anything Sabot felt smugly content at the entities probable terror!

Despite the target of opportunity Sabot wasn’t interested in delaying his escape not even for the virtually defenceless transports cargo. Safely collecting spoils so close to a Gate was difficult anyway, an accident waiting to happen. Collisions near Gates were far from uncommon. Besides the wide Sea of Stars contained a multitude of Dolphins. Instead Sabot aimed for an empty position just above the majestic circular rim wormhole generator. As the mechanisms sheer gigantism created a natural deception of closer proximity the approach towards the remarkable (if common in Grid Space) sight seemed to take the dawdling Falcon forever. Sabot fidgeted at the controls playing with the Gravidar again then returned it once more to the auto setting.

The young Fallen Angel found he was the one fretting - for a change. In this ship (powerfully armed, and shielded or not) he felt like a potential victim. A part of Sabot started counting down the seconds to an imagined annihilation. In order to settle himself down Sabot administered a calming shot via his suit to little or no effect. Frustrated he hit himself with another dose again without any noticeable result. Sabot began to suspect something was up with his drug supply. If anything Sab felt tenser. Damn it, he thought, some TS are faster than this cursed Teladi hulk? Sabot found he was rocking in his seat with impatience. Speed was essential in combat craft as far as he was concerned - especially in a ship used for raiding.

“Move you cursed piece of scrap,” coaxed the Pilot how, he wondered, did Amon stick the boredom of being an M3 pilot?

Unfortunately encouragement made no difference. Greedy Teladi shipbuilders had no interest in speed. The space reptiles just wanted to keep costs down, not to mention insisting in putting their credits into providing big cargo holds - so that even fighter pilots could trade - as if they would want to? The Falcons statistics was more evidence that the other species were all dysfunctional, and frankly a waste of good space. Maybe the lizard like creatures were afraid to go fast they were after all also puny cowards - only a little more robust than the water bound Boron. The only thing they hissed, spat, and squabbled over being every last credit in their dodgy deals. The females ruled the roost too, and could lay, and fertilise eggs without even needing a lowly often-disenfranchised male, if that wasn’t an unnatural scheme for any species what was?

Steadily the picture of the whole Ring truncated to an ever-decreasing portion, a flattening arc that filled more, and more of his forward screen. Due to the smoothness of the ride the gate seemed to glide towards him rather than vice versa until its rim completely dominated his vision. At the last a small section of the visible gates mighty circumference with its knobbly exterior became a relatively horizontal plane that just about fell away below him.

Sabot’s vehicle’s glided over the rings superstructure - satisfyingly close. Although many might consider such an unnecessarily - almost calamitous - near miss more than reckless flying (Gates were believed to be almost indestructible therefore colliding with one wasn’t recommended) Sabot however had shifted gears under a chemical assault. The pilot full of confidence felt an imperative to show off by skimming the devices exterior as close as he could in a most unusual manner.

Demonstrating he could go this low a matter of pride to the Pilot. The Falcon sped past very, very close indeed (in fact closer than Sabot had intended) so near that an Argon in a vacuum suit would have had to lie flat to fit into the gap to avoid being cruelly spiked by the ships nose antennae, and / or suffer decapitation by the downward protruding rear fins passage brief moments later. Nor was Sabot even technically flying straight over the rim. The Falcon nose was cunningly angled down to give the protruding rear fin equal clearance at the same level as the lowest point of the Fighters front.

To do this delicate manoeuvre Sabot was using a wonderfully lightly controlled strafe thrust to counterbalance the dangerous tilt of his rear engines. It was a juggling act akin to rotationally rubbing your belly with one hand, while patting your head up, and down at the same time with the other. The ship glided just over the surface while the indicated direction of its flight based on its body position should have doomed it to a crash dive.

It was a stunning piece of reckless manual flying given the way the fly by wire inertial controls operated. Sabot was well pleased with the resultant trick in fact elated beyond reason. If Amon was still watching he would see the loser of his stupid bet had undeniable skills. So what if he had proved inexperienced when it came to the right M3 combat procedure for ambushing an AM5? He was still the very best. Really failure if you could call it that had been down to his specialisation as an exceptionally gifted Light Fighter Pilot, fek who wanted to fly a clumsy stupid M3 anyway?
[end]



[06:57][07-12-764][Federal]
[The Grim Reaper][Federal Argon Grid Space][Elena’s Fortune Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR GO HAC 003] initiate_

The ‘Grim Reaper’ pulled up to a stop within communications range of the huge silver Weapons Forge Complex. Garrin quickly without fuss utilised his ships interface to request docking permission forgoing the Argon staff in favour of hasty station automatics. Once permission was granted G manually took his Discoverer in making good use of his strafe drive to quickly mate with a free docking clamp.

Normally G preferred the ArgonForge stations exceptional internal docking bays, but on this occasion since he wasn’t going to be hanging around he was glad of the external clamp. Without even leaving the cockpit Garrin had the goods shipped over via Goner Transport Device (GTD). While waiting for his passenger to arrive via the same means G checked his account had been automatically updated with his fee - as expected from Anna’s reputation everything was perfectly in order.

Following a brief lightshow a figure arrived out back, and came forward to accept the co-pilot seat.

“Damn,” said Garrin, “I’m honoured, didn’t know I was running a VIP.”

“Something of an unofficial visit,” said the Vice President of ArgonForge Jollo Gardna.

“Unofficial like I never saw you? Or unofficial as in no ceremony?” Garrin asked.

“Anna promised me you would provide a tactful service,” said Jollo.

“No problem Sir,” said Garrin with a grin, “you’re in a hurry to get back?”

“Faster the better the usual time bonuses apply,” said Jollo.

“That’s what I like to hear. Strap yourself in we’re dropping,” said Garrin.

Disconnecting from the clamp he strafed straight down before shooting forward at maximum velocity. Checking the Gravidar Garrin pulled up the Universe Map flicking over he selected the South Gate in Argon Prime, and initiated the Jump Drive sequence. The ‘Grim Reapers’ computer ‘Baby’ commenced delineating the engine charges build up, “…ten percent, twenty percent…”

“Say goodbye to Elena’s Fortune,” said Garrin.

A little later following a flare of light the ship disappeared into a wormhole as if it had never existed.
[end]



[06:57][07-12-764][Federal]
[Hawk’s Wind][Deep Space][Elena’s Fortune Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR FRDM HAC 005] initiate_

Slowly pulling away from the Grid Sabot found it amusing that some: Argon minds were intimidated by mega sized space constructions. To the weak willed the enormity of such objects could become a subliminal torture a constant niggling reminder of their own diminishment against the vast scale of the Universe. Not Sabot Kushu though he didn’t require a reality fitted to his own bodies physicality to function properly he knew his worth.

Deep space was the Pirates friend: emptiness to hide in, to escape to, wait in, and ambush from. Only nebulae, and asteroid fields, thought Sabot, were better - feeling all warm inside - Sabot realised he loved them all. Those who felt reduced by the void had no business being here, those who lost their minds in the emptiness were genetic dead ends - bound to an obsolete terrestrial past. This was where real Argon belonged - what feeling was better than flying? Not even he reasoned with a broad grin recreational reproduction.

Sabot having slipped into the befuddlement of an unplanned intense chemical high was no longer waiting anxiously for the dreaded Claxon call of a pursuit alert, or wordlessly willing the speaker to remain silent, or sweating down the passing moments praying his auto adjusting Gravidar would stay clear of emergent foes. Instead Sabot was flushed with unreasonable confidence, and a desire for action. Rather than registering surprise, and relief as time slipped by without any Navy intervention instead Sab felt surprise, and annoyance.

Garrin’s escape meant the Navy wouldn’t feel forced to pursue - a blessing in disguise - for the Boys in Grey, but no joy for Sabot the youngest ever Fallen Angel, and future scourge of Federal Space. Earlier alarm at the Sectors heavy protection was replaced with contempt. Even if Amon (his supposed friend) had planned his downfall here - it didn’t matter - more targets just equalled more amusement.

The Discoverer had caught him unawares - next time it would be different - he now understood how the Falcon handled. Now he could take out anything the Federals cared to throw at him. Pressing the stud Sabot fired a burst of his guns into the empty night.

“Next time,” he screamed out watching the HEPT energies dwindling away.

He considered swinging around to prove his worth on the Navy. Luckily he remembered promising to come straight back. Their was no way he would give Amon the pleasure of claiming he was afraid to face him after the Couriers fluke escape.

Sabot wiped sweat from his brow realising he was burning up. Crazily the canopy yawed about him; nausea welled up alongside a burning sensation in his gut. Sabot released the stick retched, and bent over in agony. Frantically he grabbed for a sick bag just before heaving out the partial contents of his stomach (only missing the container in part) to spray himself a little, but the way he felt at that moment he didn’t much care about a stain. Helpfully moments later Sabots bleary dizziness did decrease slightly. The rank bitter smell reeking in the cabin however forced him to retch once more, lifting the now slimy bag still two handed he expunged another gross spray to quarter fill it as his ship moved slowly on now with little purposeful direction.

Sabots abdomen felt like it had been twisted in a knot, sweat glistened upon then dripped from his brow, but shock, fear, and agitation did assist the weakening of his befuddlement alongside the horrible taste in his mouth, and a stinging in his throat. Taking a gulp of recycled air he spat into the disgusting contents of the bag, lifted his head, and emerged back to life like a half drowned drunk - forced - into a degree of unwelcome sobriety: Sabot sat up, as if hit by a lightning bolt he knew somebody had tampered with his drug supply. Mechanically he sealed the putrid smelling sick bag, and plopped it into a disposal chute.

“Fekker,” he cursed.

Sabot had enough experience with narcotics to know he had been hit with a combination far from his personal prescription. Luckily the effects seemed short lived or had been cleansed in part by his involuntary purges. By the time he had made enough distance to look back at a rear view of the entire Jump Gate he commenced to feel fractionally better - at least in his head - if not in his belly. He was glad he hadn’t been forced to counter any immediate enemies.

To think I had considered it a bit dirty of Amon to pick this location for the bet, he thought, not to mention giving me a ship supposedly fully equipped with the best (most powerful gear), when in fact that meant the heaviest slowest firing weapons.

Sabot felt furious - not only had his drugs been messed with, but it had been done in a contemptuous manner. Reaching out he gladly activated the auto pilot function. Putting his faith in the move to position command. Sabot set a coordinate near the edge, and a good distance below the still far distant ‘Freedoms Wasteland’. Placing the coordinate shy enough of the obstruction to ensure no possible chance of overshooting into collision. He dug out the used vials plugged into his pilot suit system, and sniffed at them to be doubly sure. There was no doubting the facts Amon or somebody else had dangerously loaded the bet.

In the long haul back even with some convalescing, and cleaning up to do, while nursing his stomach Sabot had plenty of time to consider his counter move. Slowly he flew towards the partially natural, and partially Pirate made barrier. The ‘Freedoms Wasteland’ debris cloud covered a vast area one constantly being expanded. The unwelcoming sight being used to deter unwanted inquisitive traffic not to mention acting as an interfering mass capable of confusing spying long-range Gravidar sensor readings.

Any stigma attached to this fools errand now seemed unjust. Sabot considered trying to claim he let the Discoverer escape deliberately - for some reason or other? Unfortunately the Wolf Leader would never buy that excuse, nor unfortunately would anyone else. Admitting he was stupid enough to self administer switched drugs into his own system wasn’t an option either - that confession - would damage his credibility even more.
[end]



[06:58][07-12-764][Federal]
[The Lost For Words][Federal Argon Grid Space][Elena’s Fortune Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR LFW HAC 002] initiate_

“Thanks out,” replied Tebbin tersely over his personal communicator earpiece.

Fays had kindly got one of her staff members to inform him that the ‘Grim Reaper’ had already leapt out of the sector using a Jump Drive. Tebbin hadn’t even had a chance to brief anybody yet about Garrin’s casual interview. So much for sending people to have a chat with the Courier on Four. It looked like Fay would just have to be content with an electronic data search unless Garrin Omega came back just as quick. Tebbin wasn’t interested in sending somebody chasing around after a fully optimised jump capable Discoverer.

Goner Jump Drives were both a boon, and a bane to intelligence gathering. In many ways life had been simpler before those engines became so widely available. Now pilots both villains, and assets were bouncing all over the Universe, and so was he. Tebbin never knew where he would be from one moment to the next he missed taking nice leisurely voyages across the grid sectors in slow liners - somehow that now seemed more civilised - these time cycles everybody was in a cursed hurry.

“I’m getting far too old for this,” complained the Agent as he stepped out from the lift happy to walk instead of using a Goner Transport Device to leap direct to his small staff meeting.

“Bloody mad Goner Priests, Terracorp, and Kyle have ruined everything,” he moaned.

Although this short corridor was empty his comments would no doubt be on record. Tebbin knew little got past the ‘Lost For Words’ built in surveillance devices but he didn’t care. Fay could laugh all she liked at his slip of the tongue - it was still true. Unfortunately there was no turning the wheel back on progress. Tebbin felt sometimes like he was being left behind, and hated it. In truth Teb hardly recognised the Universe he had been born into - everything had altered radically out there - especially since the advent of the Khaak War. So many new technologies, and designs had been made manifest.

Tebbin sighed inwardly a few years ago he would have been delighted, and fascinated by all these advancements, but now he felt almost intimidated. Innovation was the Argon’s answer to the perceived threat of incursion by latecomer aliens. Thinking about the situation it was almost as if today had become obsolete - the mutually cooperative races were all living in tomorrow - it was dizzying! Worse with the arrival of the Terran the rate of these changes could only be set to increase by an exponential power. Tebbin found to his horror he was becoming increasingly negative about progress.

Not content with what they could dream up themselves scientists were now playing with secrets left over by unknown species - some of which had been or were advanced to the point of this action feeling suicidal. Already with their xeno-archaeological researches the Argon had inadvertently helped to create the monster known as the Devil. Tebbin could see no good coming of any of it. It was possible even Fay had bitten off more than she could chew this time. In fact Tebbin worried Fays attitude might be part of the problem.
[end]

[Paranoid66]

Reapers Passage
X3 Fan Fiction by Paranoid66

[Revised] Chapter 2 - Fast Breaking - Discarding Sabot

[Historic Records Fragment Consolidation][the HAC Incident #2] compiling_

[06:59][07-12-764][Federal]
[Hawk’s Wind][Deep Space][Elena’s Fortune Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR FRDM HAC 006] initiate_

Still sitting in the Pirate Falcon but a lot more clear headed Sabot considered it was no wonder Amon had been grinning like - the Wolf he was - during the party. In retrospect the scene had been perfectly set for a youthful folly. All the signs of an imminent downfall being right out in the open - hidden in plain sight - for him to see.

If only I had been sober, or for once sensible enough to register the precipice I willingly skirted, thought Sabot. Instead the Parties recent toast had misconstrued the dangers of the drop for an opportunity to spread his wings in the joy of launched flight.

He wondered who else knew, and had willingly watched on while he had been played. The Space Fuel Den had been crowded out with spectators. Sabot decided he would have to look into the whole deal when he got back. He was beginning to suspect that he had been royally fekked up the rear by the Wolves! Yes thinking back (the best he could) on that fateful blurry Space Fuel whiskey drenched discussion Sabot realised it was not Lyn that had arrived like a virgin ready for plucking at the gaming table! The red haired Wolf Leader (given the benison of Sabot’s condition) had been blessed with the infamous ‘Assassin of Hearts’ card from the first deal!

Once more Sabot felt the rising discomfort of extreme embarrassment.
[end]



[06:58][07-12-764][Federal]
[The ‘Dive’ Space Fuel Den][Freedom Station][Deep Space][Elena’s Fortune Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR FRDM HAC 007] initiate_

Cheers, and jeers from those watching the big screen still echoed in the Wolves heads as their breakfast choices started to arrive. Most members of the Wolf Clan had good appetites; yes even this early in the morning. Nor were the Wolves exceptional in keeping the catering staff active. Many of the Pirates kept odd hours that defied artificial day, and night station cycles ‘Freedom Station’ crew had no respect for any restriction of orthodox.

“Too fekking easy,” said Amon chortling out loud enjoying playing being a little drunk.

“I noticed you did the rounds earlier,” said Tall Tale enthusiastically, “many takers on the wager Amon?” he called out.

Despite addressing his leader Tall found himself giving the waitress an overly - hungry - perusal a naked craving that had nothing to do with the consumption of food.

To Tall’s frustration the waitress despite being another fresh young thing - newly arrived on station - appeared entirely unimpressed with his lusting maybe even openly repulsed. So much for the direct approach that had once worked so well for him, he thought.

Clearly, thought Amber with an inner chuckle, Tall Tale had lost his edge meanwhile the waitress concentrated on going about her business of conjuring several plates of food from a floating trolley onto their proper places on the Wolves large table.

Bright smiled desperation was such a turn off. Perhaps because he had been far too happy to kiss, and tell Tall Tale had been going through a prolonged lean patch in his normally gregarious social life. Staying in one place hadn’t done him any favours. The love them, and leave them Wolf hadn’t fully adapted to his new situation. Worse for him Bright had discovered Tall had foolishly made a substantial private bet with Amon that he would break his relations famine before their next mission - without - having to resort to paying for it with hard credits!

Bright had of course quietly let all the rest of the girls she associated with know about the arrangement. Enjoying the opportunity to thwart her friend for the sheer joy of it. It amused her that news of Tall’s predicament was no doubt spreading fast around the Stations females like a pandemic fever. Bright smiled her famous smile she had more hope of winning the lottery before the next mission than Tall Tale had of getting his wicked way unsolicited.

“Not so many,” confessed Amon to Tall’s question before addressing the still juggling obviously - professional - serving girl with a broad grin of his own, “Those pancakes are mine,” he advised smoothly, “also that noodle soup,” he explained, “You’re very good at this though,” he noted looking at her nametag, “Grace.”

“Thanks Amon,” said Grace showing she had also picked up his name.

Tall Tale held his temper in - what did they see in the big boned red headed scoundrel - was it status because he was a Clan Leader?

“Not so many?” Tall Tale reiterated as if he didn’t believe a word of it.

“For some reason,” began the Pirate Leader, “a few people around here just don’t trust me,” he finished with a self satisfied smirk.

“Just some?” Tall Tale questioned.

“I wonder why?” Bright added though the question was clearly rhetorical.

Amon hadn’t cleaned up since before his last patrol. Tall was sure Amon must smell of sweat, and he was all bristly (not even having shaved) sometimes he just let himself go, but somehow it suited him. Tall Tale couldn’t help wondering to his continued disgruntlement how somebody as fastidious as he was could be losing out to somebody currently making no effort whatsoever? It felt almost criminal, but his luck was sure to change once the party got going with lakes of whiskey, and clouds of space weed smoke.

“Still Amon - old friend,” said Tall Tale, “I’m guessing Sabot used to have a good enough reputation in the cockpit to make your bet a profitable enough investment eh?”

Tall had decided to seize that opportunity at least - besides it was early - also after that waitress Grace’s attitude he was forced to consider the possibility that he was just trying too hard. It was funny the things you could tie yourself up in a knot about - really his bet was almost as stupid as Sabot’s - after all why turn recreation into work!

“Let’s just say I have a few reasons to celebrate,” returned Amon guessing what was coming.

“Sounds like - extra donations - to the party kitty,” stated Tall Tale.

“Of course, why not? I have always enjoyed sharing my successes with the troops,” said Amon.

Well, thought the red headed Clan Leader, this party would be good for Wolf morale. Plus he was more than happy to get his underlings - fuelled up - for the purposes of loose tongue research during a rare period of fixed rest. In many ways they were still settling into this operation on ‘Freedom Station’ it was important to know what the lads were really thinking.

“Fools, and their credits,” stated Bright, “the gamblers that is, not our ever generous benefactor,” she smiled sweetly at Amon with her very white very even teeth.

Tall couldn’t resist giving her a dirty look guessing he had little hope of winning the bet with that one, Bright had always seen straight through him.

“Fek this,” moaned Amber, “it looks like I ordered the wrong dish for speedy service once again - typical of this damn place - always when I’m completely famished too!”

“Been antagonising the staff again mighty Empress of Explosions?” asked Tall Tale, “Where do you tuck all that food you scoff anyway? It’s a waste if you’re just going out back to puke it up again - even if it helps keep that fine figure we all adore in its lovely athletic shape!”

“That’s not my style - flabby - I just take regular exercise,” Amber explained, “unlike some. As to the flattery if I were you I’d save it for a girl who hasn’t heard it all before,” she joked lightly.

“Flabby I don’t think so. Anytime you want to see how un-flabby I can be, and you have the nibbles you know where I am,” said the Tall Pirate with a cheeky grin unable to quit.

Well you never know, thought the Rogue, Amber might weaken - he could recall a few almost moments when she had seemed interested in succumbing to his wiles. Amon sure knew how to pick some fit ones.

“I heard tall tail was an inverted joke,” mocked Amber, “I was told what you got - even on toast - wouldn’t make an appetiser,” she broadcast to a chorus of whoops, and laughter from the rest of the gathered Clan particularly her female friends Bright, and Lyn.

“Good One,” replied Tall deciding to let it go while within earshot of the still hovering waitresses who was talking to Jake about his odd fish dish.

“Just don’t get any ideas about proving her wrong via a show, and tell,” stated Bright, “I don’t want put off my breakfast by a wrinkled out of date prawn.”

“Waste of time - Amber actually knows I’m in perfect proportion,” said Tall Tale winking over to the female remembering a blurry previous bout of exhibitionism during another revel. Tall had changed his mind, and decided to fight back, “Amber just wants to save Jakes fragile ego. We all know how terribly damaged he has been since you rejected any interest in his poor lad!” he reminded Bright.

“Sure that would be it,” replied the Engineer braving it out though obviously feeling discomforted.

Tall was sure Jake was glowing red only the Den’s dim lighting was saving his face. Sometimes the engineer was such a child, and far too easy to bait.

“You know Amon I think you were lucky this time,” said Amber returning to the original topic, “That wager could easily have blown up in your face,” she noted, “a fully upgraded Falcon - you must have been high on space weed. You wouldn’t catch me risking a bet like that.”

“Then again your not much for gambling are you Amber?” Amon questioned.

“All I’m saying is while the boy has his faults, he can usually throw a ship around in the dark,” noted Amber, “usually,” she repeated, “actually that show kind of made me wonder - you and Sabot wouldn’t be colluding would you?”

“Even I’m not that devious,” replied Amon sounding genuinely surprised at the idea, “although I like the way you are thinking - that is dangerous talk - even in jest,” he mocked while pretending to be furtively looking around as if to see who might be listening in from outside their circle. It really was an interesting idea though with a wider context.

“Seems clear to me something is going on,” she replied, “if you would like to confess your secret would of course be safe with us Amon.”

“Unlikely theory,” said Tall Tale, “I think you are giving our Leader too much, and Sabot too little credit. Sab wouldn’t sell his precious reputation for a few credits he is too egotistical.”

“Amber I thought you knew by now that the greatest rewards always require some risk,” pontificated Amon pouring some spicy sauce over one neatly piled portion of flaked Argnu beef, and lengthwise sliced spring onions, “I admit,” he continued with a grin, “I did have my own reasons for a degree of confidence, but it had nothing to do with Sabot, and me striking a deal - far from it!”

“If you insist,” replied Amber.

“I do,” explained Amon, “I just got a gut feeling the pressure would get to the lad - among other things,” he stated smugly. “As it is I don’t doubt I’ll likely make more from side bets, nonetheless, I’m pretty sure young Sabot won’t be happy with the outcome. Nice conspiracy theory though - glad to see you are broadening your skill base - in more devious directions.”

“Always up for exploring new opportunities,” returned Amber suggestively, “I imagine Sab’s share of his groups next foray might well be somewhat light. The Fallen will probably give the fool some dire assignment just to diminished your takings Clan rivalry, and all that.”

“Very likely,” agreed Amon which was why he had worked the crowd in the first place.

Amber leaned over towards Amon, and his plate to inhale deeply, “that actually smells pretty good - care to share old Argon.”

“I don’t think I should encourage you to bite off more than you can chew right now Amber,” said Amon playfully.

“I’d be wary of Amber’s idea of sharing she is a greedy wench,” butted in Tall Tale.

“No doubt,” said Amon with a chuckle before standing up to place two big hands on her shoulders to gently pushing her back into her seat before ruffling her hair like she was a child before he sat back down again.

“How can somebody be so smart, and so stupid at the same time?” Amber questioned tossing her hair. Standing up again, but this time ignoring the temptation of Amon’s plate she looked around for her own missing meal in the busy ‘Dive’.

“Nothing more dangerous than an undisciplined precocious talent matched with wide inexperience,” mimicked Amon in a voice unlike his own.

“Who used to say that?” asked Jake curious at not recognising the put on accent.

“No one really, an old Space Combat Lecturer from the Navy, sometimes I forget we don’t share - that much - history usually when I get a few drams in me,” replied Amon.

“It’s hard to let go of the past sometimes - it insists upon trailing along behind us like a lost puppy,” noted Amber looking momentarily thoughtful at Amon.

Amon shrugged but he knew that she was right. Almost every Pirate in the Den was dragging the chains of some unhappy circumstance or other. He knew most of his Clans history, but not all.

“Yeah a lost puppy like our Jake here,” said Bright sticking the boot in.

So smart, and so stupid at the same time Amon reconsidered grinning. Maybe Amber hadn’t been talking about Sabot after all why had he even thought she was? Still it might go better if he didn’t make it too easy - at first - from previous experience these girls normally only wanted what was out of bounds. Skilfully he began folding one pancake over its meat, onion, and sauce stuffing you could tell he was well practiced in that simple exercise in food origami. Tall didn’t seem to understand that the true hunter waited for the prey to come to them.

Amber after flopping back down into her seat once more looked disappointed, “Be reasonable Amon,” she said, “you would hardly miss one little pancake?”

“Yes I would, anyway I know how it goes it never stops at just one, and you only get three,” replied the Wolf Leader picking his first wrap up like a treasured possession, “and the kitchen is really busy this morning.”

“Well you know what they say just one is no fun?” said Tall Tale, “Amber strikes me as a girl who likes multiples.”

“Although we might enjoy making you squirm with desire Tall just because we’re Pirates don’t make us all sluts especially not your sluts,” spat out Bright angrily.

“Ouch,” said Amon.

Jake grinned glad to see somebody else getting the sharp end of Bright’s tongue.

Bright however felt a bit embarrassed she hated losing it. Tall could be amusing for a while, but recently he had been a serious pain, sometimes she could swear the scum bucket really did think it was their clan duty to bed him he was even worse than Amon on a bad cycle. Tall could be an arrogant self centred idiot. Bloody male pirates were all the same users, and abusers!

“Well said,” noted Amber clapping.

“Where is your loyalty,” complained Tall with a slightly forced laugh, “you lot aren’t so chaste around the other Clans.”

“More insult on top of injury,” said Bright looking to Lyn, and Amber.

“I would drop the handle of that entrenching tool if I were you,” noted Amon.

“Amon you also have those noodles,” insisted Amber returning to other desires, “I’ll give you share of mine when it arrives,” she promised.

“No thanks Amber in this instance I’ll stick with what I’ve got. Your food is probably being spat on, and kicked around the floor as we speak,” Amon bit in, “hmmm,” he enthused chewing deliberately slowly.

Amber put her best pout on Amon had to admit she was hot stuff.

“It will be interesting to see how our young fool handles defeat, and humiliation,” noted Tall Tale trying a safer tack as he poured himself some water to freshen his palette before starting in to some hot, and spicy Argnu ribs.

“Won’t it just,” replied Amber frowning at Amon then at another waitress who dared to move past to serve a different table, “fekking unbelievable,” she said.

“Bad Luck,” said Bright.

Cheekily Amber turned to Tall, “those ribs look good too,” she noted.

Tall patted his lap.

“In your dreams boy,” said Amber.

Tall grinned then showed her his back while moving his plate beyond her casual reach.

“You’re a total ass,” accused Amber, “I’ll remember this.”

“Just hungry like yourself, I’m sure yours is coming,” noted Tall Tale.

“So is Present Giving,” replied Amber, “So Amon how far are you planning to push our betraying associate anyway?”

The Wolf Leader just looked at her, and continued chewing languidly with a smile. Amber rolled her eyes, “fekking tease,” she said.

“Seriously it really is pretty good,” finally replied Amon after swallowing, “As to Sabot I plan to push him until he learns a little caution, not to mention some respect for his elders, friends, and allies. You can’t trust a Pirate that won’t honour his natural obligations,” he answered.

“His obligations?” Jake who had been keeping a low profile up to now questioned.

“I can’t believe he turned you down Amon after all we’ve done for him. You think he planned ditching us all along to join the Fallen?” asked Bright still sounding prickly.

Hah maybe Bright had a little thing going for Sabot, thought Tall Tale that would explain a lot. Well she had been helping him out with his ships computer.

“Recently that was the impression I got - I don’t like being used,” admitted the Clan Leader before biting off another prodigious mouthful.

Amber watched a bit of sauce dribble she could swear her belly had just rumbled, “Service really is getting worse in this place - I’m not joking - I might go up, and complain,” she moaned this time sounding serious.

“Only for you. That is your problem Amber not only do you complain too much, you’re also far too fussy about what you want on one hand, and have absolutely no idea about what you are getting on the other,” advised Tall Tale. “Why don’t you try playing nice, and giving the staff the occasional tip, or at least the odd kind word instead of: getting all steamed up, pulling nasty faces, and shouting at them because it isn’t perfect every time!”

“I’d settle for on time once. They wouldn’t dare mess with my food, would they? You’re all just trying to wind me up,” noted Amber, “they wouldn’t dare fek them!”

“Just - trying - to wind you up Amber I would say they have succeeded.” Jake noted with a guffaw.

“Very funny Tall,” said Amber.

Looking at her friends mocking faces, the Explosives Expert forcing herself to calm down. Something she was well capable of doing when she put her mind to it. Keeping in control when needed was an essential part of her personal discipline, you can’t throw a wobbly when you are handling detonators, and fuses.

“Believe what you like,” said Tall, “there is no delusion like self delusion.”

“I’m not listening to you anymore,” Amber replied.

“Don’t you think we are being a bit unfair to Sabot?” Jake asked out of the black, “I can’t recall him ever actually saying he was interested in becoming a Wolf. His interest was always in ‘Freedom Station’ not us - at least not in so many words,” he noted while glancing around the table trying to measure his Clan’s reactions, “we can’t damn the boy for our assumptions can we?”

“Damn right we can,” said Tall Tale in Amon’s stead as the big Wolf was still preoccupied with his breakfast, “he might have been clever in not asking, but he implied, and never once denied.”

“Well I don’t recall anybody specifically inviting Sabot to join until recently,” noted Jake, “Lets face it we didn’t need him while we still had Innis in one piece. Why shouldn’t Sab have had other prior plans he might wish to stick with?”

“You’re losing it Jake not only did you pay an exorbitant amount for dried sugar coated fish for breakfast - a meal only fit for a Boron runt - but you are forgetting that the only thing that matters is what is best for us lot the Wolves! Show a bit of clan spirit here. Anyway this is what ‘First Day Fool’ is all about getting your knocks early proving yourself robust. Otherwise the boy will just pick up bad habits - the sort that will result in more than a few practical jokes more like a string of duels,” said Tall Tale, “nothing is going to happen he won’t get over, and then it is all put aside.”

“It’s a delicacy, and it came cheap - considering that fact - you just have a closed mind. Face it Tall if its not some part of an Argnu you won’t eat it. Anyway what about Jorac?” Jake asked, “I know he instigated the ritual, but won’t our Devil be a bit annoyed if we fully tarnish or damage the latest acquisition to his dark brethren?”

“I doubt it, anyway it is unlikely to go that far,” replied Amon wiping his mouth with the back of his left hand, “Sabot needs a little humbling,” he continued, “plus the Arch Fallen Angel likes to test his own - to the very edge of destruction - in comparison anything we do will be like nothing.”

“Yeah Jorac likes to know his pilots mental as well as their physical limits that’s why he modified the custom into what is more or less a psychological ordeal for probationers,” noted Tall Tale.

“We shouldn’t really be talking about this stuff you know,” explained Amon, “don’t forget Sabot is on his way in. If our mark gets a hint of what is going on here it will invalidate the whole process then Jorac will tear whoever spoiled the ritual a new one.”

“That’s true enough,” noted Tall Tale, “You just don’t like ‘First Day Fool’ but that is another matter - let it go - you’ll be the one breaking faith by holding a grudge Jake. Given Jorac’s rules that could get you - maybe even us - in difficulties if we acted on your nonsense.”

“The way I see it Jorac threw Sabot to the Wolves last night,” replied Amber smirking at the pun, “You think the timing of that call - to all established Clan members - was an accident Jake? I’ll bet the Devil knew exactly were Sabot was at that moment, he knew Sabot was with us, and he knows we can‘t be too pleased with his defection.”

“I suppose Jorac did, I just… I just don’t like it, I still think it is a cruel, and unnecessary way to do things,” admitted the Wolves Engineer, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this one. Sab was our friend, and he can be pretty hot headed. Besides knowing Jorac the timing of that call may well be reason enough for caution in itself. If you are right then why should we do the Devils dirty work? Who do you think it will profit in the long term us, or him?”

“Paranidia Jake sometimes I wonder what are you doing here I mean who is Sabot to you? You can’t have it both ways - first we will be too hard on the lad for Jorac then Jorac is using us to knock him about to our detriment,” argued Tall Tale, “make up your mind.”

“Inconsistent maybe but he has a valid point overall,” noted Lyn, “our Devil is a devious fekker. How wise are we to take anything he does on face value he could be setting us up for a fall.”

Prior to this comment Lyn had been primly engaged with delicately eating her own breakfast, and mostly just listening in. Although it looked like she wasn’t going to finish her meal the smelly meaty something or other, and garlic pate on slithers of hot toast didn’t appeal to Amber, she hated the texture of lumpy Pate.

“It’s just common cause don’t be getting all overly paranoid. If it helps picture Jorac squatting on the toilet,” said Amon laughing, “he still has the same mundane tasks to do as the next one. It can’t all be sinister back stabbing double deals you know. Simply put our Sabot is too used to running on his own,” he continued shaking the last remains of his first folded pancake at Jake, “we knock him down - Jorac builds him back up (this time as a team player) it is one of the oldest tricks in the book! If he survives this time of testing it should do him good.”

“If he survives?” Jake reiterated, “So you plan on pushing the lad that hard after all.”

“I’m just talking about the test - people do fail you know,” reminded Amon, “some have even been kicked out, and off station, a very few put down permanently as rabid. Maybe Sabot will prove too hot headed, maybe he can’t hack stress, and will prove himself a liability, or to have seriously impaired judgement. I think this might be a tough one for him Jorac tests his own hard, but I believe Sabot will pull through if I’m any judge of character.”

“Still are you really sure you know our Arch Fiends fullest intent?” Amber asked thinking about what Jake had said was giving her a few last moment second thoughts.

“I really hope you do Amon,” advised Jake feeling buoyed up by Ambers comment, “It don’t pay to get too entangled in Fallen Angel - private - business. I don’t get it - how come you are so annoyed at Sabot using you, but not Jorac? Or are you trying to manipulate the situation for your own ends - that could get seriously nasty Amon; hell do you remember what happened to the last Wolf that tried to fek the Devil? We could do without losing our Clan Lord, or getting entangled in a Clan feud especially with the Fallen! Even if everything goes fine Sabot may still hold our active participation in this one against us later, and stir up trouble between us, and the Angels rules or no rules.”

“Jorac wouldn’t let him - you know how strict he is about the taboo of carrying a grudge over from ‘First Day Fool’. You’re the one that needs to be careful Jake. When I need advice - I’ll ask for it - you’re making too many wild assumptions, and bouncing all over the place. It’s obvious you have your own - unhealthy - fixation. Stick to repairing our ships, and flying that Nova of yours I’ll deal with the politics! I’m not breaking any pirate codes. I’m allied to Jorac not his chattel! Conversely I’m not looking to go head to head against the Arch Fallen Angel either - why would I?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Jake, “but…”

“But nothing most time cycles we have a good thing going here, why spoil it? Otherwise we are still entitled to have some fun, and I believe Sabot owes us. Did you ever think Jorac timing could well be a courtesy allowing us the opportunity to wipe the slate clean with Sab,” Amon replied angrily popping the last of his wrap, and chewing aggressively.

“A courtesy from the Devil,” said Tall Tale mockingly.

Was Jorac ever that reasonable, Tall wondered, unless he got something major out of it. Then again maybe the Devil was getting something - he was having the Wolves vigorously test his newest members mettle during probation.

Jake looking worried glanced around at his companions.

Amon scowled at him as he masticated.

Amber wasn’t grinning she looked thoughtful.

Lyn appeared typically cool almost disinterested.

Bright self absorbed in something that now seemed to be amusing her.

“I don’t like talking when I’m eating,” said Bristle out of nowhere staring at his companions.

“We never noticed,” replied Tall Tale.

“I don’t like listening to bickering when I’m eating either - its not good for the digestion,” he complained looking at his empty stew bowl.

“Actually I think chewing normally helps with that,” noted Tall Tale.

“My folks always said if you have to chew stew its not cooked enough,” replied Bristle.

“You can’t argue with a fellows folks,” noted Amon.

Bristle gave Amon a long stare.

Amon however had already focused his concentration on the task of making up another perfect wrap arguing with Bristle was a waste of effort.

“Is that noodle soup of yours supposed to be served cold?” Amber asked innocently.
[end]



[7:17][07-12-764][Federal]
[ZGB3 Zero Gravity Bay Three][Freedom Station][Deep Space][Elena’s Fortune Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR FRDM HAC 008] initiate_

After docking the ‘Hawk’s Wind’ and exiting that ship Sabot bulky in a standard vacuum suit with jet pack spun around in a graceful one hundred, and eighty degree turn to look back through his clear visor.

Drifting very slowly backwards towards one airlock exit leading from ZGB3 Sabot eyeballed the vessel he had disgraced himself in. The Falcon was a long vertically flattened tube (a rectangle with rounded corners in section) with oddly bent rear fins, and an antennae spike sticking out from its slightly protruding slanted nose.

Falcons were not the prettiest of ships, but their lines were pleasantly unfussy compared to some. As Teladi ships went it was more than passable, and had the advantage of not being particularly conspicuous in any aspect beyond the pirate paint job. In fact to Sabot’s sensibilities it looked rather dull, and unremarkable among the other docked craft - yet it was special - simply because it had almost been his! Owning a TM3 would have been useful!

Amon’s spare ship didn’t rate the luxury of a pressurised bay - those were reserved for various veterans - favourite - vessels, privileged guests, and craft needing delicate repairs, or the specialised loading / unloading of unusual materials, or important passengers. Sabot however wasn’t thinking about any of that; he was rather cyclically concentrating on the bitter fact once again that the big well-endowed Teladi fighter craft with the usefully large hold would / could have been his by now - if only - he had won that damned crooked wager!

Drifting along Sabot could swear even the dock workers loading, and unloading their crates, and going about other less easy to specify zero gravity monkey business in the bay were all secretly sniggering at him within their helmets, luckily he also knew embarrassment all too easily led to feelings of - unfounded - paranoia so he did his best to ignore that negative conspiracy theory.

Why, Sabot wondered ruefully, when I fek up do I always have to do it in full view of the public record, and within the notice of my peers in particular, and why now when the Fallen Angels will be looking at the new boy so closely? Broadcasting any failure was a poor survival trait for anyone who relied on appearances for acceptance, and advancement among a bunch of barely sane homicidal cutthroats. What was with this period of probation anyway!

Sabot couldn’t wait to get back to his own ship the ‘Avoidant’. Maybe whoever had tampered with his gear had been recorded by the TM5 Harriers security systems.
[end]



[7:35][07-12-764][Federal]
[The Avoidant][Freedom Station][Deep Space][Elena’s Fortune Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR FRDM HAC 009] initiate_

Back on board his own ship it didn’t take Sabot long to find out that whoever had broken in to the ‘Avoidant’ earlier to tamper with his personal drugs supply (including those already installed in his suit dispenser) knew exactly what they were doing. All record of any incident had been wiped. If Amon was involved he must have had the assistance of a computer expert a seriously good hacker like Bright.

Using his ships computer ‘Sara’ Sab linked into ZGB2, and interrogated the local bays security system. To his frustration their was no record on file of anyone other than himself entering or leaving his ship. The lack of solid evidence was frustrating without it he had no excuse for any further action. Although Amon was the obvious candidate lots of other people would have placed side bets, any could conceivably have profited from trying to rig the contest.

Annoyingly Sabot knew he didn’t have the skills needed to unmask the electronic intrusion methods used nor did he know anyone he could trust in these circumstances to help. Sara had obviously been fully compromised, and none of her routines could be relied on. This invasion of the sanctity of his ship was far worse than losing the bet it felt almost like a rape.

The ‘Avoidant’ was the only thing he really owned she was his sanctuary. Filled with rage Sabot realised he hadn’t felt this impotent since before he had escaped his father back on the home world. Worse he knew he would have to face up to Amon, and the rest at the ‘Dive’ very soon or suffer a cowards reputation as well.
[end]



[8:10][07-12-764][Federal]
[Freedom Station][Deep Space][Elena’s Fortune Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR FRDM HAC 010] initiate_

Having now stripped down to a slim functional grey pilot suit Sabot stowed his vacuum suit, and exited the inner airlock from ZGB2 where his Harrier lay to move into the station proper. Almost immediately he could swear he glanced Slip up at the far end of the access corridor. Still he couldn’t be positive of the sighting - it was a very brief vision - before whoever it was darted away by accident or design. Sabot wasn’t impressed either way if it wasn’t Slip she still had him jumping at shadows while if it was her…

If it was Slip why was she still stalking him? He was a ‘Fallen Angel’ now what could she hope to achieve? Could Slip do him any harm during his probationary period? Slip was certainly another suspect, but again the girl would have needed help to overcome his ships undamaged security measures. Would Slip dare to sabotage one of her own Clan? How would Jorac take a self-destructive action like that? Slip had some of the computer skills needed for sure, but as far as Sabot knew she wasn’t that good unless things had changed. Of course the troublesome female could have hired somebody else - but that sort of thing tended to leak out - could she believe the risk would be worth it? So many questions so few answers.

As Sabot marched along his thoughts kept returning to Bright. Who else knew his computer, and ship inside, and out like she did - after all she had helped install, and improve much of his latest software upgrades. He thought they had been getting on well why would she betray him? Maybe she had been given little choice if Amon had ordered her. Discipline here on ‘Freedom’ was ironically much more strictly enforced than he would have ever imagined. It filtered down from the top Jorac demanded obedience to his orders usually without question. Sometimes Sabot wondered what he had got into by coming here. How much had he gained? How much had he given up?

Lost in his thoughts Sabot didn’t immediately notice Shunt coming up behind him until she yelled out.

“Hold up there Sabot,” she called.

“Hi Shunt,” returned Sabot coming to a stop and turning around thinking as a first encounter it could be a lot worse than Shunt, “what are you doing here?”

“Returning to the ‘Dive’ to find out what happened? Something up?” Shunt asked, “did you lose the bet? You don’t seem your happy self?”

“I guess I’m not. You didn’t know Amon won his damn wager,” confessed Sabot.

“No I was back at my own ship. Bad luck, what happened?” Shunt inquired.

“I’m not sure. I think I was still a little drunk, or something,” lied Sabot, “the Discoverer took me by surprise came on faster than I expected. I don’t know it all happened so quickly while that damn Falcon was so slow!”

“Flying an M3 isn’t the same as flying an M5,” noted Shunt.

“Guess not. Me and my big mouth was I really obnoxious?” Sabot asked.

“A bit from what I hear,” replied the Wolves medic.

“Guess I’m in for a roasting then,” noted the Harrier Pilot.

“I’d expect the worst,” agreed Shunt, “actually now I know what went down out there - I think I’ll give the ‘Dive’ a miss - I’ll see you around later.”

“Really,” replied Sabot.

Shunt shrugged.

“What you’re not celebrating with the rest of your crew?” Sabot asked surprised.

“They won’t miss me, and I’m not really in the mood,” noted Shunt.

“Would you have been in the mood if I had won?” Sabot asked.

“Maybe,” said Shunt thinking about it, “I don’t know, well maybe I do. You know how it is sometimes I get fed up with Amon, and the rest of them - I guess familiarity does breed a little contempt!”

“Guess you have been with the Wolves a while,” said Sabot.

“Long enough to give up on counting the flight hours,” replied Shunt, “They don’t take anything seriously - not even looking after themselves - I’m not into abusing my own system. Staying alive in this business can be hard enough without going begging for trouble - you should think about that Sabot. I miss Innis you need to look after yourself better!”

“I’m immortal,” said Sabot with a foolish grin.

“Fek Sab so were we all once,” replied Shunt, “so was Innis damn it!”

“I’m sorry I heard you two were close?” asked Sabot.

“Close enough. Still that hardly matters anymore,” noted Shunt.

“I understand not everyone can just turn it off like Tall Tale. Still maybe you should go to the party,” returned Sabot realising just how upset Shunt seemed to be.

“Couldn’t face all that laughter - trust me - when you feel like this laughter is worse than misery,” noted the Medic.

“You can’t save them all,” said Sabot.

“With some you don’t even get a chance to try,” noted Shunt sadly, “look be good Sabot, and watch your temper. I really do have to go. Think I’ll make the most of this downtime to get some sleep.”

“Later,” said Sabot.

“Sure,” replied Shunt.
[end]



[8:17][07-12-764][Federal]
[The ‘Dive‘ Space Fuel Den][Freedom Station][Deep Space][Elena’s Fortune Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR FRDM HAC 011] initiate_

The Space Fuel Den decorated with the watery Boron motif was very smoky, and very full by the time Sabot arrived. In fact he had never seen it so packed.

Sabot feared many of those present were individuals who had placed their own side wagers on the outcome of the originally private bet between Amon, and himself. Pirates Sabot had quickly discovered upon becoming one, loved to gamble be it with: credits, assets, or their own reckless lives in daring feats of stupidity - it was a bad habit - but one he also had acquired as a matter of form. Sabot had learned the hard way in his life that it often paid to fit in.

Holding his head up Sabot pushed his way in determined to demonstrate the strength of his character no matter what provocation was thrown at him here. Of course he arrived to instantaneous catcalls, jeers, and boo’s from Amon, and his gathered supporters not to mention the stamping of boots, and a degree of drumming on the tables - most of the reprobates - had clearly started celebrating his defeat already. Briefly Sabot wondered how they recognised him in the haze then to save face he did what he could waving, and smiling even making a few little bows as if returning victorious instead of slinking back in defeat!

It looked like the whole Wolf Clan minus Shunt plus a lot of the Green Monkeys, some Blood Hawks, and a hoard of other individuals he couldn’t recognise perhaps various affiliated friends, and independents had marshalled to welcome him back in the worst way possible. Sabot found he was looking for Lyn, but he failed to locate her before a small hoard rushed over to greet him whooping, and prancing about like mad Argon. Sabot was soon being jostled along in a joking roar of sound, and a wash of spilled drink. Pirates liked to party hard especially here.

In the misty semi dark some of the leering faces looked like something out of a grotesque horror Passive Virtual Reality piece. A lot of Space Pirates Sabot had also noticed tended to be less clean cut, and handsome rogue - more battered, and bruised monster though those on ‘Freedom’ were less bizarre than some often only dressing up when partying!

Nonetheless, many now displayed such idiosyncrasies as: multi coloured dyed hair - even unbelievably wigs, and extensions, metal piercing, face makeup, missing teeth, various scars some shockingly self inflicted others earned in battle, visible tattoos, technological implants, and so on. Out of this assembled mass the Wolves affected the most normal dress, and features passing as fairly standard Argon much like the Angels, but some of the rest looked like they belonged in some alien freak show, and behaved with about as much grace as a pack of rabid animals.

