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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Tales from the Inbox: At Reach’s End

2954-07-08 – Tales from the Inbox: At Reach’s End 

Zeph Tsiklauri looked around the spaceport concourse warily as he stepped out of the lift. There wasn’t much to see, and he counted that fortunate. Braunweiss was little more than an outpost at the far outer edge of the Coreward Frontier, exactly the sort of place he wasn’t likely to run into trouble, but he had discovered over the prior six months that he had an uncanny knack for trouble. 

Or maybe it was that trouble had a knack for finding him. Zeph wasn’t quite sure. All he knew was that no matter how out of the way a spaceport was, he seemed to end up running into someone who knew who he was, and that usually meant someone who wanted a piece of him. 

That was the problem with having a reputation, especially one built on the perforated bodies of other notoriously dangerous spacers.  

Zeph hadn’t precisely set out to be known as the bounty hunting  scourge of the underworld’s hired guns, but growing up on Botched Ravi had made him tough and stubborn. When he’d had a barroom altercation with a roaring-drunk belligerent as a young spacer just starting out, he had held his ground. Naturally, that tattooed hooligan had reached for a gun, but being stone-cold sober, Zeph pinned him to a bulkhead with flechettes before his assailant could get even one shot off. 

He’d been cleared of wrongdoing in the incident, and the local authorities even paid out the fixer’s modest bounty even though Zeph hadn’t even known the man’s name. 

The Syndicate had of course marked Zeph for a more personal sort of collection, but two attempted assassinations had gone little better than the drunk’s fumbling attempt. Zeph couldn’t really claim this was due to his own skill or precautions; the first reprisal killer had missed a clean shot at Zeph’s back at twenty meters, and he’d been tipped off about the identity of the second and had turned hunter himself, preparing an ambush in a disused spaceport corridor where weapons fire wasn’t going to hurt any bystanders. 

After that, Zeph had cleared out, crossed half the Reach, and tried his luck signing onto a crew out of Valkyrie. This hadn’t lasted long; that crew found his presence rather deleterious to their efforts to avoid the ire of the powerful syndicates of the Silver Strand. After a random and rather farcical encounter with a low-level goon trying to earn himself a quick promotion, Zeph and his shipmates had parted ways.  

From there, he’d bought a scrapyard Albatross explorer and spent a few months getting it fixed up. Zeph’s Old Mule was hardly the prettiest spacecraft in the Reach, but it was everything a solo operator could want in an all-purpose runabout – roomy, comfortable, nimble, and well armed, with plenty of stores for long voyages. 

Old Mule had served him in good stead on his meandering way back across the Reach toward home, taking odd jobs where he could find them to keep his bank account from going dry. Somewhere along the way, he’d lost count of the various incidents resulting in the death of someone who tried to kill him or take his things – it was at least fifteen, but probably above twenty-five, depending on how you counted it, and how many of the various “upwardly mobile” underworld hooligans who’d crept away from a gunfight wounded had later died of their injuries. 

Zeph tried not to worry about any of them, when his own skin needed plenty of worrying about. Several of the surprise pistol duels foisted upon him had been caught on security monitors, and some of those recordings had made their way onto the datasphere, which only compounded the problem. For the Reach’s underworld, causing death had become a point of institutional pride. He was a mildly famous example of someone who’d slighted them repeatedly, and he was still very much alive. 

He’d heard there was need for independent pilots at Braunweiss. Since the system was nearly cut off from most of the Reach by Incarnation incursion into the Frontier, it had taken nearly a month of Himura jumps to work his way around the conflict zone. On the way into the system, he’d set up an interview with a local grandee who seemed to be hiring, and now, all he had to do to secure a cushy asteroid-watching contract was not die on his way to the meeting. 

Zeph did his best to look nonchalant and busy as he walked briskly along the concourse. A few heads turned to look at him, of course – he was after all a big, bluff Ravi-born newcomer – but most returned their attention to their own doings just as quickly. 

One or two seedier-looking characters watched him more openly. Zeph met their eyes evenly, but didn’t break stride. If anyone wanted to have a go at him now, and was stupid enough to do it in the wide open of the concourse, so be it. Anyone that foolish was not a real threat. 

