Well troops, been sloshing around a bit, and got asked an interesting question by none other than the Lord 'o Liberty himself, Mr. Turkish: Can it come back?
I dunno, meself. I'd like it, running drugs were the good old days, and I remember them well. I think with the current folks of all stripes running cargoes in large ships, a return of the camara and B-Moth fleet could be good. There's loads more small trading ships out there, and a bunch more random fighters for the escort wing. A real "rag-tag trading fleet", running guns and drugs back to the masses. I'm sure the SF< QCO, and QCP would love to see us...
So, for those that remember: Are ye in? For those that don't: Do some research!
-Kingpin, back aboard the King's Carnival
EDIT: Just to clarify, I don't intend for this to become a "faction" again, as I can't run two at once, and with official-ness comes responsibility, and who'd want that?
Jack Handey Wrote:I can picture in my mind a world without war, a world without hate. And I can picture us attacking that world, because they'd never expect it.
A match flickers in the dark, and a face appears in the gloom, lit from below by a long, thick cigar
We are London Drugs Inc. Former members of the Cryer Pharmecuticals "Enforcement" Team, all of us, and a poor team we were. The local magistrate had just decided that a bunch of bums in ragged coats wasn't worth keeping on the payroll, unless we did this one little job. Apparently, someone had hijacked the latest shipment of anti-rad meds to some colony off in the wilds of northern Kusari. We set out, with our ragged ships and poor nav data, into the darkness of space. After a couple of weeks, we had became hoplessley lost, and stumbled into a dead system, a neutron star on the fringes.
Strange blips appeared on our sensor boards, and as we closed, we found a few dozen odd looking ships. When our boarding party entered the vessels, we discovered that no man had set foot on those vessels in years. Robots manned the consoles, Oxygen was nowhere to be seen, and not a sound was heard. When the Ships computer banks were pressed, it was discovered that the strange Ships were called 'X-Shuttles', and that they were a secret Kusari Government Project. As to what the ships were doing there, and why no humans were aboard, the computer had no clue. It did, however, have another little tidbit for us, in the form of... Cardemene. The holds of every single ship was stocked to the gunwales with the stuff, and more filled the spare spaces of every vessel. A Kings ransom, and who were we to say no? What were we, but poor, lost spacers? Spacers with a healthy knowledge of how things work in a cutthroat drug Trade... and now, the ships to trade it with.
So, we took those ships, leaving our old rustbuckets behind. Two men could run one in combat, and only one was needed in a pinch. Fifteen X-Shuttles, with a fortune in drugs, bought us all the weapons we needed, from Nova Torpedoes to Nuclear Mines, we were armed to the teeth, now all we needed was a port. Trafalgar Base, in New London, looked to be a likely harbor. The Junkers had no objection, two of our shuttles outgunned the entire base, and they like smuggling as much as any freelancer. The Junkers even had a supply of compatible spare parts, although where they’d come from, no one could remember.
A slow smile spread itself across his face, and he seemed to brim with a magnificent glee
Then, the fun started. We could outgun any fighter the bounty hunters or the police could throw at us, and massed fire could down even a destroyer. Battleships were few and far between, and we could always run. Cambridge research always needed a few Nomad Bits, and it seems everyone and their uncle was addicted to Something that we sold. We began to drift apart, there was rarely any need for even two ships to stick together anymore, and several pilots headed out for spaces unknown, in search of lucrative deals and fresh horizons. Life was good, and the money was rolling in.
But, a problem soon arose. The SF, as they were called, had an annoying habit of calling for us to drop our cargoes, and we staked everything on our reputation, ‘Deliver or Die’. After nearly half a dozen of us were lost to contraband patrols, we banded together again, and formed a company, an ‘association of businessmen’ if you will. London Drugs, Incorporated. We started moving in packs, carrying bigger guns, and blowing up the competition before they knew we were coming. We control the contraband trade within Bretonia, no one else. I was elected ‘Director of Sales’, by unanimous vote… and by that I mean I was fastest on the draw.
A low chuckle spread throught the room, as he stubbed his cigar on the table and stood.
There you have. My tale, as it is, and as it continues. Want some Synth?
Jack Handey Wrote:I can picture in my mind a world without war, a world without hate. And I can picture us attacking that world, because they'd never expect it.
bloody ship got taken away from me due to some debts i incurred to the outcasts (hadnt logged in forever). damn cardamine eh... haha
well i will be back was able to get a starflyer off a buddy of mine, ill be up again. Just look for Fowler, but if you get this as a little consortium again i wll gladly add LD inc to my call sign.
LD|Inc.Fowler -------> [TAZ]Heinlein's.Heart
Me picture there is of myself in the middle, Shamus (R.I.F-23) on the right, and my good friend Baldrick.
As the Kingpin made his appearance, he was being watched. From a distance, but not so far as not to be within reach, so to speak. A man rarely seen, but known and trusted for a long time. He was known only as Zephyr. Another former Cryer Security man. His specialty was testing security and infiltration. For the last few months he'd been following his old boss. Something told him he'd be needed again. So he tracked the old man down. Lavish life the man made for himself. Nothing like the stoic room he kept. The bathroom in the Kingpins home was bigger than the apartment Zephyr kept. The drugs had been good to the Kingpin.
To Zephyr too, till he tried to open a legit business. Within a year the Bretonian government had found reason after reason to close him down. His club was closed and he left Planet Ayr, yet again. He'd gone and dealt for a while again. Reconnecting with old associates. Setting up a networkfor his future trade. He knew they'd be back. The money was too good. The thrill too great, to leave forever.
Now, he was standing there. Looking at the man that could pull it all back together. Watching to see if he'd changed. The wars had changed many. Still more had gone missing or died. Many more still, had been locked away.
He had been one of the lucky ones. Or so he told himself. Now it was happening. He hopped down from the roof he'd been perched on. His heavy blasters bouncing in thier well worn holsters. Barely a sound as he hit the ground. even though he'd been over 15 feet in the air. His stealth was assured, he knew.
He made his way inside. Quickly mingling with the crowd, his clothes made him a bit out of place, among the suits and gowns around him. Even more the blasters on his hips.
Nobody seemed alarmed by his passing. That too was a talent he had honed. Walk into a room and own it, noone will doubt your position. It had saved him many times.
Quietly, he slipped up the stairs in the kitchen. The cooks arguing loudly about the amount of garlic needed in the dish being prepared.
Up a small winding stair, barely wider than his shoulders. He made his way to teh third story. He worked his way down a few halls and around turn after turn. Unerring with his plans, he quickly gained the private study of the Kingpin.
He worked the lock with little hesitation, and less hassle. His skilled fingers deftly twisting and probing the lock.
There was a grand desk, with a large chair behind it. He poured a drink from the nearby bar, and settled into the chair to await the Kingpins return.