Sabot sighed inwardly it hadn’t been easy for him to seek out this humiliation, however in the fledgling Fallen Angel’s estimation facing the Wolves, and any others down was the best means he had to lay his woe to rest in one combat pass. By being brazen, and showing no weakness he hoped to foreshorten the agony, not to mention avoid the coward’s thousand anticipatory deaths though he had suffered a few of those already (mostly on his flight back to the base) well he was only Argon, and far from immune to trepidations icy grip - especially when he could easily see an ill outcome rocketing for him on a firmly guided collision vector.

“I wasn’t sure you would show,” said Amon appearing out of the fog.

“Why not?” Sabot shouted over the ruckus.

“All the obvious reasons. What was that statement you said about Falcon pilots?” Amon roared out.

“Sorry I can’t hear you,” screamed Sabot pretending to be a little more impaired than he was plainly it was going to be a long party for him.

That last thought would prove a vast understatement. In effect Sabot’s time in the Den would soon become far more perilous than his recent encounter in space.
[end]



[16:47][07-12-764][Federal]
[Freedom Station][Deep Space][Elena’s Fortune Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR FRDM HAC 012] initiate_

Walking away a little unsteadily Sabot having finally escaped what had proved a nightmare in which he had been all, but imprisoned was glad that immediate ordeal was over. Still he felt pretty shaky, and little consolation at the fact. How impossibly quickly everything could turn around? Yesterday he had been on top form everything had changed for the better the Fallen Angels were a highly successful Clan after all, and he had believed he would soon own a Falcon - a serious boost to his status - now here he was limping along feeling drained almost utterly defeated.

Sabot found he was once again full of fear for his future. Once more his life seemed barren, once more it seemed like almost everybody had turned on him. Was his existence to be permanently loaded with nothing but trials, and empty spaces, gaps once filled with the outlines of seemingly attainable dreams, and desires? Even Lyn who he had been holding a torch for had thrown him to the Wolves!

Sabot recalled how he had very much chosen to be a Pirate. He saw banditry as an acceptable means of obtaining all the things he wanted, not least revenge on the Federation plus all the good stuff he believed he might never legitimately obtain: material assets, respect, and yes fame! Sabot wanted to be somebody! These precious commodities the Pirate sought to grasp before he became too old, and feeble, or too dead to fully appreciate the benefits! As far as he was concerned you only lived once!

What really rankled was the fact that despite having painfully brazened it out with Amon, and his Wolves Sabot was now convinced his trials were anything but over. Something was very wrong here. Despite such worries Sabot reiterated in his head that he had suffered more than enough! A growing determination was building in him not to passively accept any more grief from anyone about his performance in the Falcon or anything else. Of course if he had been thinking more rationally the Pirate might have realised that making such statements even in the solitude of his skull was tempting fate.

Sabot also knew it could have been one hell of a lot worse! After all he had been careful enough to avoid any suicidal impulse in the Den such as drawing a dagger despite endless provocations, and Sabot was also glad he hadn’t come across, as being weak either at least he hoped he hadn’t!

Weak was one label he could do without here especially now. In the Pirate business everyone watched his or her associates for the least sign of exploitable debility the packs were ever ready to devour their own. Oddly Sabot realised with a shock his early success might be proving his undoing. Without question his rise had fostered a degree of jealousy. Well they would just have to learn to live with the fact that he was an exceptional Harrier pilot, and the youngest ever Fallen Angel. Certainly no one could legitimise a direct attack against him - at least he hoped not yet - even if he had made a very poor start with his probation by taking that bet!

Of course if he had been fool enough to rise to any of the baiting he might have been fair game? Just as well I know all about bullies, he thought, he was also glad of that heads up warning from Shunt that had helped even if it was just to know one of the Wolves hadn’t betrayed him. Sabot found himself thinking again about how all the rest of his friends had turned, certainly he had expected to be thoroughly derided, but in a far less cruel, and sharply cutting no holes barred manner.

Why would Amon possibly want me dead or disgraced? Or am I losing it from lack of sleep, and stress, he wondered, am I painting my position blacker than it is? Still somebody had tampered with his drugs supply that was a fact, and that party had been a deliberate assault! Amon hadn’t disappointed Sabot’s worst expectations - making the most of his easy victory - to rub Sabot’s nose in the dirt, again, and again. Yet he took some consolation from the fact that none of the Fallen Angels had been present to witness his fall. That all his new brethren had refused to show up had been quite a surprise to him. To Sabot’s mind the Angels as yet owed him little loyalty so this made him question why they had chosen to play nice?

Laying his back against one corridor wall Sabot considered it was just possible that Jorac had ordered his people to stay clear of the ‘Dive’ knowing full well the sort of reception their newest member had earned with his failure. He could think of several good reasons for that policy - all equally valid - for the Clan Lord in various ways; few of the reasons for non-attendance having anything legitimately to do with nursing their newest members feelings. It was also just possible that the whole thing had been turned into some kind of test. The Devil was known for testing potential weak links to destruction!

Pushing off again Sabot wandered down one more: quiet, long, dismally functional, and featureless corridor that reminded him of the wider track way of his life. The access way was one of many identical conduits housed within the old Teladi ship hull - the gutted and refilled shell that formed the principle body of the Pirate Base Space Station. The corridors were deliberately un signposted to confuse would be borders but Sabot wasn’t lost. Funny that the base was called ‘Freedom’ he thought, it was a label he mused full of almost criminal delusion!

Stopping again Sabot took another sup from a canister of space fuel. Habitually like most pilots in trouble without even thinking about it Sabot was seeking after the sanctuary of his personal ship. Even a small Harrier class scout vessel like his ‘Avoidant’ had enough facilities to allow one or two people to live onboard in cramped but sustainable comfort.

Inside his head Sab was bitterly nursing a potential headache alongside various resentments. Proactively Sabot decided not to rely on fate; he would do an Inter Link search, and track the owner of that hell spawned ‘Grim Reaper’ ship down this Garrin Omega somebody had to pay for his current misery, and since Amon was in all probability out of his league that just left the unlucky civilian.

Pausing Sabot rather unsystematically started planning - a summary execution - a demonstration to his compatriots. Sabot would show his detractors that he was still a capable pilot, and killer - a person not to be trifled with! It didn’t bother him in the least that in actuality the Discoverer Pilot had done nothing more than dodge an illegal assault, and therefore in all probability cheat his own murder. Sab didn’t care Garrin’s life in his estimation was worth nothing more than the fulfilment of his earlier idle boast.

As a practical Pirate Sabot had taught himself not to think certain ways he had learned how to disassociate many feelings when necessary, to view his targets as mere objects far less than real entities with real lives, and families. As far as he was concerned civilians were mere floating marks - targets of opportunity - credits for the taking nothing more!

Concentrating on his sophistic thoughts Sabot continued moving once again. Slowly negotiating his way back via his earlier chosen less travelled route, but as he neared his destination his options for purposeful avoidance of anyone physically trying to locate him, naturally started to narrow. Alongside this the closer he neared to his mobile home the more preoccupied, and careless about his surroundings Sabot foolishly became.

Still clutching the take out canister of the local Space Fuel (Argon Whiskey) that he continued to occasionally take fiery sups from before roughly replacing the lid - Sabot was again getting very firmly out of it. Easily the Harrier Pilot became complicit on the age-old reliance that his drunken feet would simply stagger him home regardless.

Given his various handicaps at this juncture it was only a surprise to Sabot when he almost ran into the compact figure of a black pilot suited Slip. The female typically brazen, and argumentative stepped into rather than out of the way of Sabots sodden progression. As Slip - slipped - into position at the very last moment, Sabot was forced to halt warily well within easy striking distance. The drunken Pirate anything but steady then swayed like a seedling tree under a series of confused gusts. Typically Slip’s stance somehow suggested the arrogance of a shamelessly aggressive provocation to do battle.

Sabot immediately recalled how he hated her abrupt appearances, she was like bad luck, forever stalking him at the worst hour!

Sabot fought against the still widespread numbness to uneasily measure the situation, he was positive - on this occasion - he hadn’t met the girl through the ill providence of an unhappy accident.

Quickly Sabot tried to muster his inebriated grey matter to contemplate what he considered to be the necessary vector, and speed needed to rudely push past the willowy obstruction. The move he wished to make being an escape before things got out of hand. However, the way Slip expertly shifted her body weight in time with his own less than agile pre-empted movements not only helped to sober him up a little, it also made it obvious that the surprisingly young female (for her already dire reputation) was actively intent on firmly blocking any, and all paths of flight.

Slip was smiling, but that didn’t inspire much confidence (in fact it was a poor omen). Sabot knew despite still being somewhat fuzzy that this affectation on the girl with the short-cropped hair was a cutting mockery devoid of any real humour - a challenge without any warmth - or Argon empathy.

The female Pirate nonetheless, thought Sabot, with drunken logic (not for the first time) did retain the potential to be quite pretty - maybe even beautiful he liked them slim and athletic too - if only she wasn’t so god cursed ugly on the inside. So stuffed was Slip with malice that hints of vileness permanently appeared to leak out with every movement she made - especially from her usually filthy if kissable mouth!

Certainly, despite or maybe because of her shocking reputation if she had been willing he wouldn’t have hesitated. Sabot had never been able to resist an - easy - good-looking wench! Nonetheless getting carried away in his head Sabot felt a degree of rising nausea thinking about the potential motion involved of doing the wild thing, for a moment he felt sure he was going to spew while everything yawed about him, but impressively Sabot rather pleased himself by managing to batten the sickness down, and regain self control a small victory being better than none. Oddly after that all he could think about was that this deadly creature had the potential within her to become some poor souls mother, and some other unfortunates wife? A sobering thought if nothing was.

“Look who it is, the mighty Falcon Pilot fresh from the kill,” said Slip dripping sarcasm like acidic venom to the floor.

That comment certainly killed any shadow of immediate ardour. Sabot wasn’t sure if it was the Space Fuel or passive weed smoking from when he had been in the cloudy Den, but he could almost imagine he could see fluid splashing the deck with a hiss to rapidly corrode the surface.

“Fek!” replied Sabot shaking his head in an attempt to clear it back to the real Universe knowing this was no time to go all space happy!

His one word had been a far less eloquent statement, but at least it was uttered with just as much feeling. Sabot knew he was in no mood for this girl’s cruel little games, not now!

“You’ll not escape the Devil in your cups,” stated Slip looking at the clutched canister, and laughing without humour. “I told Jorac you were a complete fekking waste of space - even before - he brought you into the Clan,” she continued, “he wants to see you - now! Isn’t that nice!”

Why didn’t he just Comm Link in then, thought Sabot dimly, before remembering that he had switched his device off - despite that action running counter to standard clan procedure - fek Jorac wouldn’t be impressed with that either! Besides Slip was enjoying this too much to indicate Jorac was in a forgiving mood. Damn, thought Sabot, this proposed meet isn’t likely to be to my advantage at all. This isn’t good, nonetheless the Pirate scout knew better than to back down too readily to any provocation by the murderous girl.

“Fine, you can run along then, I’m sure the Arch Fallen Angel has other important stuff for you to do - like wipe his rear clean with that sharp tongue of yours,” replied Sabot defiantly pleased he had got all that out. Actually he was starting to feel better who needs anti intoxicants when Slip is around, he thought.

“You’ve blown it this time, you’re all washed up, and washed out Scab!” informed Slip reaching out one hand to steady him while mocking his name - as she liked to do - as ever rather merrily like some overconfident school bully, “you never were good enough! You’re fekking nothing now, and you’ll never be anything either - especially after that show. You made us all look bad, moron!”

Sabot looked down at the hand. Which Slip hastily removed, did she look embarrassed? Sab briefly wondered why Slip had singled him out as a prime target for her bile, almost it seemed, from the first moment they had once again met? Was it because he knew her of old, because they shared the history of their upbringing?

“If you hate yourself that much Slip, why don’t you just throw yourself out an airlock, and have done with it? It’s not mine or the Universes fault your father used to sell you to anyone with a few extra credits to spare,” retorted Sabot surprising himself with the cruel viciousness of the comment. Still everything that goes around, he thought.

Sabot just about saw movement then suffered several pains almost at once - agony hit his groin, ribs, throat, and lastly his back where he hit the metallic deck hard before curling up. By the time Sabot managed to unclench, and open his eyes to blink back tears, never mind get a breath through the hurt he found he felt himself being tugged around. Sabot looked at the ceiling, then Slip’s twisted angry face interposed itself - far too close for comfort! The Girl spat on him spraying his nose, and left cheek with her slimy ire.

At least she missed my eyes or my mouth, he thought.

Sabot could hear the canister of fuel rolling about on the floor he found himself wondering if he had replaced the lid. Maybe he had, because the principle smell was rancid girl not sweet whiskey. Sabot realised he could also feel the pressure of the female she was kneeling on him (pinning his arms). Another bitter pain intruded upon his consciousness - this time in his throat - a tiny but sharp blade was wickedly nicking into his flesh. Fek I’m going to die, he thought rather dramatically.

Damn she was better than he remembered, unfortunately late Sabot recalled that Jorac believed in skill sharing! Sabot knew he had been volunteered for a few future courses including various hand-to-hand combat techniques. Fallen Angels were expected to be able to do more than just fly ships. I should have known better than to provoke her this much, he thought. I should have known better than to get all cocky because I had finally got myself accepted into the Angels ranks, and not taken that damn trick bet, but the past was one corpse that couldn’t be resuscitated.

Another sound reached Sabot without doubt approaching feet, was that good or bad news, an ally or another assailant? The slut was taking her time about it.

Somebody said, “Slip!” rather forcefully.

“I should open you up good for that,” whispered the girl to Sabot scratching the blade along sideways to scrape a nasty red line like a rough guide mark for a future proper slaughter, “but you’re not worth it Scab!”

Thank bright Sonra for that, thought Sabot, as her weight shifted causing more pain then release, Sab knew only too well she was psychologically more than capable of killing him over his insult. In a way, he accepted internally, the girl was right - I am losing it!

She got off him, and moved away without a word. If that wasn’t bad enough when Sabot finally felt able enough to slowly find his feet he realised the girl had even had the cheek to take his whiskey with her, while his neck was stinging like hell.

Lifting his hand away from the bleeding wound he tried to delude himself - from the amount of blood - that he had probably (on occasion) cut himself almost as bad shaving the old fashioned way with a combat knife - one of the stupid things you do to try and prove you were as hard as the next killer - but though shallow the wound was a livid, and deliberately untidy gouge plus not surprisingly his pride was hurting as well. To tell the truth Sabot knew he had been afraid to struggle or to tackle her afterwards - it was the look in her eyes - Slip was a crazy one without doubt!

“You’ll live,” said the calm instantly recognisable voice of his original sponsor to the Fallen Angels the pirate called Roid a shortened form of Asteroid because he was deemed rock solid.

“Where did you come from?” asked Sabot holding his own neck again.

“It smarts eh?” mocked Roid, “I trailed after Slip. Our friend seemed a little too happy when she volunteered to do Jorac’s bidding. I thought she might be up for some sort of trouble,” he finished easily.

“Guess that explains why she stopped when she did. I thought it was uncommonly sensible of the lass!” noted Sab damn it but talking hurt. He looked at his wet bloody hand again.

“Unlike what you said to her,” reminded Roid. Thinking it was just as well Jorac planned to kick the lad off their crew - it would now be for his own good!

Sabot flinched, “You heard my jibe? Damn I know - I’m on a roll - I couldn’t help myself!”

“Try harder,” said the stolid Fallen Angel, “Slip can hand it out, but she can’t take it, and that makes her very volatile, she has some moves too,” he said thinking about the way she had sauntered off swinging her hips.

Slip liked to tease but it didn’t pay to try, and take a bite, thought Roid. Others had tried to get to the prickly girls illusionary soft centre all had failed, truly Roid pitied anyone that might succeed he was sure they would pay a heavy toll - Slip was all twisted up inside!

“Tell me about it,” complained Sabot despondently.

In fact Roid had been surprised when Jorac brought Slip into the elite clan. Though the occasional psychopath had their uses it wasn’t normally the Devils style to recruit too many loose cannons at once into his dark brethren.

Sabot’s mind was also temporarily fixated on Slip. Roid was right she wouldn’t be able to forget what he had said because - the truth always hurt more than a lie - chances were he would rue that throw away comment with a vengeance. Even the fact that she now knew that he fully knew about her past would mark him out for extra special attention, how stupid was that? He wondered did she know Roid had overheard that cruel snippet too, it was bad, very bad!

“Look I’m sorry for what it’s worth,” said Sabot wincing slightly with the pain.

Sabot meant every word too he felt that he had let Roid down as his sponsor to the Clan. Even Pirates cared about somebody, Sabot admired Roid almost as a mentor appreciating his: knowledge, experience, and thoughtful cool approach to the perfidious business of banditry.

Roid just shrugged, and replied, “let’s go the boss really does want to see you.”

Roid was one of the few Angels Sabot would dare show any weakness to. The big Argon was uncommonly decent for a Pirate it made Sabot wonder how he had ended up in this business. Roid like many others didn’t like to discuss his past, most Pirates had some tale of woe behind their genesis.

Of course Roid could fight as well as any, a true hunter / killer a warrior, but somehow not a cold hearted murderer in the same vein as Slip or maybe even himself on a bad day. Roid was a thinker he reasoned things out. Sab on the other hand knew he - like many others - would on occasion just lash out to ease their personal pain! It was doubtful the Argon establishment would separate between Pirates like Roid, Sabot or Slip, however; Sabot believed that even black retained differing shades, and hues within itself. Thinking about this made him briefly wonder how others viewed his dark light within that wider dour spectrum.
[stop]

[Paranoid66]

Reapers Passage
X3 Fan Fiction by Paranid66

[Revised] Chapter 3 – Contradictions of Freedom

[Historic Records Fragment Consolidation][the HAC Incident #3] compiling_

[17:12][07-12-764][Federal]
[Freedom Station][Deep Space][Elena’s Fortune Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR FRDM HAC 013] initiate_

Slip had been known to turn the air blue with expletives, but after encountering Sabot and returning to her billet the girl had gone quiet, and contemplative. Jorac knew her well enough to surmise that silence was worse than any fit of petulant anger - Sab was in some trouble maybe Roid as well? Letting her image go Jorac flicked through other camera views of his soldiers at work, and play ultimately spending sometime watching Amon.

Had that bet been a deliberate, and subtle move against the Fallen Angels via its newest, and softest member even taking ‘First day Fool’ into account, or was it truly just a wager among friends, and rivals? Troubled Jorac settled back to think while waiting on Sabot’s arrival. Generally he tried to use others agendas to his own benefit, but their was always risks. The Arch fallen Angel was glad he had recently upgraded his monitoring routines, but he was not happy with the bases overall internal defences - complacency was idiocy.

Slip was the least of his difficulties right now though; merely one of the Devils - unofficial Devils advocates - along with such individuals as the Black Rat Bale, and the disreputable Green Monkey called Trajan people Jorac kept around to deliberately challenge his authority. Harsh critics he could rely on to seek out any gaps in his schemes Pirates that would test his every move. Maybe Amon should be added to the list of individuals foolish enough to probe for weakness in their Overlord? It didn’t pay for any Leader of Desperados to get too comfortable.

‘Freedom’ had belonged to a succession of other Pirate Lords none had held court for long, none had died peacefully in their sleep. Even Jorac knew he couldn’t just rely on his fierce reputation to stay on top. It was a complex game one that involved move, and counter move. A game that would only end with his final demise if such a fate was now ever likely. Still, he thought there was death, and Death - life, and Life?

The latest changeover that saw his ascension over the base was still too fresh for any degree of comfort. His predecessor the old deceased Leader of the Green Monkey Clan had been especially lax in many areas that Jorac disagreed with. The Pirate Lord was now busy trying to plug - most - of the security gaps. Unfortunately due to the necessities of his current scheme he dare not bring in much more of his own material. Anyway, he mused, a few holes could work to his advantage a few seeming lapses might tempt his enemy to strike sooner rather than later.
[stop]



[03:14][08-12-764][Federal]
[The Dive Fuel Den][Freedom Station][Deep Space][Elena’s Fortune Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR FRDM HAC 014] initiate_

So little rest for the wicked, thought Jorac entering the gloomy blue green decorated grotto - the weed smoke saturated Space Fuel Den prosaically named the ‘Dive’ was not somewhere Jorac usually frequented. The Pirate Lord however was not surprised to draw the immediate attention of one of his usually less rowdy clansmen, although he noted Amon still seemed far more inebriated, and boisterous than normal. It was a pity the Argon Jorac alone called Red had once been a sensible dependable asset still, he thought, life is change.

“Ah the antihero returns,” roared the bulky flame headed pirate from his seat.

Amon staggered slightly as he rose partially from his throne to lean his back unsteadily against an already stain besmirched wall. His drink soaked pants parting rather noisily, and unwillingly in the process from the sticky surface whence he had been slumped, much as a beached Boron might lie, mused Jorac. It was painfully obvious even - if he hadn’t monitored it - that his associate was still recovering from a extended incredibly messy night carouse that if Red had his way no doubt wasn’t over quite yet.

Jorac wondered how much of Amon’s inebriation was real how much - masked insolence? Was the Wolf becoming something more than just temporarily unreliable? One difficulty with being in command of a bunch of cutthroats was a penchant towards a degree of excessive, but understandable paranoia that everyone was plotting against you. If you weren’t careful such feelings could result in bloody purges that would only facilitate rather than forestall rebellion - as in all things - a balance had to be found.

“No doubt you have come to congratulate me on my good fortune,” blasted Amon, “or perhaps to commiserate,” he muttered looking about himself with a sudden air of disappointment while sniggering inside, “with young Sabot’s misfortune, where is the rascal anyway,” he bellowed grimacing, “slunk off I suppose, no sense of humour, no staying power, no good in a bloody Falcon despite his boasts,” he remarked, “no matter the night is young,” he decided perking up again, “you will join us of course? A drink for the Devil!” he shouted over heartily towards the weary bar staff.

“The night is always young, or old in space Red, depending on your inclination,” noted Jorac with a degree of seemingly unnoticed cool exasperation while taking in the rabble that was Amon’s sprawled mostly semiconscious Grey Wolf brethren, “well I need not enquire as to the state of your - I’m guessing - slanted wager Red, or the whereabouts of your crewmembers, all missing from the patrol rota.”

“My fortune is my brothers,” enthused the red headed Pirate, “I always believed it was better to share my wealth for the richer reward of true companionship,” he explained with a smirk.

“Shiny stuff for the loyal like some archaic tribal chieftain,” said Jorac.

“Indeed,” admitted Amon, “besides if you have nothing to lose, nobody has anything to gain by stabbing you in the back.”

“I don’t know there is always something to be gained from a backstabbing,” returned Jorac, “also in kicking the rear of a fool,” he noted looking down briefly at one foot then lifting his face to reveal sparking eyes, and a tight set jaw that boded trouble.

“Fool,” replied Amon looking about for somebody else who fitted that description.

Jorac stifled any desire to laugh, “I expected better from you Red. I am disappointed. Disappointment makes me unhappy, being unhappy makes me angry, and being angry makes me do things I might later regret. You have put us all at risk for the sake of a jolly. What if the sun cursed Federals had breached our perimeter while our outer defenders lie intoxicated,” Jorac gestured at the sodden crew.

“Bale promised to take my place,” grumbled Amon, “are you telling me that stinking Rat was a no show,” his voice hinting at a newfound edge of real anger, like hard metal hidden beneath well polished soft Argnu leather gloves.

“Bale is a smelly half formed hatchling from a under incubated Teladi egg with no idea how to handle any real crisis. A poor leader at best, blind, and uninspired. If I had wanted Bale, and his gutter vermin to run the patrol, I would have put him on the schedule fek that rear end is just canon fodder. It’s a formal warning Red,” Jorac stated wondering once again if he was pushing too hard too early with the auxiliaries.

“A what?” Amon spluttered at the idea.

“Listen Red don’t make me cast you out. It would be a waste of useful talent. I don’t like waste, and I wouldn’t,” he mused couldn’t, “let you go over to a rival;” the so-called Devil continued coldly, “Don’t force my hand. Sober these war dogs up I’m putting you all up on the next sweep. Oh, and take that fool puppy Sabot with you as a Wolf. He’s no longer has a place on my Angel’s wings.”

“Holy Paranidia have a heart,” Amon shouted shocked by that command into a degree of mental sobriety that had nothing to do with overcoming alcohol.

“Not in this life. You have benefited from this base, and our wider organisation I expect you to reciprocate by following my procedures - to the letter. Curse you Red I don’t ask - I demand - you’re lucky I’m in a good mood. I won’t let it all fall apart due to sloppy carelessness? Do you really think I will let you go back to picking up scraps from my table as an independent?”

“Take it easy, fek it Jorac I didn’t know you were that uptight about who did the cursed patrol - as long as it got done - it’s just a little misunderstanding,” replied Amon.

“Well now you do know,” replied Jorac coldly.

“Is something up out there, something you might want to tell me about?” Amon inquired.

“Just because the Community of Planets are distracted by other - external - threats is no excuse to leave our defences wide open. Upset my overall plans Red, and I swear by my (butchered by the Federals) Mother even on young Kerry’s life, I’ll throw whatever pieces of you that are left over from a skinning of my own out the airlock, along with any stupid flea bitten scraggy dog (still alive or dead) that dares to stick up for you, have you got that?”

“Sure next sweep it is then,” replied Amon keeping up his partial pretence by daring to do so just a little bit grumpily.

The Devil turned, and swept out everyone giving him lots of space. A few faces turned to look at Amon some with shock perhaps one or two with a degree of admiration.

Amon knew it was risky, but sometimes you had to take a chance. Still inside he was still sweating - more than a little - when Jorac was moved to swear on Kerry it was no jest. The fiery star of Sonra, thought Amon, why did I ever agree to join this merry band of cutthroats? Working with Jorac was getting more, and more demanding it was almost like being in service again, and that hadn’t worked out too well. Before getting mixed up with Jorac, Amon had done nothing but fight to survive. When he had first absconded with a military buster just staying this side of the Reapers Passage had been almost more than he could handle. Not that he believed he had been given any choice in the matter - Amon’s desertion had been an act of pure self preservation.

Now he owned two Pirate Falcons, four Buzzards, and a Harrier that he rarely used. The Wolf Leader was even the head of his own pack, some of which probably thought he was going soft. What was he thinking of tying the Wolves into pledges, and following another’s orders like some damn wet behind the ears rookie? How many times had he considered bailing, but Jorac wasn’t like anyone he had ever met before; the Argon was infamous - a dark legend - the Devil himself! Since their meeting Amon had felt like a child caught in the gaze of a looming toothy monster capable of gobbling his very soul. Still he would rather have the loud Jorac than the quiet one with the skinning knives.

Prodding one of the sleepers with his foot Amon commenced by bellowing at his companions at the top of his lungs to little effect, well he got the odd muttered curse and the shaking of a limb or two.

“Right then,” he yelled still swaying slightly, “Double A Grade Stimulant injectors, enough for the lot of us, and make it snappy,” he screamed toward the Dives as far as he was concerned otherwise just loitering staff.

Being well used to this sort of occurrence one harassed looking barmaid hurried over carrying a tray laden with a pile of sterile wrapped one use plastic devices.

“Time to get to work lads,” Amon growled as he reached over to administer the first disposable to himself just in case, “and don’t think I won’t take the cost of these babies out of your cut, I didn’t hold you down, and pour all that Space Fuel down your gullets,” said Amon then his tirade stopped with a violent jerk as he body suffered the rough effect of the Double A’s notoriously ungentle instant hit.

“Boron’s watery tentacles, I hate that,” continued the Pirate Leader completely alert.
[stop]



[04:20][08-12-764][Federal]
[Freedom Station][Deep Space][Elena’s Fortune Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR FRDM HAC 015] initiate_

Jorac was tired, and knew Slip was as well, not to mention angry, that was why he summoned her to the training room at this hour. Sometimes you have to fight through exhaustion, and emotional storms (sometimes you have no choice) this was a skill that could be learned just like any other.

They circled each other blades glinting. Both participants wore partial light armour its coverage far from absolute. In the Devils opinion such training sessions had no value without real risk. Their sharp weapons were quite capable of penetrating the armour - even directly - if given enough force behind a clean sure blow. Armour wasn’t a static defence fighters had to learn to use it - move with it - even angle the surface so the strength of the blow would slip, and glance off.

The environment control had been deliberately fudged as well. The room was horribly hot, and the gravity was heavier than normal at the moment, but it also randomly fluctuated to add another dimension to the conflict.

Before commencing Jorac had offered Slip the opportunity to take a stimulant shot Slip refused. Jorac wasn’t sure yet if that was foolish false pride, or the fact that she really felt she didn’t need it. Of course Slip might already have some combat drug or other singing in her veins she liked to dabble on occasion.

The Girl attacked almost immediately with little warning. She was a natural with a knife her main weakness being her short height, and reduced reach, but she made up for that with speed, and agility. Unlike Jorac Slip wasn’t combat enhanced, but she was young, and at a peak of physical condition while Jorac was perhaps on the wrong side of his prime, and carried the debility of many old wounds despite the best regenerative treatments - so it evened out a bit.

Blades clashed it made a primeval music to the Devils ears. One pass, two he let her do most of the work watching more than the knife that was a trap. The whole body is the weapon not just the blade; Slip had learned that lesson well enough - in part - he had taught it too her with a few scars.

“So you are still stalking Sabot,” said Jorac moving in to firmly block a sweeping kick with his own leg before locking blades, and using superior strength to push her back to her consternation.

“Voyeur!” accused Slip one of her favourite insults for him as she circling once more.

“Having fun?” asked the Pirate Lord knowing deep down Slip liked to be watched.

“Always,” returned Slip angling sideways, and lunging again.

She was like another person in motion - stunningly beautiful to his perception - he was determined to breach her defences. Slip was too interesting to be wasted on the likes of Sabot after all like they say keep your friends close, and your enemies closer! Of course he knew he could break her (breaking stuff was easy) but what would be the joy in that - well their might be some - but it would be short lived.
[end]



[05:03][08-12-764][Federal]
[Outside Freedom Station][Deep Space][Elena’s Fortune Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR FRDM HAC 016] initiate_

Outside the Pirate Base the Grey Wolves formed up into a cross shaped formation with one spare ship lagging slightly behind.

Opening a short-range tight beam comm Amon addressed the purposely laggard Harrier pilot.

“Ok GW5 this is GW1 away you go, downloading the pattern now. Make the most of that Triplex Gravidar Scanner of yours, and your over-tuned Harrier engines, we’ll follow along behind. If you see anything interesting log, and run don’t engage! I repeat don’t engage, and for the Dark Lords sake no broad communication chatter remember our esteemed Overlord might well be monitoring this show.”

“Affirmative GW5 out,” replied Sabot sticking firmly to the new operational protocols.

Wearily the bet losing Scout Ship Pilot hit his accelerator. He couldn’t help remembering how he had begun his career (not so long ago) working alone or with loose groups of other unaffiliated Pirate outcasts - individualists - who used their often extravagant monikers with gusto, and chatted all they liked in battle trading one-liner in-jokes, insults, whoops of joy, and screams of terror as much as weapon fire during raids.

It had been fun, but chaotic, and ridiculously perilous (every pilot working to his own uncoordinated initiative very much fighting their own little skirmishes around their fellows) after a few unwanted, and unfortunate encounters with the Navy Sabot had yearned for better stricter more - coherent - organisation among his own. The death of even such loose wingmen (individuals collected at some bar or other for a particular foray) had led Sabot to consider the benefits of a proper Clan with suitable tactical, and strategic Clan Leadership. Now he knew it was true what they say - be very careful what you wish for - you might just get it!

Jorac was slowly squeezing all the fun out of his Pirate life, even if the rumours were true of overall record profits from the Fallen Angel’s, and their auxiliary’s earlier well-targeted missions, not to mention lower casualties than ever before. Oddly to Sabot the obvious benefits didn’t always appear to be worth the sacrifices, or perhaps it was better put the other way around: that the odd sacrifice had been worth the fringe benefits most notably liberty from the tyranny of superiors, and strict rules of conduct.

Never having actually been in the regular armed forces Sabot Kushu was completely new to Jorac’s way of doing things. The Harrier Pilot found he already missed feeling loose - being anarchic - in the night? Still he had to admit, with a chuckle, it was easier to hold that position while some other person paid the ultimate price - on his behalf - for any folly of disorganisation.

Sabot as a light fighter pilot with a skilfully over-tuned engine had learned when to cut, and run. More than once he left his heavier slower compatriots to delay the Military while he made his escape. Usually such events occurred when his band of misfits were ambushed by the canny Navy. Nor could anyone complain about Sab’s policy of flight when outclassed - in his old loose affiliations when push came to shove it was every Pirate for themselves. Nonetheless too many risky narrow escapes soon convinced him to rethink his game plan. He decided to fully embrace the strategy of joining a successful Clan gain the boon of working in proper formations.

Sabot felt rather confused about his chosen path now though. In many ways his newfound position did still seem to offer a chance to learn new things, and prosper in relative safety, in other respects it merely turned him into a faceless soldier lost among the rank, and vile (as the joke went). Sab however wanted more than that, he wanted - personal - fame, and fortune not just a small share in collective notoriety!
[end]



[05:11][08-12-764][Federal]
[Outside Freedom Station][Deep Space][Elena’s Fortune Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR FRDM HAC 017] initiate_

Sabot clutched the stick hard to throw his ship around a little as if he could shake off his ill temper. It didn’t help much that his neck chaffed, and itched inside his helmet despite the appliance of a basic spray on dressing. Sabot was feeling less than serene - smarting from all his recent experiences. The only thing keeping him in check was caution born from belated self-knowledge - an awareness of his own mood swings - the result of running on too many stimulants without enough proper sleep. It was a regimen guaranteed to fek with the wider equilibrium of anyone’s reasoning - no matter how much some of the (borderline legal) wonder drug manufacturers liked to claim otherwise!

Given his condition it was hardly surprising Amon’s earlier lecture warning Sabot against poorly judged ambition had met with mixed success. In many ways that speech was the last thing Sab wanted to hear - another cursed talking down to, and yet he had to admit some points did made sense. Although Sab was also convinced that overall the talk had been both untimely, and for the usually convincing Wolf Leader poorly delivered.

Of course Sabot was bitterly resentful at this unwelcome introduction to an unwanted membership in the Grey Wolves. He had dropped his investigation into the drug switch as it no longer seemed profitable. Amon’s attitude had also convinced Sabot that the Wolf leader was no more pleased with Sab’s forced merger to his Clan than he was. Sabot had never heard of a Clan Leader being told to take in a member before. Jorac obviously liked instilling his authority as a supreme commander, and overlord in a painfully direct manner - no wonder Amon was displeased. Sabot knew he was in a precarious predicament.

“The first skill any Pirate needs to master is simply how to survive,” Amon had rudely pontificated (among other words of wisdom) as if Sabot knew absolutely nothing, “all the rest with a little fekking patience will come in its own good time!”

Patronising Fek he had also reminded Sab that, “if you continue taking everything this personally I guarantee - you won’t live long - no matter how good you manage to get, or think you are, inside or outside the cockpit!”

Amon also hit him with the questionable consolation of, “…look Lad, I was just following typical unwritten policies by throwing that curved ball at you in the ‘Dive’ when you let that Discoverer get away. We like to know how our new boys will perform under stress outside the cockpit. Be happy, you did well enough by avoiding any fights you couldn’t win. However, if you keep acting like a sulky child now…”

Was that the whole truth? Sabot wondered, he could hardly ask Jorac about an order he hadn’t specifically given not that he was in any hurry to speak with Jorac again. That ‘unwritten policy’ excuse did sound lame though. Still if he had dared to bring the matter up - it would indeed appear as if he was running crying like a squealing brat to his superior for being picked on. Jorac wasn’t the type to receive that well, especially not at the moment. No he would just have to accept it - like the adult he was.

The situation made Sabot question if his transfer to the Wolves could possibly work in the long term, or was it time to try, and quit the station altogether, try once again to forge ahead in the Big Bad Universe on his own? However if he - deserted - they might hunt him down? While Amon, and his underlings now seemed content to pretend the ‘Dive’ fiasco hadn’t happened - Sabot couldn’t quite bring himself to forgive, and forget. How could he let it go that easy ‘sulky child’ who did Amon think he was anyway!

The new Wolf felt very much like an outsider, he missed the expectation of easy comradeship; the bond of brotherhood he had assumed should exist among a tight combat squad. As much as Sabot feared it was foolish to create separation especially over a past (seemingly now dead) incident yet he had failed to breach the gap to reach out a true hand of friendship - to clasp on it, and move on. In a way he knew it was madness. A pilot needed those tight bonds out in the night.

The buddy system being far from an optional extra, instinctual ties of mutual support often made the difference between living, and dying it had been another reason why he had sought to join a Clan. Yet annoyingly Sabot still found it all but impossible to embrace his recent betrayers, would doing that not be a betrayal of his own dignity, would it not be an invitation to future faithlessness, or was he just making excuses for being infantile? Interactions with his new peer group were proving much more difficult than he had ever imagined, even selling an expedient pretence since the ‘Dive’ had proved - so far - to be beyond him. Amon hadn’t really helped his endeavour with that ‘sulky child’ comment either, the fekker!

What was Amon’s game anyway? Had the orchestrated abuse really been just a simple test to see if he had the right stuff, and had he really succeeded, or in actuality failed once again? Cursing Sabot noticed that although he was not using his full over-tuned potential acceleration his Harrier had almost cleared the Debris Field. He was fast running out of time for prolonged attention robbing introspection. Briefly though Sabot did ponder whether that encounter with Slip could also be slotted into the same pattern - had that antagonism just been work for Slip too - part of a wider scheme, or was the stalking girl merely being herself?

If Slip had been secretly under orders to provoke him on his way back from the Den it was possible she could forgive, and forget his deliberately hurtful remark as a mere reaction to her incitement? Of course if she had been engaged in that capacity judging on his response, and condition when Roid appeared that was one challenge he must have failed as well. Sadly a positive outcome seemed almost too much to hope for at the moment. Then again Roid’s attitude, and words had indicated otherwise that the girl was motivated by her own reasons. Sadly he wondered could even that Pirate be trusted now? Sabot groaned, he wasn’t looking forward to the end of this patrol, and mingling again with his compatriots he hated intrigues, and office politics. Of course hiding away on his ship wouldn’t work well either.

With an effort of will Sabot forced himself to lay it to rest - for the moment - it was time to at least try to concentrate on the matter at hand. Keeping to the designated course Sab continued to pull away from the main group, was this another test, were they giving him this opportunity to see if he would run? Otherwise Sabot recalled that he was out here supposedly not just to scout ahead, but also to act as potential bait for intruders (a tempting lone seemingly vulnerable target) it was best to remember that anything could happen on even a standard patrol like this. Staying alert was not just advisable it was essential. Sabot took a moment to think about his wider option of flight. Then deciding he had run enough he hit himself with another proper stimulant shot - via his suit mechanism - just in case this was required, actually it did seem to help.

The overall patrol route progressed outward via sweeping gently through an interlocking series of wide and irregular arcs designed to give maximum coverage without placing the station too much in the obvious centre of the pattern. Hopefully this tactic would aid in confusing anyone who somehow managed to record their passage only in part, a small advantage against any late arriving spy’s calculation of the patrols exact point of origin. Sabot considered it a little paranoid, and rather stupid given the fact that some of the civilians they dealt with insisted on flying to the supposedly secret base as if guided on a laser rail. Briefly he wondered would pointing out such an obvious flaw in their defences win any kudos from Jorac.

Still it was all a joke while the Argon military ruthlessly suppressed any pirates they encountered they rarely struck directly at their stations. It was as if they cared nothing about anything that didn’t rest neatly in the immediate vicinity of the electronically pegged out Gate Grids. Sabot didn’t know why, but he had heard many conspiracy theories, some even claimed this was the consequence of secret links between Argon Intelligence, and some of the clans - very unlikely! Others thought the military were squeamish of likely civilian collateral damage causing a furore, or that the Navy just liked to know where the pirates came from, preferring to monitor, and contain rather than push the Clans into ever deeper shadow - the last at least seemed plausible. Whatever the real reason was it seemed to make a mockery of Jorac’s elaborate precautions, or was this really just another of his discipline instilling drills, designed to show the willing, and highlight the dissenters for future deletion - Jorac wasn’t known as the Devil for nothing!

Sabot groaned, “This is a waste of time,” he muttered still feeling irritable, and restless.

When he had started pirating Sabot recalled how exciting it had been: picking his own targets, thumbing his nose up at the rest of the universe, taking what he wanted when he pleased, striving to become infamous among his peers, grabbing the opportunity to be feared, and respected by his own hand alone - something that had been gloriously new to him. All it had taken was the theft of one docked combat ship to get him going. Ironically prior to this felony he had been working on the Trade Station as a security guard. Looking back Sabot was proud that he had escaped the tedium of his existence the trap of his status as a nobody all on his own.

Now that he had obtained acceptance into a Clan the new regime he was currently living under seemed by comparison staid, pathetic, and far too political. Sabot had foolishly believed becoming a good pilot would be enough to gain acceptance that was what he had principally worked toward to become the best Harrier jockey he could be. He had looked up to individuals like Jorac then as his inspiration. The leader of the Fallen Angel Clan was a legend in his own lifetime. Unfortunately since Sab had come here the Pirate Lords recent policies had almost made Sabot wonder if the dreaded rebel was losing his edge. All Jorac now seemed to be doing was roosting in ‘Freedom Station’ like some overly broody Teladi beside a clutch of ready to hatch eggs.

It was almost as if his once infamous hero was on the defensive or waiting for something? The Arch fallen Angel also seemed to have forgotten that Pirates are by nature individualists - anything but mindless cogs in a great big machine - Sabot began to believe the Devil was taking his new militarism too far for the material he was working with, Sabot had dared to critique. Having a base of operations was fine, but Piracy was about more than profit it was - a lifestyle choice - a rejection of normal society. It was all about breaking the rules, being free to express yourself without too many artificial limits, these were certainly some of the things that really mattered to him. Nothing had turned out as Sabot had expected. What had happened to the bold historic Fallen Angels raids on Federal Argon Installations - not just ship traffic - the very stuff of their legend? What had happened to Jorac's aggressive proactive conflict against everything the Federal authorities stood for? The Devil's time on Aladna Hill for example had birthed a dark mythology of its own.

What also burned Sabot up was the fact that the Arch Fallen Angel had pushed him into the Wolves as if he had no rights, or choice in the matter. Sabot saw it as a demotion from willing employee to abject slave, and a premature overreaction carried out simply because he had embarrassed Jorac’s precious Angels by losing a private bet - one that was a scam - well poor fekking Jorac, hadn’t losing that bet already cost Sab enough? The Harrier pilot felt his rage rising again, but it felt like an impotent thing. Sabot felt utterly outclassed by his quandary.

“Fek I can’t believe I gave up my independence to slave away for a second rate outfit. As a servant to a mere lieutenant,” Sabot complained to his cockpit/

Yet after having seen the Devil’s fury was it better to have some degree of separation - did he really still want to be a Fallen Angel?

‘Freedom Station’ what a joke it felt increasingly like just another authoritarian state. A domain structured specifically to keep the ordinary folk down (people like himself in their assigned place) - something he loathed with a passion - his life was going in circles.

If only that god cursed Devil wasn’t so infernally lethal when crossed or disappointed. Sabot knew all his thoughts about leaving were sad dreams. The Pirate feared he had already committed himself to a degree of bondage - sold his soul to the infernal one by accident. The Harrier Pilot wouldn’t soon forget his last interview with his Overlord. He had learned to hate, fear, and be in awe of Jorac - all at the same time. A little betraying part of Sabot for example: still wanted to please, and win back the favour of the Pirate Lord. Having a force like that on your side certainly had its attractions, another part however just wanted to get as far away from the Arch Fallen Angel as possible. A fell force that burned deep within Jorac had been revealed for an instant at Sabot’s meeting - it felt utterly alien to the Devil’s Argon exterior, terrifying yet impossibly charismatic.

Sabot shuddered Jorac had a way of fekking with your head. In truth underestimating that one would be a mistake - Jorac was probably lying low for a very good reason - perhaps plotting another Universe shaking job? One thing was sure the Devil wasn't somebody to cross. So perhaps this period was nothing more than the lull before the unleashing of another Hell spawned storm. Jorac still held the real keys to this particular kingdom. Sabot even partially believed despite all that had happened he might go a lot further - a lot faster - with the Devils patronage rather than without it. Fek though, to think he had believed Slip was scary, and insane. Slip was a joke, a pussycat, compared to the Devil - revealed. Although he was increasing troubled with uncertainties Sabot also knew he had already invested a lot of hard work to get even accepted this much. Letting all his efforts go to waste wouldn’t be easy for him even if Jorac, and Amon became remarkably generous, and decided Sabot Kushu’s release was acceptable.

Sabot remembered that Jorac was often rumoured to harbour ulterior motives for his every action, propaganda perhaps, but after being face to face with the Devil it made him wonder? It was possible - in some unseen manner - Jorac was up to something much more clever than the obvious. Perhaps the action of demoting him to the Grey Wolves was purposeful. Sabot once again reconsidered his position it was no good railing against what had transpired, instead it would be sensible to look to what advantages might be squeezed from his apparent downfall - it was just possible Jorac would be very happy to have somebody he could trust inside Amon’s Clan?

Good fortune was often disguised behind a miasma of tragedy. Certainly his perceptions had shifted Sabot knew he no longer felt much loyalty to Amon, or any others among his old associates - connections he had once had a little faith in, and had taken time to forge as a way into the ‘Freedom Station’ hierarchy. Sabot had to admit their was some strength to be found in disassociation. His separation from needing others the sundering of the desire to form real bonds. Freedom could take many forms, Sab mused, after all we bind ourselves tighter than any outside influence.

More than anything Sab liked to believe he was still young enough to grow, and learn from his worst mistakes, from this point onward he vowed to look entirely to his own well being - whatever the cost might be to others. He therefore decided to redouble his efforts to strive to at least pretend to fit in, to come to an apparent new accommodation with his untrustworthy companions, while monitoring everything closely.

Sabot determined that if he could he would fek them all to his personal advantage, before they got a chance to fek him again to theirs - it now seemed clear to him that this was still how the game was being played here on ‘Freedom’ - supposed Clan loyalties or not. He was no longer quite the innocent he had been. Sabot no longer believed in the Merry Band of Cutthroats who genuinely felt connections of brotherhood - it was just another lie - perhaps a spooned out medicine passed down by those who wished to lead, and manipulate such self deluded groups, monsters like Jorac who made a living by dominating, and subjugating others.



At 05:32 Federal still holding a grim, and determined look on his face Sabot was just about to swing around to the next set of coordinates on the way back towards the station when he saw a flash off to his port. This was Immediately followed by a single klaxon, and a red blip on his Triplex Gravidar Scanner screen. A Khaak Cluster had just jumped into sector, a small sharp looking amalgamated spike. The multi faceted shape was formed from a series of alien ships linked together into a singular unit. The Khaak used some unfathomable linkage technology that the Argons still failed to fully comprehend - despite having captured many individual ships for study.

Automatically designated with an enemy signature by Sabot’s onboard computer the Khaak were friends to no one. Bogey men - alien invaders - hell bent on destruction! So far they seemed either to have failed to see him or were intent on other business or just didn‘t care!

“Damn,” cursed the Pirate Scout, then again maybe action was one way to prove himself?

