Ritchie had always been abit of a jackass....
He'd made a fair few enemies around. It was bad for business We ran him out of town eventually.
He came back soon enough; he'd "changed" apparently. We were suspicious of course,
as one might be after seeing a crushed roach quiver back into life.
He showered us with praise, and gifts. We just sat in bars across the Sirius,
staring morosely into the tubes at the back of the darkened rooms where
strange drinks and concoctions bubbled with effervescent fury. When he first
started appearing, we thought it might be a trap, or ploy to gain our
trust and then betray us.
But then again, we were journeymen, mercenaries, freelancers.....
Suspicion went with the job. We travelled around in a small band of about
5-10 people. May seem abit like a rough estimate, but then again, we lost
people everyday. We went wherever the money was, our connections gaining us
favour with whichever faction was paying high. This was all running through
my mind as my brain tried to make sense of what had just happened while
I lay in the cold puddle, like many at the time on Manhattan. The orange hued
Art Deco architecture swirled in front of me while my blood seeped out.
Jazz type music hung in the air as my vision swung and darkened.
I remember quite clearly that bar we sat in while the heavens above opened on us in
the main populated area in New Tokyo. The bar was a strange place, panelled
walls to resemble "wood" and odd lanterns hanging from the ceiling. There
was a huge stone statue above the bar, it looked as though it could crash through at any time
We eyed it warily as we entered
in a dishevelled state, our eyes cringing as the bright light refocused them.
We were all, at various times, rubbing our left or right eyes. Long periods
wearing a flight helmet with an optical display in front of either left or right eye --
normally on the user's preference could cause pain, but no damage. Helmets were a new "retro"
trend coming back into use. The trend stopped with the utilitarian fashion fad back in the
600's. Instead of a full helmet, pilots started wearing an optical display and a microphone set.
It kinda died out near the end of the 700s....Though there were still a few around I think. I wasn't sure why I was recalling these useless bits of information but then again, I always did.
Kinda my way, to know the general history of a place.
As the sunset over the hills in Manhattan, and darkness enveloped the alley I lay in I remembered the fun we had at Roppongi.
The Cardamine, the zero-g bars where one would float and laugh helplessly at
the funny ways of the universe, the lights, the oxygen bars and the atmosphere. There were various women, most just young daughters of Samura executives out for a little fun, but sometimes we got the pilots. The often joined our group, travelling with us until fate cut their string, or
they branched off on their own journey. Me, and the other nameless faces. We were content
just to kill for basic supplies. I guess at first it had got to me. But life in vacuum is tough
and unless you want to be sucking it, you can't have any regrets or hesitations.
I traded in my brown curly locks for stubble and my skin paled as others and I
spent more time in the ships. The shabby, shapeless flight suits we wore meant nothing to corporations
or dissident factions. We were just paid, each side vying for our favour with more money.
It was on Roppongi, that drunken paradise of ecstasy where we got a rather interesting job.
It was on some nameless corridor that the figure in the ill-fitting suit asked me about it. I felt my
Pockets for some cigarettes and nodded occasionally as he explained.
Desperate in some queasy manner to rejoin the coloured flashes and swirling vision, I took
his neural chip and placed it in my pocket. Lighting up, I joined the moving mass of people inside and immediately felt better. I knew nothing more until the next morning.
As we left New Tokyo and the rain hammered down onto the canopy of my ship, I remember feeling
unusually sick. I'd always been able to handle the drugs, the intoxicants before. I put it out of my mind
and concentrated on the docking ring. We met up with the Armoured Transport at Deshima. This time I was
more alert, fully realising that Fuchu Prison was not far away. Even Ritchie was quiet. Normally his
banter filled the airwaves. It was easy enough to ignore, we just went about our business.
I scanned the cargo hold of the armoured transport on impulse. Nothing usual, a shipment of Light
Arms from The Ring. Probably Daumann Shredders I remember thinking as I patted my old Detroit Perforator. It seemed harmless enough, but then again anyone could hide valuable objects in cargo pods. The transfer from Shikoku to Galileo was easy enough, if they were hauling any contraband the KNF forces at the Jumpgate didn't pick it up.
