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Centurion 33-X
Exiting XXN-1927 - New Detroit jump point; en route to ND-57 jump
point
The New Detroit System, Potter Quadrant, Gemini Sector
APR 25 2681/2681.115; 2215 Hours (CST)
“This is Patrol One, everything appears good so far. We’re fifteen thousand klicks out of the jump point now, folks… T-minus fifty-six minutes until the ND-57 jump point," Brownhair announced over the comm channel. The Privateer keeled his fighter hard to starboard behind the slender, elongated Black Hydra transport, and initiated his afterburners to skim over the superstructure of his charge. He relished in the feel of piloting a powerfully tweaked vessel.
Over the week, he had begun to enjoy the modifications added to his fighter. The overall speed increased, the power supply was much more reliable, and his new cloudburst and dual dust cannons would keep raiders wary.
"Acknowledged, Patrol. Keep a look-out." The response came from the Diligent III-class transport, the Indigo Starstream, which carried highly valuable Nephilim ship debris recovered from the conflicted systems of Confederation-Nephilim resurgence battles that had occurred only weeks before. How such confirmedly viral and biologically lethal substances could be so valuable, Brownhair could only guess. "We’ve been hit recently on runs just like this, especially ones carrying the… unique kind of cargo we have."
Such cargo made the Indigo Starstream a perfect target for raiders; any team who could hijack the transport would be set for life by selling the contraband to the highest bidder. Between selling it to 14K, Black Hydra, the Tanfen Corporation, East-West, or any of the other company moguls, an aspiring privateer or ambitious pirate could rack up quite the fortune.
Brownhair considered the Starstream Communication Officer’s advice, "I don’t know… my partner and I have been out here for a week, and these attacks keep going on around us — every system gets hit except the one we seem to be patrolling at the time."
"I hear that," the comm officer came back. "Jesus Joseph, we have lost thirty-six percent of our business already to this dark bastard flyer. We get hit, and good people and pilots die against him. Hell, users of our transport services are afraid to employ us, thinking that they are sending their go-betweens to their deaths."
Centurion 33-Z
2229 Hours (CST)
Khajja, in his own recently modified Centurion, rounded over above the Indigo Starstream, forming on his trusted partner’s wing. Clueing in on the conversation, he added, "That is just what this ‘dark bastard flyer’ wants… that is his mission, is it not? To run you harakhs out of the market?"
After a moment of radio silence, a reply came on his headset. "Yep, I guess."
Brownhair channeled to his friend. "Khaj’, you took TARCAP reconnaissance around the jump point. What’d you find out there?"
"Nothing conclusive, human," he growled back. "I read high amounts of tachyon displacement, signaling that the jump point was opened in the last three hours… but that’s not really anything. Cargo runs have been going on in system all day… I do not suspect System Cops."
"Good, because if we see the Confed InSys Militia boys after us, we can’t turn tail to the jump point — they’ll most likely have a brand-spanking new Murphy-class destroyer or Plunkett-class cruiser with a full squadron of the boys in blue waiting to jump our asses."
Khajja grew restless…
Centurion 33-X
2232 Hours (CST)
"Shit… we will never out-run one of those sons-of-bitches. You hotshots better make damned sure that we keep safe — "
The Privateer was the first to hear the comm ding, cutting out the Starstream’s message. The radio indication was as plain as the starry darkness itself; he had heard it before just before facing an onslaught by Kilrathi terrorists. It was the tone of fighters decloaking.
A monotonous voice broke over the channel, "Under the authority of the Confederation ISS Militia, we are hereby placing you under arrest for carrying contraband. Please release control of your vessels to us. Any actions — "
"Alert! Alert! Spread the fuck out; break and attack!" Brownhair pulled his fighter out of formation, initiated full guns, and pushed his engines into full speed…
Khajja and the Privateer pulled off oppositely and horizontally, flowing into an arcing turn. Centering in both their sights were two Confederate Talon IIs and a F-106A Piranha fighter, three fighters that immediately greeted the two with laser fire. The Privateer assumed lasers were the only guns at least the militiamen in the Talon IIs had. Everything else would be torn out to make room for the cloaking device.
