The unlikely pair stood in front of a dockside warehouse, a giant rectangle of worn sheet metal, blasted by the relentless wind and all-intrusive sand of Dentares. An ill-used doorway stood before them, tempting entrance as the two debated their next action.
"Are ya' sure this is a good idea?"
"No. Am I ever sure about anything?"
"So we're doin' it…why?"
"We need the money. We burned the last few hunnerd creds on hyperjuice when we set down. We'll need at least a thou to make it for another month – Feds're gettin' mighty afeared a' missin' out on system tolls nowadays. The glory days for us Tradecitizens are well past." The speaker paused for a moment, facing his comrade-in-arms with a rare solemnity, "This deal don't come through, we're cooked." Tradecitizens were the folks who lived as part of yet separate from that grand Confederation that spanned across the stars, able to call upon the protection of that government, but unable to call any star within it their home, doomed to wander from planet to planet forever. The only home they knew was the vastness between.
"There'll be more jobs. Always are. More legal ones too."
"But none that pay this much. The fence I got this suit's name off of said she had ten thou as an askin' price – can you say that much for anythin' on the light side o' the law? That'll keep us spaceside for the better part of a year – we'd even be able ta' repair that buzz in the drives that ya' keep goin' on about." His comrade, a relaxed-looking woman in her mid-thirties, though streaks of silvery gray glinting amidst a pool a chestnut brown hair aged her further yet in some folks' eyes, sighed and considered the thought for a moment, resigning herself as Reeve's logic ensnared her.
She didn't like gunrunning in the least…just wasn't her thing – wasn't Reeve's either…well…sort of. People got killed now and then, but she wasn't going to help anyone kill anyone else if she could help it, and Reeve, well, he was Reeve and woe betide who got in his way, but he was a nice enough sort so long as you didn't provoke him…too much. She had known him for a good while – a couple of Earth years now – but rare was the time that they talked on anything but business. Partners meant more money than usual, and that was all. She was the pilot, and that was good enough for her – 'twas the gift that let her to stretch her arms out and find that they had sprouted wings, skins of metal that freed her to fly away from her shadowed past and dance among the distant stars. She shuddered at the thought as her dark past reached forward to envelop her again, wrenching herself back to the task at hand before the ancient fear could envelope her.
Gunrunning…well, dying and killing someone you don't like was personal business, but creds were creds. Without money, they didn't fly. No flying meant sitting on this rock until she died of old age or starvation, whichever came first to a prisoner without hope of bail. Setting her mouth in a firm line at the thought, she shook her head and motioned her partner onward. No way that she'd be caught staying in the middle of no-where without a danged thing to do for the rest of her life – and besides…tangling with Fed patrols made life interesting.
With the squeal of ill-used and sand-clogged metal hinges ringing in their ears, the pair pulled open the door and walked inside.
The blood-red light of Dentares's single setting sun came down to meet the two traders, trickling in through the warehouse's open-air ceiling and filtering through a maze of storage crates to find them and throw long shadows upon the disreputable duo as they walked down the artificial passageways. That dim and distant sun shone eerily in the evening sky as night began to pickpocket day, stealing every last trace of light left in the world as darkness began its daily invasion. Evening was slow in approaching, but steadily the day began to grow darker, a trademark of the dark and often less than legal dealings that took place in the boundary of day and night. The dealer they were going to meet was a nice sort (well, she could be a nice sort – when she wasn't killing folk anyway) as arms traders went, but it was still a good idea to keep a smile on your face and both eyes on her at all times to keep a knife from getting you in the back. Well…a knife or a five-millimeter bullet – whichever she felt more like using.
The two who visited her today – Reeve and Jamie – knew this well…more than one person had told them a tale or two of how they had walked into an arms deal with a partner and emerged with a full share of the profits…and one less person beside them.
