This is an important milestone for people to hit. Yes, some people truly are chosen ones whose actions singlehandedly change the course of history. However, this notion of the personal narrative is exaggerated at best. People are changed by their world, rarely vice versa, and it is important to come to terms with that.
I was on the prowl in Leeds, working the Puddlejumper to deal with our perpetual backlog of weapons and refugees when I got a direct transmission from a pilot named Skyhawk. He claimed that we had met before but was otherwise very coy about his identity. All I knew is that he wanted to meet in a particular sector of one of the smog clouds in Leeds and that he wanted to relay some information that the GRI would rather he didn't. There were a number of possibilities running through my head including that this could be a trap, but it would have been easier to pirate me in a tradelane if that was their true goal. Plus, by coincidence (I hope) they picked a sector that the LRF uses for dead drops, so either he's been observing our actions and knows more than he should, or he was at a high risk of stumbling across us performing a drop, which would also be bad, In any event, I decided to meet him.
He claimed to be a Liberty Navy Operative with the 5th fleet, callsign Wolf. With a civilian Eagle and freelancer tags, it's impossible to verify such a story, but then again he would not be a terribly effective spy if you could tell by looking at him. I started recording the conversation where he outlined the need to get an intel report back to New York without the frogs catching wise. Since the LRF makes a lot of runs between Leeds and Manhattan anyway, he felt it was a good cover story. He also dangled a delicious carrot in front of me in the form of the 5th being more cooperative towards our weapons smuggling operations alongside a rather powerful stick of threatening to blow my ship up. The Charlie Wilson has enough holes in her armor for one lifetime, thank you very much, so I took on his payload.
I flew to Manhattan space with a tampered Nuclear Mine containing the message strapped in the co-pilot's seat. If I tried to open it, it would explode. If I tried to hand it to someone else, it would explode. If I thought about doing anything other than getting it to the fleet, it would explode. All I could do was find my Navy contact in Liberty and pass along the cargo after exchanging some dopey pass phrases. The trip was uneventful until I hit Manhattan space. Long range scanners indicated one 5th fleet ship in system, a fighter piloted by a man named Turner Jay. I was carrying a group of refugees both as cover for the trip and to kill two birds with one stone and so I requested permission to head on to Manhattan. I didn't HAVE to do this, but I was hoping to strike up a conversation to work in the phrase. Unfortunately, Turner wasn't feeling chatty and passed me along. Figures that the one time I WANT attention from the Navy is the one time they're not willing to give me the time of day.
Stewing in the tradelane I had flashbacks to secondary school on Leeds, my dilemma was the same I faced with asking a girl out: how do I know they are interested before making the first move? Fortunately, unlike my half-baked schemes trying to woo Sarah Oldham in sophomore chemistry class, I had significantly more resources at my disposal this time around.
Refugees off and light arms on as per normal when inspiration struck. I asked for a custom job on a thoroughly less-than-legal (and thoroughly not less than lethal) unregistered weapon. It was a beautiful little pistol save for the Aegira transponder it was conspicuously missing. I took the trade lane past West Point and cruised as painfully slowly as I could to the trade land before Turner finally stopped me. I played dumb as I usually do, saying I wasn't smuggling the arms, it was just a customized pistol for myself with a cool engraving. Holding up the gun to the comm, I told him the pass phrase engraved on the handle. He worked the counterphrase into conversation. Now we were cooking with gas.
Unfortunately, that's when a non-5th fleet cruiser crashed the party, like Sarah's best friend / third wheel inviting herself along along to what is clearly a two person picnic (I still haven't forgiven Karoline for that, though I found out a few years ago she didn't survive the initial bombardments, so it goes). So, I had to play coy. I agreed to drop the black market gun at once, along with a dodgy mine I "found" so it could be disarmed by more experienced hands. With my cargo delivered, my mission was far more successful than my Junior homecoming. That... that was a sad night.
In any event, there was another story told tonight, and I was merely a bit player playing my parts. A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Someday, I look forward to reading a history book and finding out just what this cloak-and-dagger nonsense was all about. If nothing else, I hope that my naivete puts a smile on your face, dear future historian, since you know exactly what's going on. I will say this, dramatic irony is significantly more fun for the reader than the characters in the moment.
Sidenote: Homecoming was bad, but not as bad as the night I spent cradling a hysterical Sarah in pitch darkness of a shelter while the Carcassone bombed us from orbit. Both are still definitely on my bottom ten. Ten months later when I found out her apartment building collapsed with her still inside, well, I had seen enough to be much more resilient about such things.
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