Brownhair wove his fighter between the lancing crimson energy, while Khajja replied in kind with a full barrage of mass driver, ion, and fusion cannon fire.
Both of their actions were in vain, though. Within a full three seconds before their early attacks would come close to doing any damage at all, another fighter decloaked.
"Oh… shit…"
It was he, Seether. Their target. The Privateer could tell even before his sleek, darkened Dragon-class fighter even shimmered into view. The technological vulture had appeared out of nowhere behind the three cops.
"U-unidentified fighter, identify yourself!" stammered out one of the Militia pilots.
Seether’s reply was less than responsive, "Perfection is born in the mind…"
Before they even had time to react, their aft shields were inoperable and the armor beneath them was becoming a quickly fading memory. The onslaught of such an advanced fighter was simply too much for the mere light fighters. At the end of the three seconds, debris was scattered in the space where three Confederate Militia fighters had just been. Seether’s Dragon fighter soared through it on ’burners, methodically turning his attention to another target.
"… Perfection is achieved through the body."
Brownhair cocked his fighter up on her port side on autoslide and yawed continuously while firing all he had. Only a few energy pulses pelted against the front shields of Seether’s fighter, then he shot out of Brownhair’s line of fire.
However, the Privateer fired his afterburners, taking a sharp turn on Seether’s six. Even though his targeting reticule was never fully on his enemy’s tails, he still fired several more salvos hoping to deliver some more damage.
Seether took a swirling dive toward the transport, lancing several energy pulses that created melting dots of slag upon her hull. Brownhair followed, getting several major hits on Seether’s aft sheilds.
In response, Seether swung his fighter fore-over-aft, autosliding forward while firing a full salvo at Brownhair.
"Only the phoenix… survives chaos," came the crisp, coolly-modulated voice of Seether over Brownhair’s comm again as he veered aside for another run.
The barrage was too much for his Centurion. The mercenary glanced at his color-coded internal status indicator — his entire ship was bathed under a cautionary yellow light.
"Son of a bitch!" the Privateer yelled. "I’m ending this!"
Having little concern for the state of his machinery, Brownhair pulled his fighter hard to port, while the spidery framework of his fighter squealed under the sudden number of imposing Gs, now coming up on New Detroit’s gravity well. With a few taps of his fingers to his on board computer system, all secondary power was devoted to targeting. With another tap, he switched from guns to his missile hardpoints.
With another burst of speed, the meek Centurion chased the superior Dragon. A red targeting square shrunk over the life pod of Seether’s fighter that housed his hated enemy. The computer notified the Privateer of his targeting status, "Five… four… three… two… one. Locked and ready."
"I have you now, motherfucker," he spoke over the channel to Seether. "Computer: release miss — "
Chaos interrupted the perfect moment…
The Privateer’s Centurion shook violently, flying out of control. He glanced toward his internal sensors for the answer. His ship’s engines were out, and he was careening out of control toward New Detroit on a spasmodic re-entry course.
"Who? What the fuck…? Where’s…?" Brownhair was in utter confusion.
Then it all fit into place. If Seether never hit him lethally, then someone must have…
"Khajja!" He saw Khajja’s Centurion forming up on Seether’s Dragon from the camera on his aft turret. "You rat bastard! Fucking cold-blooded Cat!"
"I… I offer no apology, my friend, because I know you would never accept it," the gravelly voice sounded over the channel. "As you would say… nothing personal."
"Why?" he moaned. Their years of understanding; their kinship… Khajja had not simply been his partner, the Cat had been his only true friend since before he cared to remember. "After everything… everything we have been through together and done for each other… Why now, damn it?"
