Trogdor, captain of the Zoner Nephilim Burninator. A veteran of a handful of conflicts, the most prestigious of which was the bulwark of Omega 49, when the Coalition blamed the Zoners for an attack on their homeland. He held off the invading warships through intimidation and resolve, stalling the confrontation long enough for the truth to be revealed, and avoiding its escalation. This earned him a modicum of respect and resources from his people.
More recently, he has become frustrated and cynical. He sees the Gallic invasion of Bretonia as only the beginning of what is to come. He believes the Zoners must act to buttress the status quo, before the levy breaks and all are washed away amidst the tide of tyranny. In this regard, he believes his people's peaceful and accepting nature blinds them to the treacherous danger Gallia poses. Worse, some are blinded by greed, and by trading with Gallia, exacerbate that danger.
And second, his protege-to-be, The Cheat. Young, impressionable, prideful. He hasn't been alive long enough for life's fragility to sink in, and is all too eager to make something of himself.
Setting
Freeport XV. The Sirian equivalent of a small agricultural community, juxtaposed by the military powers neighboring it in nearly every direction. Travelers from far and wide come here to trade, and those travelers don't always get along. A local militia struggles to maintain a fragile state of peace.
It's a busy day on Freeport 15. On top of the station's usual bustle, most of the Burninator's crew is on shore leave while the ship undergoes repair and refit at Livadia.
Captain Trogdor can't relax, though. Worry weighs heavily upon his thoughts. Suddenly, there is much to do, and time certainly isn't on his side. Bretonia is crumbling, and Gallia shows no signs of slowing down. Worse, his own people aren't pulling in the same direction, and every splinter-faction is its own particular brand of useless.
The groups in the Omicrons are irrelevant; they have no presence near Bretonia at all.
OSI has proven to be the Zoners' greatest enemy - they make decisions that are good for them, at the expense of the rest. However, he cannot directly oppose them - they have too much wealth and influence. He would find himself turned away from nearly every friendly port if he tried.
The TAZ are probably the closest he's going to get to having an ally, but considering their... nature... he wonders to what extent they might be of use.
It's clear to him that he has to do something - no matter which side comes out on top in the war, bad things will happen for the Zoners. Right now, Gallia is too busy fighting two armies to spare resources making yet another enemy. But once Bretonia falls, they would almost certainly see the Zoners living around Bretonia as a free lunch. They are a conquering army - expecting them to do anything else would be foolish.
Contrariwise, if Liberty succeeds in turning the tide of the war, OSI's trade relations with Gallia may come to light. This could be equally disastrous, if not more so. Not only would the Zoners be swept out of Bretonia, but Liberty as well. So while this was the trump card in the Captain's sleeve, the one weapon he could threaten them with, it was a weapon of mass destruction. He would have to carefully consider its use, and buttress the rest of the faction against the fallout.
All of this in mind, the first steps were clear: figure out who your friends are, gather as much information as possible, and start preparing for the worst. To this end, he needed an agent; someone who could move about freely, gather intelligence, and blend in, but whose loyalty lies with the Zoners. Someone slick, but not trashy. And they had to be young; he needed someone non-threatening, and who hasn't become associated with any other groups yet.
Over the week the Burninator rests in dry dock, Captain Trogdor stalks the halls, markets, and bars of Freeport 15, covertly eyeing the station's youth. Conscious of the station's security, and of coming across as some kind of creepy pervert in a clanking metal suit, he disguises his surveillance with business. Accompanied by his personal escort detail, he takes the longest routes possible through the station's busiest areas, bartering with merchants for food, medical supplies, munitions, and other things he would otherwise delegate his officers to acquire.
"I will save those people." he thinks to himself. "By dragging them kicking and screaming to salvation, if necessary."
Heading to the bar for a few hours of rest and subtle surveillance, the Captain spots some suspicious behavior through the doorway. Young kid seated at a booth, yellow uniform, face propped up in his hand with his elbow on the table. From the Captain's angle, however, he can tell the kid is peering through a gap between his fingers.
With a hand signal, his escort slips out of sight, stepping into an open doorway. Trogdor gets out of sight as well, stepping into the shadow cast by a bulkhead protruding from the wall. He crosses his arms, leans back against the corner, and watches.
A few yards away, a Corsair is seated at the bar, talking with the bartender. The kid's spotted something poking out of his pocket; a Sirius Credit Card. He looks around through the peephole he's made of his hand, noting the behavior of everyone near the mark, occasionally taking a sip of his drink. At the right moment, he gets up and walks to the bar. He leans over and sets his cup down, thanking the bartender as he brushes against the Corsair, shoulder to shoulder. The 'sair is distracted by the conversation and the sudden touch, and doesn't notice the thin strip of plastic sliding free of his pocket. The kid apologizes and casually walks away with his prize, giddy and concentrating on containing his excitement as he heads towards the door. As he passes through, he turns his head to glance over his shoulder, to see if the mark's caught on. He walks right into a metal gauntlet that lifts him off his feet by the throat.