Still only a fool would take on even a small cluster in a scout ship. Sabot realised this was one time he was content to follow orders, log and run. Perhaps if his Alpha Phased Shockwave Generator wasn’t lying in bits in the cargo hold in dire need of repair or more likely, out and out replacement or if he had a better supply of missiles onboard! Stopping, and flipping around Sabot used his ships acceleration booster to gun his engines toward the rest of the Wolves while recording a tight beam message for hasty broadcast as soon as he hit range.

“GW1 this is GW5 small K.Cluster following on my six, 12 make that 13km advise, over,” recorded the Scout.

Sabot watched on monitor as the cluster turned lazily and started following him still linked as if it had all the time in the universe. Arrogant spawn of a Paranid, he thought, as he commanded the onboard computer, “Sara, send pre-recorded message.”

“Message being sent,” purred the voice followed by, “you have one incoming message.”

“GW5 this is GW1 bring him in to daddy, over”.

“Sara, open tight beam to GW1,” commanded Sabot.

“Channel open,” stated the machine,“GW5 here affirmative, out.”

Briefly later he over flew some friendly missiles then the main group itself as it bore down hard on the aliens. The Wolves were still in a smart cross formation the faster ships keeping time with the slower Falcon. Sabot swung around to take a position to the rear.

The Khaak conglomerate split well before the advancing ordinance could make contact confusing some of the systems as they lost lock and registered a new series of distinct enemy contacts, a lethal KM3 and four angry KM5’s. Several explosions followed as Kyon Emitters commenced to lock on, and swat explosive targets like errant flies. Nonetheless, one KM5 was forced to race away with a group of trailing missile streams keeping pace. Another despite its best efforts was mobbed by a group of wasps, (part of a second wave of missiles) that alien scout craft soon exploded, and vanished off the screens.

Then angry energy bolts were flying like fireworks from both sides but for once the Khaak were outnumbered, and out gunned.

GW1 flown by Amon headed directly for the KM3 accepting a constant drain on his shields from the potent beam weapons, waiting to get into best range for his Alpha High Energy Plasma Throwers. Sweating slightly he let rip with a barrage of four weapons spinning clockwise with a slight strafing accent via the pedals, but Kyon Emitters were infamously difficult to avoid. Although his shields where getting dangerously low much of his plasma hit the shiny bluish metallic pyramids multiple surfaces shields with a similar good effect. For its part the KM3 seemed more intent on killing its target than staying in one piece.

Khaak were renowned for being either exceptionally brave, suicidal or simply unbalanced the truth was anybodies guess. Thus when the Buzzard that had slipped behind this alien during the commencement of the Falcons blistering barrage, hit the KM3 directly in the rear with a silkworm missile - as previously arranged - it was boom, and game over!

Sabot who had been hanging back monitoring the developing action as backup support noticed one more KM5 go down easily taken out by GW2 (another TM4 buzzard), this one employing efficient Alpha Particle Accelerator Canons, a handy weapon against light faster targets like M5 scout ships. That left only the one distant still fleeing contact that soon vanished from everyone’s Gravidar scanners the minor action was over.

Sabot noticed Amon transporting his shield generators back in a loop to his own ship, an action that played a peculiar flashing ripple over the shields surface as it returned to max capacity. It was a freaky side effect of wormholes, or whatever the physics professors decided to call these tunnels in space time only these, and some advanced mathematicians probably understood this mystery; how this process could dump excess heat, and at the same time restore the shield to full battery power in what was almost an instant. It was an old pirate scam that almost felt like cheating if your opponents lacked a Goner Transport Device to do the same, but Pirates didn’t believe in playing fair - not that any sane person in a life or death situation should - at least as far as the scout was concerned.

Some had even tried the Shield Transport Loop manoeuvre in the middle of combat, but not even a GTD was entirely instantaneous so it was generally deemed too risky. Accidents had happened, technicians claimed Shield Transport Loops also seemed to reduce the lifespan of the shield systems themselves, and was foolhardy in extremis, messing with dangerous forces with potentially unexpected, and unknown consequences, but when it was a question of credits or oblivion! Nor were pirate clans famed for caution, well at least they never used to be.

“GW5 this is GW1 please return to patrol over.”

“Affirmative GW1, GW5 out,” replied Sabot with a groan.
[stop]



[17:11][10-12-764][Federal]
[Freedom Station][Deep Space][Elena’s Fortune Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR FRDM HAC 018] initiate_

Bale smashed a meaty fist into a metal panel hard enough to dent it slightly, and to split his knuckles drawing a trickle of blood. It was a senseless act, and it hurt as well but he didn’t care he was used to pain, his whole life had hurt. Now sometimes Bale almost longed for the sensation it reminded him he was still alive whether agony was something he felt, or something he purposely inflicted upon others, sometimes it was good to share!

“The self-righteous tape worms leftover, just who does he think he is?” asked Bale.

“The Argon in charge around here,” returned Amon blandly.

The Wolf felt quite smug sure he was putting on a good show for the cameras he knew were watching.

“You standing for this, I only signed up with the Devil so I could dock, and get my ships repaired. Hell half my lads can hardly read. How much do you think a bunch of prissy data scrawls on a computer pad filled with regulations means to the likes of old Ploopydroop it only speaks garbled Argon via a translator,” continued Bale aggressively.

Slightly embarrassingly no one knew the Boron Pirates real name. Inscrutably it refused to volunteer this information so Bales rather racist moniker of Ploopydroop had become his official pirate label. Oddly Ploopydroop didn’t seem to mind in fact he / it / she (neither Pirate had enquired or cared about Boron gender issues) seemed to find it amusing along with a lot of other Argon customs, and habits. Bale for his part treated the creature like some sort of amusing mascot or court jester.

“Well it mightn’t mean much to you, but it means a lot to Jorac, and ‘Freedom Station’ is the Devils roost so unless you want to leave without your ships - I suggest - you kiss butt like the rest of us low lives,” stated Amon getting into a flow, “besides he’s right the Argon Navy are all over Elena’s Fortune. I don’t know what they are up to: a weapons test, fleet manoeuvres, a show of force, looking for us or Khaak. It doesn’t really matter what matters is that we stay nice and cosy, and quiet until the cursed storm blows over. That means you stay here until our Arch Fallen Angel gives the all clear just like the rest of the bilge rats.”

“I tell you Amon I like you, you’re an upright guy the sort an Argon could trust in a fire fight. I don’t have Jorac’s graces or education or his - Legend - but I know a bad bet when I see one. Like I seen straight through that one you gave that sucker Harrier Pilot Sabot. Well I don’t like the way this deck is getting shuffled, and me, and the boys are the ones that do the threatening, we aren’t the type to be easily intimidated,” stated Bale putting on his best don’t mess with me face.

“Listen, it’s only a temporary measure. Be reasonable - for feks sake - it’s common sense not to draw any attention with an entire Argon war fleet in the sector. You wouldn’t whip out your tackle, and start tinkling in the pool all your buddies are hiding in with the Coppers standing over your shoulder would you?” colourfully asked the red headed Pirate.

Bale stared at Amon for a moment or two as if weighing the words, and his options.

“Alright sense is sense, so ill wait until those overstuffed clowns finish their business, so long as it don’t pan out to be in this direction, but then…” Bale was physically shaking with agitation, “then the lads, and me are out of here, and nobody had better be blocking our way. Not even you Red,” he emphasised his point by using Jorac’s pet name for the Wolf Leader while prodding the big pirate with a stiff finger!

Amon grinned ignoring the threat, and the physical provocation from the Leader of the Black Rat Pirates.

“Bale you have been in port too long, you’re going soft on me,” said the Amon somehow still smiling.

“Yeah well, you know, I can be real accommodating fellow,” replied Bale, “just remember what I’ve said, and you can tell your Infernal Master that from me too.”

“That wouldn’t be a good idea Bale, it never pays to rock a boiling pot,” reminded Amon.

“We’ll see,” replied the rash Pirate, turning and storming off.
[end]



[17:33][10-12-764][Federal]
[Freedom Station][Deep Space][Elena’s Fortune Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR FRDM HAC 019] initiate_

Bale found the rest of ‘The Black Rat Squadron’ in the most obvious location the ‘Dive’. They were all there even Ploopydroop sitting in a Boron water stool with a water mask over his face submerged up to his waist in salty liquid, luxuriating in some fresh clean expensive fluid piped in from one high pressure tank, and out to another both on a portable trolley.

“So,” muttered Daem with a frown as he cradled an actively smoking bowl of the local weed.

“We stay,” stated Bale throwing himself into a seat, “It appears we have unwanted neighbours half the Argon fleet in sector a prancing parade or something.”

“Cool you sure we can’t go have a look see,” asked Brek who was still young enough to be impressed by lots of shiny military ships even hostile ones.

“Too risky, those boys have really tooled up recently, it’s not worth the agro,” confessed the pack Leader.

“With the Argon Navy or our host Jorac?” asked Daem sneering while enjoying the flare of anger across Bales countenance. It wasn’t always wise to provoke the King Rat but sometimes it was hard to resist!

“You guess,” replied the angry Pirate, reaching out toward one of the passing waitresses, and dragging her onto his lap with a yelp followed by a giggle, “Myself I aim to make the most of the situation.”

“Cursed right to that,” agreed Brek looking around as if searching for one of his own.

Ploopydroop just scooped up a small flagon of water with a delicate tentacle to tip it over his upper exposed torso with a whimpering sigh burbling out from behind his water mask as he gently rippled his other spreading tentacles.

“S’pose it’s a good opportunity to do a little essential work on my Buzzard,” noted Daem already bored with the smoky joint, “been meaning to try my hand at over tuning the engine a few notches,” he admitted, “damn Teladi speed restrictors always were set a bit low for my taste.”

“Careful with that Argon,” said Brek, “Mess it up, and the fly by wire will be up the smelly creek. Seen it happen to an impatient Paranid Peggy jock once, the three eyed fool ran straight into a Hercules TL down in Priests Pity at 2000ms. Can’t imagine with all that peripheral vision the fek didn’t see that one coming, much good the advanced warning did it,” explained the Pirate with a smirk, “anyway by some freak the Wyrm’s data recorder was set on open broadcast so the local authorities managed to collect an unusual amount of info for analysis. At the inquest turned out the extra engine tunings messed up the control interrupts of the rudder optimisations. At full acceleration his ship moved like a missile but suddenly steered like a heavily pregnant Argnu in labour!”

“Ouch,” replied Daem with feeling. “Still any moron that flits through a crowded sector at 2000ms is begging for it. Myself, I just want a little bit of an edge to surprise the competition.”

“You’ll surprise more than the competition when you fly into an asteroid,” noted Bale, “I prefer to leave that sort of customisation to the professionals, even if it costs a shipload of easy won credits easy come easy go, I would rather avoid the final last journey the Reapers Passage!”

“It’s not a biggie, did a similar adjustment on my old Buster. You just have to shake down the systems in a bit of clean open space,” explained Daem.

“Then you’re doubly out of luck, since we are both grounded, and in a station surrounded by a massive debris field,” said the sniggering Squadron Leader.

“Holy Paranidia,” replied Daem squinting through the smoke, and wiping his eyes, “ I can’t believe I didn’t think about that, time to stop casually sucking in the fumes, think I’ll raid my bunk instead.”

Flashing his credit credentials Bale whispered something into the ear of the waitress that had been gently struggling to get off his lap, through not too insistently. Suddenly she was all smiles, and full cooperation. Dragging the now eager female to her feet by a firm grip on her upper arm Bale replied, “I think I’ll join you.”

“In that case I’ll pay for a bunk out back,” mumbled Daem before sauntering over toward the bar. The Pirate was in no mood to be kept awake by his leaders noisy ardour back at the squads shared billet Bale liked to make a lot of noise, and to get his credits worth would go at it for a long time!

With Bale and his female companion hauling butt out the door Brek found himself alone staring at Ploopydroop.

The Boron waved a tentacle at him admonishingly, and started blowing some bubbles through his water mask, “Boron politely suggest you stop giving him the eye,” synthesised the voice of the softly, tinny accented translator.

Washing the floor with the top half of his drink Brek rocked his stool with laughter!
[end]



[22:00][10-12-764][Federal]
[Freedom Station][Deep Space][Elena’s Fortune Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR FRDM HAC 020] initiate_

Jorac stared into the data stream projected onto the wall of his quarters as if its scrolling pattern held the answer to his every dilemma. It was a strange affectation but he found watching the Stations raw code relaxing. Although entirely incomprehensible it reminded him that the efficient Central Monitoring System was always - in full flight operation - taking care of business, even when the Pirate Lord by necessity was not. In truth periods of repose for Jorac were far too infrequent these station cycles - their really was little rest for the wicked, and Jorac knew it was ill advised to sleep too soundly either - lest he failed to ever awaken.

Having the image projector installed to play the figures upon his bunk, and wall as decoration had been one whim - he had as yet - not grown tired of. Having all those Argon Navy boys arriving on his doorstep was making life difficult, and adding to his normal high burden of stress. Unlike his men he didn’t find it easy to let go at least not via drug or drink fuelled revels. Besides he didn’t feel secure enough to drop his guard to that degree, especially now. The Devil wondered what Faith was waiting for - an open invitation?

‘Freedom Station’ seemed predestined only to change ownership violently. If only the fleet would conclude its business, and move on or get down to business, and attack. Jorac felt slightly besieged their presence, and his forced response made his Leadership appear indecisive even possibly weak. Ruling was as much about perception as fact. It wouldn’t do for his subordinates to get the wrong idea. Nonetheless in a strange way the Fleets presence had also worked to his advantage - at least he thought it had at first.

Now he might be pushed to get back to basics, and spill a little blood. Their was an old saying attributed to some ancient warrior tribal chief or other that claimed in effect that: if he couldn’t kill his strong subjects - as their Chief - he couldn’t hope to rule them! It was much the same with Pirates. Most big cutthroat operations required the occasional exercise of the ultimate sanction to keep the rabble in line, how else could you bind a bunch of rabid killers to the leash except by intimidation, and enforced respect.

Clan Lords who failed to exercise their power often suffered from the consequences of delusions among their subjects that they had lost the ability, Jorac understood this fact only too well. The Devil was anything but squeamish about bloodletting. Yet unlike some he was unimpressed with - senseless - slaughter, and endeavoured to keep it to the minimum. Jorac despised waste, and also disliked being moved by others actions. Reaction always felt cheap compared to the pure pleasure of a plan that was conceived, and executed to your own perfect timing. Unfortunately much of life was reaction simply because their was so much going on out there you had to react to. Blindly sticking with a plan when events around you changed was a sure way to engineer defeat.

Jorac tried to stay flexible for example: he hadn’t been born a murderer. When he first discovered the joy of the hunt it had been a shock being filled with a young Argon’s naive self-loathing, and disgust at taking delight in another’s suffering. Killing went against all the normal programming of society. Luckily the military had helped him to see the error of this civilian attitude, so now he just regarded his ability to kill - yes even to take some small pleasure in it when required - as another useful personal attribute. Murder was a skill acquired through effort just as most worthwhile abilities are hard earned. In his current line of business demonstrating a degree of fervour for the instillation of terror was a real asset - something Jorac had mastered on Aladna Hill. One especially brutal act of infamy could stave off the necessity for a hundred more you just had to be pragmatic.

Being logical about brutality was the key Jorac found himself thinking of suitable candidates for an object lesson given the Stations mood; Bale obviously sprung to mind but it would be too easy. Besides killing the captain of a crew (even as unimpressive as The Black Rats sometimes were) always had unexpected, unpredictable consequences! Anyway that would leave that Boron without a strong leader that worried him - Jorac doubted that creature was as amusing, and innocent as it seemed - he suspected it was something much, much more. With their comical voice boxes, and laughable appearance no other race was so easily underestimated. Jorac disliked such assumptions he had long suspected Ploopydroop of being a planted agent - he just hadn’t been able to figure out for whom - which seriously impressed him. Until he figured out who Ploopy was working for Jorac was content to watch, but it still rankled like a mild itch.

Young Sabot also sprang to mind, personable enough, and willing but also prone to gaffs, and being a late arrival nobody would cry over his corpse too much, except perhaps paradoxically Slip, but that might be a good thing. Then again Sabot was probably too new to be a good example. Besides again it would be almost too easy despite Sabot’s recent surprising show of self-control in the ‘Dive’ Jorac was sure it would be simple in public - for him at least - to rile the hothead then cut him down when he overstepped himself. Too easy in fact, such an action would make him look nothing more than a bully picking on a weakling. Anyway Sabot really was a very good M5 pilot despite himself, and scouts where in short supply at the moment. Unfortunately unskilled scouts were usually the first to die in any serious fracas. No, he would wait to see how Sab fitted in with the Wolves just in case Faith continued to disappoint, and the battle moved outward into the night where skilled M5 pilots would be needed.

Amon? Well he had recently angered him but despite sensing that Amon’s overall commitment to the cause was wavering, he was as yet, too useful. Besides he was also the Leader of a Crew, and on a good day the Grey Wolves were a totally different proposition to the Black Rats.

One of his very own would be the best way to go, clearly showing that he was still capable of being both ruthless, and unpredictable that would keep everyone on edge. Unfortunately, all the Fallen Angels were hand picked quality troopers. Jorac then considered that he could of course use this opportunity to get rid of his other Devils Advocate Slip to some purpose. Everyone must be subordinate to the overall design - which ultimately meant disposable - but Slip interested him, she was fun to watch. Besides he was grooming her as a possible distraction from thinking about the final curtain, the consequences of his scheme succeeding.

Roid was another possible victim simply because he was so popular, and seemingly dependable - killing that one would shock everyone - but he would be a loss like stripping the lubricant out of ‘Freedom Stations’ engine. Finally Jorac concluded he could afford to wait - at least for a while unless morale degraded faster than expected - maybe fate would intervene, and some target would overstep themselves early. Some fool would always present themselves to his skinning knife sooner or later. Maybe one or more individuals from one of the lesser clans would get beyond themselves.

The devil as they say is in the detail. Waiting was always the hard part. Jorac wished he knew what was keeping Faith why had his shadow stayed her hand. His presence so close had to be a splinter in the eye of Jorac’s female nemesis. Faith had to know that her Devil - the Arch Fallen Angel - the Clan Lord of the Fallen Angels hadn’t roosted like this since the darkest of times, not since Aladna Hill when he had been trapped by that embargo. Here I am, you unholy Argnu, come and get me - of course she would suspect it was a trap to kill her - still that shouldn’t stop the relentless huntress.

It was the Argon Carrier the ‘Lost For Words’ interest in this Sector that had brought the infamous Pirate Lord with the sinister reputation to ‘Freedom Station’ first as a guest than later as the owner after a well timed takeover. Faith was connected to that Carrier in some way she had long used it as a mobile base of operations. Jorac guessed she was in this sector babysitting something sensitive to the Federal Argon as usual, maybe that is the mistake I have made, not trying to find out exactly what?

Jorac knew it was possible his inactivity had drawn too much of Faith’s suspicion, what if she doesn’t believe I am simply hiding, or waiting to lure her strike? Jorac had thought the recent arrival of the Fleet played into his hands an even better reason to stay put, but Faith had to act, and act soon before his lads got too restless. Could the Navy Operative be waiting him out, had he taught her that much patience, or at last instilled that much fear? Jorac wondered what face the covert female was wearing now?

What if Faith was actually dead? What if the huntress had been among the infiltrators he had been forced to remove to protect Tur Ryn, and the most essential secret caches? Jorac had to admit that he hated giving the initiative away even as part of his own scheme, he preferred to be proactive not reactive. If Faith didn’t move against him soon it would all fall apart like a badly built house of cards on a shaky Space Fuel Den table? Faith had to take Freedom so that she could obtain the vital knowledge about some of the caches, and come to believe that at last she had won - only then would Kerry be safe - with a new Guardian Angel to watch over her. It hadn’t been easy to rig the clues so that only Faith could possibly find the sacrificial material stores. Jorac took a deep breath and forced himself to relax thinking about such matters before bed was poor rest management. Once again he asked himself, am I really prepared to die to be free of her?

After double checking the functionality of his - state of the art - security system, and the integrity of his heavy door locks Jorac stripped a small practical secondary low velocity slug thrower off his thigh slipping it under his pillow, and lay down to rest as best he could. Rest didn’t always come easy to the Pirate Lord (while his conscience didn’t really bother him as such) Jorac just had too many memories crammed into his skull - so many - that sometimes it felt like his cranium might burst under the pressure of his past. Some reminiscences were always floating just behind the Fallen Angels eyes like constant companions - most of those being related to Kerry, and the infamous period when he had terrorised the Hill to birth a dark legend.

Outside Freedom Station, Space Flies that had been chasing each other around the wreckage - flitting in random directions - collected to swarm around a tiny object that rested undetected by any more intelligent creatures. Tiny gravity fluctuations, and other invisible barely registering electronic emanations were acting as an attractant to the sensitive playful glowing alien life forms. One especially inquisitive individual swooped low unable to control its instincts it approached the device with the speed of a rocket, racing in as a moth might hurl itself toward a flame. However before it struck the objects surface it slipped gently across a repulsing shield to veer away like an errant spark. Unimpressed it continued in a wide arc drawing its brethren singing after itself.
[end]

[Paranoid66]

Reapers Passage
X3 Fan Fiction by Paranid66

[New] Chapter 4 – Dancing with the Devil

[Historic Records Fragment Consolidation][the HAC Incident #4] compiling_

[03:58][12-12-764][Federal]
[The Avoidant][Elena’s Fortune Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR FRDM HAC 021] initiate_

Sabot in his ship the ‘Avoidant’ crept quietly up to the edge of ‘Elena’s Fortune’ grid space. Running as silent as possible he stopped behind a large asteroid. Here he would wait for ‘Midnight’ not the time, but a Mercury TS. According to his information the expected ship was loaded down with an enigmatic bulk cargo. The cargo was mysterious because the Arch Fallen Angel had kept its contents firmly hidden under the shadow of his more metaphorical wings.

Ironically time wise ‘Midnight’ was running late. Hunting through the Universe Map Sabot (after much frantic searching) eventually found the ship. ’Midnight’ was in ‘Emperor Mines’ (a border sector of Paranid Space). He wondered, what the Mercury class freighter was doing all the way out there? From the schedule it was far from its expected placement; Sabot - didn’t much like this fact - it stank of potential complications. When it came to criminality unexpected changes meant trouble.

Sabot wished he had been informed of the ships inventory; he hated stumbling about in the dark. Could the ‘Midnight’ be returning from one of Jorac’s famous hidden stolen treasure stores - one or more - of the ‘Fallen Angel’ legendary Caches? Why otherwise would the Lord of ‘Freedom Station’ want the cargo transported to the Pirate Base clandestinely - especially - from the bulk of his own troops? The furtive way Jorac had Amon approach him had excited Sabots interest, now this gross tardiness added a degree of concern.

With seeming ages to waste Sabot looked about his cockpit for something to do. He flicked through a few games, but decided against that idea - they would rob him of far too much overall concentration.

With a grimace he thought about another option changed his mind, then reconsidered again. Before he could double back once more the Harrier pilot spoke up.

“Sara activate DR,” he commanded firmly.

“Doctor Routine active,” said Sara.

“Good Morning Sabot,” said a new even more soothing female voice, “it has been a while how are you feeling?”

“About the same as ever,” replied Sabot a bit morosely.

“You will have to explain, as you wiped my case files again,” noted the Doctor with what sounded like a tone of mild reprimand.

“I know, it didn’t seem safe, I always wipe the files after a session,” Sabot noted.

“This lack of continuity makes diagnosis most difficult,” replied the Doctor.

“I prefer to do my own diagnosis. I just need somebody safe to talk to,” replied Sabot.

“Somebody safe,” reiterated the Software Routine, “you feel you can’t trust others?”

“I know I can’t, and you always ask that,” noted Sabot, “and I’m not Paranoid.”

“Perhaps not, still if you could refrain from deleting my files we could move forward to more productive areas,” said the Doctor.

“You always say that as well,” complained Sabot.

“Conditioned responses (I can’t help being what I am) please tell me about yourself. I am not important just an illusion - not even a true AI - as you know well,” stated the Doctor.

“I hardly know where to begin,” began Sabot, “A little context perhaps. I guess all you remember is my name, and the time stamps of previous sessions. Right now I’m on a mission: I’m a Pirate, a thief, and a killer does that shock you?”

“I understand the concept of morality however I have not been configured to judge your behaviour - not by those standards - you also know this,” explained the Routine, “Do you feel guilty about your crimes, would you like me to be shocked?”

“Not really, not this morning,” admitted Sabot glibly, “Anyway I’m waiting here all alone. Supposedly on what Amon had the cheek to call a: covert (low intensity) interference distraction operation - say that fast drunk or high on space weed.”

“Not something I have to be concerned about,” said the Doctor, “this Amon I presume is your boss - from your bio readings you are angry with him?”

“Amon is my Clan Leader. I think he is spending too much time around the increasingly dogmatically militaristic Arch Fallen Angel Jorac (the boss of the bosses around here). Then again maybe the wording of my brief was designed to communicate the importance of the mission. To be honest I don’t know why Jorac handed this operation off to me - if it was so sensitive, and important.”

“Don’t you feel worthy of your employers trust?” DR asked, “or do you doubt that this Jorac person does trust you?”

“I imagine they think I have something of an attitude problem at the moment,” noted Sabot, “I don’t think Pirates like Jorac - really - trust anyone. Everything he does is done for a reason he’s a calculating son of a slut. I just wish I knew what his reason was?”

“Do you believe you have an attitude problem?” DR asked.

“I suppose, but I have my reasons,” admitted Sabot.

“Please tell me about them,” requested the Routine.

Sabot gave DR a quick summary of his past including following Slip to ‘Freedom’ ending with the ‘First Day Fool’ ritual explaining how Amon, and Jorac had finally come clean about this test when it was deemed completed to their satisfaction.

“You still feel resentful?” DR asked.

“I do,” confessed Sabot.

“For your own good you should have consulted me before now,” advised the DR.

“I didn’t think that was wise on station. I told you somebody very competently hacked into my ships systems when they switched my drug supplies,” noted Sabot, “ I didn’t want to reveal all my inner thoughts on file to a potential enemy spy. My shipboard data when I’m on station is not secure.”

“However this rite of passage you spoke of - it is over - is it not?” DR asked.

“The ritual may well be over, but somebody is always pushing you on ‘Freedom’. Despite the Clan structure - the way I see things - it is still every Argon for themselves,” explained Sabot.

“You feel isolated? Not part of the community? Do you trust anyone?” DR asked.

“I guess I’m beginning to trust one person - a little - but it isn’t easy even with her. I don’t know, so much is going on. I worry I’m just going to be betrayed again,” noted Sabot.

“Why is she different?” DR asked.

“She trusted me,” Sabot noted.

“Please explain,” said the Doctor.

“Amon, and Tall Tale had a bet. The girls on station conspired against Tall Tale mostly for a laugh because he is such a vain, and boastful lover. Shunt told me about it,” he explained, “I know it is a small thing, but I could have got her into serious trouble with her peers if I had betrayed that scheme.”

“Is that the only reason why you trust her?” DR asked.

“No not the only reason. Shunt didn’t take part in my Party, or in my humiliation afterwards. She talked to me on her ship about her feeling for Innis, something unusual for her (normally she likes to keep her strongest feelings to herself) everyone told me this. I guess that helped me to get a bit of perspective on my own difficulties. Later on her ship we… well we consoled each other. I know it sounds lame especially since nothing physical happened - beyond a few hugs - that is,” confessed Sabot feeling pretty stupid.

“You find that surprising? Did you want to make love to her?” DR asked.

“Yes, No, I thought about it, but it didn’t seem right,” Sabot began, “How sad is that? I know it would have been easy, and maybe it would have done us both good. Hell I felt pretty lonely at the time, but I worried it would complicate things later.”

“How do you think Shunt felt?” Dr asked.

“I think she thought about it too,” said Sabot, “I guess that could just be my own vanity speaking, but I’m sure she did - it was the way she looked at me, but only for a moment. Maybe she is afraid to get too close to another crazy Scout (in her mind someone else likely to get themselves killed). I felt… I guess I felt a bit of a fool afterwards. I’m sure I could have talked her around, but I was also glad we hadn’t actually done anything. Still doing nothing made me feel a bit weak - soft - if you know what I mean. Then I saw somebody else in the Bay I knew it was Slip, and I just felt angry as hell.”

“Slip the same girl you told me about during your summary, the one that was stalking you, and attacked you?” Dr asked.

“The same one,” admitted Sabot.

“What did you do?” DR asked.

“Nothing,” admitted Sabot feeling a little embarrassed even talking to the machine.

“Why?” Dr asked.

“What could I do we were both in vacuum suits for a start,” noted Sabot, “it was a depressurised bay. Fooling about under those conditions didn’t seem sensible.”

“Fooling about?” Dr asked.

“A confrontation,” clarified Sabot getting a little exasperated, “any kind of altercation.”

“If she was in a vacuum suit how did you know it was your antagonist?” DR asked.

“Well I wasn’t close enough to see her face,” admitted Sabot, “difficult to explain maybe it was her size - it was a small suit - maybe her stance the way she was watching me. Look I just knew sometimes you do its an Argon thing.”

“Of course you weren’t being paranoid?” Dr asked.

“I wasn’t - believe me - put it down to subconscious computation if you like,” said Sabot.

“You still could have spoken to her over communications,” noted the Routine.

“I considered waiting for her outside the airlock. However I thought better of it, she had already bested me once. I’ve never really got the better of her not even on planet,” Sabot admitted.

Sabot always found it easier to play full confessions with the machine. Unlike a real person DR’s memory could, and would be wiped afterwards.

“If you are afraid of her why did you follow her to ‘Freedom Station’?” DR asked.

“I’m not afraid of her,” said Sabot angrily, “I’m just cautious, that’s not the same thing. As to why I followed her - I suppose I thought it was ironic destiny. Dogging her path to my advantage, and I hoped to her eventual detriment she owed me.”

“Yet she is the one now following you around,” replied the Routine.

“I know, and that really is ironic! Do you think that is why she is doing it - to mock my own obsession?” Sabot asked.

“Would you like to make love to her?” Dr asked.

“What?” Sabot asked thinking the DR had a surprisingly one track mind for software.

“Would you like to make love to Slip?” Dr asked again obviously intent on getting an answer.

“Hell no,” said Sabot then thinking about how the Routine was only as good as its data he reconsidered, “alright maybe… look I’ve thought about it but not in a nice way.”

“Not in a nice way?” DR asked pointedly.

“I had a dream once - to be honest it kind of shocked me - I… I wouldn’t. I’ve never been with anyone that wasn’t willing. I’ve never used anything more than unforced persuasion,” Sabot stated, “I’m not like that I’m a Pirate not a pervert or a rapist. Damn it I’m not responsible for a wild subconscious fantasy - I mean that isn’t really me is it?”

“Do you worry that it is you?” DR asked.

“I suppose it bothered me at the time - like I said I’m no pervert,” noted Sabot.

“What if Slip was willing to be persuaded?” Dr asked.

“Fek,” replied Sabot thinking about how challenging this Routine could be. What if Slip was genuinely willing what would he do? Could he resist the temptation, and would it be an act of twisted cruelty if he succumbed? Slip knotted up everything she touched.

“What if Slip is following you because deep down she has an attraction?” DR asked.

“Saying it doesn’t make it so,” replied Sabot feeling more uneasy than he liked to imagine.

“What if you were following her for the same reason?” DR asked.

What if I was - no it was impossible - not Slip she had betrayed him, and was far too dangerous for crazy liaisons.

“Slip is the least of my troubles,” lied Sabot, “I’d rather talk about something else.”

“If you wish I am not programmed to disobey but you may not get a proper diagnosis,” noted the Software Routine.

“Like I told you I’m not interested in your diagnosis. I just need somebody to talk to,” replied Sabot.

“What do you want to talk about?” DR asked.

“The Arch Fallen Angel Jorac. Given everything I told you in my summary why do you think Jorac gave me this mission?” Sabot asked.

“I am not programmed to analyse the intent of third parties with any great accuracy. I am programmed to work from the direct input of my user,” confessed the Routine.

“In other words you are better with questions than answers,” noted Sabot.

“Without questions, and answers I cannot compute the correct reply. Any answers you might give to me on Jorac’s behalf would retain inaccuracy. I am not designed to compound error, but to uncover truths my user conceals from his or her self,” replied the Doctor.

Sabot shook his head and rubbed at the wound on his throat it was healing, but would leave a permanent scar. A bit like recent events - though they were now lost forever in the past - they had left hidden marks beneath his skin like deep sub dermal tattoos.
[end]



[04:04][12-12-764][Federal]
[The Avoidant][Elena’s Fortune Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR FRDM HAC 022] initiate_

Sabot put the DR on pause to check on ‘Midnights’ progress. So far the Mercury’s pilot didn’t seem to be in any kind of hurry. Frustrated Sabot scanned ‘Elena’s Fortune’ again. The system map was full of traffic an awful lot of it military. Still the military was mostly concentrated in three regions: the massed fleet itself in one place, the standard Sector Security in another, and lastly a group of craft around the ‘Lost for Words’ carrier. None of these assemblages happened to be near any of the systems Jump Gates which struck Sabot as being a bit odd.

If all those capital ships moved against ‘Freedom Station’, thought Sabot we will have less chance of surviving than a watery Boron exposed naked to the scorching high gravity surface of Paranid Prime. What the hell am I doing here? Why aren’t I running for the nearest Gate? Unfortunately every time he thought about fleeing visions of the Arch fallen Angel Jorac from that interview of his welled out of his subconscious like… well like some god cursed Devil of old!

Sabot took the Doctor Routine off pause he felt like he needed the therapy.

“Given what you told me about your father,” recommenced the DR, “why after you escaped from his physical domination of your person did you then seek out dominance by another?”

“What do you mean?” asked Sabot beginning to think reinitiating the session was a bad idea. Maybe I don’t really want to go there, he thought, but the gears of morbid curiosity had become engaged.

“Well you sought to place yourself under the dominance of a new Alpha Male: this Arch Fallen Angel figure - do you not see a disturbing similarity, a pattern of behaviour?” DR asked.

“I didn’t pick my Father so how can that be true?” Sabot retorted happy to think he had found a flaw in the Routines logic.

“True, but you did choose to relinquish your independence. Not just that, but to willingly submit to another’s all consuming authority. A dominion by one already according to you - famed - for his brutality,” noted DR, “Is that not the case?”

Sabot had to admit the software had a point, but it hadn’t been like that at all, had it?

“I was motivated by other factors,” Sabot replied sure that was true.

“Didn’t you feel competent to survive on your own?” DR asked.

“No I was fine,” emphatically began Sabot then he weakened his position a little by saying, “well not fine but not incompetent either - I simply saw greater strength in numbers. I wanted to take advantage of resources held by others.”

“You didn’t think about the consequences of relinquishing your autonomy?” DR asked.

“In truth I didn’t. I saw it more like joining a winning team not some kind of submission,” Sabot replied.

“Yet it didn’t work out like that, did it?” Dr asked. “If you had the decision to make again would you still follow Slip to ‘Freedom’?”

“No,” replied Sabot knowing that to be the truth.

“Is that because of these father figures because of Jorac, and Amon?” DR asked.

“Isn’t that a bit overly simplistic?” Sabot asked.

“Is it?” DR retorted.

Jorac had provided him with another prime opportunity to run right now, another test perhaps? However if he deliberately mutinied during a mission vengeance would be all he could expect from the Pirates. Jorac took his feuds deadly seriously, and he was somebody Sabot was now terrified to make an enemy of. Damn it would be so simple to go. He imagined racing towards, and out any one of the three Jump Gates here, vanishing into other sectors maybe on to another species space, but if he did Sabot was convinced he would never rest easy again not even among say the Split who Jorac despised.

Sab didn’t want to live like that: to be always watching his back, living on borrowed time, waiting for the hunters to come calling. In a way he had come to ‘Freedom’ in search of a home a degree of security conversely he didn’t want to die like a bilge rat in a stinking trap either. Bale had a point in some ways ‘Freedom’ had become a cage. They had been lured in, each in their own way - by the Devil - then the door had slammed shut in their faces imprisoning them all.

Sabot knew Bale had taken an interest in him as a tool. The Rat thought he could be easily manipulated by feeding his resentments, but Sabot wasn’t that big of a fool. The Wolf Cub as some now insisted on calling him knew he had little real loyalty left to his Pack or the Fallen Angels, but he wasn’t going to be employed by another either.

Annoyingly his Clan status hardly seemed to impact upon his final choice to leave or stay. Jorac’s long shadow still stretched out from the dark recesses of his own minds subconscious. The Devil washed over his will blotting out all light of hope. Since that interview Sabot’s terror of the Pirate Lord had steadily increased in a most sinister, and stealthy manner. The more time passed, the longer Sabot found himself thinking about that infernal encounter, and the worse he felt. Of course it could be argued that God’s, and Devil’s existed in everyone as embodiments of light, and dark impulses potentialities, but with Jorac it felt stronger - different more than simple metaphor - it felt real.

Sabot had become aware of new insights. How fleetingly almost entirely new facial expressions had been shown to him, expressions that rose out of the depths like a poisonous algal bloom - it made him sweat like an Argon with a fever. It had been almost as if multiple personalities dwelt within Jorac striving to get out. Could Jorac’s time on Aladna Hill have driven him insane in a cold calculating way? Could insanity run so cool? Jorac certainly didn’t rant, and rave in the traditional sense (the way Sabot usually imagined the seriously unbalanced behaving).

Then Sabot thoughts turned to his own Father that one had rarely raved, but he had hardly been what society would term as normal either. Sabot recalled looks simple facial expressions that somehow screamed out irrational malice instead.

Amon had told Sabot plainly that he was one of the Devils auxiliaries now, that the infernal ones wrath would now reach out to shelter him, but conversely the Devil would never let him go as his confederate either - that was the contract - and it was binding forever. His Father had thought a bit like that as well - that his child was a possession something he owned (bought and paid for) bound to him no matter how harshly he chose to treat his son: the confinements, the beatings, the constant fear.

“Once you are in - you are in for good or ill - make the most of it,” Amon told him.

“You are mine, you will always be mine,” his Father had said, “you might as well learn to appreciate it.”

‘Appreciate it’ the words were different, but the sentiments far too similar for Sabot’s liking. Especially after listening to the Doctor. However was he really beyond reprieve? Sabot had one hope - nobody lived forever - not even an Arch Fallen Angel, and certainly not a lesser villain like his own Father back on his home world. Was he really caught up in some sort of cycle - had he sought out another abusive father to replace the one he had left behind? Why would I do such an insane thing? Such stark thoughts almost made Sabot wonder if Jorac was the rational one, that it was himself going a little bit mad?

“Silence speaks louder than any words,” noted the DR, “are you sure you don’t want a formal diagnosis?”

“Very sure,” replied Sabot with a frown before commanding, “Pause.”



Sabot checked where ‘Midnight’ was once again. Interestingly Amon had revealed earlier that even he didn’t know what cargo the Mercury carried, of course he could have been deliberately insincere.

“One night that curiosity of yours is going to be your undoing,” Amon had insisted.

That made Sabot wonder if Amon was really that well trained? Was the Lead Wolf actually able to fully stifle his own questions when it came to his fell overlords actions.

Lately Amon had been trying to get around Sabot by making much of the fact that he had come through his testing (in the Wolf Leaders opinion) reasonably unscathed, but Sab actually felt like strips had been tore out of his reputation, and he was now as a direct result struggling to fit in.

“Nothing worthwhile comes too easy,” Amon had noted, “if you ask me you are lucky Sabot. Many Pirates would give up a years takings to be a Grey Wolf. To be honest things have worked out fekking good for you. Trust me,” Amon grinned broadly, “you can be too close to the Infernal One.”

“You think,” Sabot recalled he had replied more than a little sarcastically.

“I do,” Amon continued still upbeat ignoring his recruits tone, “look Sabot I’m all lectured out you’ll soon find the advantages for yourself, but I’ll tell you this much: I’d rather be an Auxiliary than a ‘Fallen Angel’ anytime. This way you get many of the protections yet keep a wider degree of independence,” Sabot had found himself wondering who Amon was trying to fool Sabot or himself.

“Did you really want Jorac breathing down your neck all the time? I didn‘t understand why you wanted into that crew in the first place. If you were after some kind of revenge against Slip then that was courting serious trouble,” Amon warned him, “I never judged you as suicidal.”

Sabot found understanding why everyone had suddenly got their knives out was a boon - even if he didn’t like what had happened over the last few station cycles. Of course during even the best of times no Pirates life was devoid of horseplay for example: Tall Tale had recently been shafted by Amon with another bet, yet that scoundrel hadn’t taken it too badly - at least not on the surface in front of his watching colleagues.

Thinking about that bet reminded Sabot of his new association with Shunt. It was funny how he hadn’t really taken Shunt under his notice before. The Medic had merely been a part of the background. Then Shunt had walked out on his party, later they had met in the corridor upon his return from that Couriers escape. Everything began to change Shunts candid sympathy - had helped to calm him down - putting his troubles into a wider perspective. Sabot appreciated Shunt was still quietly mourning her own loss; that she had been able to talk to him about this seemed to surprise her as much as it had delighted him. They had done a lot of talking since.

“Normally I prefer to be alone when troubled,” Shunt had confessed.

Other Wolves had told him the same fact. Sabot soon discovered it felt good to share a few miseries. He also understood that Shunt wasn’t just hugging onto a selfish grief. Shunt was cursed with guilt. Foolishly the Medic was troubled because she had failed to somehow save her friends life - during that fateful mission in Bala Gi’s Joy. Also Shunt believed she hadn’t taken advantage of the opportunities she had possessed. Shunt had failed to tell Innis how she had really felt about him while he was still alive.

Sab found it was easy to console her. He could sincerely tell her that he truly believed what had occurred wasn’t her fault. Based on the details he had been given only Innis could have saved Innis. As to lost opportunities well no doubt the deceased Wolf Scout knew well enough how Shunt actually felt words or no words.

“We’re not always as emotionally stunted as we like to imagine,” said Sabot, “I’d bet Innis was just waiting for the right moment to reciprocate.”

Despite this much needed new found connection Sabot knew the Doctor was right he was far from over his other resentments. Deep inside he still wrestled with feeling raw, ragged, and aggrieved - especially about that violation of his ships security systems - (an over the top action to his mind) by whoever had messed with his drugs supply. Yet he swore again, and again not to do anything rash. Shunt, Roid, and even Jake had each independently suggested that he drop it for his own good.

“Yesterday is dead give it a good send off then move on,” Roid had suggested.

Sensible enough, but Sabot couldn’t prevent himself from continuing to blame Bright for circumventing Sara’s multiple security systems. Who else could easily have done that? While he refrained from actually accusing her of hacking his onboard - it was obvious to everyone that something was wrong between her, and the Wolf Cub.

Sabot now insisted in giving Bright the Wolf Clans computer expert a wide berth. In future he planned to buy in external help to reconfigure, and improve his ships anti intrusion defences. Help that wouldn’t be around his craft on a daily basis to take advantage of any knowledge they might have. Sabot was learning the advantages of a degree of separation.

Thinking about unwanted attentions Sabots thoughts circled around to Slip again. To his utter frustration when he had complained about the girls ongoing antics Amon had the audacity to quip back that it was a free station, and Slip was fully entitled to go wherever she liked as long as she kept to public access areas. It was an argument Sabot could hardly dispute. Annoyingly Slip - didn’t slip up - by doing anything he could justifiably complain about. No, she knew exactly how to play her dodgy little mind games with him.

Sometimes he swore Slip was seeking to render him down to her own gutter level. If it hadn’t been for the steadying influence of Shunt, Sabot didn’t know what he might have done. Shunt had advised him to ignore her - that nothing else could be a better punishment to somebody like Slip. Slightly annoyingly though Shunt didn’t seem to entirely take Sabots Slip problem seriously. Shunt seemed to find Slip’s haunting of Sabot only amusing. To his widening consternation Sabot also noticed how much Slip liked to tease others, inexplicably this also made him angry.

Atrociously due to her constant appearances some part of him also started to involuntarily miss her when she wasn’t around. Sabot began to fear he was being subconsciously conditioned. It was like an especially annoying repetitive sound for example: a steady station side condensation drip when you were trying to sleep. After a while if the rhythm was broken it was just as off putting - if not more so - you almost yearned for it. The silent gap between drips became deafening the anticipation even more painful than the aggravating noise.

Sabot found he couldn’t get his head around all these things why couldn’t he just let her go, like he had let Bright go. Every time he succeeded in putting Slip out of his head - there she was - watching him again, or ever so accidentally crossing his path, or talking so loud that he couldn’t fail to recognise her voice in the crowd. Could they both really be harbouring some sort of warped affection for each other? Sabot could foresee it ending in nothing but disaster.

It didn’t help his position much that everyone including the Wolf Leader seemed on edge about more important matters - notably the visiting Navy fleet. The cursed Federals stubbornly refused to either depart or to move against ‘Freedom’. At least an attack would force some sort of resolution even if it was just a mass migration. Instead of a clean battle or a flight into hiding it felt like a noose was tightening ever so slowly around all the Pirates necks. Sometimes he could swear he could almost feel it pinching in, squeezing the life out of him. It was a slow, but mechanical process that demonstrated an implacable strength an assault you couldn’t reason with because it was mindless. The Navy was slowly cutting off their air supply in a manner that gave them all too much time to think about their impending demise. The lingering agony of it reminded him of Slip as well.

Once again Sab considered simply absconding from all these layered tortures. What could feel better than to simply fly away from these woes? It would be wise to go before the Federal Navy did strike. He was convinced they must attack the base sooner or later. How could the military resist destroying the nearby Pirate nest when so much military force was readily available for that simple task? Despite Jorac’s mind games the Navy had to know exactly where ‘Freedom Station’ was? Yet Jorac despite of, or because of, his precautions didn’t seem too concerned.

Recently when Sabot heard Jorac talking about the Navy despite advising a degree of caution from his troops something about him seemed eager - no actually confidently expectant fit better. A lot of idle gossip was spreading among the Clans, it was interesting how split opinion was. Sabot judged more than half of the station seemed to think Jorac was untouchable, but that still left a lot of uncertain Pirates. Jorac’s adherents however insisted their idol was laying a trap for the entire fleet not the other way around.

Voices among the other group feared the Arch Fallen Angel had permitted himself to be blockaded just like Aladna Hill. A few claimed this was Jorac’s weakness a propensity for occasionally going to ground - to responding only to threats as they occurred rather than acting to forestall them beforehand. Sabot had even heard a fascinating theory that Jorac was following some sort of subconscious cyclic pattern of his own - re-enacting his past in search of absolution; that on the inside he was suicidal, and wanted to be caught, or killed.

It had amazed Sabot that among the stations bloodthirsty crew were individuals that remained that philosophical. Everyone made much from all camps of the fact that Tur Ryn (Jorac’s chosen heir), and Kerry (Jorac’s only surviving family) were both off Station, and had been for a long time. Sabot wished he had a firm opinion to work with, but he couldn’t make up his mind; when it came to Jorac even more of his certainties vanished. Now to make matters worse Sabot had the Doctors ‘father figure’ theory haunting him as well.

Sabot flipped through the Universe Map ‘Midnight’ was still far away. Sabot groaned what he needed was some action. Recently he had been given far too much time to think.
[end]



[04:22][12-12-764][Federal]
[the Avoidant][Elena’s Fortune Sector]
[Full Simulated Composite Historic Record]
[FSCHR FRDM HAC 023] initiate_

Still waiting but with ‘Midnight’ now fast approaching Sabot was all business in his Harrier the ‘Avoidant’. Roughly Sabot calculated the speed, and distance of the icon representing the freighter as it neared the east Jump Gate within the neighbouring Sector of ‘Presidents End’.

