Greetings, Lane Hackers. My name is Bradley Sigeweard, and I am an employee of Interspace Commerce, although I suspect they will have recognized my intentions by the time you receive this message. I suppose you know where this is going.
I lived a nice life as a software developer for IC. Truth be told, I had what most folks wanted. I was well over the average Libertonian income, I had a small but comfortable suite in an upscale Manhattan apartment complex, and roughly equal quarters onboard Newark Station. I worked from home and had a fairly active social life. Everything was ideal.
It should, perhaps, have stayed that way. Since I'm contacting you... clearly, it did not. The reason I am sending this transmission is because of a snippet of code I found. A ghost in the machine, a series of ones and zeroes that were slightly out of place. Something was wrong. Someone had been modifying my programs in a way I never intended them to be capable for. It was a brilliant scheme, really. Little fractions of percents of credits that are usually rounded off, the result of abnormal interest rates, were being wired to an anonymously-held account somewhere in the border worlds. Collecting money that didn't exist, in a fashion.
But that wasn't all. I decided to take a look into the account, and it was clumsily tied to a databank with a weak password. It contained a list of Interspace employees. Their names, credit card numbers, addresses, dates of birth... and dates of death. Only half of them were actually dead. I knew them all, those that were alive. One of the deceased was a good friend of mine, but he had contracted cancer, and it suddenly grew worse. He had no family, and he had elected not to endure chemotherapy. The next day, he was found dead with a gun in his hand... it wasn't surprising. Pardon me, I digress.
Near the end of the list was my own name. I was, understandably, concerned. Upon return to my apartment, I found a slip of paper that said simply "Survival." and had a neural net address scrawled on it hastily. I can only assume one of your own men had left it. After finding no records of the neural net address, I decided to try a... different method. The result was a brief image of the Lane Hackers insignia and the instructions you provided.
So I followed them. The Liberty Navy chased me away from Manhattan upon seeing my transponder bearing your tag. I nearly ran out of fuel several times. I very nearly died. Your technicians onboard Cochrane are the reason I'm alive. I suppose I owe the junkers thanks, as well. I have not directly killed any men thus far -- the Bounty Hunters and their deaths were results of me luring them into flying into asteroids, and the like. As a last act, I published the list I discovered onto the Newark bulletin boards. Hopefully, a few others will follow in my footsteps, but I can't worry about that anymore. Regardless of the trials I've undergone, I'm alive, and equipped with one of your Daggers with one of your IFF transponders. I await further instructions onboard Freeport 4.
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