Reeve was an untrustworthy, undependable, good-for-nothing mercenary who was, of course, perfectly loyal to any with any credits to buy his services. His manner was obvious in the casual way that that he marched down the tunnel, his trenchcoat wide open, a light kinetic repeater belted as an unspoken threat at his hip, and, like his partner, a pair of large, flat, and empty sacks on his back. In other words, he was utterly worthy of any man's trust, which was exactly why the woman that he traveled to see trusted him only as far as she could throw him…well…less than that…considerably less actually. She was strong enough to outdo most of the barroom brawlers who frequented the nearby tavern…not that they knew it…her enforcers did the dirty work.
Jamie was a different story; she had a subtle air to her, a seeming of awareness that radiated outward, reaching into even the deepest shadow. Her eyes were everywhere yet no where, appearing immobile but picking out every last detail in the labyrinth-like arrangement of massive storage crates about her. The distant light of the sun could be seen through them, an ominous beacon in the twilight. Her grease-stained, formerly brown baggy pants, lined with pockets for various odds and ends and a sea blue long-sleeved shirt, the singeing upon it making it look almost polka-dotted with flecks of ash, didn't appear to hold any weapon or even suggest the bulge of a hidden comm unit ready to call in the calvary. Even so, her manner gave the impression of constant ease, and in the world of the smuggler such a thing almost undoubtedly meant that she had a gun pointed at you – you just didn't know it yet.
Both of them came to the end of the corridor in the same instant, coming to a sudden stop as they did. The blunt muzzle of a five-millimeter kinetic repeater staring a body straight in the eyes can do that.
"State'cher business." The grizzled and gray face was held an arm's length behind the dead black of the gun, a bored expression on his grim visage that dared the buccaneers to try something that would give the hired gun cause to liven things up a little bit. Not enough people tried funny business anymore in his opinion…they were too scared for their own skins to try. Made his job awfully boring, but he was paid enough that he kept his mouth tightly shut about the matter.
"We're meetin' with Miz Leila – we got a business proposition to work out. She knows-" Reeve replied in an easy tone, his voice light and his hands well away from his gun, the one that he wore openly anyway, and clasped behind his back to keep from provoking a certain trigger finger sitting all too close to his face.
"Yeah, whatever. Kim' on then." The old-timer remembered the appointment from a day ago and interrupted Reeve swiftly, recognizing the pair's faces from the descriptions and pictures given by his employer and motioning them on ahead with the silent, short, and menacing barrel of his handgun. As much as he liked funny business he preferred to stay on the side that was still standing afterward. Even better – he liked to make sure that he had a gun in his hand at that moment.
Reeve glared at him, annoyed at the older man's impertinence, before striding ahead into the maze – not many were able to argue with the logic of an automatic weapon. The sentry padded along swiftly and silently a few steps behind the pair, a slight frown cracking his stony exterior as he kept his weapon trained on their backs. These folks were too well-behaved for Leila to shoot them...well, she wouldn't actually shoot them. She'd ask him to do the honors, a duty that he would carry out with pleasure.
He called out directions as they approached branches in the maze of storage containers, leading the them to an atrium, a clearing in the forest of metal before ordering them to halt. He told them to wait for a moment before he disappeared into the maze along a hidden pathway to find his employer. As Reeve turned around, a hand drifting casually toward his repeater as he checked carefully about himself, Jamie tapped his shoulder, calling his attention forward again to see their contact step out from behind a storage crate, the light breeze playing with loose strands of black hair, swinging to and fro above her shirt of midnight black. She was dressed from head to toe in similarly colored cloth, another trademark of weapons dealers, a holdover from the time when those of their calling met only in the silent black of deep nights. Government scansats and the local militia had turned the night from a refuge into a killing ground, forcing her trade and those who practiced it into the light – sort of.
"What's the load?" Tapping his weapon as if his drifting hand was naught but a casual reflex, Reeve was about to speak when Jamie stepped forward and began talking, dispensing with the formalities and cutting straight to the point without prelude. The arms dealer, backed now by a quartet of bodyguards armed with blank gray rifles of various – and in some cases quite imposing – sizes, smiled cheerlessly and snapped her fingers before crossing her arms and waiting. A pair of dust-covered workers hauled a desert-tan, rectangular storage trunk – a bare four feet in length in and topping off just beneath Jamie's knee – in front of her and laid it carefully to the ground. A booted foot kicked the loose cover from the box, revealing its contents.