A short time before ‘Midnight’ was due at the wormhole aperture itself the new Wolf Clan member switched across one notch to the ‘Elena’s Fortune’ Sector Map, selected a perfectly placed combat target, and gunning his over tuned engine. Thus commenced a madcap intercept course that saw Sabot tearing through space - for a short time - actually using his full-extended throttle.

Smartly the so called Wolf Cub switched his communicator to wide broadcast which simultaneously started a prepared audio file. A bold recording slurred out - a notorious - Space Pirate bawdy. The unexpected entertainment had been specifically manufactured for this mission carefully primed for example: to commencing mid chorus - as if accidentally transmitted - via a mistaken button press. Soon everyone in range was sharing the Pirates enthusiastic if somewhat erratic terribly badly sung (drunken sounding) vocalisation. Sabot was sure this broadcast made a fine herald to his arrival.

While his ship blasted out the rude song Sabot spun, and strafed crazily around an - in fact - well chosen vector. Sabot was endeavouring to make a fine show of himself for two reasons 1) he had to be highly visible, and 2) it would do no harm if he was underestimated.

Despite being glad of this mission Sabot nonetheless half wished he really was as high on booze, and weed as the recording seemed to indicate. Paradoxically as much as he had yearned to be alone recently, now without any support whatsoever Sabot had to admit he was feeling a little over exposed. Still he couldn’t complain too much this drunken Pirate methodology was his own approved invention.

Having the song playing out in his right earpiece also helped Sabot shrug off his brooding mood. The glimmer of a smile appeared on his young face. Starting to go with the flow his grin soon broadened. The tune was an old favourite of his called ‘Jumping too soon’ a hilariously crude - if in places - most anatomically unlikely Pirate lyricism.

Notably the wording featured an unfortunate series of liaisons by a lost young Argon Goner Priest trying to find his way home following a tragic miss Jump. The engine error had landed the Goner Pilot into an entirely unmapped, and unknown region of space. Of course various over eager alien femme fatales were destined to come to his rescue. Each temptress blessed with a surplus of curiosity about more than his beliefs. After all to them the soft pink skinned Argon creature was wondrously exotic. Every close encounter, and its consequence being more extreme than the last for Brother Kevlar. Yet paradoxically each fall also brought him one step, or jump closer to returning back home. Back (for good or ill) to his one true love at the Goner Temple in ‘Cloudbase Southwest’.

The recording had just got to the point about the unexpected joys, and perils of getting err squeezed by some tenacious tentacles when Sabot came into firing range of his fleeing Target. Sabot’s innocent victim (a fellow Argon) was flagged up as an ‘Electronic Engineer’ to justify the kill Sabot pretended it was payback; after all, there was never an Electronic Engineer around when you needed one - and the call out fees were (he decided to believe) sure to be astronomical so this Patricia Vern obviously deserved to die.

Sabot’s target who had at first been amused by the naughty broadcast - foolishly only contrived to realise the loud very fast, and erratic Pirate Harrier was moving to intercept her at the last moment. Unsurprisingly Patricia was then filled with alarm, and consternation - she had never had any trouble from Pirates before. Now the drunkenness of the Harrier Jockey no longer seemed amusing at all. Patricia feared the Pirate might be attacking her simply because he wasn’t in control of himself, and didn’t realise it was a profitless venture.

“Break off I have nothing of value,” she yelled out over communications, but the Drunken Idiot kept on vector.

Belatedly realising it was hopeless the Engineer took evasive action, but by then it really was: far too little, far too late. The tidy looking Harrier swooped in like its winged avian namesake, or an angel of death for a first aggressive strike.

“Hah,” yelled Sabot happily all his troubles temporarily forgot in the thrill of the hunt.

Racing up to the Discoverer at over 400m/s he opened up briefly with two Beta Impulse Ray Emitters, and two Alpha Particle Accelerator Cannons firmly hitting the crafts shields to the rear, and port side with a potent luminescent splash effect. Sabot then slid a tiny bit sideways just enough to avoid a collision using the strafe pedal before rocketing on by. Cruelly toying with his defenceless victim by contemptuously showing her his ships unprotected rear.

“Yarr taak thaat ya Federaal Dog,” he mocked putting on a silly accent (entirely for his own amusement off communications), “flee ya female foool, flee back to yarr Mama littaal good itall do ya!”

The unarmed civilian still bouncing around inside her ships cockpit from the hits had screamed out in terror when Sabot rushed past. Utterly appalled by this turn of events Patricia was cursed with indecision - would it be safer to bail, and take her chances in a suit or try, and dodge like she had never dodged before? Reasoning with the obviously intoxicated Pirate seemed worse than futile. Exposing herself to the madman in a fragile vacuum suit didn’t appeal either so she clung to the false sanctuary of her cockpit.

“Help, anyone - for the love of reason - help, I’m being attacked,” she shouted.

In Sabots other ear Patricia’s yells mixed nicely into the still loudly broadcasting song both spewing out over open communications. Perhaps the Engineer hoped her girlie cries would encourage the local security forces to somehow race faster to the damsel in distresses rescue that thought amused Sabot. With no armament onboard Sabot knew Patricia had few real options. He had little sympathy: anybody who was stupid enough to venture around space in a Border Sector without guns deserved everything they got.

Frantically the Female Pilot veered aside, and fled towards the nearest space station almost as if she had somehow heard the Pirates playful words of mock warning, and advice. Bitterly Patricia cursed her impulse to come here. For once a Border Sector had seemed like a safe bet with that Navy Fleet in residence. Patricia had believed she could readily risk prospecting ‘Elena’s Fortune’ for some big credits. With only the local yokel Engineers for competition the area should and did offer plenty of work.

Unfortunately for Patricia random chance had made a mockery of her reasoned assumptions. Now looking at the figures on her target view screen the Delexian Wheat Farm - that she hoped to escape to - looked a very long way away. Patricia was forced to consider pessimistically, that perhaps the Argon station was now a distance further than she would ever go (at least in one piece).

Sabot smiled letting his peeling off quarry make some space as his own ship continued to charge away in the wrong direction. Then just as he imagined his victim might be considering a sigh of relief - falsely believing she was in the clear - with an evil leer, and a showy flourish Sabot spun, and flipped his craft about for another well directed attack run. Due to his great momentum for a brief second Sabot actually flew backwards before his engines negated this drift, and propelling him into positive forward motion with the assistance of a firmly held down boost control.

“Fek, but I love my work,” noted Sabot.

This was what it was all about: thrills, spills, unleashing star fire, and the demise of others to remind you all the more that - you - at least for the moment were still alive, and kicking back at the Universe.

Despite streaking down towards the Electronic Engineer, Sabot managed to closely monitor his Gravidar Scanner for the expected security response. Sure enough by now several red coded combat patrol ships including two Titan Destroyers, three M6 Centaurs, and their escorts immediately began to lazily turn then with greater speed converge on their own intercept courses. Soon other faster ships also joined the pursuit with a hint of greater purpose in their sharp blue engine flares. In fact a ridiculous multitude of ships were converging from every direction on the drunken aggressive suicidal fool.

“I must be mad,” shouted Sabot to himself looking at all that massed firepower. Yet their was method in his madness.

Ignoring his increasing peril the Pirate grinned like a fool, not for him a lesser pilots counter productive panic. Sabot knew he still had plenty of time to exploit, plenty of gaps to thread between. Flicking rapidly through target views Sabot laughed out loud once more it was working perfectly just as he had planned. It seemed as if all eyes in this Sector were firmly fixed upon him. Sabot felt like a God - not an insignificant insect constantly under threat of extinction - he was directing all these souls like pawns upon a sector wide game board. For a moment Sabot wondered was that how Jorac felt all the time - if so - he envied him his manipulations.

“Stupid fekking Federal morons,” Sabot yelled to himself, “come on then who belongs to whom now?”

The Scout Pilot also had time to note that the ‘Midnight’ had arrived in sector (rather stately by comparison to all the commotion he had created). How long, he wondered, would it take that freighter to swing itself gently around to move behind the gate, and remove itself safely off the grid? Once out of sight, and scanning range the ‘Midnight’ could safely rendezvous with its own Pirate escort (all he suspected Fallen Angels) who would guide it to ‘Freedom’. Sabot hoped it wouldn’t take the TS too long.

Nonetheless it was so far so good, Sabot pressed down on the stud again firing off another stream from his linked guns. A blaze of energy almost entirely obliterating the Argon Discoverer’s 3mj of shielding before the ‘Avoidant’ Teladi Harrier once again shot past. Cheekily the Discoverer pilot Patricia Vern made a timely shield transport loop using a Goner Transport Device to almost instantly recharge her protection to full strength much to Sabots great amusement.

“…lusty reflections in faceted eyes, many would have to be the Goner’s lies, after leaving behind him - so many sighs - from jumping too soon…” the recording transmitted through the void.



Rufus Grendel was well pleased when he entered the ‘Fortune’ he hated flying through ‘Presidents End’ that sector spooked him out. It was like visiting some dark domain of lost souls. PE would always be a reminder of tragedy for the Argon. Although a few new stations had set up business - mostly it was a dead sector - a grave monument to the viciousness of the Khaak invaders. If the silent wreckage wasn’t bad enough the evil reptilian insect like aliens still regularly made smaller scale incursions there in those cluster formations. Unfortunately due to some of the people he worked for PE was a far too familiar sight for Rufus, but it still made his skin crawl as if it suffered from a parasitic infestation.

Almost directly behind ‘Midnight’ Arke also emerged into the Sector (though in his case via a jump drive). Arke was in an unmarked, unnamed Nova supposedly piloted by one Stephen Host. Arke immediately gave chase to his target already selected by the Legion he involuntarily served. The ‘Midnight’ had been tracked half way across the X universe via advanced satellite hacks. As soon as that ship dared to come here its fate had been sealed.

“Incoming Message,” said Mass - Rufus Grendel’s onboard computer.

“Play it,” replied Grendel

“Prepare to be scanned,” a grizzled looking Veteran in the Nova warned the ‘Midnight’ Mercury’s Pilot over broad communications while officiously scowling.

In his comfortable TS cockpit Rufus began to feel very uncomfortable.

Arke wasn’t too happy either. Something about playing the role of a God cursed bounty hunter annoyed the notorious veteran, as if being in a Navy penal legion wasn’t bad enough - still prisoners can’t be choosers. As ever Arke decided he might as well make the most of it. He hadn’t been allowed off the leash in ages. It made him wonder why he had been given this little bit of fun (beyond the fact that he was eminently expendable - if something went horribly wrong) always a possibility when the Devil, and his Dark Angels were involved.

The eyes of Rufus Grendel were wide in shock. The trader, and occasional smuggler didn’t much like that bounty hunters heads up. Being scanned this incredibly close to a gate was pretty rare from his experience it felt like a set up. Although technically Rufus had nothing to hide or fear except the nature of his client - a cold chill ran down his back - a nasty foreboding. Whether his unease was the product of a sometime smugglers natural paranoia, or a veteran pilot’s instinct or dealing with the Devil he didn’t know, all he was sure of was the fact that it felt like an unwanted certainty.

Still what could he do except see it out? Feeling glum Rufus mentally prayed for the Universes forgiveness, not to mention the forbearance of the lords of mischance, as his mind raced he continued on into the sector with gritted teeth. The scanning Nova menacingly stayed in tight to his six as if physically attached by an invisible tether (the Nova pilot showing his skill). Rufus felt at a complete disadvantage knowing he could not fire on the technically friendly heavy fighter not until it fired first, of course by then it would be too late. All he had at his disposal anyway was a weak rear turret holding a single Alpha IRE. The gun set up for simple missile defence. Of course he had six fighter drones, but they to would take time to deploy.

Where had that scumbag freelance police Argon come from anyway, that Nova hadn’t been behind him in ‘Presidents End’? The damn fekker must have jumped in from somewhere else - hell that was another bad omen - a sign that pointed at planned intent not just some accidental unfortunate random occurrence. So much for his vain attempt to shake off those ships he had noticed shadowing him earlier.

Rufus found his mind was running full pelt he considered activating his own jump drive he always kept enough energy cells for a short emergency jump, but he hesitated. If that Nova jockey detected his JD powering up that would be seen as a sure admission of guilt. Chances were that ship could blow him to hell long before his jump engine capacitors became fully charged. Anyway even if he somehow survived fleeing now, yet failed to deliver this promised cargo to ‘Freedom Station’ Jorac would slowly skin him alive later (no excuse would suffice to prevent that ill fate). Rufus gulped, compared to that gruesome end the possibility of being instantly blown to atoms seemed almost warmly pleasant. Panic caught him in an incapacitating web. Rufus elected by default to react rather than act.



Sabot once more bore down on his own hapless civilian target. Patricia Vern of the ‘Three World’ Verns (though that distinction didn’t mean much. Long ago she had been disbarred from any access to her families old money due to her, in her families eyes, questionable choice of husband). Now her financial disinheritance (something she often thought about in space) was the least of her concerns she was simply doing her best to: lose her attacker, and stay alive a few seconds more. Worse luck her manoeuvres seemed to no avail. Drunk or not she couldn’t shake her persistent assailant. It was going to take more than a few wild generally uninspired vector changes to get away from this crazed killer.

“Hissing Teladi,” screamed the Electronic Engineer.

Realising it was hopeless Patricia reached for the eject button the loss of her ship pained her, and she still feared what a drunken Pirate might choose to do with a vacuum suited female Argon helplessly afloat in the dark, but she had no other choice.

This time as he closed Sabot slowed right down, and matched speed skilfully staying on the Discoverers six he firing off a prolonged burst before - overkill - launching a cluster of wasp missiles at the AM5’s exposed hull at (in space terms) almost point blank range.

The unlucky female Argon pilot didn’t have a chance although she hit the button it was too late. Patricia’s Discoverer erupted outward as even more missiles struck home turning the sleek winged craft, and its owner into an expanding dissipating sphere of space dust, and radiation. The only person to really benefit from the kill would be her young daughter who would now be the heir to a large life insurance policy. Sabot strafed down under the short-lived radiation hazard while hitting the accelerator to rocket on.

“Bad luck old girl, but when your name is called for the Reapers Passage there is no reprieve,” stated Sabot unfeelingly to nobody other than the Engineers ghost (if you believe in that sort of thing).



Elsewhere in the same sector ‘Midnight’ had its own difficulties.

“Drop the contraband,” demanded Arke over communications.

“I’m not carrying any contraband,” insisted Rufus frantically wondering was it possible somebody had pulled a fast one, and smuggled a little onboard with his main cargo. Maybe it was some kind of shake down by his Pirate employer - a double cross - to get the goods half price. Rufus was due the other half of his payment upon delivery.

“Drop the Space Weed or I’ll fire,” insisted Arke now enjoying himself.

Arkes own system had been rigged to show the contraband even though it actually wasn’t there - the record would show that it was - just in case.

“What Space Weed? I don’t have any Space Weed, don’t you know how to read a scan,” yelled the Mercury Pilot.

Now Rufus fully feared the worst - that his profitable deal with the Devil had doomed him. Once more he considered activating his Jump Drive or even ejecting.

“If that’s how you want it,” said the rancid looking Argon Veteran his smile broadening.

“Fekking Paranidia I surrender,” cried out Rufus while actually scrambling to input any jump destination gate before instantly changing his mind, and reverted to another prepared strategy of last resort.

Milliseconds later hot energies spewed outward with murderously destructive malice. Arke happily set about his fixed objective by opening up with four Alpha particle Accelerator Cannons, and four slower firing but not likely to miss at this range Alpha High Energy Plasma Throwers. The simulated noise of the weapons fire slapping home with a sizzle was sweet music to the ex criminals ears. Arke loved killing still it rankled that he hardly ever got to choose whom, where, and when anymore.

Watching his shield being raped Rufus ejected. Arriving in space via GTD Rufus was breathing heavily in a vacuum suit concealed very close to one part of the Gates massive ring structure.

Elsewhere the essential decoy was running on automatics using its jet pack to thrust away from the Mercury simultaneous to its shields collapsing completely. While the simulated sound of his ship exploding was still echoing in his ears Rufus noticed the decoy suit being hit squarely by a mosquito missile. The suit was instantly destroyed in a little flare of its own. An involuntary bowl movement flowed into the Traders own vacuum suit solid waste disposal bag due to the coldness of the execution. Praying to any deity willing to listen Rufus hid by the gate unmoving waiting. Rufus closed his eyes expected to be spotted, and to go the same way as his decoy any second now even though his suits IFF, and transponder were cunningly, and illegally switched off.



On board the ‘Lost for Words’ carrier several people on the bridge monitoring the operation cursed in to themselves or out loud.

Arke you stupid self satisfied murdering fek wit, thought Admiral Fay.

“Bloody Legion,” said Captain Evans.

Because he had accidentally spoken his mind out loud, Evans had the decency to redden a little with embarrassment looking away from the Legions female Commander in Chief.

“Son of a…” Fay began then cut her own unusually open outburst short, “I want that Harrier pilot in custody,” she ordered instead.

“Yes Sir,” said the Captain relaying the designated target electronically to an awaiting space side ‘Lightning Bolt’ Discoverer squad.

It didn’t help much that her Devil often ran his operations in the early hours of the morning. That was the difficulty with keeping old Federal Argon time cycles any competent enemy tended to use these to abuse your sleep patterns.

She wondered if that Scout Ship Pirate would have any useful information - probably not - but it was worth a look see.

“I’m going to my cabin alert me if anything odd happens or if Tebbin gets back from Prime with our expected guest,” ordered Fay.

“Yes Sir,” said Evans.

Bloody minded by the book career Navy Officers, thought Fay, to herself with an inner grin that didn’t touch her face.



Sabot was so busy fleeing pursuit that he might have failed to notice the icon representing the ‘Midnight’ disappearing off Scanner. Maybe he would have been happier if he had? Unfortunately his ships sensors fed simulated sounds of distant hits, and explosions through his cockpit speakers which drew his attention. A flick to the sector map confirmed the unexpected kill.

“What the fek,” Sabot cursed realising his mission had been entirely for nothing. Some piece of scum had obliterated the Mercury he had been helping protect. Possibly that Nova piloted by Stephen Host (an individual unknown to him) so much for covert (low intensity) interference distraction.

“Just what I need another failure,” Sabot complained out loud to himself.

Checking the Gravidar Sabot adjusted his course. To his shock three blips separated from the rest. Despite his top speed of over 580m/s those three ships commenced closing the gap slowly, but far too steadily. Their was no doubting the visual data: three, he guessed - well armed - Navy Discoverers left their companions behind. They were radically overtly over tuned. So much for anarchic piratical advantages, and an easy escape, he thought.

“Damn it all to a Paranid’s frigid hell,” Sabot cursed out loud, “since when has anyone in the Navy over tuned their engines by that much, or at all?”

“Due to lack of data I am unable to estimate,” replied his onboard computer Sara.

Generally the Navy liked to pretend over tuning was impossible - no doubt in the hope of controlling others from messing with the lawfully built in fly by wire speed restrictors.

Sabot noticed the offending three racers all hailed from the direction of that intriguing ‘Lost for Words’ Carrier. The capital ship that had been in Sector long before the rest of the Argon War Fleet turned up.

“Fekking scum I bet both Amon, and Jorac knew about this possibility. Those Disco’s must be some kind of elite special force,” Sabot complained.

“Sara estimate distance, and velocity of the ‘Avoidant’ plus our fastest pursuers. Question will we make the outskirts of ‘Freedoms Wasteland’ before potential interception?

“Calculating,” began the computer, “negative we will be in range of the enemies weapons approximately thirty four seconds before we reach the mouth to the Passage of Cinders,” explained the machine.

“Fekking great!” cursed Sabot.



Shaper Dannon piloting the lead of the three Discoverer Lightning Bolts was confident the Pirate was about to get a nasty surprise. Without doubt he was running for the far rubble field, but he wasn’t going to make it. Even before they got into main weapons range his party would employ their range boosted electronic shield hacker, and he would snatch the pilot into custody via GTD.

It was just a countdown to the felons detention. He couldn’t help thinking though that this Hare about to be bagged could so easily have been him less than two years ago. Now he was owned by Fay, and her ‘Legion of the Damned’ body, and soul. Their was no escaping the Legion except via the Reapers Passage. The Fool in the Harrier was about to discover this fact soon enough.

Shaper’s group long attached to the ‘Lightning Spears’ had been warned to expect something like this move from the ‘Fallen Angel’ Pirate Clan as ever the LotD intelligence was right on the mark. Some claimed the analysis came from experimental AI systems back at the ‘Fortress of the Damned’ - Shaper didn’t know for sure - but Fay was into all kinds of banned, and or restricted technology. It made him wonder just what had been onboard that Argon TS taken out by that veteran mad piece of filth Arke.



Arke smiled before activating his Jump Engine. He knew he was in trouble that outright murder had been stupid but his grin just widened. Without question when the fekker bailed he should have picked him up for intelligence purposes - that was the standard procedure - but he just couldn’t resist the impulse to buck the system, and make a kill. It was especially hard to resist putting down a loose pilot rather than a ship. Butchering someone in a suit just felt that little bit more personal - fek it was about as good as it got when it came to taking somebody out remotely from inside a ship.

Nonetheless as he listened to his JD charging he was preparing his excuses for the lads back at the ‘Fortress’. He decided to claim it had been an instinctual move committed out of old habit - after all what else were mosquito missiles for? They wouldn’t be convinced, and their would be payback, but what did he care? To hell with the Navy boys anyway the Fortress Commander should have known better, Arke sniggered.



When the aggressing Nova disappeared into a wormhole Rufus waited for ten seconds then took a steadying breath. He knew what he would have to do, but the idea filled him with cold dread. After thinking about it for another thirty seconds or so he activated his jet pack swung around tight to the gate, and moved towards the aperture. Only a fool or a desperate individual would contemplate entering a wormhole in a vacuum suit - right now - Rufus considered himself to be both. Just before he reached the swirling disk of bluish energy Rufus closed his eyes to protect his sanity. Blindly he traversed the wormhole into ‘Presidents End’.

On the other side Rufus moved towards the rim, and waited for a suitable civilian pilot to enter the sector then he activated his IFF, and screamed out for a ride to questionable safety.



Back in Elena’s Fortune a massive detonation behind Sabot lit up the rear of the Avoidant while a blast of noise played through his speakers followed by the shaking of a shock wave. Sabot rocked with surprise in his seat. The three Navy Discoverers were completely gone, the word annihilated sprang to mind.

“Coded Incoming Message,” said Sara.

“Put it up,” replied Sabot.

Jorac’s face appeared on Sabot’s communication window filling him with trepidation.

“I’ll bet they weren’t expecting that,” said the Arch Fallen Angel, “we look after our own Sabot. Pity about ‘Midnight’, but that was hardly your fault.”

Sabot was shocked he didn’t know what to say, but a flood of relief, and to his consternation even a degree of gratitude flowed over him.

“Thanks,” Sabot said truly meaning it although he was also troubled by this instinctive response to the Devils words.

“You’re welcome,” returned a smug Pirate Lord, “communication out.”

Well how about that, thought Sabot, guessing that it explained his instructions regarding those very specific exit waypoints off the grid. Whatever the hell that was, it was serious ordinance. What was going on had Jorac decided to provoke the Navy after all?

Sabot had to admit to himself that he was quickly giving up on trying to fully read the Arch Fallen Angels intent - along with his own feelings. Then again maybe that was the whole point of Jorac’s actions.



On the ‘Lost for Words’ Evans rechecked the scan data. A Terran Hammerhead somehow left or sneaked out there like a mine for remote activation? None of the records he had reviewed showed any kind of missile trail. Immediately he communicated his findings to his Admiral. Fay was still in transit to her cabin when the call came in almost instantly she arrived back on to his Bridge by GTD much to Evans silent despair.

“Let that be a lesson to us all - Captain - Evans,” said Fay taking her command chair once again, “there is always a cost when you presume to Dance with the Devil.”

“Do you think he has many more of those warheads Admiral?” Evans asked.

“I’m sure he has more than that one,” noted Fay.

“Permission to speak freely Sir,” said Evans.

“If you must,” returned Fay resigned to getting it over with.

“I still think we should hit that base Sir we have an entire fleet for back up,” noted Evans, “if we don’t we are now letting a paltry band of rebels mock not just the law, but also the might of the Federation’s Navy. Won’t that just embolden them. Our Fleet can hardly fail to have noticed our losses our inactivity will seem suspicious both to them, and Jorac.”

“What do you think is bothering me. We have an entire Battle Fleet, and yet he still dares to set a trap, and retaliate against us when we dare to provoke him,” said Fay.

“He has to be bluffing,” replied Evans still keen for a fight that would finish the matter.

“Tell that to those LotD Lightning Bolts,” retorted Fay.

“It was just a dirty Pirate trick Sir,” complained Evans as if offended by the sneaky tactic, really he didn‘t much care about the demise of a few penal scum.

Fay sighed then replied, “Evans what the hell else did you expect?”

Fay knew you couldn’t hope to win them all, but acting on very limited intelligence was begging for a disaster. Her Bane: Jorac, and his predecessors had a way of creating losses that seemed pointlessly unbalanced against the scale of the military achievement the Argon Navy paid for.

Fay liked to believe all risks should be worthwhile the cost carefully measured against the rewards. The Admiral on the bridge wasn’t happy at losing those Lightning Bolts. Paradoxically Fay wasn’t always sure it was smart to question her own decisions after a minor debacle. Hindsight always gave perfect vision, and could set standards nobody could live up to, nonetheless ordering that pursuit felt like an unforced error. Little touched Fay harder than even a hint of incompetence on her own part. Evans was a fool however Jorac wanted them to act rashly - she was sure of it - why else just sit there.

It wasn’t easy being the Commander in Chief of the ‘Legion of the Damned’ Fay alone truly knew the darkest depths of why she had to monitor herself as close as any felon chained to the cause. Dealing with her own condition plus complex command decisions while listening to Evans oh so simple world view seriously challenged her equilibrium. Looking down from her throne like seat Fay forced herself to let it go, and slipped on the old mask of her best poker face - the stakes were to high for anything less.

“I’ll deal with any grumbling from the Fleets commanders. Right now I want any pursuit of that Harrier by anyone tempted to go beyond the Grid called off, see to that - at once - Captain,” Fay stated.

“Yes Sir,” replied Evans, “by the way Sir we had a communication from Tebbin, he is on his way back from Prime along with somebody called Fuchima Quick.”

“Fuchima Quick not Febr - that’s interesting,” she replied but really her mind was still on Jorac.

Odd in a way I am protecting him, she thought, Jorac couldn’t possibly know I would do that? He couldn’t be using me to keep the fleet at bay, could he? Damn that fekker, and all his dark works to hell.
[end]

[Paranoid66]

Reapers Passage
X3 Fan Fiction by Paranoid66

Chapter 5 – AFC4

If the ArgonForge Four factory complex could be said to have a helm or a bridge, this central control site was it. From here Administrator Gregor could monitor, and captain the vessel though it only moved in its own faithful production cycles, and ever forward in time rather than going anywhere in space.

Here lay not only the CAO Central Administration Office, the DC&C - Dock Command, and Control facilities, the CSLD - Central Security Liaison Desk but also most important of all the ICCS Integrated Complex Computer System’s mighty hub the almost intelligent, semi independent system monitors that were served by barely comprehensible masses of data relays hooked up to the stations innumerable sensors, and just as many automatic controls, and fail safes. Here everything from oxygen levels to internal public communications could be monitored and when necessary regulated! For one individual to be the lord, and master, of so much, a veritable metropolis in space was a position of almost Olympian grandeur, in other words Godlike!

Many would have thought such a lofty role at the age of twenty-seven was an accomplishment beyond compare but Gregor burned in an all-consuming fire of ambition. The Administrator believed that only the weak of spirit where eager for limits. Of course he was proud of all his varied accomplishments so far, and of the stations unblemished record, but ArgonForge Four or AFC4 as it was internally designated, this amazing Argon made engine of creation was already slipping towards a footnote in history. One of the first true Argon station complexes AFC4 had enjoyed arriving on the scene just as the technology became stable, and most of the bugs had been fully ironed out. Fourth in construction but so far number one in its productivity but Gregor knew only too well that nothing lasts forever!

A few Argon Prime days ago the AF board approved the designs for a whole new range of even more impressive facilities. Not much bigger in overall volume but due to miniaturisation, innovative rationalisations, faster more durable alloyed components the pristine future forward designs where rumoured to be capable of actually doubling - one bold perhaps foolhardy engineer even claimed trebling - overall output, hard to believe but the figures Gregor had spent hours scrutinising with the best independent analyst’s he could find looked very good indeed.

It was time to move on or be left behind. In order to demonstrate his suitability to head up the new project Gregor understood that it was vital that he projected the full ardour of his mettle. The Administrator would have to squeeze out every last precious drop of profit from AFC4 like a female Teladi keen to impress her peers. Difficult times lay ahead for everyone but bonuses and a picked crew would be eligible for promotion alongside their golden leader, he just had to put a fire in their bellies, and the stars back into their work weary eyes.

Already the Corporate Hound had begun his campaign bringing in an entire crate of luxury foodstuffs out of his own pocket to facilitate a banquet for his lieutenants of industry. Tonight they would feast on past successes, tomorrow prepare the ground for future glory. Like a hunting beast on the scent Gregor could smell the trail to victory that stretched out before him, a vapour so strong he could almost taste it, it tasted salty, and good!

The inner sanctum of the CAO boardroom had been festively decorated with real living plants, and even more obscenely with a few choice bouquets of gasp cut flowers!

Anna Dei circulated around the well-groomed guests like a pollinating insect spreading the warmth of a smile here a witticism there. The Personal Assistants progress being both stately, and effortless, the females ArgonForge business suit; a tight fitting deep grey jacket, skilfully cut side slit skirt was sharp as a knife tailored to perfection. The fair haired Argon’s makeup - hardly noticeable at first glance - was only better for its truly subtle enhancement, somehow painting signs to the impossible green eyes, natural but startling enough to be confused for artificial contacts. Twin white marble spheres, gems that gleamed with rings of inlaid milky jade and smoking ebony jet.

Although it was well known that Gregor had relentlessly pursued Anna, the PA had avoided anything more than a working relationship. Somehow the female Argon managed to walk the tightrope, continuing to massage Gregor’s inflated ego without submitting to the error of his more base, and hungry demands. Maybe Anna understood that if Gregor ever got what he wanted his interest would move on to the next seemingly unobtainable desire the next challenge.

The PA was already famous for her integrity, and polish her rise in AF seemed to casual inspection meteoric if not too unsurprising. Few in the room failed to follow the females progress even the women; though in their case it was often with a degree of naked envy despite their best efforts to do otherwise. Then again it was natural to wait for the gifted to stumble, and there were always some that believed something that was too good - was too good to be true!

Among the AFC staff Anna had become known as the Assassin of Hearts, a name derived from a winning card in a popular Argon game. A game of unusual skill, unless fate bestowed the lady, then unless you played very badly indeed - winning was almost always assured. Arguably the most remarkable thing about the PA in the end was her lack of pretension, the easy manner with which she interacted and addressed even the lowest member of AFC 4’s staff. Understanding these attributes Gregor knew how best to play his hand, and so he was late, this left Anna time to work her unselfconscious charms.

“Cut flowers,” remarked Carl, “Gregor has pulled out all the stops this evening.”

“I always find them a little sad,” noted Anna regretfully.

“Um,” puffed a grey green hooded, and robed figure through a massive beard.

Brother Aelo was the stations official Goner Priest, “I would be inclined to say they are timely reminders of the fragile beauty of our, and all life’s precarious existence, especially here, in the seeming emptiness of what the unenlightened might deem a hostile void,” he rambled with typical Goner windiness.

“I believe there is an extensive arboretum at the Goner Temple,” noted Anna.

“Yes, Indeed,” said the brother, “we have many species believed to have had terrestrial origins on earth. Soon we will be able to confirm this hypothesis. It is very exciting work, we live in exhilarating times. So much will soon be made clear. So many hidden things brought at last into the dawn light of a new and shining age!”

Anna smiled, “So how do you think our reunification will affect the established industries Aelo?”

“Oh for the better most assuredly, already we are exploring the uses of new technologies, and marvellous I might almost say miraculous new materials too. I understand your own company have heavily invested in Terran alloys for their proposed new stations, which is just one small example of the sweeping advances we can all expect,” replied the Priest.

“Interesting, I didn’t know that information was on general release yet,” whispered Anna conspiratorially with a friendly wink.

“Not another security leak,” said Carl groaning with mock anguish, “I refuse to be held responsible,” somehow the mature Corporate Security Commander managed to mime physical deflation with an amateur dramatic slump of his body an unusual bit of play acting from one who was normally pretty sober, and straight demonstrating he felt very relaxed, and in good form.

“Little trade passes between Earth, and the races that we don’t hear about,” claimed Aelo, “not that we employ spies or anything”, he spluttered as if suddenly self conscious, “but being universal friends with many parties, and ah… considered neutral in most disputes.”

“An enviable position,” interjected Gregor, “I see that neglecting my spiritual side may have dire repercussions I never considered, very remiss of me.”

“The greatest mysteries are more than material,” said Aelo cryptically

“Still the Goners are hardly, non-industrial, nor without a - how can I say - commercial base,” replied Gregor.

“We advocate positive progress for the greater good,” lectured Aelo, “and of course we supported innovative technology in our quest for the mother planet. Wealth however has never been our target, merely a necessity to assist a fate we believed - desirable! In this we differ dramatically from say your own esteemed corporation. Which though it may initiate positive social change through its operations these occur, if I might be so bold more by chance than design, side issues to the business of farming credits!”

“That sounds almost disapproving,” noted Gregor with a malicious twinkle in his eye.

“I think you are teasing poor Aelo, and gently mocking his brethren Administrator,” whispered Anna gently.

“Just a little,” Gregor replied, “Now I must move on, our chief of engineers looks a little perplexed by the seafood platter. I think I will rescue him from the calamari.”

“I must say it is a very impressive spread,” noted the Goner Priest.

“I certainly don’t get many chances to eat like this,” replied Carl.

Even as the Commander of the AF Corporate Police Forces on AFC 4 - being unusually honest - Carls wages didn’t permit high living!

“I admit the station food has been be a little uninspiring lately,” agreed Anna, “I have plans to motivate AF to do something about this very subject in the pipeline. A small incentive of more regular shipments of fresh produce, in recognition of AFC4 staffs unusually high level of commitment, and productivity,” well she did have now! “I have also been looking at increasing our home grown produce here,” which was true enough, “with new hydroponics modules. They are becoming increasing cost effective.”

“Hydroponics, now that is wonderful,” said the Priest Aelo, “I have a little experience with those systems myself - more of a hobby - than an occupation you understand, but if you need a volunteer with a little experience. I delight in getting my hands dirty on occasion; also I find a deep and innocent joy in watching green things grow. Sometimes space can seem like such a sterile environment!”

“I would be delighted to include you in the proposal Aelo;” said Anna grinning as she clasping the priest on the shoulder, “there are so few able bodies here with time on their hands. We have had to offer some outrageous fringe benefits to fill some of our other committees, and workgroups,” she confessed, “you would be shocked at the required level of corruption!” she added only half in jest.

“That’s the difficulty with an operation as tight as this one,” agreed Carl, “very little slack in the system. I find it a serious worry myself on the security side of things. Volunteers are essential in times of emergency or crises.”

“That’s a very good point raised duly noted Carl, I have already as you know talked with Gregor about this par your earlier request! I think this is something we should discuss again later. Do you mind if I schedule you in for a proper appointment?” asked Gregor’s PA.

“Not at all,” replied the Commander grinning he always enjoyed interacting with Anna who often carried most of this business rather than Gregor her supposed boss!

“Sorry, you know Gregor made me promise not to harangue anybody - tonight - with questions of administration, but it is so difficult to switch off from work mode,” said the PA as if in confession.

“I suffer the same difficulty myself,” noted Carl, “get a bunch of coppers in a bar and all we talk about is work.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not quite all you talk about, knowing some of - your - Argon,” said Anna teasing gently.

“Well maybe not just work,” admitted Carl shrugging his shoulders, and laughing. Damn, thought the Commander, but Anna was fine - if only her focus of attention wasn’t just business!

Aelo on the other hand just looked mildly uncomfortable even at this level of intimacy.



Later Gregor hunted his PA down for a quick progress report, “So how do you think the evening has gone Anna?”

“Very good overall, morale still seems to be holding up pretty well. I expected to overhear our guests discussing a lot more potential problems among themselves, but it was in fact very settled,” Anna noted, “Carl has some staff level worries that frankly I agree with.”

“Hmmm,” mumbled Gregor, “you know I have been looking at the security staff budget, I think we have enough room to hire a few more hands, and fund a more vigorous volunteer recruitment policy as he has been suggesting we do.”

“Carls point is their may not be enough slack in our schedule to recruit any volunteers,” Anna added, “going on the recent batch of rota’s I really do have to agree, several old reliable candidates have opted out under the strain despite our increasingly lavish incentive schemes.”

“Leave that one with me,” returned Carl with a grin, “a few more recruits can always be found if you look in the right places, and fish with the right bait.”

Anna was pretty sure Gregor had never fished for anything except perhaps another notch on his bedpost, and wasn’t convinced, but it wasn’t her job to make policy slightly apologetic she stated, “Well I’ve already promised a scheduled appointment on the matter, should I cancel, or do you want to take it?”

“I’ll take it, as Command staff go Carl is pretty low maintenance it shouldn’t take long write me in, and you can join if you like,” said the Administrator.

“Why not,” replied Anna with a sigh, “I mean it’s not as if I have anything else to do,” she chortled.

“Don’t worry about it Anna, we can all have a good rest after we take the Reapers Passage,” said the PA’s boss with a smile of his own.

“I think I’ll just take a vacation, thank you very much,” replied A. Dei.

“A what?” asked the Administrator.



Elaen limped tiredly down the narrow corridor her shoulders occasionally brushing against one of the multiple colour coded, greasy, rusty pipes that lined the walls rubbing off paint flakes as she went like metallic dandruff.

Ahead dim yellow orange service lights periodically broke the gloom. While cleaner looking sources from - more comfortably inhabited regions - the levels above filtering down erratically through grills, and other gap - those unintentional aids radiated down in narrow or broad beams which in turn painted singular or patterned designs across the enclosed three dimensional space. Through chaotic chance or some annoyingly persistent elder gods design these lights altered what was the most mundane of places into the equivalent of a skilfully illuminated and dramatic set, one that seemed to be waiting impatiently for the call of ‘action’.

Someday Elaen wished she could get hold of just one of the crazy architect’s or was it engineers that insisted on creating half lit service tunnels of this nature. The ArgonForge Corporate Police Female was convinced these geeks had all watched too many 2D cult science fiction horror flicks, and insisted on window dressing such essential factory spaces in low tech retro - industrial wasteland - style with an added emphasis on creepy, and claustrophobic.

To make matters worse there was nearly always some leakage from pipes hissing out tiny amounts of fumes that made a breather mask the better part of any explorers valour. So not only did she have to deal with the ambient atmosphere but also the rasping of her own breathing in her ears. A horrible sound that recalled childhood hospital visits, and adult trauma patients both of which only served to further stimulate an already over active imagination.

Condensation was everywhere fostering droplet plinks of unclean water creating a musical rhythm that demanded attention, straining her ears forcing them to listen, and somehow emphasising the louder discordant, anarchic scraping scurry of the vermin. I mean, she wondered wool gathering, how did the rats, and the roaches, and the alien creepy crawlies she didn’t even want to think about get up here?

As if summoned by her thoughts something scurried up ahead either disturbed by the metallic ring of her footsteps or the probing beam of her torch lights wavering, ever questing touch.

“To the sun drenched plains of a Paranid desert planet with this,” cursed Elaen to herself reaching for the low velocity slug-throwing pistol with her left hand.

“Ok, calm down,” she muttered to herself, “sound can travel funny in these places,” but whatever that was to her ears it sounded big, certainly bigger than your average rodent.

Lifting the shiny weapon El stared down the sight, bringing the torch along side the gun seeking after the source of the movement, and saw - nothing - only pipes and wall panels, flaking paint, and rust, and, glaring amber eyes, followed by wild white fangs!

Blam! Despite the guns very slight recoil Elaen’s left hand jerked upward panic firing a shot in no particularly useful direction.

“Damn,” cursed El.

The AF Police Lieutenant Constable felt a complete fool as the discharges echo faded into the distance down the enclosed space, followed instantly by a hissing explosion of vapour as an obviously already deficient ceiling conduit ruptured despite the slugs overall low kinetic energy, and its’ specifically designed shatter-tech brittle body. Firing any kind of weapon on a station always carried some element of risk!

For a moment Elaen was completely engulfed in a milky white vapour cloud then the auto sealing mechanism kicked in reducing the discharge to a trickle.

Behind the veil something had scampered off with a yelp, and a flurry of limbs. “Goners beard,” exclaimed Elaen.

Getting a grip on her thoughts the Corporate Police Officer commenced to laugh. It was a dog; she had nearly shot a dog, a big black dog! Either an illegally smuggled stray or somebody had yet to register the loss of a valuable - no doubt highly pampered - official pet!

Elaen sat down as her ear began to buzz persistently, and stared at her gun. All around the cloud of vapour - luckily not steam or any of the more dangerous volatiles - at least she hoped not, slowly dissipated. Well that was the sensor mystery solved. All they had to do now was track the critter down - easily done if it had a functioning tag.

Touching behind her ear the Police Argon opened up a channel to her headquarters cutting off any attempt at conversation with a rushed report.

“Central I’ve got a dog loose down here in section b5 beyond the third bulkhead west. I’m guessing that’s the life form that’s been triggering those anomalous sensor readings.” Stated Elaen, ‘it’s a job for either a biological containment team or our trusty Vet, with a tag finder. Hey, find out if anyone is missing a pet and take your pick I’m done here.”

“Hey that you El?” asked Rud. “We have a weapons discharge reading here, and a very minor benign chemical, leak in your vicinity at least according to the system. Doing some big game hunting are we?”

“Sorry, accidental discharge I’ll log it later, faulty pipe seems to have self sealed but you might want to get a tech. to have a look. One moment, it’s yellow serial bz10934aa,” explained Elaen.

“No problem. El see you on the flip, oh don’t forget that log though, Carls been up my rear all day over late registries in the dailies, thought for a moment you might have bagged us a new trophy for the mess,” said the Civilian Clerk Rud.

“Maybe next time Rud quite content with a loose dog though, can’t say I’m disappointed it wasn’t anything alien and exotic, out,” finished El.

Only Desk Jocks got off on looking for excitement, corridor rats like her preferred the quiet life. Nine times out of ten the excitement would find you whether you were looking or not. Well that was another fine way to end a technically illegal fourteen-hour shift she sagged. No doubt Ferg would massage the figures (at least he always managed to ensure they got credits for all the hours) even if only at standard rates - still what could she do? Elaen understood if she wiggled out some other poor sod would have to make up for her shortfall! Besides it wasn’t as if she had a life when Garrin was away on one of his trips.

After comm linking in the end of her shift, Elaen exited the service tunnel. Still limping slightly from an earlier accident she wearily negotiated the stations corridors in search of her quarters, and the benign comforts of bed. En-route El found herself wondering about her future. The stupid ladder incident and the scary dog story had made her apprehensive for the first time in relation to the current overstretch procedure of single person patrols. Even with the Comm Link the station could be a dangerous place with both natural and unnatural hazards, she was beginning to feel less than secure out on her own. Not good for somebody who was supposed to be creating a secure environment for others. Usually coppers operated a sensible buddy system but due to injuries, and fatigue they were currently understaffed, and overworked.

Not wanting to rock the boat so far the Lieutenant Constable had held off making any formal complaint. Instead Elaen had rather tactfully had a quiet word in the Commanders ear. The fact that she had panic fired in the corridor really bothered her and Elaen knew it wouldn’t look good in the dailies. Two accidents reported in one day was indicative of a problem and any weapon discharge was a serious matter. Well she would sleep it off, strap up her ankle and see what tomorrow brings.



Following the end of his own shift back at his own cubicle Rud carefully stowed his well-pressed jacket and hung his still pristine dirt repelling trousers. Checking he had a fresh shirt ready for the next stint. Before he considered slumping into his bunk he also methodically polished his shoes so that they continued to shine like a black mirror. Details, details are everything. Looking about his tiny cubical home he wished everything in his life could be ordered so neatly. Then he found himself watching the strange man in his mirror that was considering his own face.

It was a likable enough image he supposed, a bit bland, but clean and fresh and eager with neat short cropped hair and gentle brown eyes. He groaned, “Now I’m even starting to think of myself like a puppy dog,” he said wincing.

Rud Chakr already knew some of his peers called him the poodle and believed he was Carl’s lap dog and toadie - suck butt - was their current favourite label. Well they could think what they liked. A bunch of no hopers destined to live out a meagre, and petty existence. Most would grow fat, filled with self-loathing they would scrape by with the only supplement to their dreary lives being whatever lowlife vices they decided to cultivate to hide their disappointments.

Just like his father, the filth and grime of the station would slowly seep into their bones until one day they would tune up their guns load hard ammo and eat one of their own bullets in a Space Fuel soaked room, or just go for a walk out an airlock!

“Not me I’m not a stupid copper,” he challenged out loud, “I’m a Civilian Clerk, and this is just the first rung on the ladder. Dumb ass thugs!”

The only one he had any respect for remained Elaen. If only he could forget about her, but she was perfect: strong, beautiful, self reliant, hard working, clean, and as coppers went ethical. Sitting on the edge of his fold out bed he spat out one word like a curse, “Pilots.”

How could Elaen spend all her time with that cursed freeloader whenever he just happened to turn up at this Weapon Complex? It made him feel physically ill, thinking of them together, laughing, talking, sharing a narrow cot like this one; on top of each other! G probably had a woman on every station he visited all open and willing to share their accommodations. How he would love to grind that mans face into one of the heavy-duty air processing fans. Watch the blood spray in pretty patterns as his grinning face was sheared away Rud trembled with excitement at the prospect of that crimson flood, but it was just a dark fantasy.

Not that removing his rival would do any good. El didn’t know he was alive even though his eyes automatically followed her around the office like two iron filings on a magnet. Worse it seemed like the whole station was aware of his rampant infatuation, and took an evil delight in mocking him for it - the whole station - except Elaen. If El knew she never gave any sign or maybe she was only too aware but pitied him and didn’t want to embarrass him further.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he spat thumping himself on the temple with his right palm, “errrrrrrr,” forget it get a grip, he thought.

Hell he would leave her behind him anyway. Oh she was good, but not really perfect. Where was her ambition? Certainly he had heard her complain, and talk about going but she was stuck fast, like a Boron Mega Limpet. Nor was her death-obsessed boyfriend likely to save her from a bad fate! What if something nasty had been in those service tunnels today - for instance - instead of some fools lost puppy? No, she wasn’t perfect, she was reckless, and self absorbed, and she thought that bright Sonra shone out of that freak Garrin’s behind.

Checking his alarm was still set in programmed sync with his unfailingly accurate watch Rud lay down, and tried to think of nothing. It had been another long days, night but sleep was slow to release him from his troubled thoughts. If only everything was different, if only his father hadn’t dragged him along to this remote metal island in space, leaving him shipwrecked, and worse in debt to the company. If only his Mother had stayed instead of running off with that blasted pilot!

