True to his word, Edmond had provided everything that he needed on board to get himself started beyond the black horizon. His best guess was that the ship's former owner was a smuggler, given the available gear. He didn't doubt there were numerous secret compartments tucked away.
What mattered most, however, was the technical equipment that had allowed him to burrow into the central navigation console and install his old friend into the ship's mainframe.
Sighing softly, he replaced the final panel with the whir of an autowrech before picking himself up off the deck. His back ached something fierce, and yet after years of confinement it was a good enriching feeling to experience. Dropping heavily into the flight seat, he plucked two pain tabs from his breast pocket and followed them up with his long cold coffee. It was wretched coffee at some level, but right now it was divine.
Looking out the windows of the ship, there was little too indicate forward movement. Even his escort, a single Dauntless-class fighter, seemed to hang in the sky with only the blue-white glow of its gravity drive shimmering across it's bow.
Running a ship without a CN was common enough throughout the known worlds, but generally not advisable. It took expertise and skill to operate a ship all on your lonesome for long periods and, outside some stellar sailing competitions, few crews could pull it off long-term. Baz had managed to get the ship underway easily enough, pointing it's nose towards the jump point North of the system's start and then just let it run.
As a fourth gen system, it would take Kessler a few hours to weave himself into the system. It was less than ideal to do this on the move, as an AI integration was skin to a cold learning how to walk with a new body. It needed to experiment, flip all the switches, and study the results to truly learn it's host's functionality.
Most ships, if they ran a CN, would operate a 5th or 6th gen system, increasing the time to days or weeks respectively. The real question was what had those bastards done to Kessler in the missing years. Was that his friend in there, or had his digital goods been slowly peeled like a banana by cyberwarfare systems? Fingers crossed, he wouldn't just explode. There was nothing he wanted more in this moment than to hear the dulcet baritone of Kessler's voice after thinking him dead all these years.
Baz's stomach rumbled, causing him to chuckle. After years without regular food, he had become used to the dull gnawing of hunger, but now that he could freely pull from the fridge he was insatiable. Checking his holo for the time, he figured he could flash-forge something before getting a few hours shut eye, and with that thought came a sudden craving for a turkey BLT.
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Systems flickered throughout the ship as if it were having a seizure, and in a way it was. Every medium was different and adaptive tech needed to learn the language particular to each component connected to it, thus allowing parts built on a dozen dozen worlds to cooperate.
Settling once more into the pilot's seat, he flicked open the comms making sure anyone in-system would hear them.
"Hey, just a heads up. I'm doing an in-flight integration here, and my systems are going weird. Just don't want you getting trigger happy."
The last thing Baz wanted was to have his ship blown out from underneath him by some Republican pilot looking for an opportunity to settle a grudge. With the open call, it would be much harder for the pilot to explain himself should any accidents occur.
The response came slow, with the Dauntless twisting away to settle further on his ship's flank.
"Understood, Exile. Keep us updated. Updated. Updaaaaaaaated"
The comms warbled, the holo display flickering for a few moments.
"Bbbbnaaazzz?"
"Hey there, buddy!". He grinned, patting the display panel lovingly as the distortion cleared.
"Whaaaaaat the fuck just happened, where the hell are we, and why do you look like shit?"
Baz chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Damn it's good to hear your voice. We'll uh, get to all that. You doing okay? Nothing…out of whack?" He asked, raising an eyebrow.
"What do you mean 'Out of whack'?" Kessler asked, raising a digital eyebrow through pure tone. "Why am I slotted into a garbage scow? What happened to my damned cruiser?"
Baz grinned. "Let me go grab a fresh cup of coffee, and I'll walk you through the whole mess."
_-----------
"So that's all we have to go on?" Kessler remarked incredulously, working through the few comms logs that had been packed up with Edmond's intelligence while Baz stepped out of the ship's cramped shower, wiping the water from his body with a towel before tossing it in the reclaimer.
After two weeks skipping along the edge of BW space, and another diving through the Periphery, they were finally approaching the densely populated worlds of the Corporate Sphere, and with it cheaper supplies and better foodstuffs. Eying himself in the mirror, Baz was already beginning to fill out into something resembling his former self, particularly after paying a border world barber to clean up his hair and beard into something approaching presentable.
"Yeah, pretty much. Just a few used commcodes and a name. We'll have to work the angles and take things slow."
The story, according to Edmond, was simple enough. During the latter days of the war, when most of the population centers had turned and more and more of the BWN had slipped away from their assignments or openly changed their flags, the Republic had found itself overly invested in external mercenaries.
With little experience at war, particularly the guerilla type they were waging, they had outsourced. Vast amounts of raw materials changed hands on the edge of controlled space in exchange for experts from the Grand Periphery and the Corpo Sphere. They learned kidnapping, propaganda, bomb making, and turned the big battles into a thousand little ones where the strength of the BW navy meant nothing.