Reeve whistled in appreciation for the fine firearms displayed before him. Six Magworks Mk. 7 bolters, packed in their transparent tamperproof wrappings with two full magazines of ammunition each – not too shabby at all…he might even be tempted to snatch one for himself before this venture was ended. The gauss weapons were among the finest – and most expensive – produced and sold on the black (another adjective that he never did care about) market. The dealer glanced warily at him, noticing his appreciative gaze.
"The buyer knows how many I'm shipping. Git it wrong, and you'll find out what it feels like to be on the receiving end of ones of those. The dubious honor, you might say. Fail to deliver, and the honor will find you. Hunt you, if you will." Her eyebrows raised a notch as Reeve coolly returned her blank look, his hand lying casually at his side not far from his repeater. He made a swift reply.
"Where's the fence?"
"Tripoli. He'll meet you behind the Southside dock – the number four hyperjuice substation – three days oh-eight-twenty local time." The pair considered that fact for a moment – three days…doable, but tough. They'd be eating their antimatter up at a prodigious rate to make the Raven move that fast between stars, but it could be done. The likely payoff would more than offset the fuel annied – annihilated – to kick their jumpdrive into action. Of course…that begged the question…
"What's the payoff?"
"Never thought ya'd ask." The dealer, her shadowy arm hard to distinguish in the dim twilight against her black shirt, reached into an unseen pocket to fish out a small cloth sack, tied shut at the top, jingling it with a practiced wrist before tossing it across to Jamie. The trader immediately fingered the top open and poured a couple of the metallic credits into her hand before sliding them back into the bag. Not a bad haul – the weight suggested at least eight or nine more of the coins within, each one worth a half-thousand credits each…enough to buy themselves out of a midsize jail. Not bad at all. "Five thou now, three on delivery. Call it insurance." Jamie frowned at the dealer's price…the job had been advertised as more. Given the quality of the goods, it was worth more too. These puppies weren't the most legal things in the world to be caught hauling.
"I'd say ten now, and seven on delivery. Feds catch us and we're in deep pudu. So're you."
"Five now, three on delivery."
"Nine point five and seven. Beatin' a Fed patrol boat ain't child's play if you don't know how like I do. Won't find a better boat in the 'verse."
"I can and will if need be. Fi-" The quiet air was suddenly shredded by the shriek of antigrav jets as a deep shadow enfolded them, startling the weapons dealer from her haggling and into shock for the briefest of moments as her bodyguards looked up sharply, tracing the source of the sudden disturbance. Jamie – hastily stuffing away the money pouch in a pocket – and Reeve reacted in their compatriots' moment of hesitation, dashing forward and making a grab for as many of the rifles as each could carry, swiftly stuffing them into rucksacks and bolting, tell-tale zip-lines dropping sinuously from the hovering craft above. With the whine of descenders, a troop of militiamen started to pour downward upon the lines from the dropship, its worn paint job of white on faded green identifying it as a well-worn dropship of the Confederation militia.
Cursing her luck, the dealer dashed away as well, her bodyguards following swiftly with terror in their eyes as they ran after with sand and dust flying from their heels. However, the more intrepid – or foolish ones – tarried long enough let off a quick string of shots, rifles cracking in the evening air, at the figures high above before running. Most of the small rounds bounced ineffectually off of the tough ceramic plating of the dropship or buzzed eagerly away into the cooling night air, but a lucky (or unlucky) three supersonic beads tapped one of the swiftly descending soldiers solidly, knocking him upward and backward as they punched through a gap in the bottom of his chest armor. The short remainder of his life was spent in sheer and utter agony, his weapon falling from his nerveless hands as his blasted stomach bled acid, scorching his insides as scarlet blood rained down, a hot drizzle upon the open warehouse. Answering shots began to crack in the evening air as fire began to rain down from the dropping militiamen, lethal replies to the open invitation that had killed one of their own.