Before sleep took him Rud found he was once again wondering about the man that had approached him the other station cycle. Although the stranger had hinted much he had said little not even giving a name, but it was obvious what he wanted and that he could afford to pay, and pay well! Making a copy of the rosters would be an easy enough thing, but taking the risk that was another matter. However, the man had hinted at repeat custom and with enough credit’s the Clerk knew he could finally get off this warren, and back to civilisation under real gravity, and real sky - maybe even enlist as a colonist. The stranger had insisted that no violence would ensue that it was all about avoiding such complications. Despite a niggling doubt the idea just seemed better and better.



Abel was so intent on watching the multicoloured blips representing the massed ranks of the visiting Argon Navy that he failed to notice a lone scout ship on a standard approach vector. Only when his comm lit up with a formal request to dock did he finally register the newcomer on the screen. Well it was hardly important, he stifled a yawn, just one more detail covered almost entirely by automatics. Luckily everybody else had been too busy to notice the lapse.

Struggling Abel strove to look busy, and stay awake, it failed to help that he didn’t even have to answer the request in person. The computer automatically gave out all the usual clipped instructions, and race rank response welcomes. He considered turning it off and going manual for a spell, but this evening it seemed like too much effort! He was still suffering from the aftermath of a late - after shift - arrival at the big function the other station cycle. To be honest he was surprised he had been invited at all so felt obliged to go; of course it was a rare opportunity to gobble down some real food and swig some imported wine.

As the taped welcome completed, Abel was reminded of something an Argo psychologist had once told him, that they were based on a formal tally system of kudos meant to be an incentive toward good civil behaviour. Rather late he glanced over the IFF for any irregularities and recognised it as an old friend of the station Garrin in his rather alarmingly named ‘The Grim Reaper’ Discoverer. Again he was tempted to open a channel this time to start a conversation, but he knew Gregor was still hovering somewhere and wouldn’t appreciate any idle cit chat deviation from base protocols. So once again he didn’t bother doing anything. Really he just wanted to get his shift over and done with, get a bite to eat from a cheap vendor in the station Bazaar, guzzle a few beers and die on his cot. He was sick and tired of being a glorified nursemaid to a bunch of processors. If it weren’t for potential emergencies he wouldn’t be needed at all.

Of all the staff in the DC&C - Dock Command and Control - he sometimes felt like he was the most jaded and hopeless. On the wrong side of forty his career had stalled along with his enthusiasm. Once he had delighted in the technology and actively taken part in technical workshops, and other self improvement AF run courses. Now he just did a job of work then wandered off to the cramped smelly quarters he called home, and tried to forget about his working life through his favourite hobby VR gaming.

Thinking about Garrin did bring a smirk to his face though as it reminded him of the OTT but pretty cool artwork decorating the rash couriers Discoverer. Pilots where all a little mad, he would lay a bet of a months wages that the navy boys had scanned G every which way from the gate. I mean what had possessed the trader to name his ship after Death. It was like that old joke about passing a rubber glove to customs on arrival at some backwater region with inadequate scanners. Face it that’s just asking to get invaded!

Well at least it would keep the Lt. Constable off his back – in relation to his occasional pre work drinking habits, not that it was any of her business! Yes, Elaen should be happy and preoccupied for a few days especially if she managed to get a few moments off. She was a darling really but also rather intimidating. It wasn’t the gun either it was that occasional measuring stare. The one that said she knew when he couldn’t resist mentally undressing her and that she didn’t much like it!

It was especially hard not to stare when he felt so tired, and the current schedules continued to be hectic. Gregor was convinced ‘Four’ had more to give and was still relentlessly pushing everybody to get even better results. Maybe he should suggest G do a run for extra stimulants, he doubted the stations current legit pharmaceutical supplies where going to hold up much longer. Unlike some he considered the black market stuff to be iffy: unreliable (variable in strength), too expensive and too dangerous.

Like Elaen who thrived on the stuff he would be happy with the simple luxury of a regular supply of coffee, the smell of a few roasted beans would be heaven. Damn even the horrible bitter old green tea his granny used to favour would seem delicious at the moment; after all he was sure that also contained a good percentage of caffeine. It was Elaen’s rumoured ability to get coffee – when no one else had any - that had drawn him into her circle in the first place. Though hardly the best of buddies, he had managed to wheedle his way in by doing small inconsequential favours for G. Mostly in relation to the allocation of favourable docking berths, extra quick transit of permits and so on.

All in all it had all been going rather well G had even loaned him some credits on more than one occasion. Then one day Elaen had dragged him aside claimed he was intoxicated on duty, and threatened to go official if he didn’t clean himself up. A major falling out had followed. At first he had been happy to give her a wide berth, sulking at her treatment, but in the end his caffeine addiction forced him to grovel, and be on his best behaviour for weeks. Finally when he was just about to give up on this campaign his miserable puppy dogface had cracked her iciness and old Abel returned to the fold. However she still watched his alcohol consumption like she was his hawkish wife.

Leaning against his console he cursed the fact that the company had refused to give them proper seats, only specially designed leaning props. Still if he had been sitting down maybe he would have been asleep by now; instead of just gazing blurry eyed at a few millimetre long representations of the Argons biggest engines of mass destruction. What were all those warships doing here anyway? He hoped they didn’t know something he didn’t. Even with all that friendly firepower around he was no hero and wouldn’t want to be caught in the middle of something like the battle of Omicron Lyrae! Oh it made for grand news footage but you wouldn’t want to live it.

Now, that was a real mystery. I mean what exactly did the Khaak want? Everybody has - desires - destruction for the sake of it seemed unlikely! No the buggy reptiles or perhaps reptilian bugs had an agenda like everyone else. Something the government know, but don’t want to tell us about, or something they have - as yet - failed to discover. Now there was the earthlings or Terrans whatever they called themselves, the future looked ever less certain and predictable. Used to be all they had to worry about was the machine head Xenon one group of murderous aliens was more than enough.



From the angle of the viewing platform The Grim Reaper resting almost in plan view looked like a shinny metal insect resting on a fibrous rust coloured autumn leaf. At this distance she could just about make out the base shape of the fancy paint job repeated on the ships wings although the marking on the sides of the fuselage where hidden from view. Elaen loathed and loved that vessel with equal passion: Loathed it because it always carried Garrin away, loved it because it brought him back again, and despite Elaen’s own reservation of the risk of his ventures; because it was Garrin’s pride and joy! From behind the glass Elaen watched the ship being hooked up to the tractor system staying until it had all but disappeared into a small currently depressurised, pressurised bay. Then she hurried off still slightly favouring her bruised ankle.


“So this is ArgonForge’s fabled BIG 4,” noted the Discoverers late passenger, catching his heavily stuffed duffle bag and throwing it over his right shoulder.

“Yep, Ravn, ArgonForge Four or AFC4 or as you say a few folks used to call it the BIG 4 back when complexes where still thin on the ground,” noted Garrin.

“Sounds like you’ve been coming here a long time,” noted Ravn.

“Not so long,” answered Garrin, “but I have a few connections here, a few routes or perhaps I should say roots that bring me back around.”

“Serious?” asked the ex soldier.

“Serious enough for somebody like me Ravn!” Garrin replied, “you know how it is here in the big empty, when you make a connection it means something. Something more than it does to the planet bound. I mean, out here you are never guaranteed a tomorrow. You have to work at it!”

“Hmmm ‘The Grim Reaper’ you know don’t think I’ve ever been in a platoon without a doomsayer. Kind of makes me feel right at home,” said Ravn.

“Yeah, thanks I think,” said G, “I’m not all that negative though. Honestly my point is simple live it up. Appreciate what you’ve got, while watching out for the unexpected. He’s always there, but he’s a patient son of a Teladi personally I plan to make him wait the longest time. There’s always a tomorrow to settle that account.”

“I’ll drink to that, speaking of which,” said Ravn gestured vaguely.

“Hey wait up and I’ll be glad to lead the way, pretty loose out here in The Fortune you can even get Space Fuel over the counter,” informed the Pilot.

“Great, maybe this will be my kind of place after all,” beamed Ravn, “and to think I heard it was just all work on this forge.”

“Oh trust me out here it is,” interjected a new slightly breathless female voice.

“Oops busted already,” moaned Ravn, “putting his hands together for a set or imaginary cuffs, if you’re doing the leading I promise to go quietly.”

“You’ll be going with a thick lip,” said Garrin smirking, “if you keep making Argnu eyes like that at my girl!”

“Damn,” groaned Ravn, “double busted, and I haven’t even got off the dock yet.”

“We were just about to go for a jar,” noted Garrin.

“Come on then boys,” suggested Elaen grabbing each of the Argon males by an arm, “I think we could all use some kind of a drink but, one of you two had better have some coffee beans stashed in their bags or I’ll be very disappointed.”

“Well that’s not normally what I have in my bags Elaen,’ said Ravn with a saucy grin.

“No fear my sweets,” enthused Garrin given Ravn a warning look, “I knew it would be more than my life’s was worth if I forgot the beans. Especially after that urgent comm call I received.”

Elaen smiled, “Its good to know our advanced satellites are good for something other than too late, early warnings.”

Interesting thought Ravn still it wasn’t a military set up!

“Yep with modern technology there is no escaping the long arm of your female,” agreed Garrin.



A short while later still on the weapons forge the group of three arrived at their destination still in good spirits.

“Holy Argnu,” exclaimed Ravn looking around, “now this is my sort of place!”

“Welcome to The Junction, just don’t get to like it too much, not smart on our wages,” cautioned Elaen, “I usually only come here when my sugar daddy is paying,” she chortled a little self-consciously.

“Guess that would be me then,” said Garrin with a mock groan while dramatically shaking his credit chip as if wrestling with a malfunction.

“Hey nice unit,” grinned Ravn, “very tidy, and I assume shock proof the way you’re treating it.”

“In business it is necessary to keep up appearances,” said Garrin with a laugh.

“Yeah, like painting big spooky monsters on the side of your ship,” retorted Elaen chuckling as she ran her hands through her lover’s hair.

Sometimes Garrin thought Elaen was afraid that if she didn’t touch him regularly he would vanish like a mere Phantom of her desire. As to the expensive branded electronic credit chip it was one of only a very few ostentations he indulged in. Largely he preferred to hide the true size of the credit surpluses in his bank accounts to all but those that needed to know.

“Oh my,” muttered Ravn as a waitress shimmied over in a dazzling gown with bulges in all the right places, “So what’s your name?” he asked hungrily.

“You can call me Shimoo,” replied the fit young woman, seeming to enjoy the attention.

“Damn right I will,” replied Ravn, “I’m gonna be calling you all the time.”

“Grunts,” Elaen rolled her eyes, “my apologies in advance, but you know how it is six Argon Prime months eating dirt on some deserted planet then…”

“So what would you gentlemen like?” asked Shimoo her voice purring out.

Ravn stared, “You really have to ask?”

“To drink,” she winked, “we only serve drinks, and food here, don’t be fooled by the cheesy décor.”

“Fuel us up,” replied Garrin, “I’m just back from a long haul, and all my tanks are empty. Here, I’m sure you know what to do with this - for the lady,” he continued giving out a handful of pungent beans then decided to explain anyway, “that would be coffee – um - just in case you thought I was trying to push some new designer drug,” he laughed.

“Two Argon Tankers, and an extra fresh coffee coming up,” verified Shimoo before slinking off.

“Man that is real quality, that is. So what do you think of a guy like me, a girl like Shimoooooo,” lilted Ravn.

“Not likely,” replied Garrin, and Elaen in unison.

“Paranidia, you two really are an item aren’t you,” said Ravn, “so what is it really like here. I hear Gregors bucking for a promotion, and pushing the limits. Think that might even be why I got my new position, another heavy just in case things get a little heated.”

“I hope not,” insisted Elaen, “Gregors a tough nut and a go getter but I think he knows how to keep the staff here motivated even at this level. Won’t be sorry to see him go but I think the lads know this push can’t last forever. Then even Gregor must know for him it will be make it or break it!”

“Hmm,” questioned Garrin, “So what happens if he fails to measure up?”

“I think he’ll still have to go. The man has made too many promises. He’s put himself out on a limb if he fails to fly he’s going to fall,” surmised Elaen looking thoughtful.

“That’s a little worrying,” noted Ravn, “guys like that don’t go down easy, they have a habit of dragging others along with them as company for the journey!”

“Shh here comes our hostess,” remarked Elaen, effecting an easy smile.

“Two special Tankers for you fine males, and a black coffee for the Lt. Constable, Bess says that’s how you like it,” said Shimoo.

“Straight up,” returned Elaen, “say you’re new here.”

“Just got in on the bus,” noted Shimoo, “your hostess courtesy of Argon Prime.”

“Odd choice,” stated Garrin then found he was thinking that being around Elaen was making him overly suspicious.

“I’m a poor archaeology student,” explained Shimoo putting on a sad face, “ArgonForge are offering big bucks for Argon summer season job workers. They sell it as bit of an adventure, starry skies, credits in the bank that sort of thing. Done it before elsewhere it’s not so bad.”

“Nothing compared to sticking your nose into abandoned sites of lost civilisations,” noted Ravn suddenly grim, “that can be a dangerous business. I’ve…” he almost continued then trailing off, “let’s just say I wouldn’t do that job for love or credits,” he confessed.

A slightly prolonged silence followed Ravn’s statement.

“Well that was a real mood dampener,” cursed Garrin into the prolonged gap.

“Hey forget it Shimoo, I didn’t mean nothing,” apologised Ravn.

“No doubt,” she replied a little ruffled, “anyway I’d better get back in case I’m needed.”

“Sounds interesting,” said Elaen turning to Ravn once the girl was out of casual eavesdropping distance.

“Hey, best forget I said anything, truly it was a mistake, you know how it is,” stated Ravn.

“Sure official secrets, and all that,” replied the Lieutenant, “you forget you said anything and I’ll forget I asked.”

“For that we’ll all need a few more drinks,” agreed Garrin.

“Yeah, you boys burn it up. Guess you both could use a little R & R, when I finish this coffee I’ve got to get back,” stated Elaen.

“That’s a shame,” noted Ravn, “Guess I’ll see you at the office.”

Gulping down the last of the coffee Elaen noted, “yeah, I’ll see you both later, but you first eh Garrin, you know where to find me. Don’t get lost.”

“No fear!” replied Garrin obviously eager to renew his acquaintance.

“Later,” said El with a grin.

“Argon are you the lucky son of a space happy Goner or what,” said Ravn with a smirk, “now lets get those drinks, this rounds on me.”

“Now if that isn’t an unusually sympathetic symphony to my ears I don’t know what is,” remarked Garrin sparkling, “play on, my good Argon, play on!”

Although he could easily have afforded to pay Garrin always liked to see others get their credits out. That way he knew they were friends rather than just opportunists. Talking to the ex soldier on the flight over he had taken an instant like to the Argon. So far his instincts told him the fellow was playing straight up.

He was sure Ravn had also seen some pretty heavy stuff too, which didn’t surprise him. The real deal - it was the silences - rather than the words that gave it away. Garrin was used to ferrying military, and ex military types it was surprising how often they employed independent couriers. Sometimes because they were off duty, other times because it drew less attention that way. Garrin found most military to be good clients that caused no fuss, and were clean in their habits, an important distinction when you’re stuck together in a cramped cabin space for a prolonged period.

The request to collect Ravn had been relayed direct from AFC4 DC&C on behalf of the Central Security Liaison Desk. Recently Gregor, and his team had been throwing a lot of work his way but this was the first job he had done directly invoiced to CSLD. That was the only thing that seemed a little off about Ravn the degree of urgency and importance put on his arrival. Still that was ArgonForge and Ravn’s business he just supplied a service. Besides all he wanted to do now was soak up some atmosphere, and a little, but not too much booze, while he waited for Elaen to finish her shift Ravn was right G considered he was lucky he had it all!



The next station cycle Ravn reported for duty in a timely fashion, and was quickly introduced to the Commander along with many others.

“Welcome to AFC4 Central,” enthused Carl grasping Ravn hand in a vice like grip. “Glad to see a new face. I believe you gave yourself a little time to become familiar with some of our amenities yesterday! Working in The Fortune at AFC4 always had a few fringe benefits, but don’t be fooled we run a tight ship around here.”

“So I’ve been told Commander that’s fine by me, in fact I prefer it that way,” returned Ravn, wondering if this was leading to a formal induction or a friendly lecture in local protocols. Every Commander tended to have his own introductory routine from his experience.

“Look I would prefer to skip the pep talk,” said Carl, “I just wanted to point out that I’ve seen your record, well up to C3 level anyway. You are more than qualified, and able for this position. What we need are feet on the deck. We’ve already had bit of a mini population explosion lately with an increase in our central work force, and support staff.”

“This facility,” continued Carl, “is operating well above its base statistical efficiencies we’ve been - running hot - for quite a while. I’ve also just been informed of something new, really bad news for our operation, and something also likely to hit morale hard, so I’m more than glad of the extra help, and support!”

“It seems the Khaak have struck again. This time it was Bala Gi’s Joy, and with more than the normal Clusters,” explained the Commander, “I guess that explains the Navy presence here. Bit close for comfort. Ok, as you know Bala is one of these so called Pirate Sectors, but there are a lot of legit Argon citizens working in there too. Seems many of those monkeys were smart enough to pack their bags, and get out in time. Due to our relative size and location the Navy tacticians are forcing several shiploads of refugees on us.”

“Look here is the real rub though, Gregor was furious and since it will soon be common knowledge you might as well know the rest,” continued Carl nonetheless habitually checking out who else was in ear shot, “Gregor tried to pull an exemption, playing the importance of our production to the war effort card. It was a mistake, the first real blunder I’ve ever seen him make, but in this case maybe the only one needed. Word got back to old iron britches himself, and the ArgonForge administration on Prime took a blasting from government representatives. As they say, ‘bad news travels fast’ someone leaked the story to the media; ‘Profit put before beleaguered population of war torn refugees’ you get the drift.”

“Paranidia, where is the big boss now,” queried Ravn.

“Shooting across space with the fastest courier he could find on short notice,” informed Carl, “I guess he hopes that some face to face damage control can save his position plus secure all our bonuses, and potential promotions. That Argon is a fighter, but I don’t rate our chances! The planetary politicos are having a field day, they must have been looking for a chink in the off world corporations armour, an opportunity to beat us into line, and they seem to think they’ve found it.”

Great thought Ravn I knew that mental storm cloud of disquiet - in my head - this morning was more than just first day nerves or the aftermath of too much liquid stimulation, something about this posting just didn’t feel right, did somebody know something like this was on the cards to complicate matters? Still Ravn only asked, “when are our new guests arriving?”

“Pretty much imminently,” noted Carl rubbing the back of his neck, “the navy boys have been doing some heavy duty processing, shaking them down for intelligence, looking for wanted felons. Guess the result of their point of origin otherwise we would be up to our armpits in unwashed wide eyes already. Look I want you down in the docks helping to keep the situation smooth. We need some smart uniforms to bolster, keep an eye on, the volunteer civilian aid workers, and general staff. I want these newcomers contained and controlled, not slinking into the shadows or encouraging more black market activity and or racketeering. Some people always see others misfortune as an opportunity, lets keep a grip on the breeding of station parasites. Once you get a serious infestation of lowlifes they can be damn hard to get rid of! At the same time we are now media target number one, so we have to be seen to be gentle, the smiling face of the caring Corp!”

“Wonderful,” returned Ravn obviously less than enthusiastic.

“It could be worse,” admitted Carl, “I’m teaming you up with your new found buddy Lt. Constable Elaen I don’t want anybody wandering around on their lonesome anymore. I’m not convinced Navy Intelligence,” he smirked, “will have weeded out everyone with a pirate affiliation. Elaen knows the territory, and has a females touch so I want you to follow her lead. That means no excessive jar head manoeuvres. She ought to be waiting in Central Main Reception so shuffle your butt on over there, and good luck!”

“Thanks Central Reception it is then,” noted Ravn, “ah, I know you said softly, soft but if we are talking crowds of jokers shouldn’t I get a stick?”

“Definitely not, use your head I don’t want those civilians to smell their potential for becoming a mob. Sticks can be a red flag to a bull. In my experience they can prejudice, and limit your options,” lectured the Commander.

“Fine,” replied Ravn, thinking in an emergency that just leaves the low velocity slug gun then!

[Paranoid66]

Reapers Passage
X3 Fan Fiction by Paranoid66

Chapter 6 – A Tall Tale on ArgonForge 4

The refugees arrived via specially commissioned TP ‘Personnel Transporters’. Three shiploads of wide eyes along with many crates of emergency supplies including: food packs, bottled water, and basic medical supplies, all dumped unceremoniously on the dock.

It would have been much better if their arrival had been carefully staggered, but the military - for its own reasons - had other ideas. The Navy insisted on sending the whole consignment in one heavily protected convoy. As if this strategy was not bad enough they then proceeded to herd the dispossessed Argons from the TP buses, and onto the dock as quickly as was logistically possible, with seeming little interest in the consequences.

It was not hard to separate these new arrivals from all the normal traffic, and spacers. The new arrivals would have stood out even if they hadn’t been contained behind hastily erected barriers. The dispossessed had very specific plastic protected identity tags on blue synthetic thongs around their necks for a start. All other ID (and the permanent visual display of ID was mandatory on every civilised station) having been confiscated, even biometrically sealed personal credit chips, and data keys, all gone during the Navy Intelligence debrief, and processing.

Many of the refugees were dressed in plain grey overalls marked with AN in yellow obviously having fled in unsuitable attire, everyone carried or wore uniformly distributed slightly darker grey day bags each also stamped with an Argon Navy yellow AN logo. These bags were hugged (protected like boundless treasures) though only filled with a mixture of simple toiletries, and other mundane items. The free packets were considered to be essential kit for civilised survival! Even the prosperous suits had arrived sans watches / jewellery, and real leather wallets.

Although initially docile as they stepped down from the transporters flanked by armed Marines this was an illusion. As soon as the arrivals hit station side, and passed from military to quasi-civilian control it was like a sanity control trip switch being flipped, all hell broke loose! The queuing unfortunates instantly commenced to complain. Many of the refugees insisted the Military, and / or the Navy had robbed them. Diligently jostling, and shouting among their peers to be heard as individuals. Despite repeated reassurances - a vociferous core simply refused to accept - that they would see their confiscated possessions ever again, and just got more, and more aggressive every time any attempt was made to pacify and reassure as if this action was tantamount to insult, and neglect!

A few considered themselves to be special cases demanded to see the stations Administrator. Many called out their names and credentials, like magic incantations, threatening all around them with lawsuits, and or, rich rewards if they were given the priority they so obviously deserved! Others called for help claiming disability, injury or illness. Some hurled abuse and insults at their ex-jailers now commencing a strategic withdrawal behind them, even spitting and shrieking like wild animals at these male, and female service personnel.

Inevitably several individuals became embroiled in arguments among their peers over their attitude or foolishness, a few calling for calm saying they understood the unpleasant necessity of the militaries actions, that it had been common sense, and logical. Most of the latter where shouted down one was even accused of being a spy, and cruelly assaulted. Others in the crowd simply quarrelled over who precisely was to blame, and / or the best course of immediate action. A single shoe sailed in an arc out of this general melee just missing a Navy Liaison Officer.

Another distinct demographic group looking ashen hobbled forward among the rest like barely animated corpses, eyes down and empty. Separated individuals yelled out to each other. Females and children tearfully cried or screamed in rage or frustration, Argon males threatened, and bullied, shoved, punched and brawled. In one area a female fainted unable to breathe in the crush, while curses rained from every quarter. It was a madhouse!

The two Navy Liaison Officers were mobbed until they were encouraged under guarded protection to remove themselves out of sight, at one point they had to be physically dragged from the grip of a berserk group of angry but impeccably tailored businessmen. The suits had wrestled forward with hands like claws, eyes filled with rage; otherwise they could have been at an away day conference for high flyers.

In total the tally arriving at AFC4 was an astounding two thousand six hundred, and thirty seven souls but in the confined space it seemed like many more.

“Paranidia,” cursed Elaen, “I didn’t expect it to be as bad as this, not straight off the boats.”

“Pretty much how I imagined a civilian run refugee reception,” said Ravn scornfully looking over the chaos.

The ex soldier was grimacing, and unimpressed although he knew the Navy should have known better than to drop them all off at once like that. To Ravn the Navy’s action ran counter to all normal crowd control procedures! All he could imagine was that either somebody had really messed up, or much more likely it was a calculated, and brutal manipulation by ANI [Argon Navy Intelligence], a missile launched without remorse straight at the Corporation of ArgonForge.

“This is cursed arrogance if you ask me,” said Ravn.

“What?” shouted Elaen.

“Nothing,” replied Ravn while thinking using people that have suffered in this way was low, still that’s the Argon Navy for you. All seeming: flouncing, pressed trousers, stiff lapels, alongside brutish indifference to the universe beyond their ships, and zero common sense!

Looking slightly overwhelmed Elaen confessed, “I don’t know where to begin!”

“Only two ways to handle a situation like this - before it gets out of control - effective,” he patted his weapon, “but rough and ready, or ineffective,” he lifted his hands up as if surrendering, “the Commanders softly, soft approach. So how do you want to play it?” Shouted Ravn over the growing din, from the now almost riotous crowd.

“Oh hell, let’s make some noise and get it over with,” stated Elaen, drawing her weapon.

However Ravn grabbed her hand with surprising speed, “wait, let me do this, I’m the hothead - grunt - new boy,” he explained grinning, “you don’t want to be firing your weapon twice in two days.”

Elaen felt a bit miffed at how quickly the word had got around, and gave the new recruit, her subordinate, a hard look, “you sure?” she asked.

“Yeah,” said Ravn. Smiling he unhooking his own weapon, and changed out some ammo, “luckily I always carry a few - noise maker tm - blanks for just such an occasion,” he confessed, “a long story!”

“Actually one moment,” said Elaen, “I’ve got an even better idea, all these bays are rigged with mega powerful speakers,” she reached up to her ear, “Central, this is Lt. Constable Elaen patch me through to DC&C… DC&C this is Lt. Constable Elaen,” she stated again, “I need a favour, I’m here with the refugees in Receiving Bay - Delta One could you activate the emergency speaker systems here, I want a ten second blast of the worst white noise you can conjure on my mark - just below damaging levels for that duration - then patch my comm into the PA system. When you are ready to go, I also want you to give all our staff here a heads up on this action and then initiate synchronised audio blocker filtration on their ear pieces for the duration of the noise. Ok, proceed with the warning.”

A very long - few heartbeats - later a voice immediately piped over her system, “Attention all personnel in RB-D1, Attention all personnel in RB-D1, please be prepared for audio filter block, DC&C is about to commence a 10 second burst of extreme white noise via the emergency speaker system. I repeat be prepared for audio block and 10 second PA extreme sound blast, DC&C out.”

“DC&C, It’s Lt. Constable Elaen mark,” said El.



Later at the scene of the earlier crime (at least according to some media jocks), despite the fact that he had heard the refugees had been divested of all personal possessions the now abandoned RB-D1 was still somehow awash with debris. The place was littered with the material aftermath of the earlier debarkation debacle. Among the discarded items could be listed: pathetic rags of clothing, damaged crushed, and empty water bottles, a few ripped day packs still bravely sporting Navy logos, not to mention a plethora of scattered toiletries, endless tissues, flapping leaflets, booklets, and many brightly coloured AFC4 corporate newssheets.

Sheko was glad his duties had nothing to do with sanitary clean up now that the circus had moved on! Instead he had been called in to check the status of one of the emergency speakers that had flagged up an error during its earlier operation. The fault was a minor issue given the amount of redundancy in the system. Really he had just been curious over the Bays general disposition and decided to - take a break from more pressing duties - to have a look see!

Luckily the offending kit was mounted against the wall at floor level not one of the high wall or ceiling mounted units. Gaining access to the fault wouldn’t require zero gravity depressurisation, a rare on station anti gravity harness, or one of the usually busy self-raising cargo platters.

Unclipping an auto bolt key he zapped the cover plates’ locking bolt receptors, and delved into the basic system. As usual it was a fault with the A-COMM receiver module, a substandard bit of kit on the station if ever he had seen one. Having guessed this already he pulled out a small pre checked replacement - sealed in an anti static shrink box - from a chest pocket then swapped the units around. After dialling up the receiver, and pumping through some test music he commenced to replace the cover, but jumped back when a tiny bit of unexpected movement caught his eye.

Pulling out a penlight, and an extended probe he poked around between the components but located nothing untoward. Giving up Sheko shrugged muttering, “damn bugs”, sprayed in a generous amount of ‘Unikill tm’ then holding the lid forward like a shield slapped it into place, zapped the locking bolts into operation, packed up and moved on. Sometimes it seemed that the creepy beasties managed to find their way into every nook on the station, but if he called in the exterminators for something as minor as this they would laugh him out an airlock. Argon though, he really hated bugs!

Inside in the dark a tiny object scuttled forward and forged a direct interface with the new A-COMM chip - converting the speaker into a powerful microphone - it recommenced its covert surveillance of the bay.



“Can’t believe I was going to start firing warning shots into the air,” confessed Elaen spluttering as she toyed with some noodles, “Like some Passive ‘VR StarPatrol’ sheriff, I think this place is finally getting to me.”

“Well I’m just surprised you almost took advice from our friendly grunt,” said G grinning.

“Seemed like a good idea at the time,” interjected Elaen, “err what’s this?”

“Some kind of fancy pickled mushroom I believe,” said Garrin, “try it and find out. Don’t you just love this place? How often do you get to eat station food you don’t recognise?”

“Yeah thanks, I always enjoy ‘Woo’s Magical Emporium’. Even if I occasionally get a bit skittish over what some of his wilder ingredients might be,” noted Elaen thinking about critters with tentacles that looked suspiciously like baby Boron yuk!

“Actually you can eat pretty well on this station,” noted Garrin filling his mouth and chewing with gusto.

“Trust me, only if you have the credits, you spoil me,” returned Elaen popping the suspected fungi into her mouth, and looking a little guilty.

“It’s only data,” said G smiling, “speaking of which you hardly ever see actual currency anymore. I can remember one of my first clients, Paranidia, I think he must have been a pirate or something,” he laughed shaking his head with wonder.

“Or a black marketer,” returned Elaen, “we still occasionally confiscate exotic currency from those,” she grinned, “a lot of space jewellery and majaglit too.”

“Yeah, the Pirates also like the shiny stuff,” noted G, “anyway this dude turns up dressed like he had just come from a costume party - with a cat tucked under his arm - and offered to pay me ten times the standard rate for an in-sector station to station run!”

“Ten times with a cat,” echoed El she loved listening to Garrin’s stories.

“Yeah, do you believe it - a big black and white feline - complete with its own ID card, and full electronically logged medical history,” he continued, “a very well travelled pussy.”

“So what happened?” asked Elaen.

“I’ll tell you what happened,” said G, “Soon as I launched it became apparent the Xenon where after this fellow, so I’m pulling all these crazy manoeuvres around the station trying to shake of two Xm5’s while with the other eye I’m watching the Gravidar Scanner, and following the progress of another two Xm4’s. The medium fighters where closing in pretty fast too while trailing a distant Xm3.”

“I’m screaming on the comm for help from sector security or anyone with a weapon. The Passenger Dude calm as you like is looking around himself - as if out on a watery pleasure cruise on Argon Prime - but the cat it proceeds to throw a major wobbly, has some kind of freaky fit, and leak’s from the wrong end all over my cabin.”

El roared imagining the scene.

“Paranidia, the stench never ever been go glad to seal up my visor and go on tank,” said G with a grimace selecting another morsel and popping it into his mouth chewing and swallowing.

“So then what happened?” asked the off duty Police Argon.

“Well to cut a long story short I got some aid from an Argon Colossus, and some friendly fighter jocks, and completed my run,” said G still grinning.

“What about the cat was it alright?” asked El still smiling.

“Oh as soon as I stopped spinning about it made a full recovery,” answered the Courier.

“What about the passenger then?” asked El thinking the story couldn’t end like that!

“That one,” said G between mouthfuls, “he pulled some kind of fancy high tech deodoriser out, slapped a load of old but still legal Teladi Trade Wafers into my hands, tells me to forget I’d ever seen him, and saunters off across the docking bay smelling of roses.”

“Unbelievable,” said El shaking her head, “I guess you’ll never settle down,” she sighed.

Garrin just replied with, “Come on girl eat up, the food is getting cold.”



Looking around Eno marvelled at the space dock. At how it had a life of its own, one it shared in common with every facility of its type. A unique atmosphere, well maybe atmosphere was the wrong thought. Eno chuckled, as he drifted over to the bulky control panel. It was designed for manual operation in zero gravity with big friendly virtual buttons, and joystick. Funny it was technically possible to link your mind directly to machines but most Argon still preferred at least the simulacrum of a physical interface. An anchor to the real world you could trust. VR spaces had been proven to create false security in some technically life threatening situations. Dangerous machinery was still frequently handled the hard way.

Of course you could program the lifters too and in fully automated areas robotic loader / un-loaders where hyper efficient. However when delicate machinery or heavy goods had to be lifted in close proximity to sentient life forms nobody really wanted to trust their fate fully to a machine, it was this biological bias that kept pilots in business too. Machines where dependable but generally uncreative, creative machines where feasible but that was getting too close to the dodgy realm of artificial intelligence, and the danger of breeding a new independent race like the dreaded Xenon (although some claimed it was the lack of real intelligence that made the Xenon what they were). Eno regarded such debates as somewhat above his educational level not that he was anybodies fool but he was no Professor either!

In fluid places like space docks a degree of creative flexibility was mandatory so the machines played second fiddle to flesh and blood Dockies. It often surprised space rookies just how many bodies where employed by the companies. Most expected stations to run primarily on uber-efficient automatics, and many internal manufacturing, and processing systems almost did, but people where hardly cut out of the overall loop. The modern equivalents of the ancient gears, and wheels still had to be oiled by the modern equivalents of the ancient grease monkey!

Locking his vac suit into the work station Eno activated the direct control interface and grasped the projected virtual joystick in a bulky gloved hand.

“Ok lads I’m all good to go, time to cut loose, and shift the sealed unit. I want every step exact to Goner protocols. We wouldn’t want the JD non tamper device to initiate a self scrap,” noted Eno.

Of all the common upgrades a Goner Jump Drive remained one of the most desirable, expensive and secret. Every sealed unit had multiple fail-safes that protected its integrity from inquisitive inspection and theft. Luckily if something did go wrong at least nobody would be physically hurt; Goners where an order of pacifists, but the machine would go into a self generated meltdown. The once desirable and functional engine would render itself into nothing but scrap yard slag, a deficit Eno didn’t want coming out of his or his crews wages. At least the Earth worshippers knew how to generate a clean set of instructions for legit removal, and transfer surprising, he thought, given to how prone to waffle they where in the pulpit, still each to their own!

Not too many minutes later the job was done and Eno was able to strip partially out of his suit and ease his fatigue with a liquid stimulant drink. Since the Khaak conflict the station had been running at over its originally projected efficiencies churning out a mixture of weapons for an ever-growing market demand. ArgonForge were making record profits and expanding their operation to many new sectors.

Gregor was pushing hard to keep his now older facility at the forefront of productivity running his staff ragged in the process. The man was ambitious. Eno didn’t like him but then liking the boss was rarely a part of a Dockies remit. As far as he was concerned being overworked, and underpaid was like eating, and breathing. If the shifts started to get too heavy if accidents started occurring it would be a another matter, but so far staff levels remained just about adequate to continue the break neck speed. Nonetheless, some of his men where starting to grumble a little more than usual.

Lend interrupted Eno’s revere with a heavy slap on his back.

“Nice job boss,” said Lend grinning, “for an oldie you still got the touch, hate messing with those Goner sealed units, I can’t afford a debit right now, just about paying for my family’s food and oxygen as it is.”

“That’s why I’m still glad to be single,” interposed the lumpy figure of Beda.

“You’re not trying to pretend it’s a matter of choice with that face and physique,” replied Lend with a teasing smirk.

“I get plenty,” retorted the bulky Dockie, “when I want it. Charisma is more than a pretty face, I’ve got what people call presence.”

“Is that what the girls down in the cages are calling easy credits these days,”, countered Lend.

“Ha, I have never paid, and I never will,” claimed the ugly Argon.

“We all pay one way or the other,” stated Eno, “Some things never change but at least these days you’re guaranteed plenty of overtime plus the occasional bonus.”

“Occasional is right, listen to the company man, always open for recruitment,” said Lend.

“Wash your mouth out with soap Lend, those are dirty words,” retorted Eno.

“Don’t know Argon. I mean, isn’t supervising just a limp whiz away from being a suit,” countered Beda giving his friend a hard look.

“No, I get my hands dirty every day, and do my own work, and don’t you forget it,” reminded Eno punching his friend affectionately in the chest.

“Hey easy, what ever you say Eno, we all know you’re the Argon, I mean no need to get all girly sensitive,” replied Beda with an evil grin.

Sitting on a small crate Eno shook his head and muttered, “I can see this is going to be another long one.”

“Everyone is a long one in this business,” stated Lend shaking his head at the work list on his computer pad.

“Tell me about it,” spat Beda, “can hardly remember what my bed feels like.”

“That’s because you’re always hanging around outside places like The Junction unsuccessfully trying to squeeze your way into other folks,” retorted Eno.

“For sure,” spluttered Lend wiping at the spillage of his drink.



Later in the same day Eno, and Beda vacuum suited up, and linked by a direct closed comm channel were deep in the bowls of one of AFC 4’s zero gravity depots - what they affectionately called a glory hole!

“So what we got here?” asked the hulking form of Beda, bending over stiffly in his vac suit trying to decipher a damaged electronic label, “sorry this one is dead, I can’t make out a thing!”

“One moment,” said Eno directly scanning the crates contents chip, “Should be,” he trailed checking his bulky computer pads screen, “lets see domestic chemicals - low risk toxin - ‘Unikill tm’ non-pressurised squeeze pump, and apply applicators. 500 units.”

“In other words bug spray, where for?” questioned Beda.

“Maintenance Dept main storage locker MDMSL3 three via traction two,” stated Eno.

“Well this one’s a definite stray,” replied Beda, “one for the boys,” he crowed.

“Now we just have to track down the other seventy three,” noted Eno looking around the huge depot stacked to its roof with multiple lanes of clamp secured crates.

“Eno, you really know how to spoil an Argons day cycle,” replied Beda, “why you doing this monkey work anyway?”

“Some priority stuff mixed in with this batch. Gregor’s fine PA - Anna Dei - our very own Assassin of Hearts asked me to look into it,” replied the Dock Supervisor with a grin.

“That explains it then,” smirked Beda, “the Anna has spoken, and her entranced subjects must obey.”

“You know this would go quicker if you talked less and worked more,” exclaimed Eno.

“Listen to mister efficiency, we moving this one now or just tagging?” asked Beda.

“Tagging its more - efficient - I’ve got a primed zero G auto loader ready to do the bulk of the basic shifting for us,” explained the Supervisor.

Beda asked, “couldn’t you just program the beast to find the boxes too?”

“Don’t you like your job?” returned Eno, “It needs a sure tag. Obviously, something may be up with these crates ID or they wouldn’t be missing!”

“Well this one is chipped fine it just got a wonky label,” noted Beda.

“That’s because this particular puppy is down to Argon error, but in my experience most strays are down to bad tagging codes. The loaders are accurate the addresses are wrong!” said Eno.

“So how do you know when you have a bad address?” asked Beda

“Apart from a full scan, and a data search it isn’t easy. Mostly it’s a pattern error,” explained Eno, “something in the data doesn’t fit the overall pattern. You know - guns en-route to the Goner Sanctum, Industrial Gear for a Personal Cubical. Food Pack’s for a Real Food restaurant that sort of thing, but usually a bit more subtle!”

“So why am I here?” asked Beda.

“I’d blame your Mother, Father, and a good quantity of Space Fuel. On a more serious note you’re here because I need someone to hold my hand in zero gravity according to the regulations,” said Eno with a grunt, “How long have you been working the Forge?”

“Too long, but if you looked at your own rota I’m almost always at first contact unloading,” stated Beda.

“Well that explains why we’ve been losing so many crates doesn’t it?” asked Eno.

“Nice!” replied the Dock Worker.

After what seemed like ages of hard toil the two Dockworkers where on their way to their beds, and idly chatting over their short range closed comm.

“Did you hear about all those refugees?” asked Eno.

“Sure, it’s a cursed sector that one,” answered Beda.

“What do you mean cursed?” asked Eno just to pass the time, despite guessing he might regret the question.

“Bala Gi’s Joy, its cursed bad luck - ill named - there is something about that place!” replied Beda.

“Sure,” replied Eno sceptically while laughing knowing he had opened Pandora’s box without question.

“I’ve heard rumours, strange things happen there, disappearances,” explained Beda with his best knowing look.

“Disappearances? It is a cursed Pirate Sector so you would kind of expect: ships, cargo, and pilots to disappear, I wonder what could possibly have happened to them. I mean it is ever so mysterious, and spooky!” finished Eno dripping sarcasm from every orifice.

“Mock all you like, I tell you the place isn’t like - any old Pirate Sector - anyway calling Sectors after people is bad luck,” insisted Beda.

“Sorry how do you get that?” replied Eno incredulous.

“Well all the Sectors named after people have bad reputations. It is tempting fate I mean who was Bala Gi anyway? Sounds like Boron name to me! What made that floater so special? Naming a sector after yourself is what do you call it…hubris! Look at Brennan’s Triumph or Loomanckstrat’s Legacy all cursed,” explained Beda rather satisfied.

“You big idiot,” said Eno chuckling, “they are all Pirate Sectors.”

“Exactly,” replied Beda as if that fact only reinforced his argument.

What was it about deep space that made sensible people lose it and go all superstitious, and paranoid? Eno knew even he wasn’t entirely immune on occasion. However Beda was always spouting about impending doom, unnatural occurrences, ghost ships, mysterious disappearances, unidentified objects, and creepy unknown species dwelling in the nooks, and crannies of the Universe. The arrival of the Khaak race on the scene not to mention the Terran’s was creating a golden age for conspiracy advocates!

Nothing ever just happened if you believed Beda everything was linked by cunning webs of intrigue, and deceit some kind of plot or scheme. Some cycles Beda’s theories were amusing at other times when the Dockworker refused to listen or see common sense staring him in the face - it could all get a little tiresome!

“This sector as well ‘Elena’s Fortune’ is bad luck, not only is it named after a person, it also uses a label like Joy or Fortune that is just asking to get it in the neck,” stated Beda with a wide grin now teasing a little.

“Well that is just out and out superstition with no logic behind it whatsoever! Why would these particular Sectors have more alien activity if that were your hypothesis just because of a name? Unless you are claiming we are all pawns of godlike aliens that take offence at our naming schemes, wise up that is just too stupid for words,” said Eno.

“Of course we are just look at all those Jump Gates that just happened to be left behind along with all those nice empty planets,” countered Beda.

“Well having all those Argon Navy ships in sector should make us feel a little safer,” said Eno.

“Safe as Presidents End,” complained Beda serious again shuddering in his suit, “see Presidents End, that one had to be a bad omen!”

“Beda old friend you have been here cycles upon cycles and what has happened? I’ll tell you what absolutely nothing just more, and more work that’s what,” retorted the Supervisor.

“Well you know what they say it is always calmest before the storm,” said Beda.

“Calm wouldn’t be how I would describe it either, just not especially perilously dangerous but space always has some risk so accidents happen everywhere,” countered Eno in exasperation, “you superstitious conspiracy freaks have an answer for everything, every odd little happening is proof you are right, while quiet periods are evidence of conspiratorial cover ups, can’t you see it is like a religion or extreme patriotism all the facts are bent out of shape!”

“None as blind as those that don’t want to see,” stated Beda, “you’re the indoctrinated one, programmed by the state, and all the regular - controlled - media. You only see what they want you to see worse you aid, and abet every cover up!”

“Alright then who are ‘they’ exactly?” asked Eno striving to tie the Argon down.

“You know the powers: the Intelligence Services, the Media, the Governments, the big Corporations like ArgonForge,” answered the paranoid conspiracy advocate.

“So these people control these godlike aliens,” said Eno laughing.

“They can’t control the Elder Races,” explained Beda, “that is why it is all covered up, that is why they hide the truth!”

“Like I said an answer for everything,” reiterated Eno, “you really should spend less time on the Inter Link.”

“You think they don’t know more about the Khaak, come on Eno look at even recent history,” insisted Beda, “they fooled us all about the Terran, and Earth didn’t they? Prime sold us all a damn lie, and we let them, hell we even helped them! Our government is founded on secrets, and misinformation we are all being kept in the dark, trust me!”

Paranidia’s unequal stare but the fekker was almost beginning to make a little sense at least about the Terran. Damn but I must be working far too many too long shifts when Beda starts spouting logical arguments into my ears, thought Eno.

“Enough before you turn what is left of my ailing brain to mush,” complained the Supervisor, “besides you’ll be getting us the sack for being anti government - with talk like that - this is a weapons forge after all how did you ever get past the vetting?”

“I kept my mouth shut, yeah, you can’t even speak freely around here, nothing is private on AFC 4,” said Beda looking around, “why do you think that is?”

“Probably to keep people from talking all day instead of earning their credits,” replied Eno, “time to get back to my bunk, and the real universe,” he finished arriving at the hatch to the Transit system.

“I even dream about crates now,” cursed Beda, “you can’t escape - I can’t believe seventy seven foul up’s - despite all our procedures.”

“Well like I said you’re normally at receiving, maybe if you spent less time thinking about conspiracy theories you have dug up on the Inter Link, and more time concentrating on your work,” said Eno.

“Good thing I know you are just joking or I’d be going off you Eno,” said Beda.

“Sure,” replied the Supervisor with a sigh.



Elsewhere on AFC 4 Ravn was watching Elaen approach up the corridor carrying a computer pad, the new recruit grinned it was kind of good to work with a female.

“Hello friend, looks like your foot is better today,” said Ravn.

“Garrin dug out some medicinal salve from ‘The Grim Reapers’ storage locker. A bit whiffy but really good, it almost feels uninjured,” commented Elaen.

“That’s great so what’s on the schedule today?” queried Ravn.

“Sorry, Anna was on to Carl so it is another long day cycle of deep security clearance interviews with the less well documented refugees - Gregor’s - orders,” noted El.

“Sometimes I think CAO [Central Administration Office] only exists to stop me from doing regular duties,” said the Female Police Argon with a sigh.

“You know Carl told me how they really needed feet on the deck, but since I’ve been here I’ve spent more time loitering around the office, than anything else,” grouched Ravn.

“Sorry, I think I got elected because of the doggie incident so you got elected by default,” explained El, she already knew how much Ravn hated this side of police work.

“So which one am I today, good cop, or bad cop?” asked Ravn.

“Which do you think?” replied El, unable to stop herself from giving him a wicked leer.

“I had to ask,” said Ravn, “a sever case of Argnu foot in mouth disease,” he continued smiling, “anybody caught any pirates yet?”

“Not that I’ve heard - either our guests are all legit - or they are skilled dissemblers,” said Elaen thinking if they did happen to be Pirates it wouldn’t be surprising to discover they were also good liars, in fact it would be more surprising if they weren’t.



Some time later the AF police where hanging around outside the interview room leaning their backs against opposite walls. Ravn was looking seriously displeased with the station day cycles progress; Elaen tired, and lethargic poorly stifled a wide yawn.

“Better be at least one blood soaked buccaneer,” moaned Ravn, “otherwise it is a total waste of time. Still as much as I hate to admit it, if the Navy boys didn’t get the truth out of them, I really don’t think we will!”

“Spoken like a true pessimist,” returned Elaen but she followed the statement with a sigh of her own, “anything can happen,” but deep down she didn’t really believe it!

“Well I’m tied of listening to the same old sob story, and endless complaints. If these ladies and gentlemen are liars they are uninspired ones. I could strangle a warrior Split for a real juicy whooper right now!” Ravn stated enthusiastically, “maybe if we beat them about a bit, just a few bruises, no broken bones, maybe a split lip!”

