- Athena’s Reach, you’re up next. Ontario Jump Hole is a go, but be careful around Los Angeles - I’m spotting some patrols around it.
Another day, another run. A small, dark room, filled with comm devices, monitors and cigarette smoke. Each time a new vessel would enter Liberty Space, he would switch to their comm link and guide them through systems. With a huge network of camera drones, spread around every single sector in Liberty, - Alaska being the only exclusion, - his guidance was of huge assistance to smugglers.
- Meredith, there’s a patrol near New York Jump Hole. You’re free to go via the Jump Gate, but don’t take any lanes - gun it straight to Rochester.
So far, he was pretty efficient at it. No run goes smoothly, but all of his ships reach their destinations. He switched to Colorado. A heavily armed convoy was approaching Attica Supermax. “Hmm. Another big catch.” He thought as he reached out for a mug of coffee, the only substance to keep him awake and operational every second of his life. His cameras were very well hidden. Some of them were inside of asteroids, some - mounted onto stations and trade lanes.
Both of the ships he curated have successfully reached their destinations. Athena’s Reach has left Liberty and Meredith was already unloading a fresh haul of Artifacts at Rochester. This called for the end of his shift.
Buffalo was busy, filled with crowds and refugees. Nobody paid attention to a rusty door with a “Staff only” sign carved on it. A black trench coat and a fedora were his everyday companions, as well as a pack of cigarettes. But he couldn’t leave just yet - someone else was waiting for him outside of his small cubby.
- Ah, Nick! My all-seeing eye!
Compared to Nick’s tall height, the person in front of him was relatively small for a man - about 5 feet tall. Nevertheless, his sheer mass was intimidating.
- Bleak Ben.
With a mischievous cackle, Ben shook Nick’s hand and handed him a white coffee-stained folder full of papers.
- How’s the cargo? All good? - Yeah, all of them made it. You got anything new? - Listen, friend. - He put his massive scarred hand on Nick’s back, inviting him to have a walk through Buffalo’s corridors. - Here’s the deal. I got a new order from our orange friends, they want a huge haul of slaves. Deadline is this weekend. - What’s the reward? - Oh, cash is good - one billion credits! They’re giving us twenty percent upfront. - He took out a credit chip out of his pocket and pressed it down into Nick’s chest. - Which means, you get ten today.
One hundred million credits. Out of five hundred. With all that, Nick could finally afford to move to Manhattan.
- Knock yourself out, pal! You have a hard day ahead of you!
Giving Nick a pat on a back, Bleak Ben has disappeared within the crowd as swiftly as he appeared. On his way to the hangar bay, Nick browsed through the manifest. It included all shipments made this week - twenty thousand units of artifacts, fifteen thousand loads of cardamine and twenty six thousand units of synthetic weed. A very, very fruitful week, yet he only gets twenty percent out of the entire profit. This time, it was different. The white folder had dossiers of six “Piligrim” liners and their captains, each meant to deliver the slaves to Malta. An interesting mission, for which he has to do a lot of planning.
Out of all Liberty’s major planets, Houston was relatively the worst place to live on. Some settlements were outdated, with rusty plating and old-school cargo elevators. Nevertheless, the infrastructure was decent - no energy shortages, no cuts of water, almost no issues at all.
Nothing could be better after such a long week as home comfort. With an exhausted squeak, an old iron door has welcomed him into his hearth.
- Honey, I’m home!
No response. Hanging his coat and a fedora in the drawer, he walked into the kitchen. It was filled with a cold-war aesthetic - wooden chairs and a semi-circular table with vintage-looking kitchen lockers and a round fridge. Resting on the windowsill, a small TV box was broadcasting some kind of a sitcom. He went into the guest room. It had the same appearance - a big white carpet, leather couches, a TV screen on a table.
He was getting worried. She was nowhere to be seen. Then, suddenly, he heard how something silently exhaled into his right ear. In fear, he swiftly turned around and jumped back, only to see his loving wife.
- God in Heaven, Cynthia!
