He looked the commodity dealer straight in the eye as the man tried to screw him over on the shipment. The man (Adolf was his name, which rang some distant bell in Stevie's mind) was short and fat with a nose you could land a cruiser on. And he had the annoying habit of calling you freund while he repeated for the third time that the gold filling your cargo hold wasn't worth half what you're asking for. Needless to say, Stevie wanted to through him through the nearest airlock.
But instead, Stevie told the man where he could put his offer, and sauntered back to his ship. He was dimly aware that the dealer was shouting at him, but Stevie's mind was already on other things. If Ingolstadt wanted to play hardball, he knew a nice fraulein at Mainz Storage Facility who would be more than glad to buy his cargo. Oh, how his wife hated going there.
Brigette was never an especially jealous woman, she was just never pleased as to how the younger women took to her husband's chivalry. Not that he would ever take it beyond harmless flirting (and the occassional peek down a loose blouse). In the twenty-four years they had been married, neither had been unfaithful. Stevie never realistically entertainted the thought. Not because she would murder him (lord knows the woman would), but because marriage was much more binding in Stevie's mind.
Walking through his ship's open airlock door, Stevie headed toward his cabin. How the hell had he gone from a small time bounty hunter in the Texas system to captain of The Hartford? It was a Gateway Train, for chrissake. Knowing that it had been less career choice and more extortion didn't really help.
Leonard, the ship's logistics officer, materialized in Stevie's path with a frown and a datapad pulling Stevie from his thoughts.
"Captain Gibbons, the repairs are going to have to wait until we can get to a more reasonable parts dealer." Why couldn't the man ever have good news? "Can you believe the man tried to charge us eight thousand credits for a flux capacitor? I don't even know what that is!"
"That's because it doesn't exist," Stevie replied dryly. "At least not on this ship."
Leonard nodded. "I didn't think so. I also have the reports on-" Stevie cut him off with a gesture.
"Let my wife take care of that, Leonard. I have other things I must attend to." Like that bottle of whiskey, Stevie added in his head. Leonard saluted and moved in the opposite direction of his captain.
He made his way to his cabin, and then sighed when his wife wasn't there to greet him. For a Rheinlander, she had such a great sense of humor. Stevie poured himself a whiskey and sat in his favorite cushioned chair.
A little more than a quarter century (and less than half Stevie's lifetime, come to think of it) ago, they met on Freeport 2. He was a bounty hunter looking for leads, and she was a Republican convoy scout. A few drinks together in the bar turned into a wild ride across Sirius. Collecting bounties, smuggling illegal goods, escaping pirates, extravagant vacations...
And now this...
Just thinking of it angered Stevie. He took a big swallow of the whiskey and reclined chair. He closed his eyes.
The couple had only one son, a man who turned out to be the spitting image of his father by the name of Jimi. Stevie was of the opinion that Jimi was always too smart for his own good. Jimi always thought he could handle things so much bigger than himself. It was such a surprise when he took up the cause of the Red Hessians, announcing his intention to leave for Dresden. They had tried so hard to talk him out of it. It ended in a shouting match, which left his mother in tears and Jimi on a transport to Rheinland.
Stubborn, Stevie thought as he took another large gulp of his whiskey. Just like his mother.
They didn't hear from Jimi again for sixteen months, when one day a man who called himself Alfonso showed up and flipped Stevie's life inside out. He had images of Jimi, locked in a cramped cell and covered in bruises. He said he had a few favors to ask of Stevie, which was less favors and more assuming command of his life.
Next thing the Gibbons's knew, they were commanding a massive transport under the Gateway banner, seeming to all the world legitimate traders. Unless, of course, you looked in the hidden compartments where certain boxes are loaded and unloaded, some of which make noises inside that sound very close to muffled screams. Or the fact that over sixty percent of The Hartford's profits were deposited to an anonymous account number.
No, things were not going well at all.
Stevie Ray got up from his chair and refilled his glass. Every time he thought of his son's plight, he couldn't help but reach for a bottle of something strong. He knew he had to save his son, but how? How do you save someone who could be anywhere in the universe?
"...if you must mount the gallows, give a jest to the crowd, a coin to the hangman, and make the drop with a smile on your lips."
For what seemed like the hundredth time, Stevie wished he could have kept one of those images of his son in the cell. Alfonso just showed him a new one every time they met, each image as heartwrenching as the last; Jimi, hands bound behind him, clothes torn to rags. Sometimes he would look at the camera with eyes that pleaded for mercy, other times he seemed to be cringing from what he must have expected as another blow.
Still, having them would have afforded Stevie the opportunity to glean some kind of details about where Jimi was being held. But would he be able to get any clues? It always seemed like the same dark cell, almost the size of a storage closet. That could be on a station, or a planet, or a ship or... Honestly, he could be literally anywhere in Sirius.
He was sure Alfonso wasn't using his real name. A team this organized wouldn't let a detail like that risk their operation. The man certainly had faint traces of a Hispanic accent, which could mean the Corsairs. It would certainly make sense. Jimi could have been shot down during combat with them while working with his beloved Hessians. Wouldn't they kill him immediately though? It was possible they kept him, though. They certainly had the resources (not to mention the ruthlessness) to pull off something like this.
And who says this elusive Alfonso even worked for the Corsairs? Too many questions, and not near enough answers. So Stevie discretely sought some outside help.
When The Hartford stopped at Mainz and the gold was unloaded (along with a few crates marked 'Plumbing Components' hauled by some seedy looking men and contained God knows what), Stevie sent out a few messages to some people he knew from his bounty hunting days. Most of his former colleagues were retired, but a few still retained administrative positions in the Guild. He knew he could still call in some favors and get help. After all, if anybody could help him with criminals, it had to be a bounty hunter.
With most, he just said he needed reliable help. He didn't know these men well enough anymore to open up to them. But when he made contact with his old partner, that changed.
Jeffrey was all jokes and reminiscence about old bounties. "You know Stevie," Jeffrey said, "you're the only white boy I ever really liked."
Stevie laughed. "That joke was old when you were young."
But when Stevie started talking about his problem, and the floodgates opened and he told Jeff everything, the man on the other end of the call got very serious.
"We're gonna get those bastards Stevie." said Jeffrey. "Let me make a few calls."
After a few days of back and forth he was finally put in touch with a gunboat captain by the name of Eddie Dean, who Jeff said was the man who would get it done. Eddie promised to meet Stevie next time he was in Bretonian space.
Some time after that, when Stevie was on the Kensington Shipping Platform offloading some engine components, he sent a message to Eddie. Stevie waited at his console for hours, but went to bed when there was no response.
"...if you must mount the gallows, give a jest to the crowd, a coin to the hangman, and make the drop with a smile on your lips."
