"Interflexure VII, sitrep."
"Cloak has been activated, we are enroute to the holding position. Awaiting new co-ordinates, at your leisure Pathfinder."
"Yah, I got 'em. Transmitting now, initiate warp and jump on contact. You know the drill."
"Thank the bloody stars this is the last jump... you podders might be fine, but my boys are hitting their limits. We are going to take it slow on the way home."
"Watch over the cargo transfer yourself. The docking manager is a nosy bastard. Someday I am gonna have to do something about him."
"Heh you are talking about Scotty aren't ya? Well I don't think anybody would miss him. I will take care of business boss, the shipment will go through fine."
"See that it does."
A minor mental nudge deactivated the comm system, bringing precious peace. The torrent of background chatter and open traffic a pilot could tap into provided some level of connectivity to the outside world. At the same time it was akin to having a thousand voices nattering in the back of your skull. Some are better than others at tuning it out, but all pod pilots need to unplug from their comm systems sooner or later.
The black depths stood guard beyond the myriad stars, the sole companions for the still moment. With the cloak active on the small frigate, it was essentially impossible to be discovered. If you loitered near populated areas you could foolishly be discovered by somebody physically disrupting the disguising energy field. In this case, I was floating in the depths of space at a mid-warp safe spot, hundreds of thousands of kilometres from the nearest celestial object.
Interflexure VII, a highly-modified Iteron-class cargo ship, was currently holding a fortune in specialized boosters. Total value for the shipment sat roughly around 3.5 billion Interstellar Kredits, which would easily purchase the equivalent of dozens of fully developed planetary colonies designed to produce cutting edge technology from raw material to finished product. Alternatively that many kredits could purchase a small battleship fleet.
Guaranteeing that shipments like these reach their target is my primary purpose during these smuggling missions. With my own finances invested in these deals, any loss is mine to bear. Of course, the profit is also mine to bear...
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Chapter 1.3 - "Shipment"
Smuggling is an interesting business. It begins with people sitting in massive edifices at the heart of the various capitals who write proclamations and indoctrinate vast hordes of sycophants and minions with their particular vision of right and wrong. Down through the machinery of government and policy these ideas percolate, infecting the entire organization with twisted purpose. As smugglers we live where these rulings from above clash with the demands from below, in a treacherous ravine that straddles the lawless and lawful sides of society.
Much of our activity is entirely legal. Even some of our drug products are accepted by the empires, such as synthetic boosters, implants, and skill books. Where we ostensibly 'go wrong' is when we connect otherwise law-abiding citizens with products they want but cannot legally acquire. In some cases this can be morally questionable - like slaves. Speaking as any free-thinking man should, the idea of owning other sentience is somewhat abhorrent at best. (blame the Gallente in me)
Boosters, on the other hand, are a morally ambiguous substance. Continued use over years can have a deleterious effect;on the other hand the vast majority of our lifestyles as capsuleers ensure any one clone doesn't live overly long. With the recent advent of infomorph psychology and jump clones, we don't even have to die to get a new body. Booster usage among capsuleers is sensible and should be legalized. The empires in all their wisdom decided however to consider us no different than normal, basic humans. Their misfortune, and the subsequent moral judgements handed down by their kind, afford us a lucrative business supplying the elite with what they want and need.
The thought fluttered away as the final gravskid was being jockeyed into place. These were small compared to the mineral skids I was more familiar with. The old minskids were hefty, beat up pieces of station equipment that looked perfectly at home in Minmatar refinery outposts. The gravskids currently loading material into the hull of my ship were similarly perfectly suited for the environment they were in - a Jovian-owned Impro station. Gleaming metal polished to a bright sheen contrasted with dull graphite grey composite, designed to handle only the most delicate biological and medical materials.
Ideal for the the quality of product we are known for. Strong boosters are not inherently unstable, but considering their price tag - millions of ISK for each individual dose - we take only the most stringent precautions. Contamination could also easily destroy the withered immune system of a pod pilot. Stuck in protective fluids and rarely exposed to humanity, any number of chemicals or diseases could prove to be brutal for a clone.
Operating in this Jovian station is also a keen benefit for our organization. The Jovian representative stationed here spent a great deal of time arranging for our operation to go unnoticed, with the sole cost to us being, shall we say, minimal in scope. Increased automation and the intense secrecy of the Jove allow much of our product to move about the entire station without even being seen by human eyes once.
Which is precisely how we like to operate.
Much of our activity is entirely legal. Even some of our drug products are accepted by the empires, such as synthetic boosters, implants, and skill books. Where we ostensibly 'go wrong' is when we connect otherwise law-abiding citizens with products they want but cannot legally acquire. In some cases this can be morally questionable - like slaves. Speaking as any free-thinking man should, the idea of owning other sentience is somewhat abhorrent at best. (blame the Gallente in me)
Boosters, on the other hand, are a morally ambiguous substance. Continued use over years can have a deleterious effect;on the other hand the vast majority of our lifestyles as capsuleers ensure any one clone doesn't live overly long. With the recent advent of infomorph psychology and jump clones, we don't even have to die to get a new body. Booster usage among capsuleers is sensible and should be legalized. The empires in all their wisdom decided however to consider us no different than normal, basic humans. Their misfortune, and the subsequent moral judgements handed down by their kind, afford us a lucrative business supplying the elite with what they want and need.
