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The room could have been bigger, he reasoned.

There were consoles with (some very good looking) administrative staff collecting information from sources throughout Sirius. Some were fluent in a variety of languages, but the principal hunting zones being Bretonia and Liberty, those linguistic skills were not called upon that often.

Paperwork was important. He overheard one frustrated Administrative Assistant in comms with a Squaddie.

"I don't care how drunk you are. I'm not sending credits until you provide visual confirmation of the kill on this channel. Sober up and try to remember how to use your console. Then and only then will I execute the transfer."

Another one:

"If you have the images the client asked for, you can send them now, with your report. They wanted discretion so best find a Freeport and blend in, and find a quiet spot to encript and upload."

Rewards for the pilot ranged from 2 Million credits to 10 Million, if a contract existed. Sometimes the squaddies were simply reporting back on tough sectors, possible targets, promising recruits, or potential clients.

He overheard another. Two minutes ago, one of the boys had blasted a target into dust. Within another two minutes, he would be five million credits richer.

Now that was quality management!

"We could probably ISO register.", he thought. Would look good on the stationary.

[Image: mm_logo2.png?width=400&height=177]

I've been a soldier all my life. I've experienced pain, loss, and horrors beyond reckoning. I figured when I joined the Manchester Mercenaries, I was simply trading in one set of horrors for another. However, today was a pleasant deviation from the norm. I wasn't asked to kill no one. Even more than that, my client actually took a personal interest in me. Like he cared, or something? Can you imagine that? Someone cared enough about this old beat up soldier to ask what I was all about. I tried to keep it brief. Didn't want him bore him to death with the tragic details of my life. Not good for business.

My client, a man named Preston, wanted to venture out in uncharted territory. A new anomaly in space appeared out of thin air, and like the venture capitalist he is, he wanted to see it. Assumedly, to see how to profit from it. I say assumedly because I didn't ask. I try not to ask too many questions. Safer that way.

Apparently, this anomaly led to an uncharted system. Normally, each system has its own beauty. Some are vibrant in color, some are filled with blinding light, and some are so filled with planets and stations, you can barely make out the stars. This uncharted system had an altogether different beauty. It was more minimalistic. Not much color, white stars laid out against a black cloth. A few planets inhabited the system, one of which had rings that possessed almost the only color in the system.

My client, Mr. Preston found an abandoned station on that planet, which had some robotic merchants selling Uncharted Artifacts. I don't think Mr. Preston wanted to be caught dead with those in his possession, but I had no such prejudice. He has a reputation to protect of course, and I, well...let's just say I don't.

We had a few encounters with people from all ends of Sirius. We spoke briefly with some Junkers who seemed to have found this system much earlier. My guess is that they already found some buyers for those artifacts.

Also, we encountered a Coalition presence in this system as well. At first, he didn't seem forthcoming with information about what he was doing there. Authorizations and orders and such. I knew all about that from being a fellow soldier. However, in time, the Coalition military pilot opened up and we had a nice talk surmising who created these artifacts, what were they for, what would each of us do with them and would the Zoners come and try and make beads out of them.

After a while, I assessed the danger to be minimal, and asked my client's permission to take my leave, which he granted. He paid a hefty sum for my service, and I didn't have to kill no one. Imagine that? A day without bloodshed. I'll take it.

Below is the communication log

Mac McCread out...

Mission Log

Hey, old man. First off I'd like to say thank you for letting me join up with your humbled little mercenary company. I've already landed a couple of steady gigs here and there. The first was with a base administration in Dublin. Seems they're gettin' their arses handed to them by some Molly's. Apparently their installation, Clew Bay, has been under siege for a few days now and it's something that I think we as a company should look into a bit more. Dontcha agree?

Annnywho, was in Coronado just admiring the view, and all of a sudden this lovely chap comes stalking by acting all high and mighty of himself. My word... can't a lady get some sunning in? Apparently he knew us, so I'm not too surprised. But he wasn't an issue in the long run. Hope the poor chap is doing alright, the ejection looked a bit painful. I'll letcha know if I see him roaming around again, and I'll be a bit more on the ball when it comes to collecting more data.

Langley, Out.

Attachments

[*]

Clew Brey Chatter

Coronado Chatter

Heya! Boss said there was a promotion involved if I got my paper work done. So I guess that means doin' some late night report writin'. Nothin' to fancy, fortunately. Ran into some random dude again who claimed he knew us, and then promptly called me a prostitute. Which I found rude. Hah... I think the credits on his head would have sufficed, but truthfully boys... credits or not, I would've just knocked his teeth in regardless.

Anyways, boss you were askin' some important questions that I didn't really have the answers t', so maybe the information here can answer them for ya. I even went ahead and left the comm-logs within the report so ya can get a listen t' the encounter. Oh... OH MAN. I forgot to get that one ladies name. Drats... I knew there was somethin' I was forgettin'. Bloody hell.

Langley, Out.

Attachments

[*] [*]

Bounty Collection Request

Comm Chatter

I dunno what's up with these Rogues in Liberty, but they're a bit feisty. First I was called a prostitute, then another one - in a gunboat - called me creepy. I dunno about you, but I think I'm far from creepy. I'd give 'em points if they said annoyin', or cute, but creepy? That hurt my feelings! Anyways, the rogue ship was called The Bad Boat, and it was captained by a lass, and some guy named Zig? Zim? Zach? I don't remember... it was a little hectic. So we got t' discussin' somethin's about how money works and what not, and turns out... we both rob the poor. Think about it... some of our money comes from the taxes of the workin' class folks, and pirates take money from the workin' class folks. But none of it touches or hurts the fat cats who undoubtedly pay us. Mister Preston is a good guy though, so I don't care what anyone says about him. Anyway, Big bad boat lass buggered off after a little discussion and then she called me creepy. I couldn't find her afterwards... so I think she might of went int' the badlands, which I'm utterly terrified of going into. Have you seen those asteroids? They're spooky.

Oh. Liberty never paid me yet, so I don't know if you want to bug 'em about it, or what. But I think I'm not gonna bother collectin' bounties for them until my payment goes through. Also some... Kusari dude had a cute ship? I don't think we're friendly, friendly, with Hogosha or whatever they're called so I don't think I can waltz over to their shipyard and pick up the Izum... Iezmu... oh hell, I don't know what it's called. Looked pretty though.

Anyways, I floated around New York for a bit, listenin' to the Bad Money talking trash, and then I realized I needed my scanners upgraded. You know how hard it is to hunt down someone without havin' the appropriate scannin' range? Ten clicks is not good. No, thank you, sir.

Langley, Out.

Ps - I was told by someone not so cool, that saying so-and-so out was terrible. But y'know what? I don't care.
Pss - I'm not creepy...

Attachments

Comm Chatter

The phone finally rang.

What a strange word, thought Wilhelm. 'Phone'. How ancient is that?

He answered.

"It's him.", the voice said. "The one Langley scrapped with."

Wilhelm was silent, head in his hands. He breathed quietly, one, two, and three times.

"You're sure?"

"It's confirmed. I paid a lot for this information. I'm sure it is right."

Wilhelm nodded, uselessly. It wasn't a videophone.

"Thank you. Where is he?"

"Not sure. Likely Alcatraz. About those cred..."

Wilhelm had hung up. He looked at the ceiling, for no particular reason.

Oh Freidhelm, what have you done now??

Dieter Schprokets

Garrett Jax

Wolfs Ghost

Wolfs Ghost

Wolfs Ghost

Dieter Schprokets