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The tiny Partisan rocketed through the jump hole, Recon lightwork glinting slightly in the void. Asteroids the size of small houses twirled around him. He thumbed the accelerator, and coasted forward, careful to keep his engine signature as low as possible. He didn't want the Rhienlander's getting a drop on him if he could help it.
This was no-where near as dangerous as previous assignments. He'd stood in the cavernous mouth of the beast itself, and snidely commented on it's dental work. Completed assignments included missions to Omicron Gamma, 91, 94, Iota - Omega 55 and 58. A plethora of hideously dangerous assignments across a tract of incredibly hostile space. This one was nothing to worry about.
His radar blipped as a Daumman convoy was picked up on the very edge of his scanners. He hastily killed the power to his engines, making sure they couldn't spot him in return. Visually he could see nothing, just the gently rotating monoliths of rock his onboard computer was carefully monitoring. The sun itself was as an inflamed and irritated baleful eye, hostilely glaring at all those who passed before it. He knew the miner's station was hiding behind the silhouetted husk of a planet to his right.
A proximity alarm chimed as two monstrously sized asteroids were detected drifting towards his ship. He nudged his directional thrusters to move himself out of the way. His radar cleared. Reengaging his engines, he began to proceed onwards. He'd be moving to the LWB outpost in Stuttgart for resupply before anything else.
Commissar-Captain Katz couldn't afford to spend much longer in Veirland. No doubt the Rhienweir would soon be resorting to it's more brutal methods of intelligence extraction. It would prove a fruitless pursuit for them, no doubt, but needlessly uncomfortable for the Commissar.
The Stuttgart jumphole appeared on his scanner about the same time the five ships did. He killed his engines again to watch. Corsairs. He smiled grimly to himself. It was unfortunate they'd chosen to patrol the Stuttgart jump hole of all places - generally they didn't venture out that far for fear of Hessians flanking them. He sat and watched for a moment. It appeared that at any one time, one would be sat by the hole itself, while the other four patrolled in pairs.
He snuck forward slowly, making sure to keep his engines as cold as possible. If any got a bearing on him, he'd have to rabbit for the hole. He'd done it before, mind you. Corsairs were no trouble to shake off. 6k and closing... Only a bit closer until he could get a positive ID on their ship class. A small chime went off and the information was sprawled over his HUD. He began perspiring. Five Titans, Benitez honour guard. That looked bad. Very bad.
If he got much closer, he was going to lose the element of surprise. He had to make a move. He flicked all systems online and gunned his thrusters, tearing away towards the anomaly. His nimble little light fighter could definitely out turn those lumbering tanks. Squawks of surprised Hispanic fluttered over the comms as the pilot's scrambled to respond, the waiting ship powering his engines and the probing patrols looping back to back him up.
"Senor Quinteillia, right on time. How punctual." The voice froze him. They were waiting for him. There was a leak somewhere - but who? Screw Katz, this had to be reported. This threatened every pilot of the Fighter Corps. He wheeled his ship around, twirling in a mad corkscrew around a passing asteroid.
"I'm no head to mount on your wall!" He snarled. A cruise disruptor thudded into his shield sphere. Just as well he hadn't been trying to use his main engine output then. Energy bolts began to lance down on him. These pilots were better than most - his shield was stripped.
"Perfect. Rodrigo, snare him." That didn't sound good. Just above him, a Titan swooped down, twirling to his side. Quinteillia just had time to see the foul smile of the Corsair pilot before he changed vector, launching what looked like a missile as he did so. It was a harpoon.
The dart smashed into the tiny craft and bore into it's hull, the cockpit shattering as it smashed through. Quinteillia silently screamed as it ground through his legs and lower torso, the air suddenly gone; escaped through a shattered canopy. His blood froze in sheeting sprays as it was shed. Explosive decompression was a fate no man could desire. One of Recon's finest was now no more than a shattered husk torn to scraps and flung from the ruins of his ship.
Arrogance had paid the highest price, the underestimation of mortality.
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The plan had gone horribly awry. He'd lost contact with Sophie, and now Bryant was in hot water. The Setting Dawn was currently lurking in the deep Omegas, to avoid the prying eyes of the Union. Inhabited space was risky at the best of times, even more so with this schism going on.
The Union had split into two halves. He and Sophie had been planning on breaking away, lifting the relevant security codes and business contracts then preying off the disorientated chaos that followed. It would have gone perfectly, but something had gone wrong. Communication had broken down, now it was the Separatists were in disarray.
The last reports had Sophie openly battling with the remaining leadership, who had taken an allied stance against her. Such teamwork was almost unheard of in the Union. Despite this she appeared to be winning. His head sunk into his hands. It had all gone wrong, so very wrong.
He was going to have to somehow get in contact with the Human Archive, then proceed from there. Then there was the matter of the slaves that were currently in the cells. They were wanted on Malta, but the Union would have it's eyes and ears waiting there. There was only one thing more dangerous to the Union than an unaffiliated slaver, and that was a rogue member of the Union itself. A rogue Boss no less.
Already the Mandalorians would have been informed of his betrayal, which would make Outcast space especially dangerous. He made a snap decision. They'd airlock the slaves, then proceed towards Theta. From there they could load on food and seek clemency with the Corsairs. Probably the most accessible group to him that the Union had a limited influence in. He picked up the tannoy from it's holster on the side of the desk.
