You have to be fast or they'll have you, Riehl. Fast. Faster. You're not fast enough.
You must go faster. Dig your own grave with enough fury you'll shoot out the other side of the world at escape velocity, your skin flaming in the radience.
Mark. Three bandits. Checking the usual suspects. Ping three. Running adverse. Disruptor tone. Beep, beep, beep, a fizzle of electronics.
THE SYNDIC LEAGUES
(A co-operative of Rheinland's Shipping Unions, retired from a life of piracy.)
Texas system and you're closing the range. Always closing. They'll gut you in the middle system, probably. Hang you out by your entrails. You're off-nomial but the howlers are in the back of your head again. They'll load you on a transport shacked up for Tarancon, but this - this is your leaving present. Your broken leg to justify the hospital stay you hadn't asked for.
You breeze by. They're out of sensor range in the amount of time it takes you to start sweating. Maybe they havn't seen you yet, or they're tied up. Good.
Hack this. You stick your finger up at the sensor console. It's ineffectual, but you feel better about yourself. You wonder what they'd do if they knew you were grave-robbing.
THE SYNDIC LEAGUES
(A co-operative of Rheinland's Shipping Unions, retired from a life of piracy.)
You're losing control. Perspective? Gone. You're flying on autopilot at the back of a wildfire.
Achtung, Vitale. Achtung, Vitale.
Out of all the damn cockpit warnings to blaze in your ear, it has to be the caloric intake alarm. The what now? You weren't even aware that was a thing. That's concerning - you know every nut and dial of this arbeiter.
The hole is ahead, but you feel like you've got a hole in your head and it's widening by the second, as if the sirensong had corroded into you and beat you like a drum.
Contact! Range alarm - unknown transponder, ciphering...
The wily bastards have got you, Riehl. You complacent screw-up.
Ar3817K Hellion, flight log Wrote:[04.02.2020 21:47:44] Starting.Funds: Karl Stein: what you doing in Texas, Boss?
You know that voice. Cheery, laconic, Tomrum accented German. Holy Moses, it's an angel of heaven.
You see the arbeiter on LIDAR and before your brain can haemorrhage out any more than applause, you've fixed him in your hi-beams. It's an older model, unmarked with the flags of the Leagues - an unregistered fighter. The pilot was Liga' enough, though. How the hell has he found You? You hadn't ordered, asked for, or hoped anyone would scramble up after you. That was then. When you still had brawn in your body and bravado in your brain.
It's an older model. Packing an Outcast engine - probably a retrofit the pilot had packed in during a moment of creative insanity. There was always a Unioner more bonkers than you, and it's a continuum, apparently.
You run a trust-scan of each other, like two lovers handholding in public, the caloric alarm ringing in your ears, dried pee in your boots. As it's running, you shoot out a lame affirmation.
Ar3817K Hellion, flight log Wrote:[04.02.2020 21:50:49] UN|Hellion: Howdy there.
[04.02.2020 21:51:02] Starting.Funds: Karl Stein: hello
[04.02.2020 21:52:10] UN|Hellion: Riehl: I figure you're my escort, right bossman?
[04.02.2020 21:52:22] UN|Hellion: Riehl: *terse* Alright. Lead the way.
The scan turns into a readout. You're near blacking out. You start slaving your autocontrols to his just as it strikes you in the face.
Sugar.
Ar3817K Hellion, flight log Wrote:[04.02.2020 21:52:44] UN|Hellion: Riehl: Hey. Mind trading me that donut?
[04.02.2020 21:52:54] UN|Hellion: I feel like I'm about to drop out.
You wonder if you sound as desperate as you feel, then you eject your ego out the airlock. It's the last damn edible doughnut in umpteen lightyears. It's yours.
Karl's perceptive. He's scanned you, too. The secret's out now. You'll be drubbed out for pushing yourself to the wall.
Ar3817K Hellion, flight log Wrote:[04.02.2020 21:53:05] Starting.Funds: Karl Stein: You are about to drop, Boss. Donut for later, eh?
And he dumps it out the airlock. Sealed cargo tube and all. It's overkill, but it's mana. Iridium-plated battleship armour isn't protection enough.
The vac' crate hovers in front of you. You're almost hesitant to punch the tractor emitter, testing yourself.
You punch the lever.
Oh Universe.
You feel like crying your eyes out. Bawling till you faint.
Maybe he took it from a dead cop, you think, as your incisors start chewing holes.
You demolish it. It's gone, too fast, and you struggle to breathe it down. Composure. Get me home.
Ar3817K Hellion, flight log Wrote:[04.02.2020 21:55:37] UN|Hellion: Riehl: *She marvels at the donut. Libertonians were geniuses.*
[04.02.2020 21:55:46] UN|Hellion: *So much caoloric sugar.*
[04.02.2020 21:58:41] UN|Hellion: I'm heading back to Pacifica.
[04.02.2020 21:58:47] UN|Hellion: I need to steady up.
[04.02.2020 21:59:02] Starting.Funds: I'm going too.
[04.02.2020 21:59:18] UN|Hellion: Roger. We'll keep us both in shape.
[04.02.2020 21:59:22] UN|Hellion: Stay with me, wingman.
You don't let up until the lights of Pacifica glint against your cockpit glass, as two gunships, the SLF-Zollar.Samns and the SLF-Laranide, pass you by, portside high.
Three steps, almost falls, and you're out of the cockpit, collapsed to your knees. You vomit on the hangar deck, as crewmen run towards you. Time to entrust your fate to others.
THE SYNDIC LEAGUES
(A co-operative of Rheinland's Shipping Unions, retired from a life of piracy.)
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