She was a fit blonde of regular height with big green eyes. With a beaming smile, she jumped at him and embraced him in a tight hug, sharing a kiss.
- I missed you.
They finally let go of each other. A sensation of meeting his wife after two weeks of absence was nothing if pleasing, same was for her.
- I missed you too, sweetheart.
She rushed towards the kitchen, making sure that his dinner was properly cooked.
- Must’ve been ages since you had a proper meal.
He plopped down into a wooden chair. The furniture was surely outdated, yet he could think of nothing else that would reach this degree of comfort.
- Yeah, one can only count on this synthetic garbage when you’re doing long hauls.
The pan was already simmering with oil. She dropped in some fine sliced potatoes, sprayed them with salt, spices and pepper.
- How was Gallia?
He took a sip out of a mug of tea. The tea itself was sweet, but it had that small tender accent to it.
- Apart from a bit of unwelcoming local lawfuls? The systems are gorgeous. I think we should go for a vacay next month, see some Taus and maybe even core Gallia systems.
She chuckled.
-- You know that I don’t like space. It's cold, it has no air, no sound… I’m always on edge when you’re out there, in abyss. - Oh, come on. It’s been making us money, keeping us under a roof, in this very… Old-school designed apartment. I would’ve changed it any moment if you didn’t like it. - That’s not the point, Nick. I moved all the way from Denver, just to live here, with you. And you know I’m worried about you.
The meal was ready. Steaming batch of roasted potatoes, carefully organized on a ceramic plate.
- Bon appetit.
She kissed him on a forehead and went into the guest room. The TV screen was transmitting some latest news about piracy activity in Bering and a growing tension between Liberty and Kusari. Nick still remembered his days of Liberty-Rheinland war, when he used to pilot a heavy bomber and destroy rheinland ships. But launching torpedoes at long range wasn’t his specialty. He was trained and proficient in boarding enemy capital ships, to disable them from the inside. Now, as many others after that war, he was retired, dumped, disposed of. With no pension or government-secured home. He was forced to find a solid way to make income. Coordinating smugglers wasn’t the best thing he thought of, but it was the only opportunity.
***
His office was as devoid of light as his room at Buffalo - dark, full of bookshelves, with a wooden table and a single desk lamp serving as the only source of light. He was going through the dossiers given him by Bleak Ben earlier. The ships, their crewmembers, their captains, equipment, everything. He wanted to make sure that every ship fulfills its role without any issues. Two liners he was already familiar with - Athena’s Reach and Meredith - were first on the list. Their captains had something in common - calculated, cold and reckless slavers, who were ready to go through the roughest of places to make some profit. He marked their dossiers with a tiny cross - a group that’s meant to go through Bering, Rheinland and Sigmas.
The other two - El Dorado and Midas’ Touch - had shady and unreliable captains, known to deviate from course and take their cargo elsewhere. He needed a good, reliable route, which would eliminate every temptation. Upper independent worlds and kusari were a good option. Marking their dossiers with a circle, he took the last two remaining. Eve’s Sin and Shaman’s Fortune. “Huh.” He said to himself as he searched for Eve’s Sin’s captain dossier, but it wasn’t there. Maybe Bleak Ben forgot to include it. Flipping through the folder once again, Nick gave up and put Eve’s Sin’s file on the desk. Shaman’s Fortune, however, had a familiar face in her charge - Bleak Ben himself. “Taking it into your own hands, huh?” He marked the last two ships with a single stroke, assigning them to the most dangerous, yet fastest route - through California, Cortez, Coronado and Taus.
***
A fresh shower is all he needed after weeks spent in Buffalo’s stench. Luckily, the infrastructure in his apartment wasn’t as outdated. The bathroom itself had everything a modern libertonian could require, including a sizable bath with very good water pressure.
She was already in bed, reading some kind of romance book, just to keep herself awake for a small talk with her husband. Giving in to fatigue, he dropped into the bed, enveloping himself in a warm, comfy blanket. For once, he gets to rest. Or so he thought.