When the situation turned, accounts needed to be balanced, and one particularly nasty cell known as the Red Back Militia felt that they had been poorly compensated for their schemes and so did what any paramilitary criminal syndicate does: They innovated.
According to Edmond, the group knew that he was a commander and had mapped enough of the rebel operation to find the safehouse where Arianna and her mother had been concealed from Council eyes. They nabbed the girl, left BW space, and had been extorting Edmond ever since. For all his intelligence connections, they were all aimed in one direction: Inward.
He only had one lead. A middle-man named Maxim Yarl who acted as a fixer for the group in days past and did most of the whisper work sending their demands. He was reputedly working out of the corpo-industrial world of Foundry, capital of Infinity Macrosystems.
"There are 6.7 billion people on Foundry, Boss. How exactly do we narrow the search?"
"A man like Maxim Yarl can't operate independently. He needs supplies, safe houses, ships, and more. From what I read, he's a fixer, connecting groups all across Macrotech space. That means he'll have connections with the local syndicate, or whatever they call it here."
Drawing a bit of lather from the hygiene unit, took a moment to paint his cheeks and neck before picking up an old-school straight razor from its sharpening unit. It gleamed with the ripped pattern of Damascus steel. The previous owner of the Exile had some measure of class.
"We'll start at the bottom and work our way up. Some good ol' detective work." Baz, taking his own advice, began to work the blade up across the stubble of his neck.
==================================
Airspace over the ruddy red world of Foundry proved to be challenging. Vessels flying to and from the industrial hub easily numbered in the thousands ranging from vast ore haulers, construction vessels, and freight haulers to sleek executive cutters taking the rich and/or powerful where they needed to go.
Non-commercial approaches to the planet were limited, and it took nearly an hour to secure one and settle into the queue of ships waiting to drop planetside.
The orb itself had a thick toxic atmosphere, but given its relatively small size for a populated world, its low gravity allowed for spire-like archologies that penetrated above the clouds. The vast bulk of the population were limited to these few dense metropoli while the rest of the planet were given over to automated industrial complexes and the rail lines that connected them.
Cutting through the atmosphere, the leading edge of the Kentex glowed as it spiraled down towards one such archology known as Crown Falls before slowing and letting its gravity drive guide it in for final approach.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Sitting in the pilot's seat, but leaving the actual flying to Kessler, Baz opened up a comm to one of the local starports, opting for one of the cheaper ones. While Edmond had seen fit to give them some forty-thousand in Macrotech corporate scrip, there was no telling how long that money would have to hold them. They had already spent a fifth of that outfitting the Exile on their journey during little stopovers in their travels.
"Free Vessel Exile - Welcome to Westmont Starport Commerce Yard. Daily rates range based on vessel size and additional services. Please transmit your technician specifications." There was a flatness to the system that told Baz this was another CN of a simpler design. With a flick of a wrist, there was an exchange of digital information and a price quoted. It was… more expensive than Baz would have expected, but maybe things had changed of the decade he had been imprisoned. Still, they had more than enough to suit them for a week or so should it come to it.
"Thank you for your payment. Landing coordinates transmitting. Please proceed to Plate 5."
The starport itself was an unusual design. While most planetary ports were nothing more than vast areas of ground linked by ground cars, Foundry's vertical nature had demanded a stacked design. Each plate was a vast hexagon hanging from the side of the archology with gaps between them providing passage for vessels. The edge of each hex was plastered with hundreds of businesses, hotel rooms, and supply shops for ships and crews during the inevitable layovers that must occur while waiting for cargo to be loaded.
Dipping to Plate 5, near the bottom of the stack where the smaller vessels lived, Kessler guided the Exile through the gap and the buffeting currents of the windwall that isolated the internal environment from the less friendly atmosphere outside. Bringing the ship around, he settled it onto its designated space and touched down, allowing the framework to groan under its own weight.
Heading to the rear of the craft, Baz pulled on his duster and tucked a hat low over his eyes.
"I think I'm going to go get the lay of the land and drink a real beer for once." Reaching down to his holster, he pulled out his ArmTech 10mm and checked the action and the magazine. He had done so a dozen times already since he had last cleaned the weapon, but it was habit on the outset of a mission. "See what you can dredge up on the local net, could you Kessler? Be gentle and discrete."
"Sure thing, Boss. I'll play nice with the locals." There was a sarcastic edge to that last statement that made Baz grin. He doubted anyone in the system would suspect a run down old Kentex to be carrying an AI that could run circles around anything in the Infinity Macrotech fleet. That is, unless they had significantly updated their game in the last decade, but that had never been the corpo style. Volume was their weapon more than quality.
