Tales from the Service: The Homecoming Front

2954-08-05 – Tales from the Service: The Homecoming Front 

As of this posting, most of you have probably already seen that Fifth Fleet has announced operations on Håkøya have progressed to the mopping-up stage, and that organized enemy resistance at anything above a small-unit level there has ended. 

No further fleet actions in that system have interfered with the ground operations, and initial reports suggest that damage to the ecosystem and infrastructure on the contested world are a bit lighter than expected. Incarnation defenders seem to have preferred to try to hold out in remote fortifications built by the F.V.D.A. prior to the occupation, which their own personnel expanded and reinforced.  

If it is true that only those areas have seen extensive damage, the evacuated civilians of Håkøya can probably expect to be returning to their world soon. Unfortunately, there is still no permanent civilian datasphere connectivity to the system; Incarnation forces destroyed the HyperCast relay there, and the limited bandwidth of the Navy's portable relays is still being prioritized for military data transfers. 

Lydia Fernandez flipped the arming switches on the right-hand control panel. Behind her, the steady idle-hum of the Consolidated Industries KR-99 phased-matter reactor built into an insistent whine. When two indicators above those switches changed to yellow, and then green, she gently pulled back the main control yoke.  

There was a jerking sensation as her Carpathian Systems Minotaur lifted off. The dusty gray-green landscape in front of her disappeared, leaving only a featureless mauve sky. 

After a few seconds of free flight to gain altitude, Lydia switched on the autopilot and sat back. Homecoming hadn't been precisely what she'd expected, but then, she hadn't spent much time over the last five years picturing what it would be like to finally put her boots back on the parched dirt of Terre Weigand. 

Certainly, the return hadn't been under anything like the sort of circumstances she might have imagined. Lydia could hardly claim to have "made it" as a spacer, not yet, for one; she was still flying an old Minotaur gunship she'd bought from a junker and retrofitted into something like a proper all-purpose rig. The machine was more than it appeared, but that was mainly because at first glance the ship resembled a jumbled collection of scrap metal that had decided to fly in roughly the same direction for a while. 

She'd had to come unannounced, mostly for the safety of her relatives on that world, and to leave just as unexpectedly. Her sister, who she'd hoped to see, had been off-planet on a business trip, so she had spent an afternoon catching up with Cousin Trent and meeting his two young children. They'd offered her the use of the guesthouse on their property for as long as she was staying, but she had declined; she couldn't tell Trent and his wife Nadia that she was going to be gone in less than forty-eight hours. 

For his part, Trent had listened with interest to some of her stories of light adventure on the border between Memoire de Paix and the Silver Strand. Her life probably seemed so fast-paced to someone who'd only left the world of his birth three or four times in his thirty-three years. Still, he'd shown no sign of envy; perhaps that was because he'd seen her ship before he heard her stories. 

The Minotaur wasn't quite the pile of rusting scrap she appeared, of course. Lydia had found the ship's rather homely appearance an advantage more than once in her travels, and so had passed up the opportunity to make any real cosmetic improvements. She wasn't the most maneuverable ship, but she had a big, modern reactor feeding a totally rebuilt main drive. The cabin, which would have been a cramped abode for the intended crew of four, was spacious enough for one, while still affording space and privacy to host a couple of passengers for short-hop ferry runs. Seeing the skepticism on her cousin's face as she'd bid his family goodbye and boarded it had hurt a little. 

She'd gone on with the job, of course, as soon as she'd dispensed with the cover story that her visit had been a spur-of-the-moment social call. The dead drop had been just where her employer had said, out in the high scrublands. According to her flight plan registered with the spaceport authorities, she was spending the night leisure-camping on the world of her birth, and then departing directly from her campsite. Evidently, the story was mundane enough that nobody had asked any follow-up questions. 

Now, the cargo was on board, and Lydia was approaching orbit once more, her home-world disappearing behind her again. She'd left her sister a message and a souvenir, in care of Trent, but that was all – she didn't dare leave a datasphere message. Margaret would find a way to be offended by even the most polite recorded message, and somehow, as usual, would go from this irrational response to divining the real reason for Lydia's visit. 

