"A Typical Jackpot"

Frontier socnets always come in two parts: the friends you bet your life on, and the enemies who are currently your friends.

Me, I'm a lone wolf. And I've got one of the biggest socnets in town.

As it turns out, the town is crawling with brigands and 'bels. Its moniker of Atropos is most apropos- stay here long enough, and you're inexorably going to get your life cut short. There's that damn symbolism again. This miserable little planetoid is famous for its ne'er-do-wells, and the openness of said residents. About twelve or so pirate nations ranging from a mid-sized family cruiser to five planetary systems intersect at this hub, and they make a killing of currency by trading with Seditionaries and other outcasts. It's one of the few places on the frontier where you can curse Gam-Cee in the middle of a crowded municipal plaza and get away with it.

Of course, there's always a twist. This place ain't no pirate's nest. The funny thing is, the whole operation's a hundred percent legit. A Sheriff rules the roost here, and that's a good a pass from the Colonial Authority as if a stateholder from the GAMDC owned a mine here.

He's corrupt, one of the very few I've ever seen. Not that sheriffs are usually paragons of integrity. They're just usually too lazy and shiftless to be anything else than ineffectually moral. This fellow, he's the warlord type, complete with slave-built palace and a private jackboot army. The closest Federal presence outside the system is on Akio around Guiron, an ex-Sed regional power that's boiled over and is now the responsibility of an overworked military governor. No ships will be diverted to handle Atropos, pop. two million.

But a crooked sheriff is still an unsightly grass stain on a hyena's hide, a blemish that the Colonial Authority didn't authorize. Should a good citizen catch wind of this rat hole, there's bound to be some sort of activity by any of the Unholy Triad. And there probably are; Secret Ops folks are just as skilled as a freelancer schmill like me at bringing down a system from within, and much cheaper than an armada of army men or company security forces (i.e. mercenaries).

And that's the crux of it. As I walk between these faded white, adobe-like lean-tos and entire rascas filled with not office workers but dirty brigands, I'm currently at the consummate legal black hole of the galaxy.

The sheriff's not just a decorated veteran Alien-fighter and an illegitimate son of a highup Stateholder- he's the owner of the largest assemblage of lawyers outside the Terra system, even including the G-8 territories. The gatekeepers of military law, his posse includes many of the best colonial attorneys of recent years. They've got their own castles on Nottingham Hill, within fortress walls they received pro bono and protected by him religiously as they guard him litigiously in Atropos' weird nova-feudalism. He pays them well for keeping any action against him purely corporate, judicial, and discreet.

GAMDC can't and won't lift a finger against him, and the Colonial Authority takes its cues from that company, anyway. The military/mega-conglomerate got its own self-symbiotic identity crisis to worry about. G-8 doesn't care about a twisted lawman, since they and the rest of Earth thinks anything farther than Lusistania is full of uncivilized barbarians or Gam-Cee corporatist lackeys. The UNSA's got too many human rights abuses to handle in the interior, hell in the Solar System, anyways.

So the sheriff got to his position through nepotism and bureaucratic, legalistic wrangling. The neo-neo-Confucian Sinos of Tianzhou would be proud.

So I'm free to mingle in the greatest array of scumbags and villeins in officially lawful space. It's the Merchant Freeport of legal crime, which is to say at the end of the day it's not that different, a change in color scheme, that's all. The sun and soil is bleached white, terraformed, but still bleak and lifeless. The place is successful, though. Promises of free water and plenty of real estate have brought everyone to town, lawless and some lawful alike. The sheriff likes Colonial Authority public servants, since if they try to prosecute they'll end up being the perpetrators. Wacky world.

The fellows he truly doesn't like are the freelance do-gooders; bounty hunters, white bag assassins, raider scourers, and of course pirate killers. We're not cronies, and we're not harmless. He loves independent journalists, since anything they play is censored in Terran space and perpetuates harmful stereotypes he supports in Earth space. Free publicity, and all that. But us mercenaries with hearts of gold present a dangerous break in the paradigm, we bust it right up. And some of us actually believe in scruples, can you dig it?