Reeve and Jamie got separated almost immediately, taking different routes as they both dashed as fast as they could out of the maze with their sacks of loot slung on their backs and clutched tightly as they ran headlong down the twisting corridors. Reeve ran for a back entrance that he had noticed when he had cased the joint the day before. It was always good to have an escape route in case things went furry.
Rounding the last bend – there was only a bare fifteen seconds worth of run between the door and safety – and breathing hard, Reeve saw the barrel of a Fed's rifle sticking out from behind one of the crates, the barrel growing longer as its owner swiveled to cover the alleyway. Barely pausing in his headlong flight, Reeve shifted his heavy load and ripped his repeater from its quick-release holster and dashed straight for the soldier who would dare to waylay him. Whipping sideways to avoid the other's rifle, he unloaded the gun's lethal payload into the side of the surprised irregular's helmet with a flick of a finger, shattering the display glass in a heartbeat and a shower of shadow-like shards and hot, gray semisolids that didn't bare thinking about. Blood pooled about the dead body and the mercenary kicked open the door, swept the alleyway behind the warehouse with a quick eye, holstered his repeater, and ran for the safety of a groundcar parked nearby. He didn't much care for Feds – didn't much care for killing them either, but if it was to be his life or a marshal's…and it sure as anything wasn't going to be his.
Arriving quickly at the well-used, formerly white vehicle now faded into a dun brown from the dust, he noticed that the militia was keeping to the warehouse; the tell-tale cracks of numerous firefights showing their troubles. There wasn't any question of which the victor would be…discretion was the better part of valor for those who lived outside the law. Those who could run away did so with alacrity before they could be tagged with a barbed and nigh impossible to remove homing dart or the final love tap of a bullet. Those who didn't or couldn't do so suffered death, capture, or – for those unlucky few – both.
The groundcar started at his hurried touch, its engine purring to life as the displays booted and began to blink into existence with their maps and readouts. Smiling tightly – his backup plan had worked the first time it had been tested…not a bad start to a track record at all – Reeve engaged the drive and pulled gently out of the alleyway and onto the street, blending into the other and much more respectable traffic on the road for a few blocks before pulling out of their meager company and parking next to the city's docks – an open-air strip where they had landed the previous day.
The Raven was parked right where he had left it – and better yet – without a Fed in sight. Reeve grinned as he peered about cautiously – things had gone a good deal smoother than expected. Sure he had killed a Fed on the way out of that deal-gone-south, but he had the merchandise – some of it anyhow – and what was a Fed…more or less? There were always more where that one came from. All that mattered was finding a fence to get him some creds to tide him over 'till the next job. He couldn't go to Tripoli – not without the full load of cargo. That'd be asking for death, but he might be able to scare up a pal or two in the shadier regions of Farland only a couple of jumps away.
The Raven wasn't pretty, but she'd get the job done if you treated her right. Her gray bulk sat quietly in its cradle, elliptical in shape, short on amenities, and long on nooks and crannies to hide illegal cargo in. She had a pair of engine nacelles topside, built into the upper fuselage and visible only as a pair of blisters that flattened out into exhaust ports. A pair of swept wings folded cleanly into the fuselage not far below the nacelles, extending during atmospheric flight to add their repulsor-jets to aid in controlling the ship. A ramp extended from the front to the ground, a thick section of mean, gray metal long since stripped of any paint that it might have once had. Reeve's combat boots rang loudly on it as he quickly scaled its length, turning to punch the 'bang button' as he did so – a key that would send the ship into an automatic startup sequence, buttoning up all of its entrances as it did so, when a familiar yell made him hesitate and sigh.
Jamie…looking alive, well, and running toward the foot of the shallow ramp with a pair of bulging rucksacks bouncing on her back behind her matted brown hair, strands thick with hot red blood.