We got to about the Raiden Bend when a gravely voice came over the intercom. He had a black flight suit on, like the ones the Order wore and he had one of those gold/black coloured helmets most commonly used by the GMG and the Mollys. "Run while you still can fools," I can still remember those eyes, burning with hate. It was Him, the most feared pirate ever to stalk the Sirius. Known only as the Pirate or Zeta one dash one, he had killed more transports than I had killed fighters. Known to strike from anywhere, no trader was safe from him. Despite the 10 million-credit bounties on him, he only managed to annihilate the Bounty Hunter's Guilds best Guild Masters. Flying a jet black Sabre, laden with top-secret weaponry and....would you believe it.... Nomad weaponry, his ship was deadly.
He fired two quick blasts, straight up the back of the Armoured Transport, and it disintegrated in space leaving debris and cargo everywhere.
I fled.
At that moment, I had nothing more imperative in my mind than saving my own life. It was either that or certain death.
Ritchie took off ahead of me, his cruise engines burning brightly in the insatiable darkness of Galileo. I followed, sending out trails of golden counter measures. I heard the dying screams of the pilots, some of whom I'd known for years. But this was Freelancing. Cold, tough, gritty. When faced with insurmountable odds, we fled. There was none of this "going back for him" heroic business. If you wanted to be a hero, someone was going to make you one quick….A dead hero. "Run..nnnn" rasped a voice of the intercom. I was, heading straight for the next Tradelane. It sounded stupid, five experienced Freelancers fleeing from a single pilot but then again, this guy was good. This was one guy who was stretching the Houses relations with each over the Boorman treaty. They wanted to send their militaries to the Border Worlds after him and his cohorts.
And so it was, Ritchie and I arriving on Manhattan, shocked and saddened. I never thought we'd have to face Him, the pirate. The Scourge of the Sirius. Instead of landing on one of the main landing pads, we flew over the massive Washington Continent Joiner Bridge and found a smaller one in downtown Manhattan. We shuffled down a dark street, dazed and tired. I remember the smooth Rheinland ale and hot blonde in the back corner.
I don't know how I got here, to this alley…But when we arrived, I checked my chronometer….midday. I was still quite woozy from last night yet Ritchie seemed serious…calm. Then he fleeced my pockets. It took me a second to realise what he was doing. I mumbled some curses at him and pushed him away, trying to sober myself up to self-control. Then he pulled out a Detroit Perforator. It was mine, I'm sure of it. He started walking backwards, his hands grasping my credit cards so I stumbled after him, yelling. Then there was a blue flash, it shot across the side of my stomach and I stopped and groaned in the irony that I'd been shot with my own weapon. Clutching my bleeding torso with my arms, I looked up at him and then fell into this puddle, he splashed away with the large, cumbersome coat flapping about his pumping legs, while I remained holding my side as the pain increased.
It was these memories that would not leave me as I slowly left life. Even when I was suddenly dragged along the gravel by two shadows, I could not forget that damn, grinning face with that damn moustache, that damn face that I could've shot up at anytime. The sky had a tinge of grey in it as my head flopped helplessly as the two figures dragged me down the street. I recalled with some regret that I would probably never see space again. As we got to the corner, they propped me up. I recognized the white ground helmets and the orange visors straight away. LPI.
Now, I realised my legs could no longer hold me so I collapsed. The cops are trying to call someone, but I'm content just to lie here while the ground cars rush over above, rustling garbage and cooling the air from their hover exhausts. The breath is running out of me now, and it's easier to let go then to breath so I do. Rubbing my wound, I just quietly drift off, even Ritchie's face is gone from my mind and I welcome the nothingness with open arms as the silence kicks in.
The Sirian Rogues, Scourge of the Sirius.
Unprotected Trade Convoy freight, is our freight >
"My precious loot...." -- Liberty Rogue
Edited by - [TSRDarkov on 1/13/2005 11:41:45 AM
Tue Jan 11, 2005 5:59 pm 