Last time you heard from me my hat was a casualty and I wore an astrosuit instead. While that's fashionable in some locales, I prefer my new costume my hirers gave to me instead. It's not quite… contemporary, but it'll have to do. No one tends to take you seriously in this cloak and this hat, and that's a good effect for certain situations. No one seriously believes that you're a gov-hired PK-er, either.

I get no second stares from the corrupt constables. They're brute force, and know less Earth history than an Alien hatchling can. The pirates in the area don't directly recognize me thanks to my new wear, but they narrow their eyes darkly. Fortunately, the Sheriff, a would-be Prince of Verona, has outlawed any open fighting in his land, outside of the usual blood arenas. Pirate-killers don't get much recognition in the press, anyhow. Incidentally, I don't spot anyone I know from the business.

The town has Kanata's cold and bucolicness, a Saharan outpost's brimming bazaars, and any flyspeck planetoid's sense of desolation. I still like it better than Merchant Freeport, though. The streets are wider and the air is drier but non-corrosive. I take the time to scan for any leftover survivors from any pirate nation that I had fully caught, as easily spotted by their stupidly bright mourning colors that scream, "Hey! I'm the last one! Anyone want a ronin for hire? Or maybe a quarry/rival to capture/kill?"

They're all here, hired guns dressed in roughwear armed with blasters protecting merchants in muted but mismatched colors hawking illicit goods to pirates visibly relaxed that I couldn't capture them here while smirking at the flamboyant speedsters in shiny astrosuits strolling by advertising new races to hold and offers for smuggling, openly smiling as they get their pictures taken by bumpkin Earth and Terra tourists visibly disgusted by the many chemically-enhanced spacer addicts and frightened by the Seditionaries and ex-military men strolling around in ugly-looking armor painted in various shades of death, openly brandishing replicas of nineteenth century Gatlings while clad in leather and spikes and jostling meek serfs of the Sheriff, carrying heavy loads of goods and water with their heads bowed down.

I stop by a booth run by a gaunt figure in patchwork clothing. As revivalist fashions go, merchants wear the most embarrassing sort, medieval and renaissance-styled robes instead of suits like their non-nomadic businessman counterparts. This one also had a hoodie, a cap-scarf affixed to the head by tucking in its edges into the shirt collar. I buy some Tarot from him to celebrate my recent absolute rejection of the stuff. I then continue on wading through the masses of humanity, unceremoniously shocking a few attempted wallet rustlers. Every so often I stop by a booth or a shop to check in with local contacts. They're the ones I presume to be mostly harmless, civilians in this urban war zone and entrepreneurs just making a buck. Something's up, but I can put my finger on it. Lately there hasn't been as much pirate activity in this region of space, but what has happened is bizarre. A few feuds wars have mysteriously stopped. Capitals and strongholds have been abandoned and relocated. At least one p-nation even disappeared completely. Brigands aren't the type to call it quits.

My destination is a low-ceilinged cantina at the intersection of Main Avenue and Nottingham Street, nestled between a gun dealership and an entire office building used by the Seds for terrorist operations.

Capitol: Atropos. Planet: Atropos. Star: Atropos. Not much of a local tradition for creativity. Which is why Devil's Den was more than I expected. I pushed open the novelty saloon doors and sauntered in, hat at a jaunty angle.

The bartender said nothing but, "Hola, patriot."

"Hol', Bart."

"How's the troupe?"

"Hale. 1813 got good reviews. You should see our show at Avalon-on-Terra."

"Don't get much of a chance to get off-plan'."

"I hear yah."

"Giddyap. What'd it be, pard? Three Star Smash? Lost Clementine? Sassafras Sarsaparilla?"

"Ugh. I'll take whatever's weakest. I'll lose both my voice and my looks with your drinks."

"Sass-sars it is, hombre."

With that, I was another regular irregular of Baquero Bart's faux cowboy-themed cantina, the type that outworlders come near every few rotations. The others don't pay me any extra notice- they're either drinking away their troubles, cheating a game of poker, or lying in a puddle of alcohol and their own blood on the floor. Ah, the socnet.

Baq Bart's a good listener, like all bartenders. And I'm close to sure that he's in the sheriff's pay. Why else would he bother to spruce up the place with cacti and spicy barmaids dressed in Old Frontier gear, if not to participate in city beautification?