The Privateer would never forget his friend’s final words… "Because sometimes, my Takhar, money is thicker than blood." While his world spun around him, dragging toward New Detroit, the now-blood red Centurion remained on his HUD.
It wouldn’t end like this. The Privateer would not allow it. "Payback, ‘partner,’ for the ‘good old days.’ Computer: lock onto current target."
"Locking," the feminine voice of the Centurion’s computer spoke, the ITTS beeping busily, "Five… four… three… two… one. Locked, and ready."
New Detroit was getting much larger in his cockpit windows now. Undergoing nauseating vertigo, he tersely rasped one last line before passing out, "Computer… release all missiles upon locked target."
Centurion 33-Z
2242 Hours (CST)
Khajja’s cockpit became bathed in red light as the computer warned him of multiple missile locks by his now ex-partner’s Centurion. His rapid deployment of chaff pods was too little too late and his ECM package could do nothing at this range.
"My Takhar…" he whispered.
Khajja realized at last the full gravity of his dishonor. Not even his dead hrai awaited him in the damnation that awaited those Kilrathi warriors who turned their back on Sivar, a damnation that now opened its arms to him.
Centurion 33-X
2243 Hours (CST)
As his Centurion fighter began to fall through the atmosphere of New Detroit, he passed out. The Privateer would never see Khajja’s futile evasion of his released payload, or the fitting fiery expansion of such a betrayer. Instead, his last vision was of the sprawling megalopolis of lights, skyscrapers, and interconnected cities that completely covered New Detroit rushing up to meet him.
Planet New Detroit
Southern Continent, Chrysallis City, 3 KM from Hadrian’s Gorge
2305 Hours (CST)
Sirens… voices… ringing… pain, terrible pain…
"Khajja… devils… no, no… please… not you, I didn’t…"
The Privateer stirred to consciousness, finding himself face-down and sprawled out at the now-bloodied and smashed controls of his Centurion fighter. His blurred vision focused in and out before it returned to normal, but his throbbing headache would not subside so easily. It felt like a hangover, but ten times worse. As he stood from his decimated cockpit, throwing his useless headset to the floor, he looked about. Everything was ruined in his fighter — conduits and panels broken, wiring exposed and sparks flickering at random intervals. He couldn’t check his computer MFDs to see just how severe the Centurion’s damage was, but he suspected his ship was a little beyond what his on-board repair droid could repair — that is, if it was even still operational. The cockpit windows were cracked, the entire nose and fore section of his fighter crumpled and deeply embedded in something that obscured his entire view.
It wasn’t much of a deduction to figure out that he had crashed on New Detroit. At least he hadn’t burned up on re-entry or crashed straight-on.
"… turion, y… ease… ond… ilot of the… c…" the damaged comm system of his fighter cackled.
Applying a cleaning rag to his still-bleeding head wounds, Brownhair tried walking but nearly fell over after his first couple of steps. His knee hurt bad; probably a torn ligament. Stumbling to the small cargo compartment of his fighter, he tried to open the EVA airlock. The controls were fried. Trying to open it manually unsuccessfully, he guessed its locking clamps were bent or broken together. He limped back to the cockpit, coming back with his C-20 Plasma Caster pistol. He flicked the safety off and raised it at the airlock’s locking mechanism.
"Open… fucking… sesame," he rasped, pulling the trigger. A glass-edged blackened hole a foot and a half in diameter left in its wake, the lock and half the airlock door itself was noisily blown out. It was a simple matter for Brownhair to then kick the door out.
Hastily throwing on his trench coat, he hopped out the airlock and took a nine foot drop to the concrete below. He recognized at once he was in an alleyway. He turned around, seeing his fighter’s wingspan making its crumpled mass wedged up against two buildings from wall to wall, its nose smashed up against the corner of a wall and a parked garbage floater. From how the fighter looked on the outside, Brownhair wasn’t even sure if it was salvagable at all. Looking back, he saw the kilometer-long blackened trail of ripped concrete, damaged buildings, debris, and spurting fire hydrants his Centurion had left in its wake as it skidded and scraped across the surface of the city. Additionally, a thick trail of smoke stretched up from the edge of the skid trail on the surface into the evening sky, painting the trajectory of his crash course all the way from orbit for all to see.