"Tsskh. Sloppy."The Captain says, his voice sounding slightly robotic, modulated by the amplifiers in his helmet. The kid chokes out an unintelligible response. Trogdor steps backward into the open doorway with his escort, out of sight, and sets the kid down, a little roughly. He stumbles backward against the opposite wall."There could have been Freeport security standing here, and you'd be ten different flavors of screwed. Always make sure you have an exit planned."
The young Zoner coughs and rubs his neck."Damn. What the hell, man?"The Captain presses a button on the nearby panel to close the door, then turns his attention back to the kid, who is just now becoming aware of the two armed men standing nearby."Who... who are you?"
The Captain responds coldly, eyeing the credit card the kid is attempting to hide in his palm."Trogdor, Captain. That's all you get, for now."He crosses his arms, metal brushing against metal, and leans back against the wall. Clunk."You are in possession of something that does not belong to you. This is bad. However, you showed some measure of talent in obtaining it. This is good. I need someone like you, as much as it pains me."He pauses, taking a robotic-sounding breath.
"But first, we need to resolve the potential diplomatic headache you've caused. And this creates an excellent opportunity."He gestures to the card the kid is clutching."It's a strip of plastic, but it could have been many things. Propaganda. Evidence. Small explosives."
The kid looks up at the man of steel, wide-eyed."Explosives?!"
The Captain chuckles quietly."Ah, yes. I've always been a fan of the ol' Shady Sands Shuffle. Anyway the point is, you need to get that card back in that 'sair's pocket before he starts shooting up the place looking for it. You can try putting it back the way you got it, or you can get creative. It's up to you, but your options are two: If you do this, I have an extremely well-paying job for you. Don't do this, and Freeport security will put you in a very small box for a very long time. Clear?"
"B...But..."The kid trails off, realizing he doesn't have much choice. The Captain opens the door, and he starts making his way back into the bar. He has to think quickly - there's no telling when the 'sair will realize his card is missing. Fortunately, as the young Zoner walks in, the 'sair appears unaware.
He knows the 'bump' trick won't work again, though. Thinking quickly, he simply drops the card on the floor as the walks past the mark. The sound is lost in the white noise in the busy bar. He pulls up a seat a few down, and orders another drink when the Bartender wanders over. He tries to relax and pretends to be minding his own business, looking up at the screens above the bottles between sips. After a few minutes he looks over towards the 'sair - just long enough for him to notice - then down at the floor where he dropped the card. The 'sair turns to look at the kid, then follows his gaze down to where the card lies, and growls."Don't even think about it, scumbag."As the 'sair reaches down, the kid feigns surprise, raising his hands in half-surrender."Whoa whoa, easy, man. Sheesh."As the 'sair stuffs the card back in his pocket, grumbling and cursing under his breath, the kid takes one last quick gulp of his drink and scoots off his seat, then hastily exits towards a spectating Captain Trogdor. He smiles behind the helmet as the kid approaches.
"Well done. They are used to seeing us fleeing. Soon, they will see us charging. Come with me, kid. We have much to discuss."
The pair begins to walk down the hallway leading away from the bar, followed closely by the two guards. The kid nervously glances around, having no idea where they're going.
"So... what's this all about?"
"Let me re-introduce myself. I'm Captain Trogdor, commanding officer of the battleship Burninator. As you might imagine, my job is to protect the Zoners.. All Zoners, everywhere. And yet, it's a joke. Everybody seems to want to pretend that we're independent communities, that we don't rely on each other between regions. Then some calamity surfaces somewhere, and we're caught with our trousers down. We panic and argue amongst ourselves, just to figure out what to even begin to do about it, because no region is prepared to deal with it alone."
The captain shakes his head, then motions with his hand, and the four turn a corner, going down another hallway.
"We cling halfway up the mountain of greatness. Yet, like any mountaineer, we must work to ensure our footing remains stable. One slip, and the whole thing may well come crashing down, lost to history. Something has to change. One of these days, we're going to have a problem we're not going to be able to talk ourselves out of, and I don't intend to just sit back and watch the flames."
The kid is paying more attention to the Captain than to where he's going, and nearly walks into a bulkhead.
"This community - this fledgling society - we've built for ourselves... it's the purest expression of civilized freedom in Sirius. It's worth protecting - fighting for. Dying for."
They reach a room the Captain is renting. Two more men guard the door. As they enter, the Captain waves dismissively to his escorts.
"You're relieved. Go find some distraction. I'll call you when I'm ready to move again."
The Captain and the kid enter. It's a small room - the bed is turned over on its side up against the wall to make space for a larger table in the center, and a few sturdy metal chairs. The two sit.