It's a waste on the regulars, though. They've got no spirit at all.

I nattered amiably with Bart for a while. I'd say he's an associate at best in my socnet. I'm not too fond of a pair of ears who happens to be a permanent resident of Atropos. Last time I returned to the Shore of Tripoli on this planet,there happened to be a bundle of marked cash in my pilot room, plus a card of gratitude from the big boss. It happened right after I took out Yars's Mosquitoes, and still causes me great unease. The sheriff's fond of giving presents to people who get rid of his enemies. I wouldn't want to get caught in a space feud- or worse, be marked for employment.

The drunks are useless spacers or lower-level Secret Ops spytaskers in disguise. The ones who recognize my clothes give me mock salutes and drink to the Fourth. Johnny Cash plays on the jukebox. Ah, Space Age One nostalgia.

Finally, a fellow mercenary walks in. Thin, wiry, and tall with enough physical strength to fight his way out of a paper bag- barely. Name of Blanch, skin looks it. Origin: Tell Orbital, around Helvetica, Lylat system, Great-8 Treaty Territory. He's a mediocrity at raider scouring and a ratfink of an infotrader.

I'm ready for him. Blanch takes one look at me and spins around so fast his ten-gallon hat's still facing my direction in the same position. But before he stops I've hit him with my Tas, downing him. Baquero Bart looks at me expressively, tells me that I'd better take this outside. I wave him down.

The shock is mild, but incapacitating. I walk over to the Surrender Monkey Helvetii and crouch by him, placing my uncharged blaster into his belly. He moans and opens his eyes.

"¿Que tal?" I ask.

"You haven't forgotten about Evildrome?" he whimpers.

"I haven't forgiven, either."

He looks at the blaster, and attempts a weak smile. "I'll buy you a drink?"

"Make it two."

Blanch goes through it all with no quick sudden motions. He's looking no worse for wear, despite his weakness. Infotraders are spytaskers without gov backing, but a lot freer. A real good tip can win him hundreds of thousands of credits. Gam-Cee and the Colonial Authority military can be rewarding if they need be.

We sit at the bar instead of in a corner booth. No pretty barmaids to pester and flirt with, but at least Baq might break things up if Blanch tries to start something. We go into niceties quickly. The raider scourer knows that PKs don't go for expressive lethal violence. He's wrong.

"So I take it that you're earning more money chasing leads than shooting 'dissociated elements'?" I ask, using the corporate euphemism.

Blanch shakes his head. "Fighting raiders is just a cover, mein freund. The real credit is in I.T."

"Whatever flies your ship. I don't have a quarrel with that. What I do have-"

"Is with my business?"

I frowned. "You gave me no caveats. In fact, as I recall you described the information as 'one-hundred-percent pure and exclusive."

"I said no such thing, schurke!" he replies indignantly.

I'm wearing my Eavesdropper device. I hit the play button.

"Decatur, mein freund, there is no need for a caveat. This information is one hundred percent pure and exklusiv…"

He gulped. "May I interest you in recompense, ehrbar Herr?"

"What?"

"I know a good port of blackwares." To everyone else in the bar, we're speaking merchant lingo. Actually, since pirate-killing is so niche, we've piggybacked their lexicon.

"Where?"

"NGC-4812. A drop-off zone."

"Merchandise?"

"Rum and coke." Promising. Blanch is saying that there will be at least a mid-sized gunboat, with illicit goods as well.

"Brand of rum?"

"Willie Wiss." Uncreative alias for Will-o'-the-Wisp. They're low on the piratical totem pole, but if the goods are good…

"What coke?"

"Jolt."

If this was real, then I'd be living comfortably for the next two months or so. I might even have enough to make a trip back home.

"Sounds good so far, Schweizer. Now how do I ascertain its veracity?"

"Have I ever lied to you, freund?"

"You told me that Evildrome was located at NGC-0599."

He smiled sheepishly, holding his hands up. "Flip of the tongue. My mistake, Herr Decatur. This is not my first language."

I returned it. "And did you speak it too when you told the dirty pair?"

