...without a paddle.

[Patrician]

The room stank of cigarette smoke and fear. The overhead light flickered ever so slightly; just enough to give Frank a headache. It wasnt his first time in a holding cell and probably wouldnt be his last. He had been in here for at least an hour, but of course there were no clocks to know for sure. Nothing to do but curse his luck and wait. Frank was what people called a Junker, but to him the term was meaningless; he just wanted to be left alone. Not ALONE alone, like some of the odder Zoners out on the Fringe, but alone to live in peace. Sometimes that meant taking jobs you didnt look at too closely. That wasnt to say he didnt have his own code; no way would he ship slaves or human organs, but if shipping some cargo that might be missing some paperwork kept food on the table...well, no choice at all really. His thoughts were interrupted by the door opening and a tired looking man shuffling into the cell.

'My name is Paul Jarvison and I am your appointed attorney. Do you wish to plead guilty or not guilty?' He spoke like he had said the same thing a thousand times; and probably had.

'What are the charges?' Frank asked.

'Possession of military cargo, smuggling, blockade running, yadda yadda yadda....what it really says is you are screwed. You can either plead guilty and hope to get out before you die of old age, or take it to court, lose, and face a firing squad.' The attorney seemed to not care at all either way.

'What the hell? I didnt DO nothin! I was haulin' some farm equipment and the next thing I know the cops are hammering me with cruise disruptors and telling me to shut the engines down before they do it permanently. They throw me and the crew in restraints and I get hauled here. Where's my crew? Where's my ship?'

Frowning, the attorney skimmed his file. 'Your ship, the Kerouacs Krate, has been impounded. Standard procedure. Your crew are in holding, but no charges have been filed yet. It says here you were caught with a full load of military vehicles, tanks to be precise.'

'Thats a loada crap! That was farm equipment! Theyre just tryin ta hit their quota of innocent merchants fer tha month.' Frank was livid. He HATED coming through the Core.

'And why was this 'farm equipment' armored?'

'I dunno how many o' them Planetform commercials you seen, but not all planets end up lookin' like Curacao. Lots of 'em take a while to settle down. Crazy weather; especially in early terraforming stages. Equipment has to be super sturdy to take hail the size of a mans fist and wind that will carry off yer car.'

'And the cannon on some of them?' The lawyer looked slightly amused now.

'That aint no weapon. Aint even rifled fer God's sake. Low velocity gun fer removing obstacles. Stumps and the like.'

'And the paperwork from point of purchase?' Frank Cooper didnt have much to say about that, which perversely seemed to satisfy HIS attorney. Frank knew he was up the proverbial creek.

'Right. So unless you have an attorney on retainer, I am your court appointed advocate and Im telling you to plead guilty.'

'But I didnt DO nothin!' Frank racked his brain for someone to call, but most of the people he ran with didnt exactly visit courtrooms unless they were ah...REQUIRED to. With a sinking feeling he remembered he DID know a group that could help a Junker out of a jam...if they were inclined. The Congress. Frank used to fly with the Junker's Congress but got out; he preferred more independent operations. Still, any port in a storm....

Sighing, Frank picked up a pen and wrote a name on a slip of paper along with a number he had memorized long ago. James Trenton. 'Call this man and tell him I need a favor. If Congress can help me out, Ill fly fer them again to work off me debt.'

Frowning, the attorney read the name, gathered his papers and left. Frank was left with his thoughts, a rickety chair, and plenty of time.