- Honey, I… Wanted to have a chat.
Being half-way into the dream land, her concerned voice served as a shot of adrenaline.
- Hm?
She closed the book, carefully placing it onto a small nightstand.
- I’m really, really worried about you. I saw the news about these… Monsters. The Nomads, they call them. - Yeah, so? - What if one day they find you?
He sighed. Never once in his life he got to see a Nomad alive, not to mention their infected thralls. But he heard stories from smugglers, from captains, that sometimes ships with scrambled IFFs serve as a bad omen.
- Darling, I never stray off the trade lanes. These are the safest routes, even in dangerous systems, like Sigmas or Taus. Maybe God is smiling upon me, because I had never once seen a Nomad in my life. I heard stories of them, but nothing like it. - Nick, I… I know it’s a lot to ask but, can you please consider a different job? - Her breath got shallow, with some tears surfacing on her cheeks. - I just… I can’t imagine losing you to this cold, empty nothingness.
He gently grabbed her by a shoulder, rolling her over, closer to himself.
- Hey. It’s alright. I have a huge haul next week, after that - I’ll try to find something different. I promise.
She dropped her head onto his chest, holding him in a gentle embrace.
There was no need for words. In her husband’s comfort, Cynthia fell asleep very swiftly. But he was still pondering. He really wanted to stop living like a criminal, to cut his deals with the smugglers and to be closer to his wife. If only he knew how.
Same small room with monitors and a control panel. Nick has successfully curated four “Piligrim” Liners full of slaves. Athena’s Reach and Meredith were already on their way to Sigmas, El Dorado and Midas’s Touch traveled smoothly through southern Kusari systems. Last two ships to depart were Eve’s Sin and Shaman’s Fortune.
Indeed, Eve’s Sin had no actual captain. It was Bleak Ben’s ship, yet she had one of his most trusted captains at her hail. Both liners were stationed at Rochester, awaiting Nick's signal. Jersey and Silverton fields were clear, with some occasional Xeno fighters passing by Nick’s cameras. He leaned closer to the microphone and switched to Bleak Ben’s comm channel.
- Nick to Shaman’s Fortune and Eve’s Sin. You’re good to go. Proceed to Colorado Jump hole and from there to Ontario. - Got ya, Nick. Strap in, boys! We’re in for a ride!
Covered in rust, two massive ships have entered cruise and plotted their courses to the Coronado system.
***
- Ben, there are LSF ships coming from Riverside! Do not take the Jump Gate, go by the hole!
His words were ignored. Shaman’s Fortune has already entered the docking sequence with the Jump Gate. Yet Eve’s Sin went by the direction given by Nick. When Ben's liner jumped out of hyperspace, LSF ships were ready for his arrival. Confused, Nick muted himself and switched to one of his cameras inside of the Sierra field.
- Shaman’s Fortune, cut your engines, disable your shields and prepare to be boarded.
The comm channel was still open. Nick decided to stay and listen for any possible info about the real man behind this. Bleak Ben ordered his men to put the hands in the air, holding on to the comm button.
- I would like to negotiate.
An entire unit of LSF troops boarded the Fortune. Four of them, accommodated by a single lady, have entered the bridge. Nick swiftly switched over to the liner’s interior cameras, trying to identify the intruders.
- As promised, Agent. I’m giving you our boss’s dossier, and you are leaving us alone.
The woman stepped closer to him, keeping her voice as low as possible.
- You have my word. But you’ll have to drop the slaves off at Riverside.
His cigarette fell onto the grated floor, his mouth was barely open. In denial, he tried to pinpoint the best angle he could find. His heart stopped for a moment. It was her. Her big, green eyes, her long blonde hair and her soft, yet low voice. “Cynthia…” With his hands in the air, Bleak Ben walked towards a small locker by the control panel. Cynthia’s men had him in their sights the whole time, tracking his every move. He took out a small white folder and slowly handed it over to her, moving back to the window. There was only one sheet, yet it had all she needed.