Blanch turned eponymous. "It was truly exclusive information. Did anyone else know it? When I told it to you it was exclusive, yes. Not so when I spoke with them."

I sighed. Ratfink.

"You do understand that if anything you say is wrong, I'm going to kill you?"

He shrugs. "Then I will be most foolish not to tell you now, won't I?"

"The galaxy's a small place."

"But I am no Dummkopf. Come, let us drink instead. To new beginnings!"

"Auf frisch Anfang!" I said, toasting the rascal. Then I shot him with my Tas.

He fell restfully this time into a slumber. I rifled through his coat, took out a wallet, and paid Baq Bart. I also found his cashbook, indispensable to any mercenary. The listings were all present. No recent payments. No trades. I should have asked him where he found that tip. He didn't even tell me the name of the place.

Oh well, I've gone into action with less information and gotten out a momentarily wealthy man before tributes. I'm cautious, and that's all that counts.

But before I left Atropos, I checked Blanch's ship just to be sure.

Turns out the only non-asteroid planetoid in the region capable of supporting space-suited life is Tiepolo, a Moon-like nothing. But the probes tell me there's lifesigns, and who am I to argue with military technology?

I activate stealth measures in case they're watching. There aren't any ships in the region, not even a good derelict. The surface is more promising- there's two sites, about twenty kilometers apart, containing abandoned buildings. The probes have found movement at one of them. I suit up and descend.

While the ship lands, I activate the subspace astronomical database. Tiepolo: nothing of note. Gam-Cee inspected this place a century and a half ago, found some ore in low quantities but decided to skip it. They did drop down some equipment, which would be the abandoned base in question. I guess their business plan changed, and so they never bothered to come reclaim the place.

And so the pirates are here to roost.

Tiepolo is dry and dead, like Atropos except with no atmosphere or water. Everything is bleached. I'm unsettling millennia-old dust by landing. Hopefully whoever lives here won't notice. This site doesn't have much, actually, the shelter is no more than a shack, except pressurized and oxygen-fed. I can almost hear the whirring of the mini-drill as I step out. The old proprietor stand there, crouched over it, in an old astrosuit but with compatible communications. I buzz him with the radio, and he jumps. The fellow had been captured by his machinery, furiously working at the drill. Rusty and dirt-crusted, there didn't appear to be much hope for repairing it.

He nearly jumps when receives my radio-transmitted greeting. Apparently the freeminer never felt the vibrations from my landing. An old codger, his senses are dilapidated, and his face wrinkled through the faceplate.

"Doing a little mining, sir?" I ask politely.

"Sure am. Gonna get some magnesium," he says proudly, tinkering some more.

I didn't know what to say to that besides blink.

An awkward silence fell upon the radio.

"So, are you an inspector from Big C?" he asks. "Cause I've got my license, sure 'nuff. Your bureaucrat sumbitches don't have anything on me."

"No, your permiso's fine. I just need to ask you a few questions. For one thing, why do you choose to live here by yourself?"

The miner's white brows knot up. "Who are ya, a psych counselor? I choose because I can. A prospector can't get no peace and quiet in civilized lands. This place is as far away from the military asses as clean-living is from a Brazilian."

"You enjoy being a freeminer?"

He frowns for a moment. "Please, don't call me that, son. The real term's prospector. I like to think of myself as a forty-niner, or a Yukonite, or one of those folks who went to South Africa for the diamonds. I says, screw the conglo-me-rates. They're all a bunch of nambly-pambly robo-dependent suckers. Me, all I need is some simply tools, and I can make it rich on my own, one planetoid at a time."

"How did you get here, sir?"

He chuckles. "Of course I flew here, son."

"Where's your ship, then?"

He points at the shack. "That's my sloop. I brought it here, and converted it. Ain't she pretty?" he asks with pride.

That was rather impressive. It still looked like a shanty house, though.

"Who's sending you oxygen?"

He doesn't bat an eye. "I'm not so sure about that myself, sonny. These men in big ships, they pass by every now and then."

I raise my eyebrows behind my poker face. "Big ships? How big?"

"Oh, about a merchant's schooner. They come in twos and threes. I give 'em a drink, not that they need it. They sell me breathing tanks for the metal."