“Don’t even joke about it,” said Elaen shivering, “haven’t you heard, nothing is private on AFC 4, there are microphones, and cameras everywhere! Lets face it we’re a kick in the butt away from being a full on military facility given our produce.”

“Probably why Gregor doesn’t want to risk having any Pirate Boys on board,” noted Ravn, “Bala Gi’s Joy, must have been overflowing with refugees, when they sent so many this direction, you know it bothers me there must have been better places!”

“I agree, it hardly seems like a smart move from a security standpoint,” noted Elaen frowning, “have you seen the Argon Prime News Channel, boy are the politicos roasting AF or what?”

“Yeah, Gregor certainly didn’t look too happy, no comment, no comment, no comment,” he mimicked. “They sure did a hatchet job on the arrival of the wide eyes too. Like it was our fault that the Navy threw them at us like sacks of wheat, did you see the way they cut that edit?” asked the ex soldier.

“Wish I hadn’t,” complained Elaen, “do I really look that fat, but seriously they might as well have got the art department out, and added metre long horns to our heads.”

[Paranoid66]

Reapers Passage
X3 Fan Fiction by Paranoid66

Chapter 7 – If you let go in space do you still fall?

Anna Dei rushed down the corridor wearing a tight form fitting gym suit, a small pack strapped to her back, and padded soft gloves on her hands. Her feet cushioned in exceptionally expensive and impeccably engineered runners. Her hair tied back in a ponytail, face and body glistening with sweat. Weaving through the station at breakneck speed she physically finessed her way around, over, under every obstacle without pause, using every part of her body in the process.

‘Station Running’ was a dangerous (in some places outlawed) sport! It was largely the preserve of a small number of professional athletes, and fitness freaks who knew each other by name and reputation. It could be highly competitive with point to point races being organised against the clock, but Anna only raced for pleasure, or so she claimed! Nonetheless some fans of the sport were known to time her endeavours and other Runners were rumoured to keep track of these unofficial credentials.

Anna’s hobby was usually undertaken in the cycle periods when others on the station slept; this had more to do with Anna’s short allocation of free time than a desire for empty corridor. In fact what appealed was every nook, and cranny of AFC 4; the more crowded irregular and obstructed the course the better. When she was ‘Station Running’ people ignored her, and just went about their business as usual. Renowned for being one of the most approachable members of staff on the station; it was also known that the only thing likely to really rile her was somebody deliberately moving out of her way when she was in full flight.

In a way it was a lonely sport that required a punishing level of focus, and single-minded determination, as much as physical ability. Many fine athletes who tried their hand at Station Running were shocked to discover that despite all their timing, training, and fitness, they simply couldn’t get into the proper mindset required to avoid all distraction. Rud nearly left his skin behind when the PA slipped around him to leap down into one of the service conduits. Jerking to a halt he could feel droplets of sweat coalescing on his brow, swaying a wave of heat rushed over him along with a moment of spinning nausea. The encounter couldn’t have been briefer, but it had hit him with the force of a meteor strike!

Such coincidence felt like divine or infernal intervention, he wondered what the probability of just such an incident here, and now, under these circumstances would be. Then again it probability meant little in a chaotic universe, but was it? Almost he considered turning back. How many hours had he struggled with the commitment, looking in the mirror, and talking to himself in the safety of his own head? He told himself that he could do this thing, then deciding that he couldn’t, before questioning his position again!

It had become easier once he had started walking; with each step it became a little more fated, then Anna had swept past depositing every doubt back in his lap. He was trapped in a ring of dilemmas. Rud couldn’t decide if either by going on, or by turning back he was ultimately brave or cowardly? Was he more afraid of his future than of doing the wrong thing? Was he more fearful of taking a chance than lifting himself out of monotony? Or was he just a cowardly child, terrified of getting caught with his hand in the sweetie jar?

Looking behind him up the corridor he envisioned going back as being an unbroken line, a safety tether anchored securely to his past, looking ahead he saw that line severed - falling away - taking him into the uncertainty of the unknown, casting him adrift. Rud took one faltering step forward then commenced to walk faster, then faster feeling more alive than he had felt in years.

By the time Rud reached the three converted living quarter suites that had been made into the tiny Space Fuel Den known as ‘Third Space’ he had calmed down a bit. Third Space was a shadowy spot that featured dim lighting, rich music, and private sheltered alcoves. It was a favourite meet for lover assignations as well as lovers of Argon Jazz. Rud knew it rather well because it was also a place where you could be isolated in comfort while pretending in your own head to be in company.

Making his way to the familiar tidy bar he ordered a Booster Rocket in a tall thin glass – nodding to the barmaid Alis then casually headed over to the pre arranged corner. Inside his head some part of him was tittering like a schoolboy at the clichéd setting. Like something out of an ancient - poorly scripted - detective novel. Rud guessed the man had either a rare sense of humour, or believed that it was such an obviously crass meeting place that no one would take anybody who used it seriously! That Rud had always been interested and enjoyed Argon Jazz, and often frequented the Club, only added to the mystery! Was this fact just another coincidence? How much did this potential benefactor already know? Cogs, within cogs, within cogs, like his own overly engineered precision timepiece!

“Ah, I’m so glad you could make it Rud,” said the mysterious Argon, “I assure you the performance tonight will be well worth the time out from your busy schedule,” even the Argons cadences seemed somehow mockingly fictional, his voice overly smooth, and insincere.

Rud noticed he hadn’t refrained from calling him by name, almost the opposite as if he wanted to draw attention to it like a hidden threat, “I certainly hope so,” replied Rud a little embarrassed that his voice had quivered slightly. Damn I’m out of my depth with this, he thought.

“On a side issue did you remember to bring the recording, I can’t wait to go home and listen to Ehlootu Yu. I can’t tell you how excited I am at this find, well worth the credits, an actual live recording from The Teladi Ring,” he grinned, “Ehloo used to set that club ablaze!”

“Of course, I um, have it right here. I hope I won’t regret parting with it,” said Rud.

“It’s only a recording no damage done to the original master I trust. Regret is a waste of emotion,” lectured the stranger.

Rud squinted trying to read the contacts ID card but when he examined it, it was as if the text blurred or jumbled in his head and his curiosity was overwhelmed by a relaxed unnoticed disinterest – as if he had no need to know, because he knew already.

“Do or do not, that is my philosophy,” continued X but he hastily pocketed the disc, “Know that many will appreciate the value of this and of course as agreed you are reimbursed for your trouble, and ingenuity,” X handed over a one use credit key, “It is a fine new business venture you have initiated my friend we should have a toast,” he continued raising his glass, “to successful ventures, and your future!”

They clinked, and supped from their own respective glasses.

“It must feel good to be able to spread such joy,” continued the stranger, “I wish you every success with all your researches. I always like to see a Argon willing to strike out - on their own - still it must be a little easier knowing you have at least one enthusiast as an assured, and faithful client,” he continued beaming, “enough chat though, you have come here to listen to the show as much as I.”

Later making his way home Rud’s head was spinning. His sense of levity not just from the Space Fuel, but the result of a heady intoxicating sense of achievement! He Rud, the trapped, the insignificant, the overlooked, had actually done something tonight - something dangerous! The tiny device in his pockets - felt like more than mere financial compensation - it was a vindication of his worth! A token that, he existed, that his actions mattered. Rud was a player not merely a pawn in the games of others!

Rud decided he would be clever - continue as normal - put the key aside, and leave the credits alone. Surely it would be no hardship to continue as before aware that every day was a day closer to leaving this place forever. He would even start to deepen his Jazz knowledge, and enhance this cover by spending time researching on the Inter Link. Maybe even declare the income or a part of it at least. By the time he had reached his door, and activated the biometric lock, he had almost forgotten that it was not a rare musical recording that he had traded, but privileged station information!



X considered his brief, as usual it was filled with blanks, voids of information he didn’t need to know, and wouldn’t be told! He didn’t even have a clue to his own employer’s identities, and had no desire to pry, which was for the best. Working freelance he was an Agent for Hire contacted via Inter Link alias. He found it amusing that not knowing his employers was an advantage that cut two ways. If caught, any trail would end with him; his employers would be completely safe. If not caught, and so far he had avoided any such debacle, of course, he had been interviewed perhaps even suspected of something, on many occasions under various names, but never caught, he need never worry that his clients would decide he knew too much. Plus if any other employee of his employer accidentally got in his way he was not responsible for the consequences, nor bound by any moral or ethical consideration to his employers desires or general philosophies; only the strict fulfilling of his very exacting and specific contract.

In this business X was infamous, anonymous and unique. In his profession anyone of his calibre had some sort of an edge a rare talent or ability perhaps a supreme hacker or even just exceptional luck. For X the edge was a perhaps singular psychic ability the product of a past he preferred to forget. This talent didn’t allow him to read minds - he wished - but it allowed him to implant suggestions. To hack peoples brains with snippets of extra coding. It had many uses he had even managed to implant a few false memories once but that had been unusually difficult.

It was far from a perfect ability. X had soon discovered it worked in a very subtle way; it would never counter an ego’s direct defences. For example he couldn’t nudge somebody into suicide not unless they were already suicidal. X imagined it as whispering softly to his targets in their sleep.

One of the earliest, and most used, applications had become his ability to fudge his identity when dealing with specific implanted individuals. Unfortunately it was useless against electronic surveillance, but insidious enough to be applied in many situations even under camera without flagging up discrepancies. New Biometric ID cards, data histories and wipes, credit chips, and keys still cost him a fortune in expenses though. The talent only worked one on one, needed close proximity, and required eye contact to initiate also so far it had only proved effective against fellow Argon. Nonetheless, the talent was powerful enough being after all still only an edge, he had long ago decided only fools relied on any singular skill too much!

Yes, this particular operation was quite satisfying, and very amusing. His target - unusually naïve, and well placed - although stubborn at first - was now he guessed more open to his suggestions! It felt like he already had the first of his objectives firmly in the bag. The only thing that worried him slightly was the real danger of becoming complacent, and the fact that ArgonForge 4 just loved cameras, but an electronic system was only as good as the operator, and or computer analysis routines. Coppers and rudimentary AI’s often had to be looking for something before they had any chance of finding it! The arrival of the refugees was also likely to prove advantageous, keeping the local administration, and security personnel even busier than usual. Plus if needed he was sure he could use some of the newcomers. Thinking ahead he already had a fake refugee identity card on order just in case he needed another potential means of extraction.

All in all he considered, it had been a good night’s work.



Anna checked her door locks, set her security system, and stripped off for a real water shower. A water shower was a small luxury of her important position in the company. Nearly ever drop of the precious moisture would be recycled, and reused time, and time again! The amount of waste on a modern station was a point of a percentage. Everything was reused or recycled. After all this was a hell of a lot more sensible than shipping in more and more freight, and spewing out more and more junk!

Anna was content run had gone well, and under the soothing water she felt relaxed and happy. For Anna scheduling in this recreation was difficult, but no less essential than any of her other company activities. Keeping fit and healthy made her a better worker, and it also got her out visiting areas of the complex she would otherwise never see. The physical presence of Gregor’s PA reminded everyone on the station of her position as a key worker.

Anna did little by accident, even as a child she had been deliberate, and thoughtful unusual traits for one who was also energetic, and outgoing. Anna knew she was blessed with good genetics, and a fortunate upbringing. Her parents had been dedicated research scientists, and Anna had so very nearly followed entirely in their wake; but she had also been blessed by unexpected chances, events she never could have foreseen! Today the idea of spending most of her time in a sterile laboratory filled her with dread. She enjoyed the thrill of Argon interaction more than any amount of advanced physics, rare mathematical formulae or elder technology.

Thinking about her parents always made her a little sad though. Since Anna had departed they had drifted apart in more ways than distance. Anna knew both Jake, and Emma Dei regarded her current career as a waste of her abilities, she knew her father considered Anna’s decision as a failure of his own parenting skills. Jake just couldn’t comprehend that his daughter might view the universe in a slightly different manner than himself, or for that matter his beloved wife, and colleague Em!

No amount of promotion, no business honours, no attempts at reconciliation had cracked her fathers intransigence. Jake’s tunnel vision was more secure than the wormhole between two linked sector gates. Anna had been forced to accept that perhaps this relationship was destined to be a full on casualty of her adult independence. Drying off under a stream of warm air, she shook out her dirty fair hair - a term she hated - then reached out for a precious silk kimono. Thus attired she carefully stowed, locked up her daypack. Settling onto an office chair at her tiny desk Anna lifting up a domestic computer pad. Studiously Anna commenced to digest a scientific journal on theories of advanced containment protocols.

[Paranoid66]

Reapers Passage
X3 Fan Fiction by Paranoid66

Chapter 8 - An Argon Prime Interlude

Gregor stared at a cloud shrouded Argon Prime sky through the reflected pattern of his own scowling face. Rain was sleeting down sheer, and vertical like a many-layered veil of tears. The weather made him doubly glad for the comfort of the heavy unbreakable glass that protected him - here in the lofty precipice of his hotel room. Some traitor part of his mind however couldn’t resist looking down to the almost invisibly distant ground below, with its muted lights and floating traffic, a part that felt like jumping! Under Argon Prime gravity, and the burden of recent events he felt laden down, and dull, as if his body and thoughts were being squeezed with equal measure. Certainly Gregor had arrived expecting a battle, but despite other’s fears he had remained confident that in person he could deal with this misunderstanding!

Buoyed up by all his years of exceptional and loyal service even now, based on his last progress report from Anna, AFC 4 was still churning out its goods at an accelerated rate. Taking all this into account how could they consider his infraction to be so great? The request for exemption was entirely logical! What had possessed the Argon Navy to consider so blithely flooding such an important arms manufacturing unit with the unneeded burden, and risk of a population of refugees? Why wouldn’t anybody listen to his sensible retorts, and well-researched statistics? It was maddening all his skilful lobbying inside, and outside the Corporation had so far appeared on the surface utterly futile.

The sheer vehemence of the press had astounded him. The hysteria that had grown up around the issue was truly remarkable. As to his own Corporation ArgonForge seemed content to hold him up at arms length like a bloody skinned offering to a pack of ravening wolves. Sympathy squirted out of his peers, like water from a Boron’s rear, behind closed doors; but the complete lack of supportive press releases, and image opportunities told a truer story! He had become the golden boy with feet of clay! He had never known AF to be so spineless the largest manufacturer of weapons in Argon space was essential to the military, not the other way around! When were there not other markets for Photon Pulse Canons, High Energy Plasma Throwers, Particle Accelerator Canons, and Mass Drivers?

Still after endless requests a quiet visit had been agreed here with the companies VP. Soon he suspected he would know one way or another about his fate. He couldn’t decide if the fact that the visit was to be - informal - was good or bad!


Jollo Gardna deactivated the tinted rain shield that had helped to hide his identity from the press outside, and entered the lift, “Floor 57 please,” he said, checking his expensive watch.

“Identity confirmed,” Said a synthesised voice, “compliance granted,” with a chime the lift commenced whisking the VP of ArgonForge smoothly upward.

A sturdy figure Jollo wore a deep red collarless shirt under a dark grey almost black suit that subtly displayed a stitched in Pan - Galactic Tycoon trade rank patch. Unlike most non-Goner’s among the Argons he affected a beard though his was a rather neat and tightly trimmed no nonsense affair. This individualism however spoke more of expensive and deliberate grooming habits, rather than any potential for wild-eyed fanaticism!

Stepping out of the lift he was unsurprised to note that the corridor was empty. The Hotel was a fully owned subsidiary of his company, and this particular floor was strictly off limits to casual interlopers.

Marching smartly to Gregor’s suite he affected a warm smile and let himself in.

“Gregor,” said Jollo smiling warmly, “so good to see you!”

Gregor with a slight start turned from his vigil and launched himself enthusiastically forward to shake his old friend’s hand.

“Jollo the pleasure is all mine I assure you. Please have a seat,” raced Gregor, “I, will get us some refreshments? What would you like?”

Inside a voice was screaming at Gregor to get a grip, calm down, and stop acting like a buffoon.

“I would be grateful for some iced water, the rain always makes me thirsty,” replied Jollo so far unruffled by his inferiors out of character agitation. Even though it was the first time he could recall Gregor being quite so… uncontrolled!

“So how are Fern and the children?” asked Gregor.

The AFC 4 Administrator forced himself to undertake the simple chore of filling a jug with ice, then water, and to gather up the two tall glasses in an unhurried manner using a cloth napkin to hold them together. It was an exercise in concentration one that served to reduce - a little - his unexpected almost incomprehensible bout of nerves at facing Jollo.

“Fine, not really appreciating the out of season storms but then who is?” noted the VP, “Fern was very sorry to hear all about this mess. She demands that I twist you by the arm until you agree to visit - the farm - that is before you return to AFC 4.”

“So I am going back then?” questioned Gregor feeling simultaneously paradoxically relieved, bitter, and annoyed at the prospect - in another rough storm of emotion.

“Of course nobody in the Corp. is questioning your ability to captain that ship Gregor. However, I am still the bearer of bad news, I’m afraid,” continued the no longer smiling Jollo.

“The new Complex Project,” noted Gregor, “I’m still the right, and best Argon you have for that job,” he exclaimed deciding this was a poor time for a show of false modesty!

“I don’t dispute the fact,” said Jollo kindly, “and I’m not just saying that either, but the rest of the Board let’s just say they have been convinced under pressure to see the matter differently!”

“Convinced? So I am to be marooned, honestly Jollo, I don’t understand it,” said Gregor gesturing about, “this abject surrender to external forces. I expected some support not out and out capitulation, not abandonment!”

“Not even our Forges work entirely in a vacuum Gregor,” lectured Jollo, “some members of Senate would like to militarise all Argon weapons production. There has even been a report flying around on - the likely economic effects of - a forced compulsory purchase order on weapon forges! I know the idea is ludicrous, they would have a mercantile civil war on their hands, but there are fools in government too. The war has brought a lot of new players onto the stage, people with unusual backgrounds, new priorities, strange dreams, and without question even odder fears!”

“Is there no way we can sway the Board?” asked Gregor.

“Not at the moment, not in this climate. You know the head of Argon Intelligence was hunting for the trophy of Administrator Gregor’s head on a stick?” enlightened the VP.

“It all seems so excessive. You would think our intelligence services had better things to do?” returned Gregor answering a question with a question.

“Maybe it is a smoke screen then, a distraction from the boys in greys less than perfect progress in this damn war of attrition with the Khaak,” commented Jollo, “I haven’t heard about many crushing victories lately, and they must be unnerved by - the seeming fighting superiority of our - other new neighbour. If it makes it any easier you can always think of yourself as a temporary sacrifice to the grand Argon cause! Your banishment will not be forever, I promise you, return to AFC 4 do the business and in a few Argon seasons… events are moving fast, I expect some other crises will present itself soon enough, then your own five moments of infamy should be eclipsed and forgot!”

“So my future promotion chances are to be founded on the whims of external events,” cursed Gregor unhappily. This really wasn’t going well, he still felt rattled, not like himself at all.

“Listen Gregor I appreciate this is a hard tack to follow,” noted the VP, “honestly you have my sympathy, but you did err! For good or ill Gregor this is where you are. Take my advice sometimes the current is so strong that you have to go with the flow until you are washed up at a safe harbour,” Jollo liked to go boating in his spare time. “Make the most of being here, escape the angry city, and the baying of the press hounds. Visit - the farm - relax a little; you have been under too much stress! Then feeling recuperated you can slip back quietly to Elena’s Fortune.”

Gregor deflated, thinking about the ignominy of crawling back to AFC 4 like a rat scuttling back to its hole, hardly what he had considered to be his style. How could he face his staff after pushing so hard to achieve so little! All these feelings were new and confusing. He had never had to face the consequences of a serious defeat before!

“I don’t know Jollo maybe it is time I moved on? Maybe I need new horizons?” ventured Gregor hardly believing his own words, and half wishing he could stuff them back to the hollow empty place from which they had heedlessly escaped!

“I never took you for a fool Gregor, don’t turn yourself into one now! You have my solemn promise you will get your chance at the right time. Continue to prove your worth, rub the nose of these dissenters in the dirt. You still have powerful friends here, don’t let momentary political expediency delude you to that fact, trust me!” promised Jollo.

Slightly shocked by this outpouring of support Gregor felt himself straighten up, “I guess the weather has been getting to me too,” he said sipping from his glass.

“That’s the spirit,” returned the VP, “I’ll arrange for transport to take you to - the farm - Tomorrow you can relive old academy days with my beautiful wife, your cousin!”

“Thanks,” said Gregor clasping his old friend on the shoulder.

“All will be well,” replied Jollo, “perhaps it is time to seal the deal with something a little harder,” finished the VP producing a silver flask set with traceries of gold that marked out the AF logo underneath a detailed engraving of an archaic blacksmiths forge.



Skimming through the rain drenched night in the back of a silver chauffeur driven skimmer Jollo returned to the question of Gregor. As Factory Complex Administrators went the man was capable and compared to some low maintenance. The position had a tendency to both inflate egos, and sponsor a degree of eccentricity. After all not everyone was suited to living in a box surrounded by a sea of nothingness. Gregor had done wonders with AFC 4 turning it into a flagship unit. Besides he genuinely liked the man and he was family, but now?

Nonetheless, Jollo was shocked at the performance he had just witnessed. All it had taken was this one major setback - with no easy solution - and Gregor had almost dashed himself on the rocks! The VP found this much more worrying than the gaff of questioning an order from the military that had been couched as a request! He understood that the game was a convoluted one, and Gregor was in a no win position but maybe he was the wrong subject entirely. Not as reliable as he had at first imagined if Gregor fell apart what good was he to the company or the project. It was a pity that the new position had cropped up at this so important time! Ban had been furious at Jollo ranting at him like a maniac over the comm, accusing him of negligence, and threatening dire consequences. Still it was too late to make sweeping changes to the operation now, just like he had told Gregor himself; he also was where he was.

If only the cursed military left ArgonForge to their own cognisance. All they had to do was sit back and accepted the end products with good grace, but no they had to meddle, and rock the boat. Enough was enough he decided he was going to try, and put his foot down with this one.

Touching behind his ear he pressed the stud for the Communications Hub, “Jollo Gardna here, get me a secure hook up to the Argon One, and Ban Danna as soon as possible”, he demanded.



The next morning dawned overcast but dry. The bright disk of Sonra struggling through tiny gaps to flash out streams of pure angel light upon the capitols sparkling rain washed buildings.

Gregor after being paged was collected by a skimmer that took him to one of the ArgonForges private VTOL flyer pads, a concrete, and steel hexagon marked with landing lights and a black and yellow target painted surface. There Gregor made a rendezvous with the Silver Eagle an armed and armoured small AF atmospheric flyer capable of carrying a maximum load of six passengers. To Gregor’s inexpert eyes the Eagle looked like a fattened modern Discoverer with added wing surfaces, and engine nozzles. This vehicle shuttled him in comfort and great speed to his final destination another private pad a short walking distance from the famous Fern Gardna owned family retreat; the haven known in the company, and even by the Gardna family themselves simply as the farm.

Gregor was greeted by the arrival of Fern who clutched her ears against the roar of the Eagles engines as it shot upward, and wobbled slightly before rocketing away.

“Gregor,” screamed Fern, “I hope you had an enjoyable flight. May, is quite the pilot now.”

“So I see,” said Gregor.

May was Ferns eldest daughter only sixteen she had been keen to show off her new atmospheric license.

“I hope she didn’t throw you around too much,” said Fern laughing both actions now at a normal volume.

Gregor moved over leaving his auto luggage to hover behind him, and gave Fern a long hug, “It’s been too long,” he said, surprising himself with another welling up of emotion.

“Come inside, and you can tell me about it over some fresh lemonade,” promised Fern, “the weather seems to be brightening, so I think I can survive a sad story!”

“I think I would rather go for a walk outside,” said Gregor smiling, “although I would be grateful for the lemonade, and a chance to leave off my luggage. How is Cloud?”

“Oh the same,” replied Fern, “getting a bit old but as woolly as ever,” she chortled.



Down by the pond straddling the oriental ornamental bridge Fern tried to bring up the subject again, “So Gregor,” she said, “have you found happiness out there among your stars?”

“Happiness,” he mused, “I don’t know, something’s make me laugh, is that happiness?”

“I think you, and Jol work too hard to be truly happy,” commented Fern, “when I first decided to retire, and run this place full time, I thought I would go mad, now I think it was that uptight business Argon that was the insane person!”

“Somehow I can’t see myself growing flowers, and raising sheep,” returned Gregor.

“Hmmm not sure you could count Cloud, as raising sheep,” replied Fern smiling in amusement, “what about your PA Anna?”

“What about her?” asked Gregor - returning her question with a question.

“Well I thought - you know – what about the obvious, two young go getters in such close proximity all alone in the night!” said Fern.

“You just want to go to a zero gravity wedding,” said Gregor with a wink, remembering an old obsession of his cousins - from when they were briefly at the same institution - he was beginning his tenure, Fern almost finishing hers.

“Am I so obvious,” complained Fern, “so are you seeing anybody?”

“I see people every day,” returned Gregor looking down in search of some ornamental fish to go with, the ornamental bridge, and the ornamental pond.

“Why is it always so - impossible - to have a proper conversation with a male?’ asked Fern with a mock groan.

[Paranoid66]

Reapers Passage
X3 Fan Fiction by Paranoid66

Chapter 9 - Anarchy Port?

Jorac in a full set of medium weight - powered - combat armour stomped down a central access corridor. Behind the Pirate Leader trailed six Fallen Angel crewmen some of whom were still adjusting un-powered, but good quality defensive suits. Trailing their commander the heavies quickly tightened straps, settled gloves and adjusted pads. The Pirate leader was carrying a pair of high-powered stun sticks clutched in his left hand. His Angels gripped singular but longer heavy-duty shock staffs two handed, or balanced under the crook of their arms, as they made themselves ready.

Marching Jorac kept one eye on where he was going, the other busy monitoring the action as it took place in arrivals. The live security camera feed playing out on a screen projected on his bulky helmets HUD display. It was a measure of personal frustration, and boredom, that Jorac had decided to deal with this as yet - minor - incident in person; dragging along some of his elite crew from one squadron ready room.

He could easily have flooded the area with sleep gas, turned off the artificial gravity or affected any number of other remote solutions. Jorac still hadn't ruled out less intimate action, he considered himself ever ready to adapt to any situation that started going pear shaped. This occasion it was down to whether he could arrive in time, something yet the Arch Fallen Angel was pushing a little since he really felt the need to crack some skulls!

Luckily the rebel faction - as good a name as any - had failed to get into the all-important berths. They had also been frustrated in some unsophisticated attempts to break into the local security lockers, and to unsealed maintenance hatches. Only one rebel had been armed with a slug thrower, and he now appeared to be out of ammunition. The other protagonists brandished a pathetic assortment of small personal melee weapons and makeshift clubs. All in all the operation - seemingly focused on escape - appeared to be a botched exercise.

What the rebels did have though was a clear advantage in numbers. There was a lot more of these fools sealed in the area, than his loyal armed guards. In fact now only two loyalists stood between the insurrectionists and the exits. So far judicious use of low velocity slugs had downed one rebel, injured perhaps three others, and pinned the bulk of the aggressors down behind a stack of crates, and some miscellaneous wreckage. However, the two loyalists - also behind a makeshift barrier - were slowly being flanked. The main body of rebels also held three hostages; one guard and two dockworkers, these were being used as living shields to assist mobility.

Hostages however wouldn’t do the rebels much good in the long run. Jorac's guards had strict procedures, and knew better than to give a Boron’s watery fart about such matters - even if the going got tough - Jorac had promised he would skin anyone alive and pickle them in a barrel of salt, and he meant it literally, if they ever compromised station security just to save a friend!

At last Jorac, and his unit reached the bulkhead door, also security sealed, but not to his codes! We’re coming in he informed his outnumbered guards via comm link, cracked the door and charged. Viewing his own figure, and party attacking in third person out of the corner of his eye while whacking about with the stun sticks was wonderfully satisfying!

Enjoying himself Jorac whacked one rebel with a series of lighting repeated strikes, revelling as his victim juddered, and thrashed from multiple electric charges. His crew were twirling, and prodding, bashing, and poking with devastating effect. The shock staffs greater reach giving impressive results. Jorac was just inwardly cursing the fact that it would be all over too soon - when the bomb went off!

Sensing the pressure wave the grade (A) suit activated its one charge five-second one mj pulse shield. Lifted off the ground his suspensor cushioning harness kicked in. Jorac's life was saved though he was tossed half way across the bay like a broken doll, and lapsed into unconsciousness. The Devils poor medical state instantly activated a pre programmed remote - emergency transport sequence – protocol which whisked his damaged body away from the threat altogether!

As to the condition of Jorac’s six men; these and nearly all the rebels plus the hostages had been either tore apart by the blast wave, or shredded by a plethora of metal objects that had been ruthlessly packed around the explosives.

Receiving was a scorched bloody mess of meat, bone, and debris. Instantly a fire alarm sounded and foam began to rain like wet snow over the hot spots.

One of the two loyalist guards stood up, shot one staggering badly injured survivor, then shot another on his hands, and knees before pocketed a simple remote detonator, and stripping off his helmet.

“That will teach the slime mould to underestimate the Rats,” said Bale feeling very pleased with the outcome, “best find the body though, just in case this action needs a little finishing touch,” he pulled out an exceptionally wicked looking knife with a hooked tip, wiggling this suggestively.

“Fair enough,” replied Amon thinking irrationally that Jorac - for his own good - had best wish he was dead, then continued speaking, “one thing you have to admit about Jorac he was a tough son of a Split. I think I saw his body flying over that way,” he gestured spluttering as a drifting cloud of fumes caught his throat, “you had better be right about Ploopy?”

“Trust me the little troll will have good old Jorac’s Central System bubbling out Boron in no time,” said Bale with an evil laugh.

“Always kind of wondered why you had a squid face on your crew,” returned Amon, “knowing your racial prejudices.”

“Ploopydroop is our floating genie in a bottle, what he doesn’t know about coding isn’t worth knowing,” stated the Black Rat Leader.

“Well if you are wrong, we will soon be up to our armpits in Fallen Angels, and Station Guards,” noted Amon.

“Joracs shock troops will be kept: sealed up, gassed, spaced, bounced around, or diced with auto defences. No sweat whatsoever!” sniggered Bale.

Amon patted him on the back, “Hallelujah to that, welcome to the real Freedom Station,” he crowed.

“I’ll drink to that,” agreed Bale, “now where in a Paranid Priests idea of a frozen Hell has that fekkers body got too!”

They both looked around the general area in bewildered puzzlement!



Ploopydroop burbled away happily to himself as he hacked into the station. Jorac’s system was good, very good, but it was still just a dumb (pretty much uncreative) AI, and a bunch of interacting routines. If Jorac had been around it would have been a real contest of move and counter move. However, today Ploopy wasn’t playing games, today he was playing for keeps, so the Boron was quite glad the opposition was eliminated!

It’s not easy being a Dread Pirate when you are one metre tall, and float about in a bowl of water. However, the Boron had learned how to turn his weaknesses into strengths: watching, listening, and waiting, Ploopy had learned how to do a lot of waiting!

Besides the Argons were so funny! All that muscle but no appreciable brain, sometimes Ploopydroop wondered how they ever managed to get into space. The Boron suspected they were only successful because they spawned like plankton. Out of the billions of fools there would - through the logical necessity of statistics - always be a few exceptional individuals to advance the species. Lucky for them Ploopy thought!

“Mi Ton,” Ploopy squealed delighted at getting full access then gasped, “oh dear that’s not good, that’s not good at all, Still very well played,” the Boron’s eye stalks moved together in a smile, “never mind Jorac was another problem for another day!”

On an external station camera drone the Boron watched a single Pirate Nova Raider detach from a station-docking clamp, accelerate away and jump out of sector using a Goner Jump Drive. Ploopy guessed - given intercepted bio-readings - the ship was running fully on automatics as the passenger was in no fit state to pilot!

As he continued monitoring, a small fleet of Boron fighters started arriving a few at a time mostly BM4 but also some BM3 Barracuda all gathering gracefully to rest in unmoving formation, Ploopydroops new formed Sharks!

Opening a relatively short range broadband communication with his stalks bent in the Boron burbled, “Ploopydroop, is delighted to welcome all his brethren to Freedom Station, please dock when you see the docking lights.”

Ploopy then proceeded to: secure, gas, crush, bounce (he found this especially joyful), and dice - all - the silly Argon Pirates into full submission!

[Paranoid66]

Reapers Passage
X3 Fan Fiction by Paranoid66

Chapter 10 - Aftermath - Accolades and Ascensions.

Ploopydroop was beginning to wonder if his scheme had really been such a grand idea. Seizing the station once Jorac was out of the way, and he had control of Central Systems had been shockingly easy, everything going as he had predicted. Mopping up the mess left behind was proving another matter altogether, trying even his considerable patience and ingenuity!

Surprisingly few Argos had been killed in the subjugation. Unfortunately few occupants of Freedom Station had come through the entire ordeal without some injury. Ploopy didn’t like leaving dumb animals in pain, so he felt obliged to render a degree of clinical aid or euthanasia in a few extreme cases. The Boron was unimpressed by slaughter, though it was an occasional necessity. He would never understand people like Bale who enjoyed twisting the knife - except in the case of the great enemy - nor could he ever grow to like sadistic individuals.

It was notable that the majority of fatalities had been the result of Bales failed but useful assassination attempt against Jorac. Ploopy considered bombing to be an uncultivated and uncivilised solution of extreme last resort.

Still he had been surprised at how skilfully the Rat had managed to manipulate two groups of lesser Crews: The Green Monkeys, and The Blood Hawks, plus miscellaneous independents. Bale had skilfully locked the disparate factions into the unknown to them - fake - uprising! Believing that a strategically placed security locker and access way would be left unlocked the fools were led into Dockside Receiving - as decoys - their fate sealed.

Everything then hinged on the disguised Bale, and Amon holding the poorly armed rabble off until Jorac arrived for a bit of exercise. Two bombs had already been strategically placed at likely points of cover. Of course the whole protracted scheme also relied on psychology; Amon’s insistent prediction that Jorac - given this scenario - wouldn’t be able to resist intervening in person, if granted enough time!

For his part Ploopydroop had simply played along - taking advantage of the Argons hair brained scheme - to finalise the Boron’s own ambitions. Over several years Ploopy had been quietly feeling out contacts, alliances, ultimately leadership of a wide group of other Boron - all expatriates like himself. These worthies needed coordinated leadership to develop their own skills, process opportunities, and consolidate mutual desires.

Affiliated into other alien groups - expatriate - Boron had suffered from more than just humourless jibes. Often they were treated as worthless expendables the Boron’s very real earning potential over-looked, and mishandled, their majestic force misspent, Ploopy had decided this was unconscionable, and acted appropriately.

Of course he was an opportunist, and had never originally dreamed of seizing Freedom Station. Ploopydroop’s original scheming was of a smaller magnitude, the Boron hoped to forge an alliance with Jorac. Ploopy would run an expanding Boron crew semi independently under the talented - mostly logical - Argon leader in fact the Boron had been well on the way to handing Bale over on a platter. The Rat when visiting Freedom was always plotting in some manner or other against the Fallen Angels designs.

Ploopy had then been granted an epiphany. Bale wanted him to hack the station for The Black Rats, the Boron decided instead to do the same for his as yet unheard of Sharks. There was little risk he only had to act once Jorac was eliminated. If the plotters failed he would simply - silently - switch sides again, if they succeeded well that was now history!

After failing to find Jorac’s body, Bale and his covert associate Amon were let into the airlock that led to the currently depressurised Berths. They were rather surprised when Ploopy locked them in preventing them from cycling the system. Despite the Boron’s better nature Ploopy had been tempted to leave them there to slowly rot, but it was an important access way that was needed to speed up his own forces egress.

Spacing the plotters would also have been time consuming as they had put on vac-suits and had access to spare tanks, so he just waited for his own troops to arrive. Dropping the airlocks ceilings twin security - low velocity belt fed - auto machineguns Ploopy explained politely to his erstwhile associates over a comm channel that it was in their best interests to toss their weapons to the deck, and behave. After all the Rat, and Wolf Leaders didn’t want to be rude therefore forcing their Boron friend to make more ugly stains. Showing an unusual amount of sense, if through a lot of disgustingly puerile almost endless invective, the two irate Pirates complied.

The Sharks arrival was not much later. Over the last few cycles the Boron had been in receipt of regular updated coded signals. Reports had been sent via Ploppydroop’s satellite that lay hidden among Freedom Stations protective debris field. When the Boron forward guard hovered in they were well prepared. The invaders being armed with tiny looking energy weapons clasped stiffly in their suits mechanical manipulators. The delicate looking devices being fitted to very large power packs - which gave away their true potency - the packs in turn being hooked up to the back of the Boron’s floating encounter suits. Pointing their tiny shiny but impressive weaponry the Sharks had little difficulty in escorting the deadly duo. Bale, and Amon were thus generously given free quarters in the very ample, but soon to be grossly over crowded, Freedom Station brig.

Now Ploopy was at a loss. The Boron Leader didn’t want to massacre all these captives, nor dared Ploopy trust releasing them. While the prisoners continued incarceration was not only a drain on resources but also an accident waiting to happen. Selling them as slaves was an obvious solution, but the thought of making even an expedient deal with the cursed Split made his tentacles quiver in rage. It had been his hatred of these rabid warriors, a life of privateering against them that had set Ploopydroop upon his current path in the first place, so slavery therefore was not an option! So what to do?

In the meantime the station was filling up with more, and more Boron. The word had spread far further, and faster than Ploopy ever would have imagined - the Boron had emerged as a heroic figure - a great War-Leader! This new status shocked him but Ploopy soon developed an appreciation for the admiration received. Un-self-consciously the little Boron was developing a regal imperious demeanour, and a dramatic mode of speech. Using his new won notoriety among the Argon Station living Boron community it had been easy to import even more Boron - this time non combatant technical specialist - to operate and convert Freedoms various systems, and facilities.

Of course some life support, and engineering adjustments had to be made, and Ploopy had been required to use forced Argon labour in a few currently - Boron - inhospitable areas under strict control. However, Ploopydroop was convinced that his Boron kinsmen would soon acclimatise Freedom enough via the odd structural bit of refurbishment, plus engineering modifications for it to become fully manageable.

Despite all these rapid advancements, Ploopy still felt time was pressing while he retained a Brig full of troublesome Argon. It was after an inspection of these now rather rank holding compounds that the Boron hero had another bout of inspiration; a bold and fitting scheme worthy of recent successes, and a new found status. After completing some research, and generating some materials, Ploopy gathered up a small group of his most trusted. The audience took place in a medium sized briefing room though it was one with an unusually high ceiling. Taking up a suitably central, and forward position Ploopy floated upward to look down and address his attendants.

“My friends,” Ploopy began nudging his eye stalk together, “many of us here are dissidents not because we are disloyal but because we cared about our people, and our home systems above ourselves! We are descendents of the abused, the slain, the tortured, and the enslaved. When peace was made with the great enemy, we few alone refused to surrender! We lonely stalwarts found new places, and novel ways to struggle on defiant to our detractors, and heedless of the dire cost to our person.”

“Why?” continued Ploopy, “Because we understood peace would only make Rhonkar, and his poisonous rampaging brood of misshaped monsters stronger. That deceit was in the savage heart, and it is inevitable not just likely that war with these cruel warriors must come again! Persecuted for our faith, and our valour, we squirted on the accord and became vagabonds, homeless drifters among hot, and unfriendly stars - deprived from the life sustaining fluid of our homelands and the eye stalks of our most beloved!”

“In time we were forced into base affiliations - against our better natures - with: cruel, crude, despotic criminals, and their rank organisations. These Pirates used, and violated us to fill their own pockets, while branding us cowards, and treating us with undue contempt. Such horrors we were impelled to suffer on a cyclic basis - simply to survive - in the cold empty voids whence we roamed, but no more! Now we have a reef in which to shelter from the storm, a place, this place, our place!” said Ploopydroop.

“It is my intent to pay off any ill will we have inadvertently garnered with the mercenary Argon. We will establish ourselves, and this station as a legitimate operation - a Boron run Free Port - unlike any other! Here we will be free, safe and able to take rest from our ceaseless, and essential labour. Perhaps in time if we assist the Argon in their own operations within this border sector they - at least - may learn to appreciate our rare fighting spirit, and someday join us in our mighty purpose! For the glory of our Queen, Death to Rhonkar! Eradication to the Split! Till soft waters encloses us in perpetual rest!” preached Ploopy.

“Death to Rhonkar! Eradication to the Split! Till soft waters encloses us in rest!” chorused the floating congregation.

“Now,” said Ploopy to business, “this is what I propose. I am charging each of you to be my ambassadors to the Argon in the vital cycles that lie ahead, so listen well.”

“Your mission is vital we must - at all cost - prevent any aggression from the massed Argon fleet. Fighting potential future allies is a waste of resources on both sides. With the support of the Argon Navy we also gain extra protection from any disgruntled ex associates. We are well placed to aid the Argon. We can donate extra intelligence, and added security patrol coverage, we must make them understand that we are their friends and allies! By holding this station we also provide a vital open diplomatic channel to hidden underworld resources elsewhere, and are a potent counter to any reoccurring escalation of illegal activity in this remote place. We will be a bulwark against incursion from our lawless neighbours,” explained the Boron.

“As a gesture of good will I intend to deliver freely into Argon custody both; Bale the head of the infamous Black Rats, and Amon Master of the renowned Grey Wolves. The other prisoners - Pirates - all will be handed over for the standard bounty (a simple reward for my followers) in return I will also pay reasonable reparations for any of my Boron’s perceived past misdemeanours, and purchase police licences for every one of my combat pilots,” explained Ploopy, “thus integrating our flights into the general security patrols of Elena’s Fortune!”

“Of course under - standard Free Port restrictions - Argon Military Ships will now be welcome to dock here for repairs, refuelling or for simply rest and recuperation. Lastly I pledge that The Sharks will not handle any illegal substance, or engage in any illegal activity, within the confines of Federal Argon Space. These are my words for the Argon!” said Ploopy.

“This is the proposal I want you to disseminate. I have already trawled the Inter Link and have a list of candidates for each of you to approach. As you can see I have provided recorded copies of my proposal in the following formats: Passive Virtual Reality recordings, Digital Text Files, and Flexisheet Hardcopies; Ploopydroop politely requests that you use these valuable resources well!”

“My lord. Bu Noo politely, and humbly request clarification,” simpered one Boron.

“Ploopydroop is delighted to listen to your request Bu Noo,” replied Ploopy with smiling stalks.

“Ah Lord, this label that the Argons gave you, is it not an insult? If we use it will it not demean your honour to our designated contacts?” Bu Noo’s stalks wilted apart at the prospect of his noble benefactor being so grievously, villainously defamed!

“Bu Noo, long ago I decided to carry my given name like a stigmata, the scar left by a psychic razor fish. A reminder of the perfidious dishonour under which we - expatriates - have laboured. However, as perceptions are important to the Argon, I suggest my envoys alter it slightly to let me think… lets say ‘Plu Dup’ yes Plu Dup seems about right. Few if any Argo are likely to perceive that this is not a legitimate Boron name.”

Grinning Ploopy thought, Lord, I like that! What a fine Boron Bu is. Obviously a personage of such high sensitivities should do well in this new order!

[Paranoid66]

Reapers Passage
X3 Fan Fiction by paranoid66

Chapter 11 - Silent Running

Garrin ran his hand along one smooth section of resurfaced silver skin on his M5, the ‘Grim Reaper’. He never grew tired of looking at his beautiful ship. It almost made him thankful to the Khaak; the Argon Shipwrights had pulled out all the stops since the advent of the lethal conflict, the endlessly protracted war of unequivocal genocide!

Thinking about this he found himself slipping into a revere recalling a peculiar story in one news bulletin about a pre war shipwreck stranded on a planet in a pirate sector for a few years, Split Fire? When rescued this Argon had acted a little odd, but his strangeness was overlooked as a product of long isolation.

However, after his rescuers jumped into Argon Prime the silent Argon went berserk. Attempted to smash into a weapon’s locker, when this failed he grabbed an untidily discarded ‘Uni-wrench tm’ and attempted to seize the Mercury Small Transport by force. Luckily he was physical weak and readily, overpowered, sedated by the two man crew, causing no substantial injuries.

Later when the Argon was treated, and debriefed, the reason for his bout of madness was revealed. It transpired the unfortunate Argon having seen his rescuers unfamiliar ship hull followed by the sectors also unrecognised ships, and stations - plus still being a little addled, and paranoid from his travails - had convinced himself that he was the victim of a kidnapping by an unknown race of advanced humanoids; perhaps the fabled Earthmen, or even by some insidious race of shape shifters.

Fearing the worst he committed himself to escape before his captors docked, and his fate was sealed. Not even the familiar fittings of the cabin and its equipment had been enough to settle this traveller’s complete disbelief upon seeing the external technological advancements that had occurred in so short a time.

So much progress had been made in the intervening period, that the old ship versions had become obsolete virtually overnight. True, many individual vessels were lost in the fighting, but even the bulk that survived, were traded in for replacement. Some modular systems were fully salvaged alongside a lot of reusable basic parts, and component’s, but everything else was scrapped; rendered down for every ounce of raw material that could be recovered as part of the war effort. Were all these amazing new blue print designs had come from; remains as yet even to today, a closely guarded official secret!

With these changes in mind by the time - the soon to be infamous - shipwreck victim returned, the only retro models were fast becoming dusty exhibits in military museums, already looking archaic almost alien themselves as if - not from the recent past but – from another unimaginable place, and maybe they were. The universe had turned!

Pilots couldn’t afford to lag behind in redundant technology anymore; simply put redundancy was death!

Even the Pirates who had used their own specific designs such as the once lethal and highly respected M4 Bayamon (secretly constructed - many believed - by the mercenary Teladi) had abandoned their old fleets for new - mainstream race - war inspired designs, and these models had multiplied into a plethora of specialised varieties making them even more capable and deadly. The conflict though it continued to destroy lives even ravage planets had nonetheless hammered forward space-side advancement at an unprecedented rate.

One of these innovations was the incorporation of the unit Garrin planned to use today. Before the war no M5 scout ship could fit such a device despite the obvious advantages. Cracking open the ships - when closed - almost invisible cockpit access door with an electronic key Garrin scampered in and sealed up. Inside he slipped on his pilot’s suit an innovatively comfortable vac suit undergarment that had several useful tools, and electronic aids capable of ship pilot / ship, vacuum suit, linkages. This top of the range item came according to one jocular advertising campaign, with a free lifetime guarantee of perfect emergency vacuum suit auto transport deployment - or the user’s money back!

Garrin smiled thinking of one cheesy PVR [Passive Virtual Reality] commercial with its friendly cartoon animated pilots; most of which popped like balloons when they were attacked, and their ships destroyed by some stupid bug ugly aliens! Of course the pilot in the ‘Pilot Suit’ just appeared in space within a - shiny silver - Vacuum Suit. This fortunate product owner then pulled out a miraculously unfolding expanding colossal fly swatter from a pocket to whack the invaders with a - thwack, and squishy sound effect - not to mention a back and forth close up to an ever widening toothy grin! The advertisement ended with a bold disclaimer in red ‘Extensible Khaak swatter not included!’

Of course the advertisement was banned by the Boron rated overly violent, and insensitive, while the Split seemed impressed, the Teladi mildly confused, and the Argon despite themselves amused, only the legendary Elder Races could guess what the insular and inscrutable Paranid thought about this one; Garrin questioned if the broadcast had even been circulated to the Paranid’s nebula screened, and inhospitable domains?