"So what do you want with me?"
The Captain sighs, reaching up and grasping the sides of his helmet, disengaging its seals and releasing the pressurized air. He lifts it off of his head and sets it down on the table. He's fair-skinned, dark hair, gray eyes, 30's, obviously Libertonian. Without his helmet, his voice loses its modulation. He glances down at the table, reaching for a datapad off to the side, tapping at it a few times and then sliding it over towards the kid.
"Macbeth. Ever heard of it?"
The kid shook his head.
"It's an old play, but I found it striking how similarly its theme mirrors the events unfolding at the other end of Sirius. I imagine the king of Gallia to be quite similar to Macbeth, mad with power and ambition, desperate to retain it at any cost. Recent history and current events have shown that we cannot trust the king, nor his forces, to honor any diplomatic gains we attempt to make with them."
He continues, explaining the predicaments the Zoners may find themselves in, and the challenges that hinder him.
"Therefore, I need an agent - an infiltrator - that can perform a wide variety of tasks which would be impossible for any other member of my crew. I need a smooth talker, someone who can go anywhere, be anyone. Someone who needn't rely on anyone but himself and has little to lose. Someone who enjoys having access to a bank account that refills itself independently from the work they do. Does that sound like you?"
"Hmm.. sounds dangerous, but I do like the bank account part."
The Captain chuckles.
"I thought you might. So, do you accept, then? So long as you continue to work for me, and follow my instructions, you will find your neural net runneth over. I will ask you to perform certain tasks from time to time, but otherwise you will free be to indulge in whatever proclivities you so desire."
His brow furrows, and he peers at the young man.
"Within reason. My funds are not unlimited, and your ability to operate as a freelance nobody goes out the window if you become a somebody. Got it? Maintaning an appearance of mediocrity is key."
The kid nods.
"Fair enough. What's with your name, though?"
The Captain shakes his head as he pulls another datapad from a compartment at his hip.
"Confidential. Don't you wonder why I haven't asked yours? If I got captured, would you want me to know anything that might let someone find your family?"
He taps at the screen.
"That datapad I gave you has contact information that'll get you a secure channel to my quarters, or my suit if I'm away. Don't access it from anything other than your own ship - which I'm now shopping for. I'll send a message to that pad when I've found one. In the meantime, get to the commercial deck. I've arranged a meeting for you to be fitted for costumes, makeup, and prosthetics. See yourself out."
Beeping from the table interrupts his work. The Captain sighs, puts down the datapad, and puts his helmet back on. Motors whirr quietly as pumps re-pressurize the suit.
"Report."
"Sir, the Poopsmith has returned from Champagne. Mission Successful. Would.."
"Acknowledged."He interrupts his communications officer."Have the debriefing sent to my quarters, I'm busy at the moment."
"..Yes, sir. ...One more thing, sir. The Burninator's refit is complete and the supplies you ordered have been delivered. The ship is ready to depart once you return with the crew. Officer Compy, out."
He returns to his task: getting the kid out of the Omicrons and into civilization. One of the 'new and improved' Ospreys would do nicely. Next, a ship from the open market, to fit the freelance cover... something in Bretonia... He finds a Waran for sale in New London. Perfect. He doesn't even bother haggling the price - time is more valuable than money at this point. He sends a message to his new spy's datapad:
'Say your goodbyes, grab whatever you want to take with you, and then meet me at the ship dealer, kid. It's time.'
He stows his datapad, gets up, and leaves, taking the guards at the door with him. The room is no longer necessary. He contacts his ship again on the way to the hangar.
"Officer Compy, hail the crew. Shore leave's over, we depart within the hour."
"Aye, sir."
The kid arrives at the hangar a few minutes after the Captain. His brow is furrowed; he doesn't look happy to see the Captain.
"That was the most humiliating thing I've ever done in my LIFE!"
The Captain chuckles."Now now, I'm sure you were a very pretty lady. And I hope you were paying attention. Next time, you'll have to put that stuff on yourself."
The Captain gestures to the fighter beside them. Cargo robots are loading a few crates into its bay.
"Your disguises, some emergency supplies, a few civilian sidearms. The outfits are all wired with hidden recording devices - make sure to familiarize yourself with them. And remember to turn them on."He pauses, regarding the ship."This is an "Osprey" long-range escort fighter. It's no good in a fight, but one thing the engineers didn't screw up was the 'long-range' part. It'll get you where you need to go, and your datapad's already got the safest route mapped out. You'll be getting out of the edge worlds as soon as possible, entering Rheinland's system of tradelanes, and following them into Bretonia."
He turns back towards the kid.
"Before I leave, I'll transfer your first payment. You run into any trouble on the way, pay 'em off. You're still 'you' until you get to your first stop, though, so most of the local yahoos should leave you be. Anybody asks, you're on a trip to visit family."
He pauses, considering for a moment.