I nod. "What did the shipmen look like?"

He shrugs. "Rough, rowdy fellows, about. Got patches and hooks everywhere. But they're polite enough. I didn't press them about their location of origin."

"When's the last time they came?"

"You just missed them. They left yesterday."

I curse Blanch beneath my breath. "Well, thank you for your cooperation."

"No problem, cap'n," he said, returning to his work.

"You just tell me if you see them again. I'm going to go check out the buildings east of here."

"Sure thing, sir. But I wouldn't rec'mend it. It's a ghost-haunted place, it is."

I turn and walk towards the Shore of Tripoli, but I never hear him pull out the heavy rifle from within the drill and aim it at my back.

I see him, instead. It's always wise to have some sort of secret mirror or camera on your astrosuit to catch your blind spots.

I whip around, pull out my Hypnos Tas, and shoot him first. It's set on scramble, and instantly overloads his suit. The old-timer falls to his knees, dropping the rifle. I rush him. He should be alright; the shock disrupts non-critical parts of the suit, but not life support.

The miner grunts, cusses, and grabs his rifle, having never bothered to shut down the communications port. He stands and tries to fire it, but I shoot him again with the Tas. Obviously, as a pirate associate he's got extra shielding besides the critical bits.

A fracas ensued. Long story short, he wasn't so tough after I had kicked his rifle away. He was fast, though, and knew the basics of astrosuit battle. Nearly pulled away some of my breathing tubes. I pulled him over to his shack, and threw him in. It was fortunate that the fight took place farther away, because this pseudo-pirate's got a hellalot of nasty equipment to adapt as crude weaponry. As I tossed him in, I also noticed that the home was nicely furnished, though without any evidence of pirate paraphernalia. I did find a keycard taped under his bed, though, and brought it along. I bound the old miner and locked him in the bathroom.

I flew to the second site, paranoid all the while, checking the probe readouts every few seconds for signs of movement. Portably-launched missiles are annoying wastes of shield power. The second site was much larger than the first, made of an odd command base with many holes in the structure from micrometeorite strikes.

After an hour of poking around fallen pieces of the ceiling and broken computers, I found this elevator, with a panel that looks brand-new. The keycard fits in perfectly.

A button pops up. ACCESS: BASEMENT? It asks.

The elevator doors close with a whoosh.

As far as I can tell, I had stumbled into a convention.

Evildrome was a nest, but Tiepolo takes the cake. There must have been three thousand brigands mosh-pitting in the chamber, a rocky rough room carved out for their delight. The gaudiness could make strike you colorblind through overstimulation. The noise was grating. And the smell was enough for me to suck on astrosuit oxygen.

Evildrome had been the capitol of the pirate nation of South Cloud, a prominent sub-branch of a secondary generation ship. This place looked like an entire nation on its own, founded by no less than an entire gen-ship. Just my luck- I could see a sign on the wall: Pirate's Cove. The Pirate's Cove.

I slumped against the wall. There's no getting out of this one. I had somehow uncovered a major pirate get-together in a legendary nest. Scant legends among the Pirate Killers tell of this place, where the leaders of many nations meet to scheme for whatever the hell they're going to attack next. At least I had been smart enough to scan the place instead of entering through the conference room door.

My fiber-optic scanner was slender enough to fit into a hole, bringing me a view into the inside. Wall-to-wall of the galaxy's horrors, shouting and cheering as some wild demagogue of theirs showed them next year's strategy for pillaging transports and colonies. The pirate wore a giant Napoleonic headpiece and was dressed exactly as blackguard brigand, a traitorous high-ranking captain who deserted his own country for a life of piracy, as the infamous Black Jack Lee. Next to him stood a phalanx of big bosses, including a horn-helmeted Norse brigand, a turban and pantaloon-wearing corsair brigand, and finally a conventional bandana-sporting brigand. They were all dressed in jewelry, bleeng. Bigwigs.