"This is captain Bryant speakin'. Y'all are to execute procedure 13." He hung up. This was it. The end. The stars alone knew what was going to happen to him once he hit Corsair space. There was a ringing rap on the office's metal door. He checked the viewscreen built into the desk. It was the men he trusted most on his ship - which was to say not much at all. His lieutenant.s
They'd served under him on Planet Houston when they'd still been RedSkulls all those years ago. They'd gone to the Sugarland with him when a drugs deal had gone bad. He buzzed them in. Andrew Durnam, Patrick Keilger, John Peterson, Dean Smith. They all looked grim faced, which was unsurprising.
"Nath', this ain't right. This is pretty 'ucking messed up on the scale of things!" Dean glared at him for a moment before continuing. "The Union's put a price on your head already, and you're asking us to 'lock the cargo? You're bloody insane! We've got to make all the money we can, while we can!" Bryant surged to his feet, fire flashing in his eyes.
"You fall in line or you die out here, Smith! You can either chance it with me, or die like a dog with the Union." There was a heavy pause for a moment. "What'll it be?" He growled menacingly.
"We're cashing in," he said simply, withdrawing his side arm from his holster. Andrew, Patrick and John did likewise. Eyes widening, Bryant threw himself behind his desk, all four men opening on him as he did so. The volley of shots blew the meat of his calf open, lacerating his waist. He hit the floor with a sickeningly wet thud.
Gasping for air, and hacking up blood, he tried to pull himself along the carpeted floor, trying to reach the weapon that had been in the cupboard behind him. There was the muffled tread of feet approaching. "Sorry captain, loyalty is brought." There was the biting chill of gunmetal on the side of his skull, then the rolling black of internal oblivion.
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Kyou Isamu, Junsa-chō of the Kusari State Police was on patrol around the industrial sector of Nichinan City - the equatorial spaceport city of Planet Kyushu. The additional insignia resting on his shoulder epaulet that gave him his chō status had been granted to him by the Chōkan, Tomimoto Tachiko, for exemplary service. Mostly it was based on his conduct in the face of political ambiguity, when he'd rescued a Kishiro Geisha he'd run across being attacked by a small group of Hogsha thugs. Politics shouldn't impact on the law.
He'd returned home on leave that week to tell his parents about his promotion. His father, Hiroko was furious with him. Firstly for daring to sunder the reputation of the Samura kiretsu's samurai and secondly for having the audacity to consider assisting those of the Kishiro conglomerate considering his own family heritage that tied him to Samura. He'd left his house disgraced, hating the fact he'd reduced to little more than a scolded child by his father.
He'd returned to the State Police barracks after that, not wanting to spend another night in his parent's house. The duty Keibu had been surprised to see him, even more so when he signed on for port duty for the duration of the time he was grounded for leave. So he'd taken a night's rest then set out to do his duty.
The sun had risen about twenty minutes ago, so now everything was tinged a sort of reddish orange. All the concrete high rises of industry. In the middle distance the stylised housing blocks of the residential district were obvious. Samura had pumped money into the residential areas to reinforce the concept of form over function. It did wonders for tourism at least.
He checked his baton and side arm was carefully holstered before continuing. After ten minutes he got into a steady pace, his feet pounding on the hardened concrete floor, sight and sound becoming a secondary function to mobility. Giant warehouses stretched up either side of him, the rising sun a flaming orb at the end of the endless corridor he was stalking. There was no-one about at this time in the morning. Well, not in the cities anyway. The farmers in fields all over the planet would be awake and getting ready for their days work.
He blanked out for a moment, letting the steady rhythm of his feet guide him; the undulating tempo of the streets. He was brought back to reality by the harsh shout of a workman. They were a fair while ahead, on an overpass that allowed pedestrians to cross a busy spaceport supply avenue. There was three of them, a pile of debris surrounding them. Occasionally they'd haul a larger piece up onto the barrier and drop it over the edge. There'd be a resonating boom, as if it was being dropped into a large container.
He quickened his pace. When he was within earshot he slowed slightly. "Konnichiwa! This is Junsa-chō Kyou, State Police. What are you doing up there, citizens?" Two of the men continued their work, while the other one stopped and beaconed for him to come over and look.
"Konnichiwa Officer-sama! It is good to see the Emperor's samurai policing our streets." Isamu nodded, and walked a little closer, slowly proceeding up the overpass' stairs. The worker was silhouetted at the top of them. "Don't worry, this is all above board, Officer-sama."
"I'll be the judge of that," he murmured mostly to himself. "Excuse me, could you two stop what you're doing for a second?" There was a muttered 'hai' from one of them, and they stopped, peering at their feet. Isamu himself leaned over the edge to look at what was down below, half expecting to just see a large pile of furniture spread across the road. It was an industrial crushing unit on the trailer of a Heavy Transportation Unit. He turned. "Do you have a license for tha-" A fist crunched into his face, snapping his nose, throwing him back against the railing.
Another first pummelled into his stomach, winding him. "Compliments of the Hogsha, dog-jin," the first spat. Before he could react, they'd grasped his belt and hauled him over the edge, like the sofas they had been pretending to dispose of. As he landed, he felt his spine snap and screamed.
"You should have remembered your place, officer," one of them shouted down from far above. Slowly, the great mechanical wings of the crushing unit began to fold shut, Isamu quietly sobbing to himself. A few seconds later there was a horrific scream followed by a sickening orchestra of snaps and crunches.