Trent would get a message to Margaret, of course, but he would mention the gift, and how nice it had been to see Lydia after so many years, and if Margaret got offended it would be at Trent first. This would, hopefully, put her uncanny association skills off the scent, at least until it was too late to cause any problems.  

As soon as the pale sky darkened to black, Lydia turned to her comms console and dashed off a quick message to her employer's local contact. Though it was innocuous, appearing to any snoopers to be a query regarding an equipment sale posting, it was the prearranged code indicating her success and departure. 

A few minutes later, the prearranged acknowledge code came back – a polite apology stating that the equipment which she was asking about had already been sold. Had there been any reason to abort the operation, Lydia would have gotten a request to set up a time and place to meet and complete the apparent requested sale. 

With a shrug, Lydia put her family out of her mind, at least for the moment, and headed back into the cabin for an acoustic shower and a meal.

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Tales from the Inbox: A Memory's End

2954-07-29 – Tales from the Inbox: A Memory's End 

Obviously, a person like Mr. Tsiklauri is likely to make a number of rather unsavory contacts in several years as a freelance spacer with his own starship. Spacers, especially those who've done the Strand circuit, are hardly known for a consistent track record of good moral character. 

That being said, I find it strange for him to still be on speaking terms with someone who has tried to kill him before on multiple occasions. "Just business" may apply to economic competition, but it does not usually apply to mortal combat. Since I can also find no record of his associate despite weeks of research, I am beginning to wonder if she is a composite character, with all the alluring and unsavory traits of two or more real people rolled into one, for storytelling purposes. 

Why Mr. Tsiklauri would do this, in what otherwise claims to be a truthful account, I cannot even speculate. 

Within an hour of taking his leave of Roger Simon, Zeph Tsiklauri had downed two thoroughly mediocre pints of local ale and identified about twenty independent spacers who were in the Braunweiss system whose reputations made them likely candidates for the job. He was glad most of all that this was the Coreward Frontier, and the far extremity thereof to boot; the region didn't attract the same caliber of renegades as the Silver Strand. With the ever-present carrot of Navy contract jobs at stake, a freelancer would think twice about tarnishing his reputation for a quick credit windfall. 

He'd have to contact them one at a time, of course, paying a small sum up front for contracted silence. Who accepted and who rejected an offer that, though lucrative, carried few details, would in turn influence who Zeph had to contact next – and he couldn't afford to wait for anyone too long, with the clock already ticking. 

He'd gotten three messages from an unknown sender in that hour as well. That would be Anata, of course. He hadn't listened to any of them. If she was sincere about no longer being tempted by his death mark – and he rather doubted it – that was an acquaintance that could be renewed and tested out slowly over long distance comms during the boring weeks of his contract. 

As had become a custom of necessity, Zeph did most of his research from a corner booth at one of the station's watering holes, holding his expanded wristcuff screen up so he could see everyone that came and went. He could have retreated to his ship, but Anata knew where that was, and was probably loitering near its berth, waiting for just that. 

Zeph doubted Mr. Simon would null out the contract just because of yet another shootout resulting from yet another syndicate hit attempt on his life; after all, it was very much his reputation, after all, to have and to endure that sort of problem. His onetime shipmate was not likely to try such a direct approach, not on her own – but if she caught wind of the value of the claim Zeph was now responsible for protecting, it might be too much for her to resist. 

He'd sent out messages to the first three prospects – spacers named Royceston, Markova, and Nissen – and was nursing a third ale waiting for them to reply when a slight figure with shock-white hair sidled into the establishment. With a sigh, he folded his wristcuff screen as Anata made a stop at the bar to order a drink, then slid into the seat opposite him. 

"You get the job?" She asked, after waiting for some time for Zeph to speak first, and finding him unwilling to do so. 

"Job?" Zeph shrugged. "Don't know what you're talking about, Ana." 

"So yes, you did." Anata rolled her eyes, and tossed her head in a way that would have sent her previously luxurious cascade of red hair dancing. A mohawk, obviously, didn't produce quite the same effect. "And no, I'm not invited." She nodded and looked away. 

"Even if I had a job, do you really think it would be good business to pull you into it?" Zeph shrugged.  