The blackguard led his speech, speaking in a guttural dialect that I was not acquainted with. Centuries of living on generation ships and in the hinterlands of civilization created a veritable Babel of offshoots of Earth-based languages among pirates, and unfortunately an outsider can only learn so many. In any case, all I could see was that he was obviously very excited about something. He gesticulated frantically, and that was how I understood. When he shook his pointing finger up and down and spoke excitedly, he was speaking of raping and pillage. When he had his hands spread, palms facing the roof, he was showing how much they would rape and pillage. When he shook a fist, he was reminding his audience to always struggle against the oppressors. When he folded his hands as in prayer he was modeling the kind of people who made the best targets. When he jumped up and down he meant that he wanted the end the speech soon so that they could all depart to their looting and violating.

The crowd cheered, and then stopped being pirates for a moment and turned into cultists. They started an odd, rhythmic chanting, which was strange. It was slow, deep, and hollow. Each syllable was precise and utterly unintelligible, though it all probably meant something along the lines of "Loot the world, loot all creation, kill fight smash" or something to that effect. A few lost control of themselves and started burning pirate nation emblems on their limbs with rayswords and pulsation-blades.

It was quite odd. They usually sing chanteys.

I quickly crept away from the bizarre ceremony and headed for the exit. Luckily, they hadn't been smart enough to inspect the elevator- or have sentries capable of detecting the minibot I scanned them with. The only problem is that they'll soon sweep this hallway and found no recourse but to hide in the nearest utility storage room. No way out of this now.

Time to call in the cavalry. Again.

I touched the emergency transmitter found in one of the corners of my hat, twisted it and pressed a button. It instantly flew a signal to my ship, which amplified it into the hyperspace and sent it into a very special network light-years away. The signal's eventual location will be at a permanent tellbox in Polybius, a city in Elysium-on-Terra. The whole journey, obviously, will take around four to six weeks.

Along the way, though, it should catch the attention of some interested parties.

I waited until the skies were clear, and then ran out of the compartment, from hallway to hallway of the place. Fortunately for me, the guard who had been in front of the elevator was farthest from the parley, and was free to get drunk and fall unconsciousness. But having spent three hours in the closet, hiding, I'd realized that they changed shifts every half-hour. Sheer fortune, God, and maybe the Virgin Mary were the only ones shielding me from their view.

I'm getting religious in the middle of a job. That can't be good.

I coughed into my astrosuit sleeve as I huddled against a damp metal wall. The whole place must have been left over by the Colonial Authority- part of a mining level, or something. Pirates don't build underground as treasure trove-

Is that gold?

It rested on the floor, a simple ingot half-poking out from a door. I crept up to it, and looked inside the room.

Lordy!

Looty! The pirates' storehouse! I could see sealed duraplastic cases, some open, and brimming with gold, credit notes, alien gems, bags full of spices, and high-priced tronics of every brand. Plunder and sackings worth of three good-sized schooners, or about two average pirate attacks, statistically. I glanced at the door sign: Storehouse 16 (of 99).

Reminding myself where I was brought me out of the ogling stupor. I managed to console myself with the thought of the reward I'd receive once I escaped, and somehow was able to leave with nothing more than the bar of gold I had first seen.

The storehouse door slid shut with a whoosh. A buccaneer brigand walked into the hallway, absent-mindly eating a shish kabob. He stared at me. I stated back.

" 'Ey!" he objected. "No taking from the storehouse, leecher!"

I promptly threw the bullion at his head. It thonked against his head, rebounded, and landed in my hand. Unfortunately, all he got was bruise.

" 'EY!" he shouted, pulling out a knife. My Tas bolt flew in the air, went through the path of most conductivity, and came out of the metal handle, into the brigand's wrist and up his arm.

I ran past him and into the maze of hallways and corridors. Brigands were alerted; I had no other chance now. I headed for the elevator, though by now the chances for it to be open were slim.

Final inning stretch, and I get tackled twenty meters away from the exit. I hit the grimy floor, falling into a puddle of alcohol. The rest of the mob gathered into the hall. They were dressed in rags, clutching badly maintained weapons to their bodies and vile maladies to their faces and necks. They jibbered and jabbered like apes- only the gene-broken and the dregs guard the halls instead of partaking in a parley.

