Old Smugglers Never Die…

[J.O.N.A.H.]

Old smugglers never die... they just get released from jail.

After a year and a half in a Bretonian Prison cell the old smuggler was finally free. He had been set up on that last job… something that he did not like to think about. The job had been to transport some contraband artifacts to the Hood in Dublin and get paid in gold to be delivered to his anonymous employer. He should have known better. Anonymous employers who sent pretty brunette recruiters were the cliché of trouble. She had been pretty enough though (which suckered him in… he wasn’t above such things as much as he liked to think he was). The problem was that his "contact" had really been a Bretonian agent who had been able to catch him in the web of her undercover "sting operation." As a side note, he was fairly sure that she still had no idea he knew that she was an undercover agent and that her cover had been blown right before he had been taken into custody. That bit of knowledge sure hadn’t kept him out of prison, though.

Regardless, he was free now… "released early due to good behavior." Sometimes, just being free was enough! He eased into the approach pattern for Planet Curacao and received permission to land his battered Camara freighter, "The Rusty Half Credit” at one of the common-class space ports on the surface.



Two hours later he was at the check-in desk of one of the many generic sprawling public resorts. There were more exotic (and expensive) venues on Curacao to be sure, but after 18 long months in the hell-hole that was Newgate just about anything felt like luxury. He propped his canvas duffel bag at his feet and leaned forward over the reservation desk smiling, hoping to be charming to the attractive young travel agent sitting at the computer terminal. She smiled up at him… polite, bored and completely unimpressed, “Do you have a reservation, sir?” “Nope,” he said, “but I'll be paying for this in advance from a numbered account.” His funds had mostly gone unconfiscated during his incarceration due to being safely and illicitly stashed in several numbered accounts. It wasn’t much and he had never really been a wealthy man but what he had was his own.

Her mood improved moderately as she took down his account information, received payment and reserved his room for him… it was always amusing to him how a little cash could improve the mood of someone when they were being paid on commission. The young lady flipped the monitor pad around for him to sign, he tipped her, accepted the coded key-card for his suite and signed his name…

Artorious Jonah

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[J.O.N.A.H.]

Planet Curacao



Jonah stretched lazily in the deck chair enjoying the sun as he had for almost a week and half. He removed the inexpensive cigar from his lips and sipped his drink… one of those kitsch frozen things with a piece of fruit on the rim that were so common at the working class resort he was staying in on Curacao. A concierge walked up and cleared his throat, “Sir… Mr. Artorious Jonah… You have been upgraded to better accommodations. Your, uhm, personal effects have already been relocated and a shuttle is waiting for you.” Jonah could not help but notice the smugness with which “personal effects” was said. “When the concierge was higher on the social ladder than you… well, things could be worse, I guess,” He thought.

“Excuse me, man, forgive my paranoia but who upgraded me? I sure didn’t.” The concierge silently but professionally handed Jonah a small envelope. Jonah opened it and took out the card.

Jonah,
I hope you are enjoying the stay.
I thought you might like better digs.
We’ll talk soon.
Lira

“Well,” he thought, “for better or worse… eventually work always finds you,” and followed the concierge’s directions to the private, luxurious shuttle at an exclusive landing pad not far away.

-later (in much more exclusive accommodations)-



Jonah stretched lazily in his new, more comfortable deck chair. Now, he smoked an expensive cigar and sipped expensive scotch. He enjoyed the view of the secluded beach from his secluded condo in the secluded lagoon and tried to enjoy himself. “This is either a nice, private place for a ‘job offer’ on some good smuggling run or a nice, private place for me to find myself shot in the back with a blaster,” he thought himself. After all, Lira was the Bretonian agent who had sold him out last time... the one he was pretty sure had no idea that he knew she was a Bretonian agent and not a black market job contact for a quiet but brutal smuggling cartel. He was an old smuggler, though, and nobody's fool. Most of the time.

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