Shaking his head, while rummaging about for a misplaced computer pad, Garrin said, “Baby, please run a full pre flight diagnostic, and system check. If everything is - smooth - get us permission and take us out to a free in sector co ordinate six km out. How many energy cells are onboard?”

“We have…five energy units,” stilted the reply.

“Damn,” said Garrin calling up the sector map and scanning for a Solar Power Plant he knew wasn’t there - last time he looked, but there was always a chance of a new factory springing up when you weren’t paying attention!

Talking to himself as the ship went about its business he mumbled, “so much for my planned instant jump, guess it’s a boring side trip to The Wall.”

He had barely cleared the forges unusually extensive docking bay when he was greeted with, “Pilot this is Argon Security, please stand by, while we scan your ship.”

“Here we go again,” cursed Garrin.

The visiting Argon Battle Fleet didn’t know him like the local police did. The scan took a ridiculous amount of time to be initiated as usual - what did they do during these periods? Perhaps they kept misplacing their computer pads too. Eventually an odd vibration ran through the cockpit and a humm arrived in his ears.

“Ok pilot you’re clear, you can go about your business,” droned the officer.

“Why by the fiery sun of Paranid Prime do they tell you - you’re clear - ” he complained, “as if I don’t know if I am or am not carrying contraband?”

Baby didn’t reply being tuned enough to know the question was rhetorical.

“Oops… I forgot I was ferrying several tons of narcotics!” grumped Garrin, wondering what fool had scripted the taped responses!

His black mood deepened at the prospect of the banal conversation being broadcast at least once more before he escaped the Navy via the west Gate. Although the huff was really all about his lack of energy cells, an enforced change of plans, and the fact that he had made a rudimentary error! Garrin hated making mistakes, especially any related to flying and trading!

At least he had little to fear from Pirates in the Fortune - at the moment - with these Navy boys everywhere. Nonetheless, Garrin still ran a full diagnostic on his fighter drones, checked his wasp, and mosquito missiles, and even fired a few bolts off with his insignificant Alpha Impulse Ray Emitters. G was feeling wary as he was heading into Presidents End a graveyard of wrecked Argon Stations, and ships. It was here that the Khaak first fully made introductions to the Argon with fire! Even today this now barren wasteland was a known haunt of deadly Khaak Clusters, despite frequent joint Argon, and Boron sector patrols including M6 corvettes.

No one as yet had dared rebuild a station here, but it remained an important route way, and thus could not be fully abandoned. Exiting via the west gate in Elena’s Fortune Garrin emerged out of the East gate in Presidents End. The cockpit blacked out wormhole transition wasn’t instantaneous but it wasn’t far off it.

It was interesting that during Jump cockpits now polarised, and blacked out, a recent innovation. New research had discovered that an alarming number of pilots when repeatedly exposed to the - visual over stimulation - of the spectacular wormhole energies complained of suffering odd inexplicable side effects!

In the more benign cases, they felt a deep and peaceful ecstasy. Saying it was like venturing down a tunnel of light often becoming deeply religious. In other instances this tunnel became a descent - a fall - a spiral into their own private hell of depression; many such individuals later took their own lives! A few, a very few simply found the wormholes, these impossible energy vortices too alien to incorporate into their mentalities, and went quietly insane!

Arriving in Presidents End the Discoverer’s cockpit clarified as the ‘Grim Reaper’ swung around on a new course. Garrin employed the oldest rule of navigation - that the shortest distance between any two points, was a straight line, and arrowed toward the North Gate. As he raced at full throttle the Argon scanned constantly, nervous of hostiles. Luckily the Gravidar Scanner remained clear of reds [hostiles]. Nonetheless, it was always a spooky experience passing the metal skeletal remains of what had once been a thriving Argon commercial centre. Soon his cockpit fled into Darkness as he entered the North Gate and then brightened once more as the ‘Grim Reaper’ burst out into ‘The Wall’.

‘The Wall’ was one of the Argons principle sectors for energy production. Here several gigantic solar power plants looking like, geometric metal flowers, or singular wheels depending on their size; bathed in the suns glow, converting and packaging radiation into reusable power cells for multiple purposes. After a terrible accident using reactors the Argons had shifted their energy generation philosophy into this purported to be - clean - efficient and, less dangerous solution.

Being an important sector ‘The Wall’ was well patrolled and full of civilian traffic including TP, ST, M3, M4, and M5 scout ships like his own, even a ponderous station kit carrying TL. Garrin noticed a massive Titan battleship also lazily drifting along its multiple turrets seeming at rest, but in fact ever ready to turn and cast out truly lethal energies.

Running his Teladi designed Best Buy Indicator Software he selected a station with a cheap surplus, and engaged the Reapers - temperamental autopilot. Carefully watching his progress, only a fool relied on an automatic navigation system without reservation. Accidents caused by faulty un-adaptive programming were - all too - frequent in crowded sectors filled with heavy traffic. Sometimes ships even ran inexplicably into stations or asteroids with little or no explanation, perhaps a temporary sensor glitch, and thrusters miss alignment or misfire, solar flare interference, viral attack or other miscellaneous malfunction!

On this occasion everything however went perfectly smoothly and the tiny Discoverer mated itself to one of the stations, ponderously large extensible docking clamps.

“The Argon Federation is delighted to welcome such as you aboard,” rang out an automated voice through the comm link.

In no mood for taped chatter Garrin had already commenced an electronic purchase, before the Argon voice had finished its predictable speech. Soon Garrin’s cargo hold was brimming with Energy Cells, enough for a non-stop jump to his next destination! Feeling unusually impatient all he wanted to do was make the run and return to ArgonForge 4. Thinking about this he was slightly shocked to realise how much he was missing his Copper already. Elaen was getting under his skin in a way nobody had in years, was he finally going soft, or was it just that he had finally found the right one, and not realised it!

Undocking Garrin flung his ship around with a reckless abandon, while quickly selecting a destination gate, G then started the JD activation sequence waited through the countdown then vanished with a flare of light.

[Paranoid66]

Reapers Passage
X3 Fan Fiction by Paranoid66.

Chapter 12 - A Guest Appearance

Jorac charged down upon the Argon Super Transport an elongated freighter with a massive hold capacity. Skilfully he unleashed a controlled burst of glowing green high energy plasma fire. The plasma could hardly miss the lumbering target, and splashed like angry water against its scintillating shields.

He wanted to frighten the civilian into surrender not damage or destroy the valuable ship! Nonetheless, he was aware that psychology being what it is some pilots had sense; these would bail, and live to fly another day. Other fools would insist on going down heroically with their ships - no matter how insane the odds against them! This was something he never understood; to lose some credits was one thing, to lose your life another altogether. Survival he had always told his own pilots was never cowardice.

This particular Argon was being stubborn, and dropped a bunch of fighter drones that immediately began to swoop around Jorac’s Pirate Nova Raider. The Drones flew in wide flaring attack arcs deploying highly accurate but low-grade fire. Multiple hits began to collect on Jorac’s shields from singular alpha impulse ray emitter strikes. Remote fighters of this nature could be deadly, but usually only in large numbers, unless you were a rookie. Otherwise only pilot panic or poor shielding made Drones truly effective.

Jorac calmly changed his guns over to full fast firing Particle Accelerator Cannons, and commenced swatting the nuisance weapons one at a time (his automatic back turret also mounted with a PAC accounting for two on its own). During the altercation Jorac didn’t even bother to waste any wasp or mosquito missiles. Elsewhere his selected prize freighter had veered off, commencing to make some distance. The STS was frantically pulling away, at its limited top speed, the freighter pilot - racing against the clock - for the safety of the South Gate.

When the last Fighter Drone burst apart with a sparkle of debris, Jorac cycled his shield to full power via a shield transport loop. He then activated his jump drive and arrived back in sector, emerging from the South Gate. Tidily Jorac’s ship now faced toward, and rested ahead of his once fleeing victim. Jumping across sector like that always reminded Jorac of a cheap conjurers trick. He had to resist the impulse to scream, Taa Daa and take several bows!

Instead he just cheerfully said, “Hello again,” to himself and continued where he last left off, avoiding the long lumbering beasts active rear turret while battering the freighters almost regenerated shield’s front, and side.

“Please stop firing,” screamed the now desperate Argon pilot, no doubt realising he was fast running out of options, “you can have my cargo,” he explained releasing a few crates filled with energy cells.

“I don’t want your pathetic cargo,” muttered Jorac to himself. “It is your ship or your ill fated existence!” ignoring the pilots pleas he opened up again, “bail you fekker!”

This time several bolts struck the freighters hull and its integrity leaped downward. The pilot bailed. “Thank Paranidia for that,” sighed the Pirate.

Behind Jorac two expanding piles of debris, including a few spinning crates acted as historic markers. The rubble attesting to the fact that; two previous Argons had not been as sensible, or enlightened; nor were they any longer as corporeal as Jorac’s latest benefactor.

Jorac waited patiently until the Vacuum Suited Argon was out of the immediate vicinity, he considered killing these even running them over unsporting, unlike many of his brethren who took a savage joy in such antics. Jorac also believed slavery was distasteful, an overly protracted, and cruel fate, so he simply let the Argon go! After a careful scan for reds [hostiles] he brought his ship carefully alongside the abandoned vessel and used an illegal system to hack into its computer, claim ownership, and set its autopilot - all without any risky recourse to dangerous extra vehicular activity!

He renamed the ship New Beginnings and headed back to the Pirate Base of his old Paranid associate. The STS trundled slowly behind him like a lazy dog on an ever-expanding leash. The ship would make a fine gift for Jorac’s friend, and host. New Beginnings would help keep the irascible old Paranid sweet, while saving Jorac the hassle of nursing the trophy to a Paranid shipyard for conversion to more readily exchangeable credits.

While he was en-route to his destination a Paranid Pegasus patrol ship flew passed - spewing out canned warnings then scanned him! Jorac was un-phased, and unimpressed, carrying no illegal items beyond the electronically camouflaged hacking device! Besides the Paranid were his friends - happy - so long as Jorac only targeted, and reduced their Argon mercantile competitors to rubble. Importantly while here Jorac left the Paranid and their buddies the aggressive Split in peace.

It had been almost too easy for him to fit into the Paranid Sector of Priests Pity after he had recovered from his recent incapacity. As pre arranged the Paranid had afforded him a safe house and medical treatment. Here at least the Arch Fallen Angel [the head of the Fallen Angel Pirate Clan] was as safe - well as safe as anywhere - while he strove to discover the details of his odd misfortune. His own somewhat suicidal plan to lure his enemy the Argon Navy agent once known as ‘Faith’ out had badly backfired!

Jorac understood the value of patience though when it was needed. Still he burned to discover the answers to many questions. Were he and The Fallen Angels still nominally in charge of Freedom Station? Could the explosion have been an accident or was it an assassination attempt gone wrong? If an assassination attempt did his enemy or enemies know they had failed? Who could he trust it didn‘t seem quite like Faith’s style too impersonal bombs might leave little to verify a sure kill? Was it a true betrayal or could it be action perpetrated by the military maybe Faith had learned new tricks of course it could even be a rival faction? So much for my own scheme, thought Jorac. Most important of all what was happening now in Elena’s Fortune was it possibly Faith believed he was dead?

So many questions but he needed to step lightly. Even if his emergency protocols proved a gross overreaction his absence would have consequences too. Somebody would have reached out to seize the reins either out of loyalty, according to the established chain of command, or through ambition and greed! Of course his anointed successor Tur Ryn was off station unknowingly following the letter of Jorac’s now failed scheme to engineer his own death in order to free Kerry from his twisted legacy!

Now he was waiting for answers having already dispatched a few unattached individuals. These would act as his eyes, and ears. Unsophisticated spies to be sure, but right now all he needed was raw data. Serious infiltration, and revenge if needed, well these were jobs for later!

The Arch Fallen Angel was jarred out of his musings by the clarion call of a visual alarm - splashes of red - catching the corner of his eye. Studying the Gravidar he was appalled to register not one or a few but multiple red contacts of the most disturbing nature. A Khaak battle destroyer alongside a Khaak carrier several Super Clusters a few lone KM4 interceptors, and a score of KM5 scout ships had arrived - seemingly out of nowhere - to menace the sector.

Luckily Jorac himself was far from the main flurry of activity but he saw several KM5 ships bearing down on his more or less defenceless captured freighter, Kyon Beam Emitters lanced out, and missiles streaked. Without any shields - they had been damaged in the capture - the Super Transport Small almost instantly erupted into a series of expanding glowing fragments. All Jorac could do was curse his ill luck with a string of oaths, and flee for the sanctuary of the Paranid Pirate Base with its multiple laser tower defences.

Paranid patrol ships where soon engaging and disappearing in puffs of vapour. While the sector lit up with the worrying mass effect cones of Phased Shockwave Generators - often springing from spear shaped PM3 Perseus fighters. The Phased Shockwave Generators where proving deadly against the Khaak scout ships taking out small packs at a time. Slowly a massive almost saucer shaped Paranid Odysseus destroyer closed on the nearest Khaak capitol ship to its position, a KM2 destroyer which charged to meet this adversity.

The Odysseus however slowed, and swung around to present its starboard flank. Huge globular balls of bluish white glowing energy commenced to spill outward from its longer ranged, side mounted Gamma Photo Pulse Canons. The Spider shaped KM2 frantic to close, and get into range came on while the PM2 started to slowly slide backward trying to retain its advantage of distance. Multiple strikes impacted on the side of the fat rear of the ugly fat spider, also striking it’s grotesquely rotating - leg like - fore parts.

Deadly Kyon Emitter Beams lanced out at first falling short then almost as if magnetised locking down on the Paranid Destroyer’s shields, and bit in. The two giants contested slugging it out heel to toe, while fighters buzzed around them like sparks escaping from an out of control bonfire; fated to go out after one last, final pyrotechnic display against the cold, cold night!

The Khaak M2 ruptured just as the Odysseus commenced to wash it with PSG’s. Unfortunately the Paranid M2’s shields were now badly depleted. “Transport Cycle your shields you fools,” roared Jorac. However, the Paranid were not Pirates, and followed strict safety procedures rather than risky practical innovations. The KM1 carrier lanced out having closed during the destroyers battle, and the Odysseus came under more heavy sustained fire. The new barrage of Kyons including shots from some KM3 fighters was too much the hull of the Odysseus was lanced, and sliced - buckled and split - as the whole vessel commenced to rip asunder. With a heart rending series of explosions the big silver highly advanced Paranid destroyer was reduced to multiple balls of glowing fire, and great chunks of sparking wreckage. Slowly many of these remnants continued to flash and break apart still further as they continued to consume themselves in fire.

“What a waste,” groaned Jorac.

In the right hands the PM2 could have been more than a match for the entire Khaak invasion now it was nothing but rubble, never mind the deaths of all its brave ill Captained crewmen!

As he watched the Khaak Carrier still carrying a lot of damage taking more PSG fire from several sources, instead of concentrating on protecting itself the Carrier commenced to bombard the Paranid Trade Station. This truly bizarre decision by the aliens could have only one consequence. More Paranid fighters had arrived including two corvettes and despite loses the tide was turning. Just after a Paranid M6 Nemesis went nova from an unlucky missile strike, and it looked bizarrely like some friendly PSG fire, the spidery Khaak Carrier joined it in its own shattering death throws! With another epic flare the invasion was just about over.

Moments later as Jorac approached his destination an M1 Paranid Zeus emerged from the west gate. The impressive carrier of course could do nothing but mop up stragglers using its extensive fighter compliment.

“Madness,” Jorac complained.

While the Pirate appreciated destruction for profit, or survival; the Khaaks suicidal invasion, remained beyond his comprehension. Nor could he fathom the - on this occasion - gross mishandling of the advanced PM2 by the Paranid? They had the technology, but sometimes - it appeared that - they lacked the ready wit to use it truly effectively. Jorac wondered under what criteria promotion was granted in the Paranid Navy, he suspected it had little to do with ability, and a lot too do with social status or some sort of religious nonsense – pompous fools!

Turning around again now that the sector was safe Jorac looked for another prize to replace the stolen ship he had lately lost.

A Paranid Demeter Super Freighter - with luckily enough - an Argon pilot had just entered from the West Gate. The STS immediately caught his eye, “very nice,” he said smiling sardonically. Engaging his JD Jorac listened to the countdown while remarking, “here we go again!”

[Paranoid66]

Reapers Passage
X3 Fan Fiction by Paranoid66

Chapter 13 – All of us too

Brill drifted along after Jumping into Elena’s Fortune in his Paranid Demeter Miner ‘Smart Investment’. The P.D. Miner was a stubby and insignificant looking TS design as transport designs went; but one built with a surprisingly voluminous cargo hold, and a good turn of speed.

Since trading up Brill hadn’t regretted the decision, also it came with a few interesting extras such as an ore scoop. Today however he was running energy cells for a small profit, and collecting low-grade information - for a nice little bonus!

Well the navy was still active that was for sure. The other thing that caught his eye was the number of Boron ships flitting about the sector, but that hardly seemed significant to his brief.

His first stop became ArgonForge 4 for two reasons firstly it was the most energy hungry station in the Sector, secondly he had seen the news and knew it was packed full of refugees! For once Brill was glad that trading was not his only business. The prices flagging up on his best selling price locator were mediocre, just about acceptable enough as a cover for the special trip.

The standard docking procedure passed without any surprises, and Brill was soon wandering aimlessly around the facilities extensive but crowded habitat, feeling lost as he wove through the counter flows he was glad to spy a Central Information Terminal. Addressing the public device Brill called up a basic floor plan, and commenced a restaurant, and bar crawl for less official news.

Finding somebody to talk hadn’t proved difficult; getting any person he spoke to, to shut up… Every space in the station seemed packed with personnel and visitors. AFC 4 was hiving with traffic and activity! Brill wasn’t impressed he felt squeezed in even the air he breathed seemed hot sticky, stale, second or third hand. He wished he could slap on his vacuum suit and go on tank, he kept thinking about the risk of contamination!

“Anyway this stinking corporate lackey gets all heavy, and starts moralising; at ME,” shouted the man, “like I didn’t deserve a drink after everything I’d been through,” he yelled guzzling down a whiskey.

Brill winced wishing the unnamed stranger had a volume control!

“Just cause I had one of these,” he fingered a security pass on a blue cord around his neck, “bloody cheek, like I was spending charitable donations out of her pocket on booze. If the thieving military hadn’t taken my credit keys I wouldn’t have needed any help!” he screamed turning several heads in the drinking den, “never mind the cursed Khaak attacking in the first place.”

“I see your point,” said Brill - very softly - hoping the man would catch the drift.

“Speak up,” yelled the stranger, “I can’t hear a fekkin thing since they blasted my ears with that damned white noise. I’m taking legal action you just see if I don’t,” he bellowed.

Making his excuses Brill rolled out of the dimly lit ‘Third Space’ and shot his arm with another illegal stimulant. Well that had been one more useless conversation, one of far too many he had endured so far! Although he had learned a lot of interesting facts most of these seemed unimportant or irrelevant trivia.

For example: some Boron noble was supposed to be visiting The Fortune, thus all the squid ships! It was rumoured new lines of communication were being opened unusual trade pacts being agreed. Joint fleet operations were soon to be undertaken, starting with a full-blown counter invasion in Bala Gi’s Joy. This one seemed highly unlikely, even Brill knew the military didn’t leak their battle plans before their execution. He had even heard talk of a royal - inter species - wedding surely, that one was also pure fantasy, absurd!

Otherwise it was all complaints or praise for the Navy: heavy-handed scans, intimidation, theft, arrogance, brawling, and stealing the local talent! On the converse side: the Boys in Grey would send the Khaak running, were keeping everyone in The Fortune safe, and had utterly routed the sectors Pirate community! The latter might, or might not, be significant!

What he hadn’t heard was a single direct mention of ‘Freedom Station’ well he was no intelligence analyst, but if the Navy had been behind the assassination attempt on Jorac? If they believed it had succeeded, or if they had taken over or destroyed the station? Would these facts not have been widely publicised? Or could it be the Military was behind the attempt, realised they had failed, and didn’t want to broadcast the debacle?

Another major topic of conversation was largely corporate; some business deal had gone horribly wrong over the station administrators handling of the refugee crises. Everyone could expect to lose their bonuses, and the potentiality of any near future promotion, yet they would all continue to be overworked, and have to deal with a grumpy boss.

Brill was beginning to think that the only way he was going to find out anything worthwhile would be to risk visiting ‘Freedom Station’ but he had been specifically told not to do this. Besides he wasn’t being paid that much, still if he went back with all he had at the moment. Conversely Brill knew Jorac enough to accept it could be very unhealthy to go directly against an order. Why did the easy jobs often turn out to actually be the most difficult? Maybe their would be more useful gossip at the Trade Station?

Seeing a pathetically skinny dirty faced young - wide eye - girl resting against the side of one metal station wall - with her arms wrapped around bent up knees - Brill gave himself a shake realising his life could be a lot worse!



On ‘Freedom Station’ Lesh felt like she was losing her mind. She was no prude but being stuck in this dingy mixed gender cell with only the crudest sanitation, and almost no privacy was more than she could bear. The fekking little floaters treated everyone the same regardless of gender or background. They were heartless to the Argon’s; she supposed she should be grateful that they had at least first aided her injuries including her fractured arm even if it had been a crude operation. Oh they were unctuously polite, and apologised profusely - but this seemed just like an affectation of their manner of speech - they nonetheless did nothing about the endless horror of her incarcerated existence.

Lesh wasn’t a murderous pirate, she couldn’t even remember that last time she had instigated a physical fight, perhaps in school against some hair pulling bully. She had come here because of an old lover, and because surprisingly she had heard if you worked Freedom the credits were good! This had been true, her earnings giving her young children the chance of - some real - opportunities in their future. Maybe one day she too could retire to Argon Prime, or so she had dreamed!

The floaters talked endlessly about ransoms but who was going to pay for her - a barmaid, and entertainer! They would leave her down here to rot in filth, and squalor until she sickened, and died. Tears brimmed in her eyes, then what would become of her children.

If only she could make them see sense. If the floaters had been Argon Lesh could have used whatever measure of charm she still possessed in her ragged state, but it was useless.
Half the time she was afraid to sleep - as much as she accepted credits - Lesh had always had the freedom to choose her partners under Jorac’s regime. She didn’t like the way some of the bored, and frustrated inmates now watched her.

Last night one of her old friends had been forced multiple times by a sneering group of Green Monkey Clan villains, and now sat staring blankly at her own bare feet like a broken doll. Her face and legs discoloured with bruises. Perhaps the fact that she had attempted to engage with the guards or her visible injuries had turned the animals off so far. However, Lesh didn’t want to bet that this would save her from eventually suffering the same ill fate or worse.

Lesh hated herself for being glad - last night - that it was Teri on the floor, and not her. She hadn’t even dared speak up lest it draw the attackers unwanted attentions.

Desperately she looked through the heavy-duty unbreakable plastic-glass and tried once more, “Boron this Argon politely requests an audience with your esteemed leader known as Ploopydroop.”

The Boron guard just hovered past as if it didn‘t understand a word.


“Well this is a fine mess,” noted Sab gently touching his painful, and bloody nose while holding back his head.

“At least your still alive Wolf,” stated his antagonist, an Argon he didn’t know who was wearing the patches of a Fallen Angel, “you treacherous fekkers deserve everything you get and more!”

“What you going to do break my nose again,” mumbled the young Pirate with a half-hearted defiance he didn’t really feel.

“I’ll rip out your throat out with my bare teeth if you don’t stop complaining,” promised the Angel showing an enhanced set of fangs.

“Delightful, you know no one even told me what was going down,” explained Sab.

“You’re a wolf aren’t you,” spat the Fallen Angel.

“You would have to be the only person on the entire station that didn’t hear about the bet,” said Sab with a groan towards the Angel.

Hearing this a mixed crowd of Pirates began to snigger and laugh, “Didn’t you know Cail young Sab here used to be an Angel until Amon turned him into a dogs rear,” he roared.

“Glad to see somebody finds all this amusing,” whined Sab.

“You need to snap it back,” stated another sounding at least a little friendly.

“You have to be fekking joking its agony as it is,” Sab spluttered.

“I’m telling you - if you don’t - you’ll regret it besides,” he leered. “If you don’t it will spoil your good looks,” he pouted causing another riotous outbreak of hilarity.

Outside the cell a Boron stopped his back, and forth progress, to gaze in curiously at the Pirates odd behaviour.

“As for you, go shoot yourself up a black hole,” said the Angel making a rude gesture at the guard.

“Really how crude, Boron respectfully suggests, you remember your predicament,” countered the hovering blue skin.

“Yeah, well I politely suggest you can kiss my…” continued the Angel bending over and dropping his pants. This precipitated a general free for all. Insults raining down upon the bemused Boron like a waterfall off the side of a very tall cliff.



Elsewhere on ‘Freedom Station’ Li Tuu turned to his assistant with the high pressure cleaner, and gestured to another stain with an encounter suit shrouded tentacle, “There, and I respectfully suggest you remember to collect all the embedded bone fragments this time around Te Gru.”

“Boron politely requests Argon could assist with these - rather - unpleasant clean up operations,” Te Gru returned.

“Boron thoughtfully encourages Te Gru to reconsider its request. The Argons are prisoners of war not slaves and should not be treated as forced labourers, unless absolutely necessary!”

“Boron humbly reminds Li Tuu that this worker is not a slave either,” Te Gru retorted washing away another sticky patch with widely separated eye stalks.

“Boron requests worker appreciate that nonetheless it is a junior. Boron believes that its worker should have more respect; sympathise that as the senior Li Tuu couldn’t care less what his subordinate suggests. Especially when this worker is just trying - shamefully - to avoid undertaking legitimately designated duties, and properly assigned social responsibilities!”

“This insignificant Boron grovels, and apologises for overstepping its proper position, and begs gracious forgiveness from its majestic better,” returned Te Gru abashed.

“This Boron grants instant forgiveness,” purred Li Tuu, “those Argon made an awful mess with their body parts, aren’t you glad we can’t taste it?”

“Boron is very happy to be sealed within its hermetic encounter suit,” explained Te Gru.

[Paranoid66]

Reapers Passage
X3 Fan Fiction by Paranoid66

Chapter 14 – Reaction to Action

Anna stared at the pile up of flexi-sheet reports data chips, and miscellaneous desk junk. Every item on the desk was deviant from its proper original allotted space, strewn about, the chaotic and unplanned aftermath of an explosion of unproductive activity!

The intransigent business Argon who had failed in his attempt to physically strike her person; nonetheless had succeeded in injuring Anna’s tidy order, and in fracturing her composure. The few items that had not toppled when Bedon had jumped across her desk Anna herself had temporarily assigned to the floor in a rare fit of pique afterwards. Of course Anna had taken a breath then diligently started picking everything up again but her controlled logical system was now an incoherent jumbled mass that would take an age to classify back into order.

Anna’s one satisfaction was that the outraged Administrator Bedon Altor was now languishing in a security detention cubicle. The refugee being held on charges of: threatening behaviour, attempted assault, assault, and causing actual bodily harm would probably have to wait quite a while to be processed. The stations small tribunal was being overstretched with cases, and buried in a mountain of complaints. Well Bedon deserved to cool his heels for a few station cycles. The hulking hot head had managed to black Mel’s eye, and had kicked the young tech assistant Flea where it hurt - dropping the personable lad like a sack of grain, and sending him to the infirmary. In the end it had taken Mel, and two late arriving security guards to wrestle, and restrain the Bala Gi’s Joy felon.

Gregor was due back in a few AP days and to top in all she had a security leak, and a cover-up operation to organise. Looking at the clutter Anna almost wished she were back in a sterile laboratory perhaps assisting her parents as she had done in her youth. Damn the Navy Boys couldn’t they have found a better way. She hoped those responsible were amused at the disorder they had so blithely instigated in Anna’s once neat domain.

Unusually ill tempered Anna wasn’t in the mood for - play-acting - the subordinate. Gregor’s ambitions had dropped everyone in the feculent matter. Anna had been left behind to clean up her boss’s smelly leavings. As usual it was the PA that did the actual work while the so-called ‘Administrator’ just flounced around - looking smart! Anna considered her options whatever she did it had to be clean. Really such activities were not strictly in the remit of her job description.

Perhaps a rumour from a typically unreliable informant would be enough to set the scent for the hounds to follow. It would have to be a third party with no conceivable connection - a virtual snitch - she decided at first would make an acceptable solution. These were renowned for hiding behind anonymity. She would sell the info covertly via the Inter Link and allow the go between to pass it on, but really what she needed was a much wider all-inclusive solution a mechanism rather than a singular reactive measure? She decided to look at the conundrum from another angle.

There were only so many female work periods in any cycle. Anna needed the assistance of an accomplice. Some times she wished she had a PA of her own to handle these details, but maybe she could safely integrate her findings more directly. Anna felt like she was running out of time. All she wanted to do was run, run like the wind around the station until she fell into an exhausted sleep! However Anna still had a detailed analysis to complete for her boss never mind endless other AFC 4 distractions. Maybe Gregor’s return would in fact lighten, rather than increase, the load but it felt like too much to hope for.



Down in the so called dungeon on AFC 4 Carl whistled as he gazed over the incident report, “You’re a pretty handy fellow in a brawl - for a Station Suit,” he remarked pacing in front of a light grey interview desk.

Bedon Altor just looked sullen, and defiant stuffed into the chair opposite his hairy hands restrained before him in a pair of gently humming expensive reusable power-cuffs.

“What exactly did you claim was your occupation in Bala Gi’s Joy?” asked the Commander.

“I didn’t claim anything. I told the Navy, and your bone head’s the truth, I ran my own Wheat Farm until the Khaak blasted it to hell,” Bedon grumbled, “It’s all on public record. Look I lost my temper at that prissy serene Argnu with her overly smooth ways. Step into my shoes and see how calm you would feel?”

“So before the Wheat Farm what did you do then?” questioned Carl ignoring Bedon’s angry statements.

“Oh I was a raping, and pillaging Pirate,” he laughed, “really, but don’t quote me on it. I guess that is what you would like me to sign off on. I was an Owner Free Trader, and before that I worked for AAC [Argon Agro Chemicals] as a tech on Aladna Hill - finish the file!”

“A Free Trader is that what they call thieving cargoes, and ships now?” challenged Carl.

“No they call that Piracy just like I do. I was an honest businessman, and I’m not talking anymore without proper representation, and even then I’m only talking about what transpired up in that office! I should be getting psychological assistance, and compensation for trauma, not ear ache from an aged mercenary Copper. A stooge so desperate to look good to his boss, in the hope of getting a better timepiece when he retires; that he is trying to fit an innocent - legitimate - businessman up, as a crazed rampant murdering ship stealing thief!” Bedon ranted.

“Interview terminated at 18:43, call in this felons designated goon,” sighed Carl, “put him in Holding, the legal boys from what I hear are all rather busy. Our Administrator has a long wait ahead. You will have lots of time to regain your temper and composure, Mister Altor, and to reconsider your well packaged bedtime stories!”

“Lawyers all busy, been brutalising other detainees have we?” quipped the Administrator as he was helped up by a constable, and led out with a hand cradling his back.

After he was gone Carl fiddled behind his ear and linked in to Lt. Constable Elaen, “Elaen see if you can dig anything up on our good Administrator Bedon Altor from the other refugees. The man protests too much, my nose is itching, I smell a rat!”

“Sure Commander, soon as I’ve downloaded, and accessed his file, I’ll be right on it,” returned Elaen, turning to Ravn she said, “great we get to escape the office.”



Garrin jumped into Elena’s Fortune with a full cargo hold and a smile on his face. He was about two km’s in when an unexpected accent issued out over his comm.

“Boron politely requests Argon pilot prepare to be scanned for contraband,” stated a chirpy voice.

“Royal Queen Atreus,” stammered Garrin, “now even the floaters are doing it. Baby has that tentacle waving idiot even got a police licence.”

“Idiot… is in full compliance with Argon regulations,” returned his computer.

“Mercenary Militia does my suffering never end. Plot a course to a coordinate 5 kms from AFC 4 and activate SETA,” Garrin demanded.

“Course set… SETA… activated,” replied Baby’s, slightly disjointed but soothing voice.

A light shudder passed through his ship and a buzz through his ears as the scan washed over The Grim Reaper.

Moments later a message from the Boron kicked him rudely out of SETA, “Boron notes you are clear of illegal goods, and politely suggests you go about your business.”

Garrin grunted, “Baby kindly reactivate SETA!”

“SETA reactivated,” replied Baby.

Garrin was looking forward to AFC 4 and bartering his prospective pharmaceuticals over the BBS. He felt like he needed to take a holiday. Recently space just hadn’t been as much fun as it used to be! If only he could convince Elaen to take some leave, or even quit – she could join him in his enterprises that would make a difference? It would be good to have company other than Baby. Maybe it was time to get a bigger ship but this last thought tasted bitter like a poisonous betrayal! He would miss the Reaper, besides all the bigger options were so very slow. Garrin really hated slow. Other difficulty was the fact that as much as his girl friend griped he knew deep down Elaen took a great pride in her work, and even more in her independence.

It had been a long and sometimes bloody campaign just to get his Copper to relax around his easy spending on her. Garrin had been delighted the first time Elaen had felt comfortable enough to make an honest joke about it. At first buying the female a meal had been like a full blown tactical engagement using credit chips as rival artillery. Elaen didn’t want to be obliged - to feel kept - she had preferred to pay her own way or go without! On her wages going without would be the normal option!

Ultimately on one memorable occasion they had finally engaged in a flaming argument on the issue, much to Garrin’s chagrin, and the impatient bemusement of the serving waitress. It was that evening that Elaen - perhaps - finally surrendered in his arms as he explained it was only because he cared for her, that he wanted her to enjoy the benefits he could provide.

What are credits Garrin had continued compared to the joy of our time together? For once he had found all the right words, and been able to articulate them, a magical moment! Like he always said credits are just data, they have no substantiality. Garrin’s bank balance didn’t make him feel alive. Oh he enjoyed the game, and the figures were a tally of success, nonetheless unlike say the mercantile Teladi these digits were not the focus of his existence; credits were not how he measured his real worth as an individual!

It was joy of experiencing new things that kept Garrin afloat. Thus he had expected to grow jaded, and stale with Elaen but by some miracle this hadn’t happened - at least so far. Would he tire of her if they spent more time together? Did it only work because of his absences? What did he really want?

Under the time compression the massive Argon Weapons Forge rushed to meet him. Then his ship halted and the SETA system disengaged. Taking over he opened communications got permission to land, and guided the Reaper between the virtual light projections, and into the mouth of the forges innovative internal cargo bay - which looked like it had been stolen in one piece from a Trade Station. Unlike many corporations AF included a full internal space dock on their largest complexes.

Stepping back to move forward was one of ArgonForge’s slogans they also often used an image derived from the Goners of an ancient Earth Blacksmiths Forge. AF believed retaining an internal dock added an important level of flexibility to their operations. Certainly the AFC’s didn’t seem to suffer the same tailbacks of traffic that occasionally bedevilled similar stations reliant totally on clamps. AF, were also known to garner profit from side enterprises normally undertaken by dedicated Trade Stations, and to have larger than normal habitats. It was an unusual combination that proved the saying; that to every rule there is an exception.



Still on AFC 4 X secreted the data chip into a fake slot built into the internals of a cheap domestic computer pad. Long ago he had learned it is sometimes better to rely on physical transfers of data than electronic narrow casts. He had worked with too many hackers over the years to fully trust even superlative encryption, although X still used encryption anyway. The data all seemed pretty unimportant and innocuous to him but he was not paid to query requests. Maybe it was just to confirm the establishment of a reliable source of future data.

It had taken years of dedication to kill off the worst symptoms of a youthful curiosity. Even then X still acknowledged that he still suffered from occasional small relapses of that particular disease. Nonetheless, curiosity was doubly dangerous; a distraction from what really mattered and likely to damage his working relationships.

The next collection was to be unusual in that his employers wished him to scrutinise the data for irregularities. For once he would get credits for poking his nose in. Of course to make things more fun, and difficult he hadn’t even been given a clue as to what he was supposed to be looking for - that is assuming his employers knew themselves. As Operations went this aspect felt a little more abstract than normal even for him. His employers seemed impatient but X knew better than to give in to undue haste because of this. In his work everything had its time. It would do his benefactors no good if the source was compromised.

To this end the computer pads extra chip also contained a carefully disguised progress report. Letting his clients know that all was in hand but a little patience would be necessary. Of course if they demanded a change of schedule due to a necessity - of which he was not aware - he would reconsider. X had warned however, that should he deem any request impossible he would terminate his activity, and give a partial refund, before compromising himself with stupidity. These were the conditions under which he worked.

The strange nature of the job was starting to make him wonder had he taken it seriously enough. The Jazz cover for example had been well, partially an amusement! He wondered was he slipping, or simply finally running out of new inventions. X always tried to avoid patterns of behaviour but avoiding pattern was a pattern too!

Today was a free day. Once the computer pad was away he had nothing on his schedule beyond killing time and staying out of Rud’s sight, best not to accidentally spook the man with his presence. He had at first thought about leaving the station - but comings and goings were logged and risky - instead X decided a spot of on board recreation was in order, deciding to see a big budget historical fantasy PVR about the colonisation of Argon Prime. It would be good to immerse fully in something other than his work for a short time!

[Paranoid66]

Reapers Passage
X3 Fan Fiction by Paranoid66

Chapter 15 – Digging in the Dirt

The more potential depositions Elaen attempted to gather the more she was convinced that Bedon Altor, and a very large percentage of the refugees were, if not out and out Pirates, at least affiliates, and supporters of the same! Unfortunately it was the uncomfortable silences, the sullen looks, agitation, and downright hostility that gave this away (much more so than when she had interviewed some of the same people individually earlier). After trawling from one side of the station to the other, following every lead no matter how small, she had nothing Tribunal worthy.

It was more than frustrating it was infuriating. Somehow it was even worse than the earlier interviews. Elaen’s sympathy with the Bala Gi Joy Argons plight was being steadily eroded by their uncooperative attitudes, and sly ways. Ravn at least had proved a rock, and had managed to get a few bits of information simply by shaking down; intimidating, and bullying some of the more slimy prospects; wide eyes he carefully singled out for special attention based on some intuition of his own.

It would seem that almost all Bedon’s produce had stayed in system and was part of a loose factory loop that ultimately produced Space Fuel [contraband Argon Whiskey]. Of course Bedon could not be held responsible for his customers, and Elaen had no proof that he held title to a factory that produced the Fuel itself! Clearly Bedon was well known, and judging by some responses both respected, and feared in about equal measure. Well he certainly had a temper worthy of caution - this much they knew already!

As a last resort both Elaen, and Ravn had tried flashing a few - low value - credit keys around as bribes. Many of the refugees were hungry for currency but while mouths tripped over themselves to flap, and hands reached out, the words themselves remained inconsequential. It was quantity rather than quality. Many confirmed the details of Bedon Altors story almost word for word as if reading from a prepared script. If you could build a case out of suspicions! In the end they had to slink back admitting failure for the moment.

“So what do you think is Bedon a Civilian, a Pirate or a Pirate Kingpin?” queried Ravn.

“I think he is more than a plain hot headed factory owner,” answered Elaen.

“Maybe, or it might just be well known that he has powerful friends,” Ravn replied, “or backers. Perhaps he is little more than a front for the real owners, a legit facade.”

“A rather rough facade but that is interesting,” considered Elaen, “what if the real owner, the real Pirate Leader, is still at large in the refugee populace. That would explain why we were so heavily stonewalled. After all if Bedon is locked up and likely to stay locked up why not split on him to get a little side profit!”

“Guess you don’t believe in honour among thieves then,” said Ravn grinning.

“Can’t say I do, besides need tends to eradicate such niceties. Some of those citizens looked pretty needy to me,” noted Elaen.

“Greed more like,” said Ravn, “our guests may be a little short on luxuries, but they won’t starve, and eventually they had will be repatriated,” he continued, “the well off will get their property, and credit chips back, and the poor will still be poor!”

“The poor, still be poor,” Elaen mused, “What if AF posted a serious bounty for information leading to the identification, and arrest of Pirates on station?”

“That might work, especially if we could offer immunity, and protection, but it is still a long shot. Do you think Anna or Gregor would sponsor such a move?” Ravn asked.

“They might let’s face it no prosecution - no cost, and the Central Argon Police authority might cough up. I know it’s irregular, but it would be just an extension of the sort of thing covered by privateers using a police licence,” Elaen enthused.

“No harm in floating the proposal. You obviously know the Suits here better than I do. How long will these wide eyes be in our hair anyway?” asked Ravn.

“According to Carl we have been told to keep them on station until the Navy says otherwise. Their current ID is only valid here, that’s why some of them are so despondent. They can’t leave even if they could get the credits. In fact I know a few have had credits downloaded to third parties on the station, and are not without funds,” noted Elaen.

“What about Bedon did he have any credit chips or keys on him when he was arrested?” asked Ravn.

“Ravn why didn’t I think of that,” Elaen unhooked her computer pad, “Seems our Argon had funds,” Elaen grinned, “lets go and see were they came from.”

Back at Central the investigators plugged in the prisoners one use credit key, and spooled off its credentials. Very few people not even among the criminal element realised that one use credit keys could be traced back to their activation source the data of course was heavily encoded and required serious security access equipment. Agents knew ways around this security lapse for example Argon had no access to a Key activated in Teladi, Boron, Split or Paranid space. Everyone had their own security codes and failsafe hardware.

“Well, this one was activated from an Argon account alright,” said Elaen crowing, “Third Space our Space Fuel Den, guess we now know were they get their Space Fuel from.”

“Still we don’t push that legislation here do we,” noted Ravn.

“Well we don’t at the moment, but the statute is still on the books, and valid,” Elaen replied.

“Tell me about the owner of this den what do we know about him?” asked Ravn.

“Him,” mocked Elaen, “Saeil Gardna, thirty eight standard, female Argon ex-fleet Nova fighter jock injured at the Lyrae got left out in the dark on her own with a burnt out ship - lost it - failed her psych test, forcibly discharged with honours. Seems her squad took out an extra joint insurance policy. As the sole survivor she became the full beneficiary, nice! Hmmm connection to AF through an uncle one Jae Gardna back on AP accounts clerk, nothing special dependable stolid type. He vouched for Saeil with AF when she put in for licensed ownership from old Desi who founded the place. Desi got the itch to go dirt side, and had ‘Third Space’ up for sale on the Inter Link. Back to Saeil let’s see no police record, no outstanding fines, look’s like Saeil keeps a clean strict joint. A few complaints about heavy handedness from the bouncers - none of which were upheld by tribunal – that’s about it,” Elaen explained.

“Not much, still this Saeil obviously knows our Argon, go look see?” asked Ravn.

“Sure, since we are not exactly overflowing with alternatives,” noted Elaen.

“Maybe you should talk to this one, female to female, I’ll hang back fleet, and grunts don’t mix. I bet a Veteran Nova jock like that would smell the soil off me before we even shake hands,” grumbled Ravn.

“Didn’t know you had anything against pilots, you and Garrin got on plenty well,” Elaen noted.

“Garrin isn’t Navy,” replied Ravn, “he’s an honest Argo like myself!”

“I’ll have to tell him you said that, he’ll be flattered,” exclaimed Elaen chuckling.

“Whatever!” said Ravn with a grin.


Saeil was called out from the back by one of her staff with a single word, “Coppers.”

“What can I do you for Lieutenant Constable?” Saeil asked recognising the female officer by reputation. The other Deck Walker - hovering by the entrance - she didn’t recognise.

“I was hoping you could assist me with an enquiry. If we could speak somewhere private?” enquired Elaen.

“Please step in to the back here. What about your big friend?” Saeil asked.

“Don’t worry about him he’s a little shy,” Elaen stated.

The back room was little more than a tiny cubicle. It just about contained a crowded shelf of a desk, and two chairs. The walls were covered in stacks of files, and miscellaneous items of office equipment right up to the ceiling inside inlet boxy spaces.

“Please take a seat, and tell me what this is about?” asked Saeil, wondering if she was about to be pumped for a donation to a dodgy police fund.

“Don’t mind if I do,” replied Elaen sitting, “long night,” she continued as Sael moved the other seat and squeezed down to face her, “one name really Bedon Altor.”

“I see. I heard Bedon had a run in with security,” confessed Saeil, “but what has that got to do with me or Third Space.”

“I believe you had some business?” questioned Elaen raising an eyebrow.

“I’ve purchased a few items off his employers on occasion certainly,” replied Saeil.

“Would this be anything in particular?” asked Elaen.

“Stock nothing special,” evaded Saeil.

“Listen I’m not here to bust your shop,” continued Elaen, “not unless you make me, but I need some answers.”

“On or off the record?” asked Saeil.

“Off will do for now, look AF have run a policy here, and as far as I’m concerned it works, I don’t want to rock the boat,” noted Elaen.

“Ok Bedon collected on a delivery debt I had for some Fuel. However until he rocketed up with all the right credentials I’d never met the man,” Saeil stated.

“So he collected on a suppliers account?” Elaen asked.

“That’s right,” stated Saeil

“You never saw him before, he must have made an impression?” Elaen smirked.

“Let’s just say he struck me as the troublesome forceful type. He was agitated, rude, crude, and I was happy to fill his credit key and see the back of him,” Saeil replied.

“His credit key,” noted Elaen surprised.

“Yes it was a one use blank, nothing special about that,” Saeil remarked.

“These credentials you spoke about?” asked Elaen.

“Look Lieutenant if I blab about those I might as well throw my credit chips out the airlock, and maybe even cycle myself out without a suit afterwards,” Saeil stated, “before I’m willing to do that I’ll be going all quiet, and waiting for my representation.”

“Ok, I catch the drift. Is your business with Bedon concluded?” Elaen asked.

“It is if I can help it,” replied Saeil.

“You didn’t notice Bedon talking / being with anyone else I suppose?” questioned El.

“Sorry like I said he came in, we talked I activated his credit key then he left,” Saeil answered.

“Thanks anyway, if you decide you would like to tell us anything else, just link,” said El.



Outside the club Elaen met up with Ravn once more to discuss her findings.

“So,” asked Ravn, “what did we get anything juicy?”

“Well our friend definitely has connections, suggestion seems to be he isn’t the boss at least not of the Space Fuel setup. Interesting thing though is he came in with a blank credit key, now where did he get that?” asked Elaen.

“A blank, what’s so odd about that?” asked Ravn.

“Well unless he smuggled it past Navy he had to get it on station. Blanks cost credits unless you get them pre filled in which case it is a perk of holding a positive credit balance - unless you access more than a specific limit - this covers the charge” stated Elaen, “the wide eyes have no credits so how did he purchase or get a Blank Key.”

“Somebody gave it to him?” asked Ravn.

“That’s what I was thinking,” explained Elaen, “I looked up the wrong pathway I checked the activation code not the manufacturers serial number.”

“Guess its back to the evidence locker then. So this is why they call us Deck Walkers!”



It didn’t take too long to trace down the Blank Keys trail once Elaen had the serial number. This sort of data search was perfect Inter Link fodder here the technology really shined. First she linked into the manufacturing factory then traced the sales consignment through to dispatch then export then import across a series of destinations, and drop offs. The first consignment dwindling as it was subdivided to various institutions and vendors. Eventually a batch still containing her prize arrived in to AFC4. The final transit record noting a purchase by AHIS [Argon habitat Imports, and Storage] a subcontracted operation that ran imports, and operated storage facilities across Argon space, specialising in habitat operations. No great surprise there.