But something took over her. She made a step back so that she couldn’t lose her balance. For a moment, she forgot that she was a secret agent on a mission, turning back into an astraphobic housewife. It was Nick. The dossier described him as he was, with his photo on the front page - a Rheinland-Liberty war veteran with excellent skills in managing and curating.
- The rest of you take it from here. I'm going solo.
She couldn’t believe herself. The very target she was pursuing for months was the only person who cared about her, who knew her up close and personal. She wanted to look Nick in the eyes, to ask him if it was really him. On her way back to the hangar bay, she felt as she was ready to burst in tears, yet she tried to keep her composure.
Nick knew he was done for. He never expected Bleak Ben to give him away like that, and to Cynthia of all people. He turned off every single monitor in his room, beaming towards the hangar bay, pushing off everyone on his way. He had to get home before her.
***
In panic, he feverishly started throwing his clothes into a luggage. Cynthia wasn’t home yet, so maybe he could escape her. “Where’s that damn jacket?”. Frantically running through a wooden wardrobe, he couldn’t find a trace of a blue jacket he was looking for.
But it was too late. The door’s locker clicked, its squeak telegraphed his upcoming demise. She tried to hide the fact that she knew about his deeds, gently putting her coat into the drawer. As she walked into a room, she noticed her husband frantically running around, throwing everything he could find into a luggage.
- What’s… The matter? Where are you going?
He couldn’t find any words. He silently continued to gather his stuff, ditching an idea of having a spare jacket. All he had in mind is to find a shelter, somewhere where his wife or the LSF won’t find him. And to think that she works for them? Was she spying on him all along? Were they really in love?
- I… Have to go.
She could contain her grief no longer. He knew about her. And she knew about him. Exhausted and heartbroken, she dropped into a couch, covering her face and tearing up silently. But he knew he couldn’t help the situation. For her, he no longer was a loving husband. He was a criminal, and worst of all - a monster.
- Go…. Just… Go.
He only sighed. Both of their secret lives were revealed to each other, both in a shocking manner. In his eyes, she was a spy, a person who maybe only pretended to love him. In her eyes, he became a monster who always orchestrated and concealed his deals with smugglers and slavers.
The door shut close. He had no way to go now. His last hope was to hide somewhere in the Independent worlds and lay low.
He didn’t even realise that he was standing in front of his appartement’s door. The last few days in the Independent Worlds looked like a fever dream. The sheer misery of feeling responsible for his lies, of being unable to do anything about it, of running away like a shot dog was getting onto him. A voice of conscience that suddenly awakened in him was forcing him to act.
The door was open, its fatigued squeak was like an angel’s harp to his ears. The TV was on, broadcasting the same sitcom he saw the last time. Putting his jacket on a hanger, he peeked into a guest room.
His breath stopped. His feet gave way to gravity, as he plopped down on the floor, scratching his chest in an attempt to make another breath. Cynthia was wearing the same apron and dress the last time they met under more normal circumstances. However, she was lying on a floor in a big, maroon puddle. In disbelief, he crawled closer to her, trying to feel any heart pulse. Her body was still warm, but the heart was not giving a single sign of life. He was too late.
Grief took over him. He hugged her lifeless body, rejecting to believe that she was gone.
He spent at least half an hour without moving, sobbing into her dead shoulder. He couldn’t believe that her wife would do such a thing, yet he blamed himself for it. Himself and Bleak Ben.
The funeral was scheduled for the next day. For many, these rituals have become redundant - most of the time, everything one could bury would be an empty coffin. He stood among the dead, alone, no relatives, no family, no friends. Not even her colleagues showed up. For three hours, he did nothing but stand at her grave with a hurricane of emotions clouding his mind.
- There is no excuse for what I did. I’m sorry you had to find it out this way… Eventually it would have become obvious, I… should’ve listened to you. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, that I ran away like a selfish coward… I hope you’re in a better place now. Please, forgive me.
He thought of his next move. He wasn’t the one to not act in this kind of situation. He wanted to redeem himself.