"Probably not." Anata flashed a grin at the young man who delivered her drink. "But it would be good fun. Like old times." 

Zeph waited for the attendant to leave before speaking again. "I have enough scars from old times, Ana. No interest in more. Besides, it wouldn't exactly help you get back in with the Triad." 

Anata gave Zeph a strange look, then took a long, slow sip of her drink. "We didn't know how good we had it back in the Strand, did we?" Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. 

"Miserable living conditions. One food-fab that never worked right. Skipper bawling us out any time we did anything except prepare for launch ops. Terrible pay, regular brushes with death..." Zeph smiled slyly. "I do miss it." It had been his fault – or rather, the fault of people chasing the mark on his head – that their ragtag mercenary outfit had come apart at the seams. Zeph had corresponded with Anata and others after his forced departure, at least for the six weeks of the company's remaining existence from that point. 

"You could get on with one of the more respectable crews on this side of space, you know." Anata gestured with her glass. "One of the outfits that can afford good military-grade tech, maybe even the pull to get Navy contracts now and again. They're always hiring, and always shipping out for months on end to places the syndicates can't reach." 

"Probably." Zeph had considered it; he had a cousin working for a mercenary company out of Maribel, a decently prosperous outfit called Blacktrail Defense. When he'd passed through that system on his way out toward Braunweiss, they'd been preparing to go out on a long-haul patrol of some sort. He could have probably pulled strings to go with them. Something had held him back, though, something he'd not spent any time trying to identify. 

Anata nodded knowingly, apparently guessing at least some of his thoughts. "You don't think it will be the same." 

"I'm also not too excited by the prospect that it will be." Zeph drained the rest of his drink. "Don't forget that I got poor Steffen killed." 

"Steffen was unlucky." Anata shrugged. "But there wasn't anything you could have done, except get killed in his place, which is what those bastards wanted anyway." She smirked. "He'd have hated to trade places and give those tweakers a win, eh?" 

Zeph scowled. "Yeah." It being true couldn't do anything to make him feel better, of course. A friend and comrade had died as a consequence of his own death-mark; it shouldn't ever feel better, by his lights. He'd brought trouble with him, trouble nobody else on the crew had asked for. 

Just then, Zeph's comm chimed. One of his prospects had responded. 

Anata drained the rest of her drink and stood up. "It's been good catching up, big guy." She put a hand on his briefly. "I'll be seeing you around. Watch your back, so it isn't too tempting a target, hmm?" 

With that, she was gone. Zeph watched her go for a long moment, then turned his attention to the incoming message on his comm. 

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Tales from the Inbox: At Prospect's End

2954-07-22 – Tales from the Inbox: At Prospect's End 

"Mr. Tsiklauri, I presume?" The wizened man at the opposite end of the long conference table stood creakily, pressing his hands together and dipping his head incrementally. 

Zeph mimicked the gesture as best he could, making sure to bow his head much lower than the old man. The Hyadean greeting had a lot of unspoken protocol built into it. Business would go ill for him if he violated any of it. "At your service. Am I correct in guessing you are Mr. Simon?" 

"You are." The man smiled thinly. "Please sit." 

There were several other chair scattered around the table, and Zeph took one about a third of the way down, pulled it out, and lowered himself into it, keeping his eye on Roger Simon. He'd only interacted with the man – and before that, his functionaries – in datasphere text missives, and had been able to find precious little in his research en route. Simon was well connected on Braunweiss – in fact, his cousin was the system administration's economic minister – and owned a number of business ventures, but it wasn't really clear from public records where he'd gotten the fortune he used to invest in these enterprises. 

Zeph had been led to expect a meeting with the magnate directly, of course, but he had never come up with any good reason why this should be the case. The asteroid mining firm he was nominally arranging to work for had its own official president; Mr. Simon was nominally the majority investor in the company, but not an official decision maker. 

"I will admit, I was surprised to see someone like you applying to a job like this." Mr. Simon sat back down and pressed his fingertips together. "Your reputation is rather specific, and prospecting claims seem out of your normal expertise." 

