The two stared at each other a bit. One, a man in his mid-thirties with a rough visage and brooding manner, the other, a known but never found criminal, a cardamine dealer. They had found a table in one corner of the bar on Freeport 4, and now the Outcast wanted to know why he had been called by the other, why an old and almost forgotten "client" had decided to look him up again.
"How'd you get into this anyway," asked the long-time contact.
Jack Gibson was asking a lot of the guy, so sharing some personal information wasn't so out of order.
"Well, it's not like I wanted to be a pirate when I grew up. You know what I used to do - stock brokerage on Manhattan and all - until I got too deep into your product."
The Outcast let out a snort. "We don't tell people how to use our product, we just supply what they're already demanding, like I did for you."
"Yeah, well, you didn't hesitate even when my career was falling apart," Gibson replied with not a little disdain. "Anyway, I was strung out and ended up on the streets. Then that monk found me."
"A what?" asked the Outcast incredulously.
"A monk. Yeah, I know," Gibson said noticing his interlocutor's expression. "This little urban, hole-in-the-wall monastery in the middle of an alley. Real non-descript place. These guys thought they could rehabilitate people they found out on the streets, but I couldn't stand it."
"Weren't you there with another guy?"
"Yeah, my best friend at the time, Michael Ramsey. I got him hooked on your product, too."
"Thanks for the business," smirked the Outcast.
"Whatever. Anyway, Ramsey took to their message - he loved it. I couldn't stomach it, and I was out of there within the week."
"What does Ramsey do now," the other asked.
"Oh, he's revitalized his career - successful independent trader and all. He did it, he got out of there with his head on straight and avoided the mess I got myself into."
"So what did happen to you?"
"I was arrested," replied Gibson. "I'd stolen some things from my former boss to pay for more cardi, and LPI caught up to me, threw me into Sugarland. I was only supposed to be there six months, but the execs figured it'd be more profitable to have some of us there an extra year. In my case, they drummed up some charge about assaulting another prisoner, and six months turned into eighteen."
"Nice," observed the Outcast.
"Yeah, pretty common thing, and these weren't eighteen easy months either - too little and awful food, ignored injuries and illness, beatings for no reason - just to keep LPI's little workforce in line and the Sugarland smelter profitable. But I got out finally."
"Then what did you do?"
"Well, I left Liberty, thats for sure," replied Gibson. "I noticed BMM needed workers in Bretonia, especially in Leeds System, so I went there."
"And how did that work for you," inquired the contact.
"It wasn't too long and I realized I'd traded one nightmare for another. Their working conditions were no better than LPI's, and added to that you've got the pollution and dangerous mining operations, no concern for workers - same thing all over again, just a different form."
"You made it out, I take it?"
'Oh yeah," said Gibson. "I made it out after about a year, but some of the friends I made there are still stuck - one's even dead. I've been around and about since then, doing odd little jobs to make ends meet."
"So what do you want from me?" asked the Outcast.
"I want to strike back," Gibson replied, glowering at the other. "I want to make them pay, those corporations and their corruption, acting like there"s no accountability, no one who can make them answer for what they do to us. I want to punish them and anyone who supplies them."
"So you want revenge?" asked the other, not all that impressed.
"No, I want justice. And I want a ship."
"Justice is elusive," replied the criminal with a raised eyebrow, "and your plan is...ambitious. But, given our previous rather profitable relationship, I can get you a ship if you're willing to pay. Can you make it to Eta?"
"I think I can," replied Gibson. "You'll have a ship for me there?"
"I believe so, but how are you going to get the money for it?"
"I have a plan," said Gibson, staring at his drink and speaking softly. "I have a plan."
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//I'd welcome any constructive feedback by PM.
Michael Ramsey's datapad beeped softly - he had a message.
Jack Gibson? he thought to himself. He hadn't heard from Jack in some time, not since a brief message when the unfortunate man had been released from Sugarland. He thought Jack had said something about going to work for BMM, but that was about it.
So Jack wants to meet...this ought to be interesting. Ramsey finished the log entry for his latest run of diamonds to Leeds, and made arrangements to head to Dortmund in New Berlin, where Gibson wanted to meet. I should be able to stop by Cardiff on the way for some bery, he thought to himself, and proceeded to program the nav system.
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The two old friends met at the bar on Dortmund Station.
"Michael, man, it's been how long?" Gibson said a little over-enthusiastically.
"At least three years, Jack. How are you?" Ramsey replied politely, but still with some trepidation.
"I'm okay, I'm okay."
"I thought you were working for BMM now. You still doing that?" Ramsey asked.
"No, no - things there got...rough. Abused employees, breathing in that foul air all the time. Michael, they don't even give their workers the right equipment to survive for very long! They..." Gibson cut off as he noticed Ramsey's expression.
"So, what are you doing now?" Ramsey inquired.
"Michael, I need a favor. For old time's sake, I need you to do something for me."
"And what would that be?" asked Ramsey, now wary.
"I need money. I know I haven't kept in touch very well, but I really need some starting capital for a new venture." Might as well get right to it,[i] he thought to himself. [i]He's already getting suspicious.
"I know you've done well for yourself - I'm impressed. Really. But things haven't been so good for me." Gibson tapped his fingers on the table nervously. "At Sugarland, the system...it's just rotten to the core. I should have been there only six months, but they kept me for eighteen! Then I go try to start over in Bretonia, and I go to work for the most corrupt company there! Michael, the things they put their workers through - the pollution, the mining, little to no safety precautions in some places - I've still got effects myself, and one of my friends is even dead!"
"I'm so sorry Jack..."
"I know, man, I know...Look. I have to do something about it," Gibson stated earnestly.
"But what, Jack? The LPI is Liberty's police force! What are you going to do against that? You can't stop BMM's operations either, and the Bretonian government isn't doing much about it. What could you possibly do?"
"I can strike back."
"Excuse me?" Ramsey practically whispered.
"Hit back, hit hard."
"What are you saying, Jack?"
"I'm going to hit their supply lines, get 'em where it really hurts. Look - LPI is a corporation above all else; profit is their reason for being. Of course, BMM is the same. These guys value their bottom line above all else - if that suffers, maybe it'll get their attention."
Ramsey knew Gibson was right about the companies, but he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "So you want to pirate them? What am I supposed to do for you?"
"I need a ship, Michael. I need to outfit it and get set up at a base somewhere. That costs money. I need thirty million credits."
"THIRTY MILLION..." Ramsey suddenly remembered where he was. "Thirty million credits?" he whispered intensely. "Are you out of your mind? No, no, absolutely not. I've gotten my life back on the right track. I'm well established as a trader, and I represent certain interests in Sirius that would NOT want me participating in pirating!" he said through cleched teeth. "No, I can't help you with this. I'm sorry, Jack."
Gibson and Ramsey stared at each other for a moment. Then Gibson stood and laid down his part of the tab.
"I'm sorry too, Michael. Sorry to waste your precious time coming here for nothing. See you later, and don't give what happens to me a second thought," he said spitefully. "I'm sure I'll be fine."
"Jack, there's got to be another way..."
"No, Michael - no other way. No other way to hit these people where it hurts most. Goodbye - take care of yourself."
Ramsey looked on stunned as Gibson walked out of the bar.
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It was the next morning, and Ramsey prepared his transport for departure. As he collected his things from his room on Dortmund, his datapad beeped again. It was his neural net credit account.