What Zeph hadn’t accounted for, was a very different kind of trouble. A familiar, crystalline laugh echoed off the bulkheads. He turned to look for its source, a picture forming in his head already – a cascade of curly red hair framing a pale face, green eyes peering out lazily between long eyelashes, full red lips twisted just slightly upward into a sly smile. He would know that laugh anywhere, but he’d last heard it on the other side of the Reach. 

Not seeing the person it belonged to, Zeph quickened his pace as much as he could without breaking into a run. Anata Kearney, here, meant he needed to get his business done, and get back to his ship. 

His meeting was in a private office on the level above the concourse, and he soon reached the lift that would take him there. As he got into its car, however, a slight figure in a black coat with a jagged white mohawk darted out of a doorway and slipped in just before the doors closed. 

Zeph’s hand crept toward his gun. 

“I’ve missed you, Zeph.” The figure looked up, and two vibrantly green eyes met Zeph’s gaze. Anata’s mane of red hair was gone – she had taken such pride in that, once – but there was no mistaking her. 

“Twice now. Or is it three times?” Zeph scowled. “Come to have another go, Ana?” 

Mr. Tsiklauri is probably known by reputation to some members of this audience. His rather star-crossed career is remarkable mainly for not yet being cut tragically short. 

He could of course be protected from his criminal enemies if he ceased to travel as an independent spacer and settled down on one of the Core Worlds, where Syndicate influence is very small, but this seems to have not occurred to him. Like many spacers, he seems at peace with the risks of the trade, however amplified they may be in his case.

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Tales from the Service: Scouts in the Trap

2954-07-01 – Tales from the Service: Scouts in the Trap 

While up to this point, the properties, strengths, and limitations of the ubiquitous Incarnation “Tyrant-Type” heavy cruiser are well known both in Naval circles and in this audience, this account is interesting because it shows an enounter with a variant of the type. Though its gravitic drive is of the same variety and power output, making initial detection of any differences challenging, what I am told Seventh Fleet is calling a “Type B” Tyrant sacrifices some of its firepower for extreme durability, perhaps using some sort of sophisticated multi-layered shear-screen defense system. 

This variant seems to still possess the hyperbolic shear-screen projectors of the normal “Type A” Tyrant, so it can still operate in the four-hull mutually supporting defense formations our enemies rely on extensively, and of course the main battery of heavy phasebeams these ships use in mid-range gunnery duels is, while possibly reduced, still present.  

Captain Van Daal’s encounter with a group of these Type B ships is, I am told, one of several nearly simultaneous rude surprises which scouting and raiding forces encountered around the same time. Evidently some number of these hulls were held back and deployed simultaneously, putting Confederated forces at an unexpected disadvantage in encounters that would have been rather formulaic had they been facing a uniform enemy cruiser force. 

Within seconds, as sensor and telescope data flowed in, it was clear that the devastating missile volley had failed to seriously harm the enemy cruiser. Its acceleration on a course outward toward the edge of the system’s jump shadow hadn’t reduced, and while there was lots of particulate reflection suggestive of debris clouds, nothing indicated critical damage. 

Most commanders would have asked why, and tried to get more information, but Captain Adele Von Daal knew better. Her command was dangling out on a forward patrol; if this lone ship wasn’t the target of opportunity it seemed to be, then it was time to leave. “All units, break pursuit.” She traced a course in the display that most directly took her ships toward a place from which to activate their star drives. “Emergency acceleration. Retain formation.” 

Just as the squadron began to maneuver to obey her instructions, warning klaxons began to blare. New pips – first gray, then orange, then red, as the vessels they represented lit star drives and powered weapons – appeared quite close by. 

“More Tyrants.” Lieutenant Rio called out, entirely unnecessarily.  

“This is new.” Adele scowled, a chill running down her spine. Incarnation forces were known to employed sensor-trickery to conceal small craft, of course, but hiding a force of a half-dozen large cruisers so perfectly was supposed to be impossible. It was hard enough for a Confederated Navy cutter to keep off enemy sensors at several times these ranges. “Hold formation. We’re going right past target number four, so focus fire on it. Most of the others won’t have time to do much.” 