"Even assuming that rep was well earned, I would have a death wish if I spent all my time hunting syndicate goons for pittance bounties." Zeph sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Eventually, luck runs out." 

"You don't think your reputation well earned, then?" 

Zeph chuckled. "I've paid for it, sure. If that's the same thing as earning it, then that settles it." He paused, wondering what this had to do with an asteroid-babysitting job. "I never set out to be a bounty hunter. The bounties just sort of... chose me." 

Simon smiled mirthlessly. "You also have a reputation as a very honest man, Mr. Tsiklauri. Honest, one might say, to a fault. It is this, not your fast gun-hand, which I value." 

Zeph nodded. This was a reputation he was far prouder of. "The listing was pretty vague. Obviously I can see why that might be. What do I need to do?" 

"Hopefully very little." Simon tapped his wristcuff with one long finger, and the holo-display in the middle of the table came to life, showing a map of the Braunweiss system. "A prospector in my employ has discovered several mineral-rich asteroids in the outer part of this system. Vanadium, platinum, some uranium, trace rare metals." A hazy white orb appeared in the display. "The company has a mining platform on the way, but it will take some three weeks before it is in place." 

"You need someone to sit on it until the mining ship arrives." 

"Someone is, as you say, already sitting. But the craft is unarmed." A wireframe of a small starship appeared near the map. Zeph recognized it as an old PCS Moth shuttle, a ubiquitous, nearly century-old multi-purpose rig. "Four times in the last week, small vessels have attempted to approach the claimed asteroids. Drone interception and comms warnings were sufficient so far, but if they press the issue, my pilot on station is powerless." 

"How much are these minerals worth?" 

Mr. Simon hesitated a long moment, as if wondering whether it was wise to answer. "Somewhere between fifteen and sixty million credits, to anyone with the machinery to mine it." 

Zeph whistled. "Even a small piece of that is the score of a lifetime." 

"Hence the, ah, moral hazard to the local independent spacers. Word of the claim is already circulating through Braunweiss's less savory spacers. I fear there will be a determined attempt to violate the claim before the miners arrive." 

"I can't fight off half a dozen scavengers on my own, Mr. Simon. " Zeph pressed his hands on the table, feigning the intention to get up, even though he knew there was more to the contract – there would have to be. 

"I don't expect you to do this alone." The old man tapped his wristcuff again, and the wireframes of about thirty strike-scale spacecraft replaced the star map. "There are dozens of other small independently owned, armed spacecraft currently docked at this station and at the ground-side spaceport. You have forty-eight hours to put together a squadron of pilots you think can be trusted. I will ensure everyone you bring on board is paid handsomely." 

Zeph normally worked alone, of course, but he nodded. "I suppose I'm responsible for keeping my choices in line?" 

Simon again smiled without any trace of humor. "Naturally, Mr. Tsiklauri." He changed the display again, this time to a chart showing various monetary values. "Here is the pay scale for this job, botth for you and for your chosen subcontractors. Do you find this acceptable?" 

Zeph took a moment to take in the chart. The job listing he'd initially seen had contained a pay range, of course, but it seemed that this range was that of Mr. Simon's intended pay for the two to five secondary mercenary hires he was permitted. The lead role's pay values were all twenty to thirty percent higher. 

There were red flags all over this, of course, but that was the nature of the game. Zeph wasn't afraid of fighting off a few frontier opportunists; it was selecting his own allies and then trusting them (and keeping them in line) that would be the challenging part. "Very acceptable, Mr. Simon. I'll get started picking my helpers right away." 

Though it is not relevant to this particular account, I thought it worth mentioning here that the ground campaign on Håkøya appears to be wrapping up. There haven't been many accounts from this campaign, which is surprising – Håkøya is a place that seems to have more than its share of strange happenings worthy of this text feed, even without a war being fought across its surface. 

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Tales from the Inbox: At Vendetta’s End

2954-07-15 – Tales from the Inbox: At Vendetta’s End 

[N.T.B.] We have received several messages asking about the world of Braunweiss – evidently most of you have never heard of it, and the data available in most databases on the colony is quite sparse. As I’ve actually been there, I can provide a little color to this account. 