- There’s someone by the hole, boss. A bomber. - Is it a lawwie? - Negative, a freelancer, can’t identify it.
Shaman’s Profit was on approach vector for Bering Jump Hole - a safe route to Rheinland. But they were intercepted. A single “Waran” blocked their way. Ben was already on the bridge, looking at their uninvited guest. A bomber made a rush towards the ship, facing it in a joust, making Bleak Ben and the rest duck in reflex. After a sharp turn, the bomber launched two “Incapacitators''. One of them hit the liner’s shields and destroyed them, giving way for a second one to hit its reactor core, staggering everyone aboard and disabling the liner’s engines and defenses. Shaman’s Fortune was now adrift.
- We’re hit! Power core is offline!
Leaning onto the radio operator’s chair, with a sound grunt, Bleak Ben stood up.
- Blast the f**ker! - Can’t do, boss, he took out our weapons!
Another thud. As if he were a silly fatty from comedy films, Bleak Ben fell on the floor and rolled towards the starboard section of the bridge.
- Boss?
A heavy groan served as an answer to the radio operator’s concerned call.
- I’m fine. What’s up? - Our hangar bay got hit with a bomb, boss! - Boarded? Me?
Grunting, Bleak Ben stood up and walked towards the rusty arms locker.
- Whoever he is, he ain’t got crap on us five!
The locker had only five firearms in it - three plasma pistols and two repeater laser rifles. He tossed the pistols to the drivers, giving one to the gunnery chief and sharing a rifle with a radio operator. Tipping over the locker, Ben hid behind an improvised barricade and aimed at the door. With each second, the intensity was rising. Radio operator’s hands shivered, he breathed shallowly, evidently being afraid of whoever dared to board their liner. The door opened.
- Fire!
Ben shouted and rained fire down the hall. A sound symphony of plasma pistols and laser repeaters resonated throughout the rest of the ship, agitating slaves down in lockup. Finally, their weapons have overheated. But the hall was empty, Suddenly, a bright flash filled the bridge, blinding Ben and the rest of his crew.
Ben’s vision finally came back to him. A tall man in a black trench coat stood in front of him, aiming his pistol at Ben’s head. Everyone else on the bridge had carefully placed holes on their foreheads. Ben looked up. And then he laughed
- Nick. And I thought they locked you up.
But Nick was calm. He remembered how it was to board Rheinland ships, to take on literally everyone by himself. This time around, they weren’t highly trained Rheinwehr troops - they were smugglers. Motivated by his loss, fueled by anger, he took on Bleak Ben’s liner and killed almost everyone on board, only leaving the slaves alive. Bleak Ben’s life was now in his hands.
- You knew.
Ben sat down on the grated floor, leaning on a control desk and exhaling in laughter.
- You know, at first, I had no idea that she’s your wife. Oh, but the way her face crumped up when she saw your file!
Nick just stood there. He was way past being emotional about Cynthia’s death. He was now on a mission. With a tough kick in his face, Nick knocked Ben out and towed his weighty body to the control panel. Their dialogue provided enough time for the power core to reboot itself, turning on the propulsion and life support. All Nick had to do is to set it on the auto-pilot. Turning off the shields, he chose Huntsville as the ship’s destination. He looked around. A liner full of slaves with one of Liberty’s biggest criminal bosses, heading straight for Huntsville. Nick sighed out in relief. His mission was now complete.
The hangar bay was repaired by nanobots, with his bomber docked in, safe and sound. It was time for him to leave.
***
He woke up on the same iron bench that he spent the last couple of days on. There could be no pleasant dreams among the dead, but it's something he got used to. Unlike Houston, Denver's air was less arid, especially outside of urban areas. Still, he could not let go of the idea of being separated from his wife. Her smiling face, her big green eyes were engraved onto a tombstone, unlike many other residents of this graveyard, who had holographic images of their past selves.
He crumpled up a sandwich envelope and chugged the last drops of beer. Today was a new day. Giving her grave his last farewell, he stood up and walked towards the exit. Shaman’s Fortune was only the beginning of his new path.