The thought fluttered away as the final gravskid was being jockeyed into place. These were small compared to the mineral skids I was more familiar with. The old minskids were hefty, beat up pieces of station equipment that looked perfectly at home in Minmatar refinery outposts. The gravskids currently loading material into the hull of my ship were similarly perfectly suited for the environment they were in - a Jovian-owned Impro station. Gleaming metal polished to a bright sheen contrasted with dull graphite grey composite, designed to handle only the most delicate biological and medical materials.
Ideal for the the quality of product we are known for. Strong boosters are not inherently unstable, but considering their price tag - millions of ISK for each individual dose - we take only the most stringent precautions. Contamination could also easily destroy the withered immune system of a pod pilot. Stuck in protective fluids and rarely exposed to humanity, any number of chemicals or diseases could prove to be brutal for a clone.
Operating in this Jovian station is also a keen benefit for our organization. The Jovian representative stationed here spent a great deal of time arranging for our operation to go unnoticed, with the sole cost to us being, shall we say, minimal in scope. Increased automation and the intense secrecy of the Jove allow much of our product to move about the entire station without even being seen by human eyes once.
Which is precisely how we like to operate.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Chapter 1.2 - "First Contact"
I laughed. It was a good joke after all, even if it came from an ugly son of a bitch like him. The bartender in this seedy little watering hole looked like he took a plasma torch in the face, but for all that he was pretty charismatic. I reached into my pocket and dropped a handful of planetary currency on the counter, not bothering to count it but judging the weight to be more than sufficient.
This was not an establishment frequented by my kind. I wore a heavy jacket that covered up the implants and jacks in my neck. It was best to avoid anybody who might be interested in my presence. The bartender got more words out of me than anybody else: 'Thukker whiskey'. I looked around the bar again, wondering how in the nine hells of Rancer this place managed to stay open on the Inner Circle station.
While it was no secret that you could bribe your way into the good graces of CONCORD and their associated organizations, it was by no means a cheap feat. Clearly this little den of iniquity had some big backers or good cash flow on the side. The few scruffy workers and shady characters could hardly be drinking enough to pay for the lights let alone weaseling your way into the bank account of some bureaucrat.
As my eyes wandered over the various patrons, rough decor, and odd assortment of stains on the metal flooring, a nervous looking ship crewman walked in. He wore decent livery bereft of any official insignias, so clearly working for somebody with wealth yet not affiliated with one of the empires. Likely employed by another capsuleer...
And clearly not part of the agreement. To make matters worse, the fool had told him who to look for, since his eyes lit up with relief when he spotted me furtively glancing at him. I shook my head slowly and sighed, spinning my stool back to the bar. I reached into my pocket and tossed a small electronic chip onto the counter.
The bartender looked down at it, squinting his eyes. The numbers were small, they were jammed in... and suddenly he gasped, seeing ISK printed beside the rather large number. Swiping the token swiftly, the scarred and ugly fellow only had time to look up and drop the chit into his pocket when he heard a violent and unexpected bang.
Old slugthrowing weapons could be made out of crude and simple enough materials that they would not set off station defense sensors. They were generally inaccurate at range, and lacked any punch against armoured targets. Modern variants of projectile weapons still existed, but not like this old hunk of metal. I actually found it in Nefantar ruins in Metropolis, and with some minor tweaking it was an ideal weapon to use onboard a supposedly secure station.
The crewman lay splayed out on the floor, having toppled back when a heavy titanium slug entered his forehead. The instructions were clear and straight forward. It seems the client required a refresher on the issue. Nothing else would drive the point home like a shot to the head.
This was not an establishment frequented by my kind. I wore a heavy jacket that covered up the implants and jacks in my neck. It was best to avoid anybody who might be interested in my presence. The bartender got more words out of me than anybody else: 'Thukker whiskey'. I looked around the bar again, wondering how in the nine hells of Rancer this place managed to stay open on the Inner Circle station.
While it was no secret that you could bribe your way into the good graces of CONCORD and their associated organizations, it was by no means a cheap feat. Clearly this little den of iniquity had some big backers or good cash flow on the side. The few scruffy workers and shady characters could hardly be drinking enough to pay for the lights let alone weaseling your way into the bank account of some bureaucrat.
As my eyes wandered over the various patrons, rough decor, and odd assortment of stains on the metal flooring, a nervous looking ship crewman walked in. He wore decent livery bereft of any official insignias, so clearly working for somebody with wealth yet not affiliated with one of the empires. Likely employed by another capsuleer...
And clearly not part of the agreement. To make matters worse, the fool had told him who to look for, since his eyes lit up with relief when he spotted me furtively glancing at him. I shook my head slowly and sighed, spinning my stool back to the bar. I reached into my pocket and tossed a small electronic chip onto the counter.
The bartender looked down at it, squinting his eyes. The numbers were small, they were jammed in... and suddenly he gasped, seeing ISK printed beside the rather large number. Swiping the token swiftly, the scarred and ugly fellow only had time to look up and drop the chit into his pocket when he heard a violent and unexpected bang.
Old slugthrowing weapons could be made out of crude and simple enough materials that they would not set off station defense sensors. They were generally inaccurate at range, and lacked any punch against armoured targets. Modern variants of projectile weapons still existed, but not like this old hunk of metal. I actually found it in Nefantar ruins in Metropolis, and with some minor tweaking it was an ideal weapon to use onboard a supposedly secure station.
The crewman lay splayed out on the floor, having toppled back when a heavy titanium slug entered his forehead. The instructions were clear and straight forward. It seems the client required a refresher on the issue. Nothing else would drive the point home like a shot to the head.
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