While it is not strictly the farthest Coreward extent of human habitation, it is near enough to it as makes no difference. The population of the planet is about thirty thousand, and it is a pleasant enough world, exporting mainly platinum and palladium which are found there in abundance.  

Before the War, its spaceport – the largest farther out on the Frontier than Adimari Valis - was a jumping-off point for survey and exploration efforts farther down the Orion Arm, and a trade hub for the dozen or so smaller colonies in its vicinity. 

It remains ignored by Incarnation forces, but I have no doubt traffic to the area is rather impacted by the existence of Incarnation-held space between it and Maribel. 

Anata Kearney smiled. Despite the changes to her coiffure and attire, it was the same pretty, innocent smile as always, and somehow, the black coat and mohawk didn’t do anything to detract from it. “That’s ancient history, Zeph. I swore off your mark after Blish Warren.” 

Even now, even knowing as he did that this smile had disarmed many a spacer to his grave, Zeph had to suppress a smirk of his own. “You’ve never sworn off a payout, Ana.” Zeph arched an eyebrow. “You’re too damned persistent.” 

The smile on the woman’s face faltered, and she looked down. “We’ve seen how well that’s been going, haven’t we?” 

She didn’t seem inclined to say anything more, so Zeph put his hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her away from the lift controls and selected his destination. Even if Anata wasn’t going to be an immediate problem, he had an appointment to keep.  

She looked up at his touch, and permitted herself to be moved – in such a confined space, there was little she could do to stop him short of drawing a weapon. 

"Well, if you’re not here for my valuable head, why are you out this far?” Zeph leaned against the back of the lift as it creaked to life, and glared at the woman suspiciously. “This isn’t exactly your preferred end of the Reach.” 

Anata shrugged, and a smile began to tug at her lips once more. “You know. Business. Had a line that someone out here was paying top dollar for people who solve problems without asking too many questions.” 

“What about your Hyadean friends?” 

Anata scowled. “The Triad can go to hellfire. Job went bad last year at Hesperus, and they hung me out in front of it. I barely got away with my skin.” 

“Ah.” Zeph nodded. “Hence the...” He waved one hand over his head, to indicate her radical change in hairstyle since last they’d run into each other. He realized she was probably using a false name, too – it wouldn’t exactly be the first time. He’d seen her smoothly switch between at least four legal identities when they’d been shipmates in the Strand. 

Anata grinned, but the nervousness behind it was obvious. “If I’m not careful, I might end up in the same sticky spot you’ve been in all these years.” 

“All the more reason to get back in their graces with a high profile mark?” 

Anata shook her head vigorously. “Everyone who goes after you ends up dead. Starfire, even standing too close to you is a health hazard.” She looked down her nose at her fingernails, which were painted in a shock-white enamel that matched her hair. “I’ve got ways back in, after the heat dies down. I just need to stay off the plot for a few months.” 

Zeph still wasn’t convinced, but the lift chimed and the doors opened before he could ask any more questions.  

“Got to run. Nice seeing you, big guy.” With a wink, Anata slipped out. 

When Zeph stepped out of the lift himself, Anata was nowhere to be seen. One wall of the upper level was mostly composed of angled viewpanels allowing pedestrians to look down onto the main concourse below, and a number of passages led away into the labyrinthine innards of the station that surrounded this open space. Checking the time on his wristcuff, Zeph looked around cautiously for threats, then headed for his appointment. If Ana was skulking around, it was a fair bet there were other syndicate-affiliated goons in Braunweiss. He didn’t buy her story about being burned by Triad for a second, even if she was telling the truth about swearing off his bounty. 

That last, at least, was a bit more believable. She’d sent him an audio message some time after he’d shot his way out of the ambush at Blish Warren saying something similar, but he had assumed this was part of the next setup at the time. That had been two years ago.  

Anata was smart enough to know when a mark just wasn’t worth her life, which put her head and shoulders over most of the syndicate hangers-on, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t sell him out to someone else who was stupid enough to have a go. 

Reaching the entrance to the office complex where he was to meet his new employer, Zeph waved his wristcuff in front of the console, and tried to put Anata out of his mind for the moment. Once he had his contract, he could worry about how best to keep her out of it.

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