Seether…
He was attracting too much attention. Pedestrians were clustered around his fighter, some of them TCN reporters that were running holocams of him and the scene, others were fawning kids, and others were punk teenagers who smiled at him, probably finding entertainment from watching him go down.
"Sir, um… sir, are… are you all right?" a concerned woman asked him as he stalked forward.
An older looking man stepped forward. "I’ve… I’ve already called an ambulance." And probably the authorities. "It’ll be here any — "
Brownhair grabbed the man by his shirt with a hand. "Where is he?"
"W-where is who?"
"He flies a Dragon fighter…" he explained, his voice hoarse. "You know… like the Black Lance flew. It must have followed me after I crashed. He’s… he’s thorough. He’ll want to make sure I’m dead…" He shook the man, asking again, "Where is he?"
"Y-you’re the only one, sir… please, I…"
Brownhair let him go, a realization of something he overlooked coming over him. "Fuck… he can cloak!" Seether could be anywhere.
Forgetting he was still holding his plasma caster, he holstered it under his belt. It started to rain as he left the alleyway and hastily disappeared into the bustling crowd of people on the sidewalks. Around him, street cars whirred by, and aircars hovered off to join their respective air traffic lanes above. It had to have been eleven at night, but the populace of New Detroit’s megalopolis carried about like it was the busiest day of the year, even in the increasingly heavy downpour of rain.
He walked for several minutes down the sidewalks of Chrysallis City, a sense of paranoia coming over him as he constantly was looking over his shoulder, or at people passing him that vaguely looked like the man that was hunting him.
A shot rang out behind him, then nine more in quick succession.
Shocked screams and shouts erupted as the pedestrians congesting the sidewalk either dropped to the ground or cleared away in a hurry. Slowly, Brownhair, the only one still there, turned to see his pursuer. Clad in a black leather longcoat, Seether held his smoking Brauer Stiletto P8 Gauss handgun he had fired into the air intently, ready to fire again at a moment’s notice but strangely not doing so. He slapped in a fresh clip of tungsten projectiles and pulled back the chamber, the gun humming as the battery pack under the barrel glowed to life. Seether strode purposefully toward the Privateer then, a curious look on his face.
He was enjoying this… enjoying the hunt.
Quickly, Brownhair darted into the double-doors of the building to his left. Scrambling inside, wading his way through the children and adults alike that ran away in fright as they saw the bloodied, gun-toting Privateer running past them, he looked for cover. It looked like a mall he was in.
Drawing his plasma caster again, Brownhair fired off a quick volley of bolts over his shoulder Seether’s way from the cover of a marble support pillar that jutted fifty meters up to the mall’s cathedral-like ceiling.
"My vision is clear, focused, and mine eyes will see the glory…" The steadily advancing Seether dove to the side, firing a 3-round burst of flechettes at Brownhair’s position. A frantically fleeing woman in the line of fire took one of them in the face before the man landed and rolled.
The pillar wouldn’t do Brownhair much good. He was already dodging, throwing his weight forward as he did a half-cartwheel out of the way. He felt one of the magnetically-guided shots blow through the marble pillar like it wasn’t even there and singe his boot as he landed on the balls of his feet. He crouched, returning fire with a few quick but well-trained bursts from his plasma caster. Seether, however, was already gone.