Elaen imagined AF had tipped the wink to this organisation to allow it to freely bring in limited quantities of illicit booze. Obviously some of their pay offs being more sensitive than others AHIS required a ready supply of credit keys. So someone from AHIS had passed one on to Bedon. Really it was a bit disappointing. AF would be displeased if these dealings with AHIS were dragged out into the light. AHIS was highly respectable. AHIS was also doing AF a favour by facilitating the storage and distribution of a substance that helped keep AFC 4 staff sweet.

The question was how legit was Bedon’s connection to AHIS. If his organisation was behind the Fuel why not collect from the bulk importer rather than the minor distributor? Still it would be unwise to approach this company before she spoke with Carl about the potential political corporate ramifications!

[Paranoid66]

Reapers Passage
Fan Fiction by Paranoid66

Chapter 16 – Nothing is Private on AFC 4

Bedon couldn’t believe that Argon Argnu had called his bluff, laughed gently in his face then threatening him oh so softly almost under her breath with a smile! The one time Administrator had arrived in the PA’s office convinced he had a winning hand and now here he was in a holding cell.

That’s what he got for swinging out of his league, captaining his little outpost had obviously over inflated his ego. Not normally the introspective type Bedon’s mind had nonetheless turned inward. A self-analysis instigated by a scarcity of input, and distraction. Sitting on his hard bunk, an item that almost covered the entire floor space, Bedon gazed morosely at the dull grey featureless walls of his lonely sealed cubicle.

It was frustrating Bedon still believed he could make the sluts life uncomfortable, but Anna had chillingly convinced him she would finish him off. Bedon had never equated beauty with cold, vicious, ruthless intelligence. He had grossly miscalculated, now he felt unsafe even here - accidents happened in custody!

All he had achieved was to draw unwanted attention, so much for blackmail! Even if they released him, it would just be to the larger floating prison that is AFC 4. A prison without doors controlled by his newfound nemesis - the very person who might deem it in her best interest - to manage him into an airlock, and press the cycle button. Bedon had just wanted to flee this tub, and make some distance before his - unreasoning - creditors caught up with him, and initiated a their own deadly course of action upon his benighted person. Bedons pursuers were not the kind of people to sympathise with their client. The collectors would be entirely disinterested that; Bedon had narrowly escaped being turned into a cinder by a bunch of Kyon Emitters.

When he saw that Ice Queen - Station Running - he was amazed to recognise her. Well a face, and body like that you don’t forget! Bedon he said to himself after he did a bit of digging - out of curiosity - this is your lucky day. Two completely bizarre chance encounters over a space of what was it perhaps four local Argon Prime years, well it was a small universe because of the Gate Grids. Now he didn’t know what to do, losing his temper clearly hadn’t helped! Maybe if he could figure out what - miss genius - was really doing nursing a weapon’s forge, and playing second fiddle at that! Then again that had helped get him into this cell in the first place. Bedon knew had to think outside of the standard box. Get outside the box before he was buried in it!



Carl was unhappy. He had been told to drop the investigation when he reported the link to AHIS. After Pirate hunting for days they get a minor break only to be called off by politicos. It was bad for morale. Elaen had taken it especially hard after doing some good beat work with Ravn. He wondered would it be worth going over Anna’s head to Gregor when he arrived, but he didn’t want to damage his working relationship with the PA, besides he kind of liked her. Maybe if the CAP [Central Argon Police] got wind of this incident or the Argon Navy they could tidy up these loose ends. At the moment though Anna had insisted Bedon’s arrest details stay in house.

“We have had enough security leaks recently,” Anna said, “without encouraging any more. Besides Bedon may provide us with other clues beyond the AHIS connection,” she had explained, “after all Bedon is not going anywhere. However if CAP or AN take him away we lose any local opportunities his capture might potentially provide.”

In the end he was forced to agree it was tidier if they dealt with their own dirty deck. Navy and CAP would only share their findings when, and if it suited; they didn’t really trust corporate security and the feeling were mutual.



Rud was feeling nervous. It never pays to eavesdrop, he told himself, after accidentally overhearing a conversation between Carl, and Anna. Too much talk about security breaches, it made him sweat, and itch like he had caught a contagion. Rud wondered when he would hear again from his contact, wavering again the Clerk wondered if he really wanted to keep going with this, was it worth it?

The Civilian Clerk had expected his nefarious activities to get easier with each passing cycle that he wasn’t discovered, but in actuality he felt a complete nervous wreck. It was constantly on his mind, so that his concentration was all over the place, even his sleep was suffering. Every single time one of his work colleagues came over to have a word Rud expected it to be an accusation, or an arrest. Also he found himself watching the news fearful that something bad would happen - despite his contacts reassurances - luckily it was business as usual but not for Rud.

Not for the first time Rud wondered could he back out even if he wanted to now, he got the feeling not, Rud was sure his contact would shift from payment to blackmail if he tried that. The Clerk even considered going to Elaen, and confessing his stupidity but he couldn’t bring himself to do it! Rud could envision the scorn in the Lieutenants eye the bile that would drip out from his work colleagues, the prison sentence - even reduced for his cooperation - somewhere like Artur, he shuddered, he just couldn’t do it! With a shock that he had come to this conclusion this early, Rud realised, it was all or nothing that he had a ravening beast by the tail, and dare not let go!



En-route from Argon Prime Gregor lounged on a comfortable white Argnu leather sofa listening to a symphonic piece over his link while sipping a cocktail. He had decided to take the slow boat back to AFC 4. Gregor’s mood had lifted slightly courtesy of this obscene extravagance - a personally chartered luxury - Argon Personnel Transport Liner. Despite the credits he didn’t regret it one bit, Gregor had been on fire to burn some credits, feeling a compulsion to boost his morale.

Looking out a porthole window he watched other vessels in the trade lane, some keeping pace, others falling behind, a few scout class machines racing past. Looking back he enjoyed the way the lush heavily padded interior was gently lit, hidden spot, up, and down lights showing off a myriad little but significant details real plants, and so much more.

Gleaming true wood surfaces felt smooth to the finger tips complementing the springy hide, and helped obscure any brutal metalwork, and synthetics. A few static classic artworks hid the crass technology of inactive view screens. The Administrator sighed reaching out to pass his empty glass to a hovering hostess’s tray, and collect another, if he was stuck he might as well start enjoying the benefits of his position, he reasoned.



On AFC 4 Garrin instantly knew Elaen was not a happy spacer; while his partner was smiling her expression seemed uncharacteristically forced, further Elaen’s transit forward was a stomping stride, rather than her normal relaxed saunter, bad signs!

“I see you have not had the best of days,” Garrin sympathised.

Closing to give him a hug Elaen confessed, “I need a proper shower, and a real drink.”

“Follow me then my lady, my hovel is capable of providing both,” Garrin explained.

“You have a real shower on The Reaper?” questioned Elaen this was news.

“No, I’ve rented a voluminous suite in the High Tower,” Garrin returned.

Elaen looked at him in shock. “What brought this on?” she asked.

“I decided to take a holiday and as I knew you couldn’t get away,” he smiled.

“Paranidia, the High Tower I don’t even get to go there on duty,” El noted.

“Well if you did, I’d be asking for my outrageous deposit back,” smirked the Trader.



Ravn was in ‘Port Side’ a cheap little drinking den that served nothing stronger than imported beer and its own atavistic home brew. It was a rowdy cheap and friendly place crowded with Dockworkers, and various others including: poorly paid support workers, the odd down on his luck spacer, lucky refugee, and slumming tourist. ‘Port Side’ was not a familiar police haunt nor was Ravn in uniform. Instead the ex soldier was in casual functional station ware, a cross between a vacuum suit under garment a sports suit, and an overall.

The place was not much bigger than a single large suite, or a few merged cubicles. It had no music, and no seats beyond a couple of stools cramped alongside the bars counter. Nonetheless it was packed with bodies, loud with laughter and buzzing with conversation. Ravn jiggled around to bring a glass of foaming liquid to his mouth without striking one of his neighbours or spilling the precious fluid.

Ravn couldn’t decide if he was here for pleasure or insubordinate business. He occasionally let his eye wander over a party of low grade workers from AHIS, while he strove to listen into their conversation, seeking after a hook to join them.



Back in her own cubicle Anna Dei unlocked the unit from its protective case, hooked in the interfaces long lead and set the lure as she like to call it. The metallic wedge - with its open contacts - placed on the floor near an often-favoured gap. She waited it wasn’t long before the timely insect like Messenger Drone scuttled forward to plug itself in. Vast amounts of data commenced to download into Anna’s equipment from the Hives access Core. With this completed the Drone waited patiently while Anna initiated its instructions then it disconnected turned about and vanished into the shadows.

Anna groaned if only she could get the Hive to see less significance in trivia. Or was the trivia more significant that she realised after all smart as she was, she didn’t possess anywhere near the Hive access Cores vast processing potential.



Alis smiled at the two newcomers as they made their way toward the Bar.

“Good evening gentleman, how can I help you?” she asked.

“A word with the owner if you don’t mind,” replied one.

“Business or pleasure?” asked Alis, “who shall I say is calling?” breaking station regulations she noticed neither had their ID prominently displayed instead they were casually obscured by the cut of their clothing.

“Some friends, we wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise,” said the other with a feral grin that showed some unpleasant looking teeth.

“Fine, I’ll just see if she is out back,” replied Alis depressing the button on her security ring.

“Don’t worry said the first man we know she is,” he replied turning around to offer the disturbing smile toward the ‘Third Space’ bouncer.

“Problem,” asked the stocky muscle stuffed into a dark grey station suit.

“It’s alright,” replied Saeil, “been expecting a visit from these Argons, you can stand down Earl.”

“Hmm I think we may adjourn to one of my corner booths, I believe it would be a little crowded out back,” Saeil explained.

“Lead on,” said the first man.

“I have to admit I am surprised at the speed of your arrival, and interest,” Saeil noted.

To this the second man just raised an eyebrow, “I’m afraid I have some bad news. It appears you owe us some money!”

“But I paid Bedon Altor in full for the whole consignment,” Saeil explained.

“As you explained to my superior, and that is another issue. The point is YOU DIDN’T PAY US!” they finished in spooky unison.

“But Bedon had all the right,” she began before being cut off.

“Mister Altor, was placed with some unusual company, and been - very naughty - it appears he is in a bit of a bind! So keen to avoid his own associates, Bedor seems to have decided escape was worth the additional nefarious activity of thieving from ours!”

“I don’t think our mutual friend thought he was going to on this particular station much longer,” noted the second man.

“I fear one way or the other, Bedor may well be right!” returned the first.

“As to your own responsibilities, well we are not unreasonable Argons,” one replied.

“You have been most cooperative. So you can either pay us now or defer under a suitable rate of interest. Of course if we recoup the embezzled funds we will reimburse you minus a suitable finder’s fee,” he grinned, “my associate can show you the figures.”

Number two, flashed a computer pad at the club owner who blanched at the details.

“No need for that,” scowled Saeil, “I can cover the cost in the hope of it being recouped,” knowing it was that, or to place herself firmly in their pockets for the rest of her natural.

“Perfect, and these are the revised identity precautions. I would advise you undertake these to the letter in all future undertakings especially with unknown contacts.”

Saeil downloaded the data to her own unit, “you won’t mind if I commence by verifying your own identities, and purposes via Inter Link,” Saeil winced.

“We positively invite it,” noted one.

[Paranoid66]

Reapers Passage
X3 fan Fiction by Paranoid66

Chapter 17 - In Space Everything Happens Faster

Still settling in to his new domain ‘Freedom Station’ Ploopy stared at his semi organic Boron computer pad, and burbled out an uncharacteristic obscenity. Even with all his new staff Ploopy still occasionally felt adrift in a wash of details, and command decisions. Caught up in a deadly whirlpool that threatened to dash the floater into some very jagged reefs, or rip him asunder via the sheer magnitude of its force alone! The Boron looked forward to handing a lot of this stuff onto subordinates, but at this delicate stage such action seemed ill advised.

On the surface everything was perfect but the Boron still worried about becoming a victim of success. Well I jumped in, thought Ploopy, now I will just have to navigate the flow. Still he was aware that all it would take would be a few mistakes. Ploopy could easily end up like Jorac or worse! Thinking of Jorac he wondered where the leader of the Fallen Angel Pirate Clan was now - so far he had heard nothing! Back on topic though, the Argons had decided to leap with him, but without the same risks. The Argon Authorities (in the shape of Argon Navy Intelligence) had agreed to almost all of his suggestions, with a few important modifications. They wanted Ploopy to keep Freedoms wider existence, affiliation and turn coat status quiet for as long as possible, and indefinitely from the bulk of the Argon civilian populace.

ANI also requested or was it insisted on giving Plu Dup a liaison operative (spy?) a Boron named Ge Ton. They had been unpleased at the floaters wide dissemination of his original proposal - among their own top people - but claimed to have this security breach tied down, and under control after gaining access to the Boron’s list of contacts. Ge Ton explained that Argon Navy Intelligence had, had a gentle word with those involved. Luckily most of those informed had been smart enough not to generally blab the suggestion beyond their intimate assistants. ANI had also flooded The Fortune with false rumours about a Boron state visit, among other rather amusing tall tales, to cover any minor information spills, and of course the extra Boron ship activity.

Quietly the - much to Ploopy’s surprise exceptionally devious - Argons arranged for the collection of all the Boron’s prisoners, and shuttled them away in two unremarkable civilian transports. Rewards were paid but they also charged him a considerable sum in reparations after data searching the details of Ploopydroop’s crew; charging rather more than the Boron Leader had expected!

They had not been happy with the condition of some of the detainees. Luckily Ploopy soon realised any ire felt against the Boron’s supposed rough treatment was not a deal breaker. Although it had cost him even more credits; Ploppy came to the conclusion that the Argon military had the mercenary soul of a Pirate Teladi!

The Argon Navy also helped the Boron by asking to buy up any surplus Pirate ships he had captured, and didn’t require - in fact they were very keen to get their hairy hands on these. Ploopy had been able to use this to his advantage operating it as a lever to facilitate access to Goner Jump Drives through legit Argon purchasers. These would allow his troops to prosecute their actions against the Split in more distant unconnected sectors. The Jump Drives would thus be a boon to himself, and the Argon. The dissidents could continue waging their secret war, the Argos got to keep their brutish hands nice and clean.

Since Ploopy’s take over another three Argon Pirates belonging to Freedom - but ignorant of recent changes - had turned up asked to dock, been invited in, detained, and passed on to the Argon! Ge Ton was delighted at each of these events, taking false pride in handing the Pirate Argon over in person. Ploppy at first considered this an amusing side effect of the station remaining covert then wondered was it part the overall ANI strategy another indication of the perfidious nature of the Argon.

Ploopy’s thoughts, and his current data scan was interrupted by a polite burble.

“My lord,” stated one of his minor aids, “this Boron is delighted to inform his superior that the first components for the vital water circulation filtration systems have arrived.”

“Wonderful Moo Tu. This Boron is eager to stretch his tentacles after the fulfilment of this most gratifying project!” noted Ploopydroop.

Like all the Boron’s on station Ploopy was forced, when not on his ship, to mostly wear a water filled encounter suit. With the creation of proper Boron habitation this serious deficiency would change. Even some areas of engineering, and command & control would eventually be flooded; though these modifications were not so straight forward, and would progress later.

“This Boron functionary is ecstatic at being permitted to carry these tidings,” replied Moo Tu, “this Boron also humbly requests his Lord verify the design proposals modifications on site? Living spaces are so much more than dry technical specifications!”

Ploopy looked at his floating servant and brought his stalks together in a smile. Why not, he thought, it would be a break from other more tedious administration duties, “Come this Boron is pleased to comply with your request to view the soon to be refitted and flooded quarters,” Ploopy replied.

So much activity on even the domestic front, considered Ploopy, even the sourcing, and importation of water was another headache inducing detail. As the leader hovered out of Freedom Central the Boron imagined what it would be like to be Argon, how it would feel to be drowned by floods, not soaked into comfort by watery immersion! It was worrying in some ways that his close allies felt like opposites, yet some of their scientists claimed they had risen out of a watery cradle - long ago - their babies inside them still floated in sacks of water if he recalled correctly maybe not so different after all!



In Elena’s Fortune onboard the Argon Navy Colossus Carrier the ‘Lost For Words’ Amon was being escorted - flanked by a pair of Argon Marines - in full Powered Armoured Vacuum Suits sporting heavy-duty repeat low velocity slug carbines. Power Cuffs and Shackles on his hands and feet. The feet devices in walk mode allowed a degree of controlled movement the hand restraints locked tightly behind his back did not. The boys in Grey weren’t taking any chances with any of their new prisoners.

The march from the brig to the so-called interview room was now all too familiar. His minders shoved him onto the seat, and stepped back one moving outside the door the other standing to attention against the bulkhead. Amon was left facing the same hatchet faced female in a plain uniform lacking any insignia or rank.

She smiled without humour, “Well it seems at last we are making some progress Lieutenant Feldis,” she commented producing a computer pad.

Although Amon involuntarily winced at the mention of his name, and old rank, he endeavoured to remain calm and impassive.

“You have no idea how delighted we are to recall one of our lost sheep back into the fold,” the interviewer continued, “so let’s begin from the Battle of Presidents End when you went missing presumed KIA shall we.”

“Why should I cooperate?” asked Amon. “You’ll just push me out the airlock for dissertation in the face of the enemy anyway!”

“Lieutenant Feldis didn’t you know there is a war on. The Argon Navy has no interest in killing inventive pilots the Khaak do enough of that as it is,” replied the Officer.

“What? You are just going to debrief me, shake my hand, put me in a squadron and say all is forgiven? Somehow I don’t believe that?” said Amon with a animalistic scowl.

“Oh we have much better uses than Argnu steak in a can for the likes of you Mister Feldis”, said the female. ‘You are about to enter a brave new universe of experiences I assure you. It is plainly obvious your real talents were previously overlooked and misused. We on the other hand have no intention of making the same mistake!”

“We? By that you mean Navy Intelligence?” asked Amon.

“All will be revealed in good time! Now back to Presidents End you where on patrol in your Buster when…” she enquired.

Amon leaned back in his seat and shook his head remembering the incident; “I was deep off the ecliptic with my wingmen”, began Amon. “We were falling steadily behind Toto in his Discoverer. Toto was hounding after a smuggler in a poorly tuned Pegasus man those old peggies could run I wonder why the Paranid shackled them. However, this one didn’t seem much faster than Toto; he was encouraged to chase on. There was a debris field the broken up remnants of a very large asteroid, and what looked like the remains of an abandoned Pirate Base.”

“The Pegasus flew into cover and we followed first Toto then ourselves”, stated Amon, “our scanners lost all contacts - some kind of natural interference guess that was why the pirates built there - no prizes for guessing what happened next. Three M5 Mandalay’s two M4 Bayamon’s, and a bloody Orinoco it was an instantaneous slaughter! Somehow I survived the initial assault but I was alone one of my wingmen had bailed the other ships were blown away like leaves in a storm. I didn’t see what happened to Toto. I ran it seemed like the better part of valour. The Mandalay’s, and a Bayamon chased me in hot pursuit. Luckily the other Bayamon, and Orinoco seemed content with scooping up Trinny and escorting the captured Buster back to their obviously fully functional base.”

“The Mandalay’s where all over me with their speed advantage, the Bayamon not far behind but I had a good complement of offensive wasp, and defensive mosquito missiles. I also had a certain reckless desperation, and more luck than I deserved; cutting a long story short I survived they didn’t!” said the Prisoner.

“I was heading back to the Gate Grid with a little damage. Thanking my stars - when I started receiving agitated broadband communication chatter. The Aliens had Invaded I watched the whole thing, on my onboard monitors, in total disbelief,” explained Amon lost in the horror of the memory, “going into that would have been pure suicide. The way they sliced up the stations”, said Amon shaking his head, “they showed no mercy whatsoever, I turned away hailed the Pirate Base informed them of the wider situation. I believed it was better to take my chances with an enemy I could at least understand. I still half expected the Pirates to launch and blow me into a million particles. To my relief the bases bay doors slowly swung open - navigation lights activated - and I was invited in to land!”



Back on AFC 4 Anna had linked into Iyn and had him present himself to her office. As usual the Computer Jock looked a little unkempt and unworldly with a crazy shock of hair and a lanky nervous energy.

“Have a seat,” she smiled, “Iyn I have a little sensitive operation for you. I’ve just received a very special update package for our security system direct from AF R&D,” her cadences streamed out very slowly with a soft liquid quality. The tone and manner usually employed by mothers to an especially slow or easily distracted child, “I know they normally do this sort of thing themselves but I guess they must be a bit stretched. Anyway this one is hot stuff, and still very hush, hush! I would like you to install it for us, and keep an eye on the systems overall stability, and efficiency, without drawing too much attention to the existence of the software itself. Do you think you can do this? By the way the data chip must be directly returned to me for secure storage.”

“Uhh, sure I guess so,” Iyn replied rather unenthusiastically.

“Tell the police you are running some diagnostics. Tell them you are doing some general cleaning and optimisations, updating a few old algorithms. Drop a few hints that this should increase system performance. Explain that the surveillance routines were a bit old, and bloated. Nice thing is you will get full credit for our expected increases in systems efficiency,” Anna noted still all warm smiles.

“Yeah, or the blame if R&D have fekked up and the whole thing goes into a monumental meltdown,” groaned Iyn, “I’ve worked with magical R&D innovations before!”

“Sorry,” apologised Anna, “but honestly it really is supposed to be the Boron’s tentacles.”

“Ok,” said Iyn slouching in his seat, “I guess I’ll get right on it. I don’t suppose R&D provided any detailed installation instructions?”

“Just not to mess with the code itself apparently it has anti tamper routines built in. According to my source if these go off it will be the digital equivalent of a Hornet explosion,” stated Anna, “I guess the routines are more or less self extracting.”

“Monkey work why am I not overly surprised,” complained Iyn, great, he thought, I’ve to install and monitor the critter but not interfere with it in any manner if it goes belly up fekking wonderful! “I don’t suppose if it does cause severe problems they gave us a simple uninstall routine,” he added.

“I’m afraid not, guess if it was too easily removed it wouldn’t be a very secure security update,” Anna smiled, “Iyn you need to get away from the data stream for a while. Tell you what if it goes sweet the drinks are on me at the end of shift two,” she smiled.

Iyn stared at Anna’s face in awe then shook his head, “yeah sure, best get on it!” Aye, he thought, The Assassin of Hearts and me all cosy in a shadowy booth. Iyn was glad he was wearing baggy trousers as he got up to leave. He was also convinced she knew about his predicament anyway, and was secretly laughing at him!

[Paranoid66]

Reapers Passage
X3 Fan Fiction by Paranoid66

Chapter 18 – The Passing Shadow of Belated Revelation

Gregor stared at his reflection in the mirror. It was the same clean-shaven face that he had worn not so many AP days ago to a pre-emptive celebratory function. Perhaps his eyes were a little redder had a little less sparkle, his cheek a little more drawn, or was that just the filter of his perception. Although Gregor had enjoyed a good trip back, now that he was facing debarkation unease had returned. Perhaps it was the same features but was it the same Argon underneath the surface mask? The Administrator fumbled in a small zipped leather bag and pulled out an expensive reusable mini injector from AP. With a practiced hand he slipping home a cartridge of ‘Drift tm’ - a mild euphoric tranquilliser - and gave himself a full shot. He immediately felt a little calmer, more remote, more at ease. Straightening up he packed away his belongings engaged his auto luggage, and made his way to the exit.

The flight crew waited patiently to wish him luck, and say farewell. After the obligatory formality of giving his thanks for arriving in one piece - without a moment of hesitation - Gregor walked briskly out the open hatch. Outside the pressurised dock echoed with all the usual hollow mechanical sounds of maintenance, and transit alongside Argon voices some distinct others lost in a melange of conversation.

The Assassin of Hearts was waiting cool in her sharp AF uniform suit. Gregor wondered once again did she know this was what many in the staff called her. He wondered what they called him then decided at the moment ignorance was bliss!

Anna greeted him with a light hug and a warmly whispered, “Welcome back to AFC 4.” Her greeting seemed a little stiff or was this also a delusion. The resurfacing of a surprising ragged edge of paranoia somehow poking through the warming glow of the drug he had just taken. Maybe, Gregor thought, he should have given himself a double dose - but the effect might have been too obvious - could the shot really be wearing off already!

“It’s good to be back,” Gregor said finding he was stroking her back before she gently stepped away, “I see the walls haven’t crumbled in my absence.”

“Business as usual,” replied Anna, wondering if her boss was referring to the Forge or Herself. Either way the same answer applied!

“Time to eat humble pie,” Gregor explained, “is everything in order?”

“I have scheduled in as many as I can,” Anna replied, “however I’m afraid it will require a repeat performance if you want maximum cover due to the shift pattern.”

“Painful but necessary I don’t want anyone to feel left out,” said Gregor chortling darkly at his own remark.



Carl watched from a high vantage portal as Gregor walking down the stout metal ramp, and into a stiff formal embrace with Anna. He found himself thinking even a formal embrace from the Assassin might be quite pleasant. He wondered what effect the Administrators return would have upon his own sections workload. As it was they were currently inundated with an explosion of new investigations, arrests, and paperwork.

After Iyn had worked some technical wizardry on the CSMS the Central Security Monitoring System - it had started flagging up a multitude of minor infractions - as well as chomping down on a lot of suspicious behaviour. It was almost as if the software had impossibly gone from being passive to creatively predictive. Iyn insisted it was merely running, as it should have been doing all along. He claimed the original engineers had sloppily loaded rather than properly integrated, and optimised the advanced software’s analytic algorithm routines. He also said these routines had become defused over time hampered by software bloat from old surveillance parameter fragments left over from specific operations.

“Just because the system is user friendly won’t turn you Copper’s overnight into able Software Engineers,” Iyn had said rather pointedly.

Suddenly they had video and audio evidence of refugees discussing pre arrival piratical activities, records of refugees: instigating intimidation, begging, stealing, and various credit scams, several spacers deliberately obscuring ID’s while up to shady meets. Pickpockets, and shoplifters caught in the act, also uncovered was - a scam - were some crates were being deliberately - systematically readdressed - siphoned off by a felonious Dockworker to his own privately rented lockup; looted and the contents sold on.

Shockingly in Carl’s private Command Security Booth his high clearance monitors latched on to one of his own staff. Rud was flagged due to ill-regular working stress sensor reading patterns! Deciding something was amiss the now very active CSMS started digging.

Then something strange occurred - a retro material search - retro material? The commander didn’t even know such surveillance resources existed in the AFC 4 system.

The newly optimised system unlocked secret data stores using the Security Commanders booths high access priorities for the first time on record to his knowledge. Data normally sealed flowed in. The commander discovered belatedly about the existence of Private Area Feed Sealed Data Stores [PAFSDS] a mouthful if ever there was one!

Doing a bit of his own digging Carl discovered the PAFSDS was ArgonForges answer to restrictive Argon Federal legislation that limited corporate surveillance of private spaces. Normally this activity was very strictly controlled, cameras where allowed for emergency purposes, however, they could only be activated in real time, and with Tribunal or Federal court authority.

The PAFSDS units bypassed this law by recording everything in their allotted area but keeping the data locked away from any user. Each store on AFC 4 had two partitions that operated on a rotating 30 station cycle record storage, and wipe cycle. At least 30 days of intelligence was always available for retrieval with the right authorisation. It was true after all - nothing was truly private on AFC 4.

Because Rud was Key Staff within his AF contract he lost the normal right to privacy. A small but important piece of convoluted legalise hidden in a mass of other terms. Carls Booth was free to delve into Rud’s private quarters surveillance backed up store.

Carl soon learned that the civilian clerk had a penchant for talking to himself out loud when alone in his cubicle. Not that Rud gave a lot away - in his solitary snippets - but the Systems quick scan, and collate function (now running hot) stitched a series of seemingly dissolute fragments together into an alarmingly coherent if stilted dialogue that it then replayed as if a single conversation. It was a dodgy bit of editing / electronic detective work but it painted an interesting alarming picture!

If the almost creative edits could be believed, Rud had sold secure information including duty rotas, and other corporate schedule data to a shady figure.

Delving the commander did a search that recovered a record of the crime itself. Systems log date, and time search, and a shadow program revealed the actual information that Rud had extracted. This was all verifiable data suitable for use in Tribunal court.

Now the Commander delved even further. The contact was soon revealed as one Hiko Elm supposedly a freelance Argon Prime import export agent with a specific interest in rare recordings, and entertainment chips.

Carl placed Rud and Hiko under active intense audiovisual and scanner observation - via his closed system, and waited in the hope of learning more. Only if the mysterious Hiko tried to leave would he find himself flagged up detained, and questioned!

Luckily the data traded so far was only low-grade intelligence. Nonetheless, Hiko was still on station and Rud was - technically - still open for business. Carl was finding this case hard to swallow. Having intruded on Rud’s private life he felt a little sympathy but also a degree of contempt. Rud all shiny on the surface was a complete mess underneath, psyche should have pulled him off station but that was an imperfect science. Of course Rud had still betrayed everyone on the forge for credits!

Also Carl had been shocked at the discovery of the PAFSDS [private area feed sealed data stores]. He insisted on uncovering the full extent and history of this hidden set up. On the technical side he learned almost every area in AFC 4 retained its own independent but linked data store. Of course really important stuff would be downloaded into central, and maybe even inscribed on to permanent hardcopy. The PAFSDS were special because unlike GAFDS [general area feed data stores] also a new one to him it could only be accessed under suspicion of wrongdoing and with high clearance or special dispensation.

Federal Argon statutes that protected citizen rights to personal privacy came into play. Private living spaces such as station side domestic cubicles, and suites were held inviolate to casual intrusion under law.

It appeared only command level staff were fully in the loop on the existence and operation of the SDS [sealed data store] units. Somehow the Commander of Security on AFC 4 had by accident or design been left out of this loop much to his disgruntlement. Others with high enough clearance for access here included only Gregor, and Anna. Otherwise only the technicians that serviced, and installed the units, and the software jocks like Iyn had any clue about the PASFSDS. Shockingly the implementation of the technology according to the records had been standard on almost all AF stations from before even the advent of complexes.

Carl was not impressed with being kept ignorant of what was basically a major security surveillance failsafe by AF, Carl, and Anna! The protocols with which he had been made familiar where obsolete. The idea that the station was constantly squirreling away Private Area records had never ever been discussed, and thus never crossed his mind.



Having lunch in the canteen Iyn was feeling very happy he had gone from zero to hero. Iyn’s skilful tweaks to the CSMS code had already proved itself a massive benison to the operation of Central Security. He had even had his little drink with Anna; although not surprisingly it had proved nothing more than an opportunity to relax, and gaze freely from across a table into her - serene, and lovely face.

Carl had even patted him on the shoulder and insisted on logging a glowing credit on Iyn’s permanent service record; including the unusual request that the jock be given a credit bonus. For once a collaborative effort with ArgonForge’s notoriously aggressive R&D department hadn’t turned into a painful, and dangerous fiasco.



X was shocked to learn his cover had been blown. A carefully select CSMS camera hack routinely instigated by an - outrageously expensive - associates of his flagged the signs of an active surveillance trace on X. The Hacker sent a warning direct to X’s personal computer pad as a coded alert. X was being tracked - his operation - compromised to the station security monitors. He felt invigorated it would appear he had a game on his hands after all! After a quick smirk at this news, X commenced going about the most innocuous of routines. He wondered what the Coppers behind the monitor’s boredom threshold would be not good enough he suspected!



Elaen rested temporarily against the Central Security Desk opposite Rud, and Ferg idly watching other staff come, and go trying hard but failing to completely ignore her Commanders booth. Elaen was waiting on Ravn who seemed to be getting a rather vigorous lecture from Carl behind a clear plastic-glass door. Elaen felt exhausted it felt like she had completed a month’s work in a few days. Judging on the station logs she probably had! CSMS had gone into overdrive after Iyn had worked some belated sorcery on the tired security system. This tune up had afforded the sort of effect one had come to expect from stuffing a bunch of hot chilli peppers up a Boron’s rear; instant rocket propulsion!

Elaen was in two minds about the activity. The success rate was a rush but responding to mechanical algorithms rather than her own intuition, and insight left her a bit cold. Still flesh, and blood was still needed in the loop. If the current phenomenal success rate continued Elaen might even gain a promotion by association. Oddly, Elaen was beginning to wonder if her current career was really what she wanted! Computer analysis was becoming more and more a part of her employment. Elaen found she was thinking - how it appeared inevitable - that one day all the interesting parts of her job the detection would be run by virtual Artificial Intelligences, linked to evidence collection drones, not deck walking coppers!

In off duty time (something becoming truly scarce) Elaen had fallen into cohabiting with Garrin in his plush quarters. Unluckily the domestic arrangement at the moment mostly consisted of Elaen staggering in and dropping into an exhaustion-fuelled coma.



Garrin flicked through the Inter Link on a wall-sized monitor and cursed. He was bored, terminally bored. He had taken time off to be specifically with Elaen but she was being dragged in constantly to heavier, and heavier duties. Recently they hadn’t even collided much under the sheets Elaen had simply been too exhausted. As much as Garrin sympathised it was not much fun! Dragging himself up from the couch he decided to go on a pleasure run. He would shake down the Reapers meagre combat systems against a few practice drones!

Maybe this wasn’t what he wanted after all? Garrin wondered was the success of his relationship founded as much on his absences as the times he was present? The Courier knew his life had a certain pace something that he enjoyed! Garrin had to admit when he did want something - he usually wanted it straight away - patiently waiting about wasn’t something he even wished to become good at, standing in line was a skill for losers! Garrin saw himself as an Argon of action. Letting himself out G was so deep in thought that he forgot to manually lock up, luckily the expensive High Tower suite was intelligent enough to do this for him.



“If I see you anywhere near anybody with as much as an AHIS label on their under ware, you will find your ass bouncing onto a transport back to AP. Is that clear enough for you,” bellowed the Commander.

“Yes sir,” exclaimed Ravn falling into old habits in Carls security booth.

“Right get the hell out of my office,” Carl spluttered, “don’t you think we have enough work around here as it is!”

[Paranoid66]

Reapers Passage
X3 Fan Fiction by Paranoid66

Chapter 19 – To Every Rule an Exception.

Ravn found the RDC [Re-programmable Data Chip] and the ring waiting for him in the PVR booth drop point. The ring was silver inset with a sparkling black synthetic stone on which was engraved a charging boar. It was the symbol of one of his favourite old units ‘The War Hogs’ almost identical to the one he already wore. Swapping the rings over Ravn slipped the original in his pocket along with the sturdy RDC. Then ignoring the items he plugged himself in and enjoyed the rough and tumble of the CGI animated comedy show.

Back in his cubicle with his door sealed Ravn plugged the data chip into his computer pad. The RDC was of course heavily encrypted. Inserting his secure key he commenced to read noting it was on a timed self wipe. At last he had some instructions as much fun as it was playing the fully vacuous grunt he was keen to employ himself more fully.

Reading on Ravn started to relax a little for the first time in many station shift cycles. Despite being eager to get on with his duties Ravn had been feeling a little nervous now that was lifting. The contact had obviously hacked CSMS. He had been given a Shadow Trace. That would come in very handy. In effect he was now invisible to station monitoring routines they would cover up his movements.

He would still be recorded but no action he took while in the proximity of the Shadow Trace would be flagged as suspicious; in fact if necessary the system would actively block attempted file access around his movements. CSMS might even go so far to as to fudge the permanent record using stitched together edits he had become a shadow. This was a massive weight off his back AFC 4 was the tightest operation he had ever had the misfortune to work under. Although discreet he had never been employed in this type of environment. Usually his remit was reasonably straight forward rooting out weak links in the field of combat.

A simple monitor, and ah expeditor of military security his secondment to the Argon Navy had come as something of a shock. Ravn had not been best pleased at his enforced fake retirement, and reassignment to a civilian Corporate Police Station either. He had been hoping to rise through the ranks now he had fallen out into grey spaces. Technically Ravn had been granted a promotion to the rank of ‘Lieutenant Commander’ but he wondered when he would get the opportunity to ever use those credentials, and was still a little uncomfortable with his newfound position.

Despite following orders all his life, Ravn had deluded himself that he was still in control of his career! Still maybe it was just a question of settling in, breaking with the old familiar routines. The Soldier had to admit he missed the companionship of the squads, and the relatively simple life of exposing, and occasionally removing military criminals. and potential traitors! Maybe Ravn mused in some ways only the uniforms had changed it was possible he was being overly sensitive.

This was also the first time he had ever worked without knowing the face of his immediate superior / controller. It was a bit spooky and weird, was it Gregor? The Administrator had recently returned from Argon Prime, and had been linked with his assignment to the station. Iyn was another possibility (recently sprung to mind) this tech fiddles a bit with CSMS, and suddenly it is running like a guided missile; then a Shadow Trace Ring is popped on Ravn’s lap very convenient. The Commander Carl was also in the frame Ravn had noticed he seemed preoccupied more waspish, and was spending an uncommon amount of time locked away in his security booth lately. Also how had he found out so soon that Ravn had been entertaining himself by sniffing around AHIS! Even CSMS shouldn’t have flagged that simple exchange up?

Still finding his Superior wasn’t his mission his mission for the current station cycle was to engineer the extraction of one Hal Beyn a.k.a. Febr apparently a newly arrived, and highly unwanted presences on the station. Unfortunately this Febr had not come alone, and somehow had to be removed without drawing undue attention. Further he was at all costs to be prevented from speaking to any Key Staff.

A thorny proposition that many might agonise over however, Ravn wasn’t really one for pussy footing around beyond absolute necessity he liked the direct approach. The Investigator believed he worked best when he jumped right in, and thought on his feet. Carefully Ravn skinned out of his uniform and redressed putting on some discrete under clothing armour first. As he made ready he also secreted a few extra items of innocent looking but deadly concealed weaponry.

The rather overt effect twin handles of a deactivated laser line hooked onto his computer pad like an innocent pair of carrying handles. A number of individually wrapped contact poison patches were fed into a hidden sleeve inside the inner arm wrists of both of his soft padded fingerless gloves. An especially sharp hardened pen went into a pocket. Of course he still had his legally held security issued personal low velocity slug thrower and a declared combat knife though due to the cut of his clothes neither was overly obvious to casual visual inspection. With a slightly mocking grin Ravn exited his cubicle, checked the door was secured, then commenced to trot confidently down the corridor.



“So this is the fabled AFC 4,” Febr mumbled to himself.

The Professor noticed the place was hiving with people - no pun intended in his thoughts - but it brought his position back to mind. This was his last roll of the dice. Anna must know he was here by now. Febr had already spent a station cycle loitering around and planned to continue until this provoked a reasoned response.

He had considered going in - all guns blazing - exposing the operation, and Anna’s part in it to her colleagues, but feared that would result in an overly aggressive response, and actually fail in his overall objective. The Professor knew if he invalidated the test - chances were - the powers that be would just initiate another! Without doubt his ex colleague would be unhappy he was here but Febr doubted his old assistant, and one time paramour would over react unless provoked. Anna couldn’t have changed that much?

Anna had nearly always been cool in a crisis. Maybe that was her weakness he would simply stay in public spaces with his minders, and wait! Besides his first betrayer probably half expected the visit, and the cursed Core if it was installed here was unlikely to miss him!

Getting here had been the hard part. Luckily he still had some supporters. Friends had raided the Asylum, and smuggled him off Argon Prime, not to mentioned helped to pull his mind back from the brink. They had also supplied the ship, and the hired help. Luckily he already possessed an - old faithful - a faked ID, and data base hack that he had not had recourse to use in years but never blown, this was easily updated using his direct data input key.

It was a good thing not everyone believed the benefits afforded by the ‘Hive access Cores’ was worth the unknown risks. Old Febr was one soft readily available option to their predicament. They wouldn’t let him near the Senate - too open for their taste - but they would launch the Scientist like a guided missile at Anna. Using his old association without becoming too directly involved, they couldn’t be seen as sabotaging the project. Some had told the Old Scientist plainly they feared precipitating a covert civil war within the agencies. No other recent undertaking had created such a wide split of opinion. Febr sighed all he had wanted to do was expand knowledge his own, and the wider pool belonging to the entire Argon race.

Why was he constantly being dragged into the mercantile, politicos, and militaries hidden games? He was tired of it all, bone weary if only he had retired early as he had initially planned not that it would have been that early really but academics tended to keep at it until they dropped. Febr had been about to claim a gratuitously comfortable academic position as head of a Xeno-archaeology academy when he had inadvertently recovered the Generator, and spun out the first fragile Queen alongside Anna!

Now Febr was a fugitive of his fears, and would be lucky if he managed to survive long enough to flee into alien exile. Febr wasn’t exactly enamoured of living among one of the other races either or of leaving his family behind even if his wife had divorced him long ago. The Professor found it difficult to imagine his last days being spent alone surrounded by tentacle waving Boron or greedy hissing Teladi. He had never found living alien societies, and cultures remotely as interesting as the departed, and dead ones. It was the mystery that had filled him with joy the forensic detective work.

Still exile was a pipe dream too, even his friends wouldn’t be happy to let him go - he knew too much - and his enemies had proved willing to lock him away in a drugged Hell! Febr guessed they hadn’t killed him just in case his reported genius proved useful later on, rather thoughtful of them really! Nonetheless, the asylum had been a living death a mind-bending hell; a clean end would be much preferable. Nor was he really that much better off, Febr was in little doubt that even his current protectors his chaperones where also open prison guards! Febr had proven too independent of minded for his own good; he knew he was no longer trusted!

So here we was in a floating factory uncomfortably close to what he fervently hoped was the only ‘Hive access Core’ left in existence (at least active in this universe). That was something he had to find out - had the fools unleashed any more? It had not been easy getting here. Nothing since his so carefully strategically planned but - never occurring - outburst to the Senate had been easy! He had been a fool to trust his encryption, an idiot to have blind faith in his new student assistant’s loyalty. Well, he had been a fool to mess with unfathomably unknown technologies in the first place.

He had also deluded himself that working with defence contractor money was acceptable; that the ends justified the means! After all Febr was still the head of the project! For wonder - with hindsight - how naïve each varied hypothesis had been. All the woes of academic tunnel vision rolled up into a tight little package of serial blunders!

Fingering an antique gold plated timepiece on a chain - a remarkable early import - from the newly rediscovered planet he liked to call ‘Earth’ Febr waited. Flipping it open it was inscribed ‘to the first ONE, from Anna’. Febr sighed carefully stowed the item picked up his computer pad off the table, ordered another horrendous black - so called - tea tossed back the white fringe of his hair, and downloaded the latest BBS news. The Empress of the Universe was obviously busy. Old Febr would just have to continue to wait!

The dangerous Professors three minders sat nearby pretending to take an interest in their own victuals while constantly scanning the people passing the food booth. Febr had given up wondering what his protectors were armed with. Whatever it was it had fooled the stations security scanners with ease. Or maybe the Argon had no weapons beyond their physical bodies. All three had the calm look of the martial arts type!



Anna busied herself by trying to recompose order out of the chaos of her desk space. The Gods must be laughing, she thought, not impressed with having to activate Ravn after the Hive revealed Febr. It felt too early to be unleashing her only collaborator, and weapon of last resort, but she didn’t trust anybody else to deal with the old trickster. Modifying the signature ring with a rare element and turning it into a Shadow Trace she considered a fine last minute inspiration. More instantaneous, reliable, and flexible than using feature recognition - it would give her assigned assistant an important edge!

According to his file Ravn was good, very good at what he did but AFC 4 was a new situation. Anna had to protect her anonymity, and the anonymity of the ‘Hive access Core’. Febr should have retired when he had the chance. Anna didn’t really want to hand him over but she dared not risk keeping him here. The old goat was too clever for his own good! Also he had to have support or the devils own luck! How had he ever gotten out of the Asylum? Anna wouldn’t have let him rot forever just long enough to prevent a disaster!

Turning back to the desk Anna forced herself to the simple but complex task. However, it wasn’t working she wanted to rush to the monitors, and follow the unfolding events! Or wait in her room impatiently for the next message from the Hive sure to include a - post analysis - report on Febr, and Ravn’s encounter.

The Hives one serious weakness being the delay inherent in its contact messenger relays, but this was the price that had to be paid for the system being utterly water tight, or so she believed. Any regular broadcast could be intercepted, the hive never broadcasted at least not on any traditional bandwidths known to the Argon.

Gregor linking in, demanding her presence interrupted Anna’s effort. No doubt her supposed boss had: a troublesome memo to compose about the facilities sanitation, some flowers he wanted delivered to his next would be conquest, maybe some - overworked, and underpaid - member of staff he needed Anna to sweet talk into doing an extra shift! Didn’t he know what his secretaries were for? Straightening up Anna armed herself with her best smile - because at times like this it was needed - and hurried to her Lord, and Master.



Carl yawned got up and tossed a disposable cup into the bin for recycling. It looked like his quarry was in no hurry. At first he had avidly watched his movements in real time expecting a breakthrough any moment. Now he was mostly running the surveillance on automatics. Carl was fast becoming convinced Hiko Elm was being paid by the hour or was the most relaxed agent he had ever had the misfortune to encounter, not that he had encountered many!

At first the situation had filled Carl with seemingly boundless nervous energy. Something about a spy so close to his own team had set him jangling. However, all the extra time he had spent here in this booth had just resulted in a pile up of other duties. The Commander sometimes wondered if the other Corporations happened to be the smart ones (with their smaller habitats) clamps, and limited traffic. Carl was so busy dealing with Argon passing through that he often forgot that the stations main purpose was, efficiently pumping out high-energy weapons, rather than security headaches, and ill-mannered guests!

Picking up his computer pad he began to look through the dailies. Just in case he had missed any pleasant surprises!



Gregor was not in a good mood. Not only had he recently put himself through a painful crew gathering, humble pie eating question, and answer session in which he had been wrung out like a rag. The meet was just the first of two due to the shift pattern. Then Carl had taken him aside and given his superior an ear bashing about of all things, Sealed Data Stores!

Anna seemed to resent his return. He got the feeling she had become convinced in his absence that - Gregor was actually surplus to requirements! Desperate to get past Anna’s infuriating cool Gregor had instigated a childish program of multiple inane tasks for her to do. The Assassin of Hearts however refused to crack! Lastly Gregor had forgot to bring his injector into work, had been informed that they had a corporate rat in their midst, and incurred a hellish headache!

As desirous as he was to sloop off to his comfortable suite in the High Tower early, he couldn’t face the defeat this represented. Gregor had no plan to reinforce his PA’s worst assumptions, and current delusions of grandeur.

“Anna,” said the AFC 4 Administrator grinning, “would you trot along and tell Iyn I want to see him, I believe congratulations are in order.”

“Certainly Gregor I would be delighted,” replied his PA thinking she could always relocate to Kingdoms End at this rate she would fit right in with the almost ever outwardly pleasant Boron.



In Garrin’s newly rented High Tower suite Elaen lay on her back staring at the ceiling, resting on the massive bed, still in her uniform with only her shoes kicked off. It was early rather than late, but Garrin was noticeable by his absence. She wondered had he left a message on her computer pad, but felt too weary to be bothered checking. Elaen wanted a shower but was afraid it would wake her up again, besides the effort seemed gargantuan; like the thought of climbing a mountain on a high gravity planet.

“I want to die,” said the exhausted Lieutenant to the empty room.

Elaen wondered if Garrin off somewhere in a sulk? It wouldn’t surprise her, G wasn’t impressed with her schedule in truth nor was Elaen, but what could she do - it wasn’t fair - but what in life was? Still Garrin would get over it, this crazy run of flag ups by the automated security monitoring systems couldn’t last forever things were sure to reach an equilibrium soon enough, El mused before falling asleep still dressed!