The big bosses that followed them in were neither. They dressed in imitation military uniforms with large epaulettes in no color a Terran- or Earth- soldier would wear. Their faces were not darkened with paint or powder, but decorated with scarves. They did not all wear the devilish beards of the other spacemen, but were shaved clean, revealing their lineage from the impurest of generation shippers. Their hats were gigantic, yet looked purposeful, correct. And none wore blasters, but bizarre exotic melee weaponry and the finest of cutting-edge rayswords money could steal and smuggle. Some, I noted, had been stolen from high-profile experimental labs recently.

"Ah, a lowly floor-guarder wishes to thieve from his own brothers," said one of the high-born pirate kings. He grabbed my head through my hat's fabric, holding it to the ground and filthy puddle.

"Do you know the punishment for leechery, worm?" booms another, holding a giant warhammer made of God-knows-what ore. "What is your nation?"

Thinking quickly, I slurred, "Forgive me a thousand, lords of the sky. I am but a peasant of the Arcturan Star Empire, a fifth-level subcaste dweller."

One looked at the other. "He tells lies, brother. My nation has no such refuse."

Another snorted, and snatched my hat off, examining the brim. "Fool! You sought to deceive the high kings of the Western Arm? You are no mere carrion-eater."

He brandishes my hat to the others, who rage.

"Deceiver!"

"Murderer!"

"Killer of my kin!"

Funny, they suddenly turn and call each other names.

"You shall not die a quick death, villain! You, who have sold my kinsmen and nation to the satans of the military! Who seek to enslave us to the will of the False Earth and the old Earth! You shall be buried alive in your own blood!"

All successful jobs in the career of a Pirate Killer- or any other mercenary- should preferably end with a deus ex machina.

Mine wasn't so spectacular.

The elevator door suddenly whooshed open. I guess in all of the hubbub, the fact that they never secured the entrance didn't occur to the brigands.

The inhabitant inside was my old buddy Gray Blade, raider scourer and part-time dabbler in the art of pirate killing. He held the largest triple-barreled gun I had ever seen.

"Let the kid go, brig-"

The door abruptly whooshed shut, and he disappeared. The dozen or so pirates in the room lowered their weapons and turned their attentions back to me.

A minute later the elevator returned, and inside was five more PKs, holding varied tasers and blasters. They stared back at the pirates, nervously.

I recognized Gray Blade with his characteristic beard, clint-squinting at the brigands with a devil-may-cry attitude unbecoming of a novagenarian. There was ol' Top, nervy and unsure with his precision-over-power LightGun. Don Cuadro looking as rich and ostentatious as the pirates, albeit in a different style, wielding an heirloom Glass Pistol his landowner ancestors themselves killed pirates and raiders with. Roebuck and Bullrunner, my constant foils, stood with dumb-looking rifles ready. Finally, there was Wentworth, as cocksure and sly-devil as always, clad in a rival period piece.

An explosion rocked the room. A pirate came running in five seconds after, ending the standoff.

"The Federales are attacking! Their tars are swarming the other chokepoint!"

The brigands cursed, and backed out of the room, weapons still raised and trained on us, their underlings careful to group around their beloved kings as human shields. Gray Blade shot the last brigand out of the room.

I gazed up from my place at the puddle, in too much pain to get up just yet.

"In your element again, Decatur?" cracks Wentworth, the aristo bastard.

I thought of shooting him, but he's quick on the draw. We all had a good laugh.

And that was that. The army men, assisted by a huge bureaucratic force of Gam-Cee representatives, secured the place. The Colonial Authority took the looty, promising to return it to the rightful owners, which would mean the Corporation. The reward combined for all of the pirates in the area who survived was hefty, but it was just my misfortune to have contacted a good half of my socnet for assistance. The accountants ended up carefully taking down the name of every single PK in the raid, minimizing my portion. If my share had been as low as at Evildrome's, I would have taken off my helmet on the surface then and there, but my profit margin just happened to be the very least worthwhile I went away richer by a tiny percentage infinitesimally larger than the ones the other PKs received. Plus the gold bullion, of course, which I now find is illegal to either pay with or cash in. It makes a nice paperweight.

Like any successful job, at the end of the day the mercenary makes more than he started with- barely. And I make one last trip home, into the inspiring nothingness of space, kissing the frontier goodbye with space dust and plasma exhaust.