"My vision is clear, focused, and mine eyes will see the glory… of the coming of death!" Another 3-round burst rang out, this time from his blindspot. Brownhair realized he was wide open too late to effectively get out of the way, paying for it with a solid shot to his left shoulder. On his back, he rolled over the edge of the first floor, overlooking the botanically-decorated basement level. Grabbing a thick web of vines that had been allowed to grow up the walls on the way down with his right hand, he fell twenty feet, ripping the vines from their roots to slow himself before he fell hard against the stone rim of a decorative fountain.
Stumbling to his feet, he could only watch as Seether took the twenty foot drop without any aid.
The two men stared each other down then, each one’s gun pointed at the other’s head.
"Nothing quite like an ’ol Mexican stand-off… wouldn’t you say, Seether?" the Privateer rasped, keeping his aim steady and his trigger finger poised.
Seether smiled icily. "You’ve done well for yourself, I see."
"What… you been following my illustrious career or something?"
"Something like that," Seether spoke. "Now unable to receive a rematch with my friend, Blair, as he has suffered from a slight case of death, I have been hungering for a true challenge for years."
"I suppose I should be flattered that the great Seether wants to challenge me. But, hey, speaking of Blair, aren’t you supposed to be dead, too?"
Seether grinned enigmatically at his foe. "Only the phoenix survives chaos."
"Yes, yes, we all know you’ve read Machiavelli, asshole. Your Prince quotes are getting old."
And so the two men stood, both poised, meticulously studying their opponent for any sign of weakness or action.
"Perhaps… it is time you knew." Seether sighed as he began, "Myself and eight others were part of a unit we called ‘212.’ It was formed with the coming of Confed’s Black Projects Division by then-Commodore Tolwyn in 2653, though it didn’t become official until the end of the Kilrathi War. It was comprised of Genetically Enhanced pilots that would become the template for the formation of the Black Lance… the enforcers of The Plan." Seether stepped forward, slowly lowering his Gauss handgun to his side. "Don’t you remember?"
Brownhair kept his plasma caster pointed firmly at Seether. If he wanted to lower his guard, that was okay with him. "Remember? What the fuck are you talking about?"
Seether laughed a deep sardonic laugh. "They took it away from you, didn’t they? The memories…" He paused. "Or perhaps you simply don’t want to remember."
"Remember what, you sick nazi son of a bitch?"
"You were thirteen; I was nineteen. Tolwyn used the G.E. Program on both of us at puberty… inducted us both into Unit 212 in 2655." He paused again. "Only your grandfather didn’t like that much, did he?"
Too many painful, jumbled, conflicting memories flowed through the Privateer’s mind. "Grandpa… Grandpa Mack…"
"He hired a squad of mercenaries to retrieve you from our HQ in the Axius System in our first year." Seether grunted. "And then, years later, you began your merchant career aboard the Scarab, then your ‘illustrious career’ as a privateer… isn’t that right? I’ve been watching you." He smiled. "Bet you never even gave it a second thought why you were the best privateer out there, did you?"
"Christ, I was Genetically Enhanced… just like you." Brownhair shook off the notion, the blurred memories to vague to even begin to recollect. "How do I know you’re not lying about this shit?"
"Because I have no reason to." Seether took another step forward, facing down the barrel of Brownhair’s plasma caster. "Many of my Black Lance brethren have been hunted down and killed… perhaps it is for the best, as it weeds the weak from our ranks. This ‘Nephilim’ alien threat the Confederation faces off and on now… it won’t last forever. Soon Confed will be again without a war, dropping its state of vigilance, its peoples becoming complacent and confused, just as they did after the Cats surrendered. The day will come for a new Black Lance, and its members will be of humanity’s finest stock. Come with me, Privateer. Come with me, and we will be kings among men."
Brownhair started to lower his plasma caster. Seether grinned. "Okay. Sure."
"I knew you were a reasonable man…"
Expecting it, Brownhair saw Seether start to raise his Gauss handgun out of the corner of his eye. Only beginning to lower his plasma caster, — a deliberate feint — Brownhair aimed and fired at Seether, giving him a shot to the arm and a clean shot to the chest.