"Assuming you stick to the plan, you'll pass by Freeport 1 just before you enter Bretonian space. Make a pit stop there and contact me for further instructions. Good luck, kid."
They go their separate ways; the kid takes off in his Osprey and heads for Rheinland, Trogdor and his crew board the gunship "Consummate V" and return to the Burninator, still moored at Livadia.
It turns out to be quite a harrowing journey for the young spook. The good captain neglected to mention that he'll be traveling through not one, but two systems that will bathe his ship in deadly radiation.
First, Omega 41, and its neutron star. One can imagine the look on the Zoner's face upon first arriving in the system.
"Danger.. radiation damage.. detected." The computer croons, as if it were simply reminding him about the box of donuts he left in the glove box.
Then, the obscenities. More obscenities come out of that kid's mouth during that short flight towards Omega-11, than from most Corsairs in their lifetime.
Instincts kick in, and he buries the throttle. It doesn't even occur to him that he could simply turn around and go back to the relative safety of Omicron Theta. By the time he does realize this, he's already halfway to the jump hole. He looks to his left, and gets another eyeful of what Captain Trogdor has affectionately named 'The devil's bunghole'.
"NOOOOOOOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE!"
He can't get out of there fast enough, and more than a few asteroids lose a pound of flesh due to his erratic flying. But it's a short trip, and the large shield generator protects the Osprey from any structural damage. From the asteroids, anyway.
He's in such a hurry that as he approaches the jump hole, he knocks a Junker out of his way and cruises into the hole ahead of him.
"'SCUZE, BYE!"
The kid breathes a sigh of relief as he enters hyperspace. Safe at last, he thinks.
Nope.
"Danger.. radiation dam.."
"FFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU..."
He freezes in panic for a moment, blinks, then looks down at the console. It displays an estimated hull integrity of around ninety percent.
He takes a minute to consider his options, looking at the route charted on his datapad. He could go back through the hole, but then he's in the soup again. At least here, the radiation isn't as powerful. But the trip is significantly longer, especially since he has to give the star a wide berth. He could go back, but then what? That captain probably collected evidence of his crime back at the bar; he could have him arrested, or worse. Would he do that?
Risk being a wanted man with no money and a crippled ship, or brave the more immediate danger that is the rest of the journey.
More obscenities. He buries the throttle again.
...The trip is agonizing. There's not a soul to be found on the opposite side of the star from civilization. No distractions, nothing to do other than gently curve around the edge of the star's corona towards the jump gate to Stuttgart.
This means it's very quiet in the cockpit. There's only a few sounds to be heard: the steady hum of the engines, and the cracks, creaks, and groans coming from his hull. The radiation steadily eats away at it, making it brittle. It warps and develops fissures, pieces break away. It's also getting hot in the cabin, as the fighter's air circulation system struggles to disperse all of the extra energy the ship is absorbing.
The kid looks down at the console. Hull integrity: seventy-five percent. He's starting to sweat profusely; it drips off his face and lands in his lap. He looks over at the datapad again. Halfway there. He's getting anxious, chasing his thoughts in circles, terrified of death burrowing its way into his ship. He looks around the cockpit for a distraction... nothing. Then he looks down at the datapad again, and remembers.
He doesn't need its navigation for the moment. He puts his leg up on the console to keep the stick tilted slightly to the left with his knee, slouches back in his seat, and holds the datapad in his lap, tapping a few times with his thumb.
The Cheat mumbles as he reads, sweat rolling from his brow. He drowns himself in the words, the heat and alarms fading to white noise in his consciousness. His mind races with thoughts and wild imaginings, filling in blanks, drawing connections between the play he's reading and what he might be asked to do as the Captain's "agent".
"Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? Or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain... hm."
BANG.
The Osprey shudders as it brushes against an asteroid. The shield holds, ship and rock push each other aside. The datapad goes flying, The Cheat fumbles for the stick. Grasping it, he looks up and sees the gate in the distance through the field. He corrects his course and weaves through the gauntlet, swerves wide to align himself with the mouth, and barely clears the arms as they open, charging into the twisting void at full speed.
.
.
.
The Cheat slumps back in his seat. The cabin is still an oven, and alarms are still blaring. He wipes a hand across his forehead and eyes, and looks down at the console.
Stuttgart. No radiation.
"Danger.. engine fire.. detected." More obscenities.
Then he looks up. Border Station Konstanz!
He docks, and the station is able to replace the engine and perform minor repairs. He buys some Rheinland civilian-grade weapons, too, transporting them in the hold for now. Good enough. From here on, it's smooth tradelane sailing all the way to Freeport 1.
He passes Planet Stuttgart. A Rheinland capital ship group is falling into the atmosphere and exploding. He wonders if he's still suffering the effects of the heat.
He sets the autopilot and gets up from his seat to find his missing datapad.