She had somehow escaped – not without taking a Fed for herself or so said the scarlet blood staining and dripping from her shirtfront, pants, hands, and face. A significant amount of it too…what HAD she been doing – it wasn't like she was armed or anything. Even so…nothing that she could have possibly concealed could have made that much of a mess! If there was, he wanted to know about it. He wasn't adverse to a person being good at killing folk, but he preferred to know that fact in advance. Peaceable (relatively peaceable anyhow) folk didn't just go around murdering people, and it made him a mite nervous when they did.
"Go!" Jamie shouted as she dashed up the metal of the ramp, making considerably less noise than Reeve in her softer leather boots as the ramp wheezed its way upward on its aged hydraulics and the ship itself began to come to life. Dropping the twin sacks to the ground, the mercenary immediately dashed for the cockpit stairs, scaling them two at a time and flinging herself into the worn – and in some places worn through – pilot's seat and strapping in hastily as the computer ran through its final checks. Flicking warm blood from her hands, Jamie tapped a few commands into the console, plotting their preplanned egress course into the navicomp and checking over the ship's vitals as Reeve strapped himself in behind and to her right at a secondary console.
With a roar of power, the elongated lump of dark gray metal jumped from the low cradle that had held it secure for its brief visit, blasting upward on an invisible plume of thrust before it was thrown back and up to altitude. Jamie then swung her skillfully around, snapping open the wings and engaging their embedded repulsorlifts as the ship twisted about to bring its nose into line with the ascent, tossing the Raven higher and higher. A pull on the yoke brought the ship's nose back into a nigh vertical climb as the main engines spun to screaming life, keening in a hypersonic hum as they gained power and shot the small cargo ship into the starlit darkness far above.
Jamie leveled the Raven on a course toward the edge of the system's jumplimit, pulling the sublight engines back from full takeoff power to a much lower cruise output. They could coast for most of the way between here and there, and there wasn't really much to do until then. Locking the trajectory and acceleration into the computer, she started the charging sequence for the jumpdrive annie-capacitor. It wouldn't be too much longer until the jump-point – only a fifteen minutes or so. Turning from her console, she unlocked her shock restraints with one bloody hand before standing and moving for the ladder. She had to get this blood washed off…it was starting to get sticky.
Then she stopped in midstride, sighing heavily as she looked at Reeve…who happened to be pointing the black muzzle of his repeater directly at her face.
"Ya'
got some explainin' to do."
"Later." Reeve shook his head
once, keeping the gun trained on her barely a pace away.
"Now. How the heck are ya still alive? Ya went in there with no weapon, and came out only with the mag-guns in your sack and lookin' like ya went swimming in a pool of guts. If ya gots somethin' ta' tell me, ye'd best do so now - I don't like havin' a rogue railgun aboard my boat that I don't know about." Jamie looked at him curiously, then wickedly as her expression grew nigh demonic.
"Do ya really want to know?" Reeve looked at her oddly, knowing that she had no gun on her...and what other explanation could she provide? Even a weapon that could be secreted somewhere on her lithe frame wouldn't come close to getting through the armor that he was wearing anyhow – low profile body armor was among the best stuff ever made.
"Uh…yeah…"
"OK." The proceeding motion – which was all it was…a single movement – took Reeve completely by surprise. Jamie's entire body was in one place…then a buzzing force-knife appeared at his throat, his gun arm forced wide by her free arm as she took a lunging jump-step forward, "That's how. I'm goin' below now." Holding him there for a moment longer, the fighter switched off the knife, its holographic blade vanishing along with the buzzing force-field that made its threat so potent. With a gentle push, she set him out of the way, smiled, and stepped onto the metal mesh of the stairway, descending from the cockpit with a deadly air about her, a dagger wrapped in the softest silk.
"OK…I'm satisfied." Reeve's voice came out small and rather late well after the mystery woman had left. That demonstration was much more than he had expected…who – or WHAT – was she? Sure as anything no one who was going to be staying on his boat. There was no way in the 'verse that he'd be caught living with someone that…insane – no one could move that fast, no one would dare use a force-knife as a weapon – not with gun-armed folk going around, and no one could kill as she had – a person that he had never seen slay another in all their time together nor do so much as threaten another's life – yet there she was. It was going to be him or her…and it sure as anything wasn't going to be him.