The man buckled on his knees, falling over in a heap with a hoarse gurgle.
Brownhair holstered his smoking C-20 plasma caster, then walked up to the fallen man. He loomed over his dying body.
"Pain is a place… already conquered…" Seether rasped from where he lay, blood running from his lips and the fatal wound near his sternum.
"You can stop with the Prince quotes already, you know."
"Y-yes…" Seether lay still for a moment, gazing up at Brownhair. "You have done… very well indeed, my… my little… brother."
"Your… your what?" Brownhair kicked Seether’s leg. He received no response. "What do you mean? Hey!"
As the last breath escaped Seether’s lips, his eyes rolling into the back of his head, Brownhair let out a long sigh. He stared thoughtfully at the body of the man for several long moments afterward.
My brother…
Gathering himself, he headed to the escalator, arriving back at the first floor.
A tall, slender, not-bad-looking woman with long black hair and four gun-bearing escorts were waiting for him. All were clad in black… accomplices of Seether? Brownhair’s hand went instinctively back for his plasma caster…
"Ah-ah-ah!" the light-complexioned woman exclaimed, stopping him. Her four escorts already had four AR-2 Gauss Rifles trained on him. Drawing his weapon would be suicide. "That’s no way to treat your business associates."
Then he realized. They weren’t Seether’s cronies… they were Black Hydra. His employers.
"Fancy meeting you guys here," Brownhair chimed, relaxing.
"The Indigo Starstream and its cargo is safe, and you have killed the bane of ours named Seether," the woman spoke. "The Black Hydra’s affairs are in order and its interests are protected for the time being… until 14K can come up with another ace to throw at us. Luckily, we still have you, do we not?"
Brownhair shrugged. "So do I get my money or what?"
"DëVallis…" The woman nodded her head and a lanky bald man approached Brownhair with a palm-sized PPC displaying a receipt of the transfer of nine million credits to his account. He inspected it, nodded, and the lanky man went back to the woman’s side. He knew they wouldn’t try to cheat him if they needed his services in the future, and they would. "I apologize for the betrayal by your Kilrathi accomplice… we did warn you."
Furry...
Brownhair fought down his emotions, playing it off with a laugh and, "Hey, I have nine million credits I don’t have to split down the middle anymore. Ciao." He gave the woman and her escorts a brief, respectful nod, then started out of the mall.
"Wait," the woman called, jogging away from her escorts. Brownhair stopped. "This is strictly out of burning curiosity and strictly off the record, but… what’s your name, Privateer?"
Brownhair turned a curious glance at her. "I thought you said you knew everything about me… including my name. My ‘birth name,’ didn’t you say?"
"We lied," she admitted. "No one knows your real name — we’ve checked."
A boyish smile spread over the Privateer’s face. For years he had thought himself every bit as cold and methodical as a man like Seether might be in his dangerous, profitable lifestyle; a cold, isolated man without loved ones who lived for nothing but the accumulation of credits. He had convinced himself that privateering was his calling, and maybe it was, but now he knew that anything was possible for him, and anything he wanted was within his reach. "Grayson," Brownhair finally replied. "Grayson Burrows."
2358 Hours (CST)
The heavy downpour of rain drummed against the head and trenchcoat of the lone Privateer, pelting the man as he came to find what he came to the apartment complex’s rooftop to look for. Done with the device, he tucked the remote he had taken from Seether’s body back in his trenchcoat, smiling.
The Dragon-class fighter resting atop the apartment complex’s roof where Seether had left it shimmered, gradually coming back into visibility as it decloaked. Simultaneously, its matter/antimatter engines came back on-line and its ramp lowered.
His trenchcoat blowing behind him as the hot, fierce gusts of air blowing from the Dragon’s turbines and ramscoops picked up, Brownhair entered his new fighter.
"Thanks, Brother," he softly spoke as the ramp closed beneath him.
FINIS