Devalin Bowman was a small time trader of little note in the Sirius sector until his family was afflicted with a sickness while he was out on a trade run. His entire family, a wife and 3 small children, were dead days before he even knew. Sadly, their deaths were preventable, however, as a small time trader, his family didn't have the money or insurances needed to pay the medical bills that would have been required, and his family was refused medical services.
Since then, Devalin has put his life's purpose into one task, the creation of funds and trusts designed to help such families in the future. Devalin will deal in any commodity, legal or illicit to make the money needed to fund these projects.
It should be noted, that while Devalin has tried his hand at mercenary work, he is a coward and the experience of being shot at on a regular basis is unappealing. Devalin recognizes that his lifelong mission is much more important than any cargo he currently carries, and while he will attempt to salvage as much of his cargo as possible through negotiation and the judiscious use of countermeasures and cruise engines, he will just as easily dump his cargo to save his own skin.
It was another long day for Devalin Bowman C.O. of the Gateway vessel, the Kingstone. He had been setting up a new trade route that he hoped would prove beneficial for the corporation. The negotiations had just been finalized an hour earlier and he was preparing his ship to leave Dresden and head back home to Kensington. For some reason, he could not shake the sinking feeling that for some reason this last round of negotiations would prove fruitless.
'Pre-flight checks confirmed, you are cleared for takeoff Kingstone."
As usual, another easy routine exit from the space station.
Engines....online
Nav......online
Scanners....online.........odd
What Devalin did now know was that he was being hunted. Perhaps not him specifically, but, one like him. Hunted to serve a purpose, and a new master.
'Trade-lane disabled', the Kinstone's computer spouted. Devalin knew he was in trouble, for behind him lumbered the huge hulks of 3 Harvester vehicles. Devalin felt an odd wet sensation on the side of his face and pulled his hand there to find blood dripping. 'Engines disabled, Life support disabled......' the computer continued to list the faults of his failing vessel and Devalin knew that this time he would be unable to negotiate his way free of the odd machines that were now slowly stripping his vessel piece by piece. An explosion ripped through the cabin and Devalin felt the air ripped from his lungs as he was flung into the vast emptiness of cold space.
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Two weeks later David Webb sits in the command chair of his newly commissioned slave ship, the ConAir. Before him in force cuffs sits Admiral Oliver Gerwulf, youngest admiral ever to sit a chair in the Rheinlein military. David stared expressionless at the admiral, knowing the cold protrusions from his face and his odd left eye (reminiscent of a camera lens), was a horrific picture to behold.
'Tell me, admiral, what are the new passcodes to the Rheinlen jump gates?' David asked, not caring what the answer was.
'I will never tell you anything you misbegotten son of a toaster!' cursed the admiral.
David just smiled back, he only needed the admiral to think of the codes for his eye to pull them out of the thought wavelength the admiral's mind transmitted the information on. Against his own will the admiral slowly gave David everything he asked for, the whole time thinking he was serving his own government valiantly.
For a month David slowly collected and processed Rheinlein military and Bounty Hunter agents. Questioning them and gaining new information to feed back to his Harvester masters. Finally, when he gained all he needed, he delivered the agents to a processing station, and watched, as their bodies were slowly ripped limb from limb and the prisoners screamed as they were being fed as fuel and lubricant to their hated enemies.
In a small corner of David Webb's mind, the former Devalin Bowman screamed in horror.