With a hand made still by terror Reeve holstered his snub-nosed repeater before glancing down into the hold, making sure that that…thing…had left, before leaning back into the cockpit. He would have to plan this, and carefully. Glancing down at the console for inspiration, the mercenary suddenly grinned. That could work – the escape pods. The Raven had a pair of them leftover from her previous owner. Reeve and Jamie hadn't gotten desperate enough to sell them yet, so there they sat, installed, prepared, and ready for instant use. He had a shockgun and a charge pack – should be at least halfway full of juice – for it lying around somewhere…if he could catch her by surprise it wouldn't be much of a job to dump her in a pod and shoot her off into space.
It wasn't worth wasting good ammo in her carcass. Once he spaced her and started pulling down his own income, food, water, fuel, and maintenance would rank higher on his list of priorities than bullets – much higher.
Reeve knelt, still as shadow and ten times quieter, with a (formerly) Fed shockrifle in his hands. He had prepped the weapon in record time, installing the power pack and running through the diagnostic routines as fast as his fingers could manipulate the controls and his mind comprehend the results. The pod was all set to go – or so the readouts said. Everything was ready…all he needed was a victim, and so he waited patiently for his soon-to-be-ex-partner to step from the safety of her quarters – the hatches were set off to either side of the cargo bay, his on the left, hers on the right. He had left a message for her to come to the cockpit to strap in for the jump – the computer would take the Raven into jumpspace in about two minutes and the transition was rough enough to want to be strapped in. The cockpit was arguably the safest place in the ship to do so.
The hatch to her quarters clanked open noisily on its rails, the shockgun muzzle coming swiftly upward in response, its sights aligning on the open hatch about six or seven meters away. He was well off to the side and hidden behind a couple of packing crates – there was no way that she could see him. Tensing as he waited for his target to appear, Reeve could just barely hear the swish of her boots on the cool metal of the deckplate…and then she appeared in his sights, glancing to both sides before moving one foot toward the cockpit but hesitating as she put it down, her eyes coming to rest on his.
Frozen for a split second in shock as their eyes met, Reeve recovered quickly, his trigger finger clamping down instantly on the firing stud even as Jamie started to move, realizing the fate that he intended for her. However, before she had moved but a step, a bolt of purple-blue lightning arced from the emitter at the end of the shockgun's stubby barrel to meet her, crossing the distance between the two former partners in the blink of an eye and a crack of thunder. Jamie didn't have a chance – electricity blasted through her lithe frame and paralyzed her for the barest of moments, a cry of agony echoing from the cargo hold's walls as the charge racked her body. Stumbling forward as she lost her balance, the mercenary started falling to the floor as Reeve smiled in relief. That had gone very well indeed.
At which moment Jamie promptly did a somersault, springing like a crouching tiger as her feet came back under her, and leapt for her hunter, a force-knife appearing in her hand as if by magic. Reeve – all reason lost to the void as he regarded the human missile barreling toward him – brought the shockgun and fired on instinct, the bolts of lightning leaving behind the acrid stench of ozone as they arced through the air. The bolts struck home twice, once in the back as she somersaulted then in the chest as she lunged for him, thunder rolling in laughter at Reeve's impending doom.
Reeve watched the force-knife grow closer as if in slow motion as its distinctive shape caught his eye, his finger freezing on the trigger stud as the shockgun's power pack abruptly died with a soft click as the trigger relay failed to bring forth another power surge. And then, in a clatter of materiel and metal, they fell to the floor, Jamie on top with a force-knife locked in her grip, its invisible edge aligned with her ex-partner's throat. Reeve blinked as he regarded the scene, suspecting himself to be already dead – they had always said that there was a lack of pain in the afterlife. Why didn't he get the instant slideshow of his life flashing before his eyes, though? There were some things that he really had wanted to see again if he died…hey…wait a moment.
There was a distinct lack of blood here.