Her squadron could break and scatter, of course, but with large enemy warships in multiple directions, that was likely to result in the loss of several ships. Since scattering and running was standard scouting-force doctrine when confronted by superior forces, this was probably what the enemy had planned on her doing. 

It was always safer, in Adele’s experience, to not do what was expected. Hopefully, if her squadron stayed in formation, their mutually supporting point defense and sensors could keep most ships from taking any serious hits while they blitzed past the only hostile on their course out, saturating it with concentrated fire in the process. She had a terrible feeling the cruiser in their way would prove as impossibly resilient as the bait ship. She had to hope, though, that the warship’s combat performance would degrade when surrounded by an ordinance fireworks show, ineffectual or otherwise. 

“Taking fire from multiple angles.” Commander Firth announced. “Screen strikes. Helm, evasive action.” 

Even a tight formation of spacecraft, fortunately, spanned many hundreds of kilometers of open space, so every ship in the formation had plenty of room to juke and weave within its formation slot. There was no way to detect or depict phasebeams and other directed energy weapons slashing through the formation from several angles, but Adele’s imagination supplied more than enough of an image to replace it, based on the brief pinging and blinking indicating her ships’ shear-screens absorbing the occasional hit. 

“I want a missile volley on four timed to strike just as we’re making our closest pass.” Adele clenched her fist. “Mix in some scramblers. Fire when optimal.” 

“Aye.” Commander Vishin still didn’t seem rattled. “Computing targeting solution.” 

Scramblers, a form of thermonuclear warhead intended to maximize the burst of electromagnetic radiation produced by the detonation, could fry strike-launches and the exterior sensors of even the largest warship, if they got through the shear-screens, at the cost of being omnidirectional blasts, not shaped-charge warheads which could focus their blast to bore through thick hull plating. 

“We’re hit!” Commander Pakulski of the frigate Kamilla Horak barked. 

Adele had just long enough to relive the loss of Macready a few months before, and then Pakulski continued his report. “Propulsion and screens unaffected. Missile launch system degraded. Remaining in formation.” 

Adele tried not to visibly breathe a sigh of relief. They weren’t out of this yet – and there were very likely casualties aboard Horak – but all her ships were still moving. They just had to break the cordon, and then it would be a stern chase that favored them. 

Just then, Krisbeak shuddered. The lights flickered, and more alarms began to wail. “Hit aft of hab section, hull frame 33, deck four.” Firth shouted into his comms pickup. “Damage control, assess.” 

“Rerouting power through circuit K.” A technician called out on another channel. “Recyclers four and five offline. Rail battery nineteen offline.” 

“Final ramp-up on the Himura capacitors.” The officer at Krisbeak’s helm called out. “Precomputed fallback point locked in.” 

Adele nodded. “Time to initiation?” 

“We’re out of the shadow in six minutes, thirty-two seconds. Star drive will be ready immediately.” 

“All ships, jump when ready. Proceed to rendezvous if separated.” Adele took a deep breath. The noose was tightening, but it looked like it would be just too late. Had she not ordered the change of course when she had – had her ships chased the bait ship just a little further –  

“Targeting systems locked in. Firing in three. Two. One.” Vishin didn’t actually say “launch” but he hardly needed to – another bloom of yellow tracery appeared in the display, as another volley of missiles erupted forth to converge on target number four. The range was slightly longer this time, but the closing rate of the engagement was very high, so the missiles had far less travel time. 

“Impact in five seconds.” Vishin called out, as the range shrunk, both for the missiles and for the formation. “Two. One.” 

Again, a red pip in the plot disappeared into a maelstrom of white and blue flashes. This time, though, while it was hidden, Krisbeak and her attendants roared past, still firing every weapon they had at the target at a range so small that it was rather hard for most of it to miss. 

This time, too, Adele was neither surprised nor particularly dismayed when the flashes faded, and that red indicator remained, the ship it represented turning smoothly to pursue as if it had not just been plastered by more than a hundred missile warheads. 

“All weapons, keep fire on number four as long as you can.” Adele sighed. They were outside the net, now. “Divert power to aft screens. Maintain evasive.” 

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