Shifting himself and rolling Jamie to the said, Reeve noticed that the knife was off – probably fried by the repeated shockgun blasts. He glanced at Jamie, noting her condition with a sense of joy. She appeared to be locked in the rigid grasp of electrically induced paralysis…finally. What the heck had happened? Shockguns were supposed to bring folk down on the first shot…not the third. Last time he got caught using one…good ol' beads were much less temperamental, if more permanent.
Grabbing her arm in haste and letting the shockgun be, Reeve quickly half-dragged half-carried the paralyzed mercenary to the closest escape pod, cycling the hatch as quickly as he could, tossing the body inside and sealing the pod in hurried motions. They'd be hitting the jumplimit soon – it was time for him to be well and out of here while his clear jump lane was still in existence.
Flicking open the manual launch panel and scanning the telltales, Reeve checked that they were all in the green as a matter of routine before tapping out the launch sequence. He wasn't in the market to kill anyone…just to rid himself of a potential menace. The charges were prepped, the pod severed from the ship's systems, and then, with a final muffled explosion, the escape pod was blasted into the vastness of space, its occupant becoming aware of her surroundings again as it did so. Reeve smiled in victory – he had freed himself of that madwoman…and now only had to split the profits one way off of this gunrunning venture. The perks never ended.
Picking up the fallen shockgun and returning to the cockpit with a swift stride and an easy smile, Reeve strapped himself in with the rifle on his lap, noting the countdown timer's readout – ten seconds until jump.
Nine…eight…seven…six…five…four…three…two…one…"jump."
The stars blurred as antimatter met matter and channeled the resultant energy into a massive 'bubble,' bending spacetime like putty until two points met and the Raven blasted away into the vastness between, into the singularity that its generators had just created, flashing from one point in space to another in virtually no time at all, traversing nigh two dozen light years – the outer limits of the jumpdrive's safety range – in the blink of an eye.
The stars faded back into pinpricks and the g-forces came off, letting Reeve relax in his chair as he looked merrily out into the vastness only to be interrupted by the insistent chirp of his proximity warning scanners. Glancing over to the panel and then out of the cockpit window in alarm, his eyes lit upon on distant silver figures dancing in the far-off light of the sun as they approached the Raven with truly frightening speed. His comm systems began to speak, interrupting his reverie.
"Raven, this is the Intrepid of Confederation Patrol Group Sigma. Cut your sublights and heave to on thrusters for boarding. Non-compliance will result in destruction. You are under arrest for smuggling." Growling in anger, his former good mood in tatters, Reeve was sufficiently moved by the threat to comply. There wasn't any way that he could get out of this one…not at this sort of base speed coming out of a jump. Arrested for smuggling, though? More like, arrested for making a living.
Jamie's escape pod drifted aimlessly through space, its thrusters no more use than the cold metal of their nozzles as their tiny fuel supply burned out in six minutes of constant thrust. She had been released with too high of a base speed to counteract it on mere reentry thrusters. Sighing as she resigned herself to waiting for someone to come and pick her up – it wasn't like she was too far out from the jump limit…Feds came out this far…especially for the emergency beacon that she had pushing out a signal at max power. She stretched her lanky arms in the cramped pod, bumping her hand as she tried to wrest the last of the discomforting aftereffects of the shockgun blasts from her muscles. It had hurt worse than…well, a lot…for a good while after he had shot her. The Feds were making those guns way too effective in her opinion. She hadn't even been able to move until she had felt the jettison charge go off. Even her bag of tricks hadn't kept more than two blasts from affecting her unduly.
Curse that Reeve! Why'd he have to go and do that…it wasn't as if she was going to kill him or anything. He just got spooked far too easily – she should have seen it coming. Oh well…bygones were bygones, but Reeve would die if they met again.
An abrupt clunk and the warning klaxon of the proximity alarm brought her musings to a halt as she glanced out of the pod's small window as a finger strayed to the sensor panel absentmindedly to deactivate the warning. Sighting on a suddenly too-close ship of black metal, she gasped, her face slowly warping into a smile, as she recognized the blazon sketched on the side. She could work with these people. A living was a living.
Pirates.