Slipping in a pair of earpieces, Baz connected them to his commlink. Kessler had placed a translator fork into the unit that would allow him to understand, if not speak, the local lingo. He was sure he could muddle along with the talking part though. Baz loved talking.
Turning towards the lift, Baz hit the controls and waited for it to be half deployed before stepping off the edge and enjoying the satisfying drop to the starport's tarmac and walking off towards one of the shuttle car stations ferrying folk into and out of the local concourse.
========================
It was strange being out in the world again, and especially seeing so many different people. The concourse swarmed with people from a dozen dozen different cultures he didn't recognize. Lights, smells, and the latest holographics tickled his senses. It was like being able to breathe again! This was why he had wanted to be in the Navy. He wanted to adventure!
In order to achieve the local colour he was looking for, he knew he was going to have to go down far enough in the archology that the air scrubbers would have trouble keeping up. For each dozen or so lifts offering service to the local hotel scene, there was one that provided access to the deeper levels, where the staff resided.
Hab complexes whipped past the lift's windows, then opened up into cave-like grottos of cityscape where the locals lived in a perpetual twilight stained with neon. It was like descending through a geological sample with each layer more grime ridden than the last.
Stepping off the lift in a place simply called Hexmark, Baz wandered the streets until he found a suitably seedy dive bar to grab a drink. Set back down an alleyway, Victor's was only identifiable as such by the crude holo of a glass being tipped back into the maw of a stylized neon patron. An old school bell, an actual bell, rang as he stepped inside.
The interior, if it were possible, was even dimmer than the twilight outside, with a dozen or so patrons milling about at the nearby booths or scattered along the synthwood bar. Selecting a booth in one corner near the back, he settled into a seat and placed his commpad on the table.
Picking up the menu, he looked it over, each entry a blur of unrecognized symbols. Mental note, he agreed internally: Grab some data contacts, shades, or something.
"Kess, what am I looking at?". He asked, angling the menu towards the pad's wide angle camera.
"Food menu. Drinks are on the back. Flip it.". Retrorted the AI through the earpiece, slightly smug at his friend's incompetence. "You always liked amber ales, right? Third from the top."
Baz snerked at the sarcasm.
When the waiter came by, a portly no-nonsense looking man who quirked his eyebrow at having an outsider in his establishment, Baz simply pointed to what he wanted on the menu, earning himself a gruff nod.
"Certainly seems to fit the vibe." Baz muttered, watching the man wander off to enter his order. "What about everyone else? Anything interesting?"
Kessler was already ghosting through the local security net, dredging up files from the men's biometric data and had a cavalcade of his own investigation forks sifting the materials. "Just garden variety sleaze… I… Oh, got something here. Guy at the end of the bar. The one with the black eye."
"Black eye?" Baz muttered, leaning out of his booth half concealing his face behind the menu as he peered. "Oh, yeah. I see him."
The man looked to be in his mid thirties and shit kicked, but not in the drunken fashion. He sat hunched over his end of the bar, quietly clutching a chemical refrigeration bag to the side of his face which was black and blue.
"His name is Casmir Yashmen. He had ties to various criminal activities here on Foundry, but each time he was brought in the charges were dropped. Mostly racketeering and intimidation."
"So… a thug. Doesn't look very thuggish right now. Just kinda… sad. What the hell happened to him?" As he watched, Casmir raised a shaking hand and took a gulp or two of his beer.
"No idea. Nothing on official records about anything going down." The AI admitted.
"Hmmmm… Okay, so how do we do this…?"
"You're not going to just walk over there and threaten him? It always works in those holos you like."
Baz grunted. He wasn't exactly a marine, and even if he was he was more than a few years out of his prime. Well, fuck it. Time to improvise.
"Hey! Casmir!" Baz called out to the man. Like a turret, the half-beaten thug's head turned like a turret in his direction. Baz gave him a little wave, calling him over. The man blinked, confused, then rose to his full height. Without hunching, he easily picked up an extra five or six inches, before walking over to the end of Baz's table.
"What do you want? Who are you?" Casmir growled, his one functional eye closing in a suspicious scowl, his language translating real time through the earbuds. Now that he was close, it was clear he had also lost a tooth in whatever event had left him so shit-kicked, giving his questions a slight lisp.
Double tapping his datapad, then his mouth in the interstellar sign that 'my pad will be doing the talking', Baz just dived right in. "My name is Baz. I need help finding some local contacts. People who are not going to want to be found."
The man's incredulous glare deepened.
"Listen, I can make it worth your while. It could even cover the dental implant you are going to need." Baz said, pointing towards the man's teeth. If looks could kill, Baz suspected his booth and about half a city block behind him would have been reduced to rubble.
"I do not know who you are, little man, and even if I did I know better than to speak to an outlander."
Turning away, Casmir began to stomp back to his seat when he was stalled by his comms ringing. Muttering to himself, he checked the name and answered, linking it to some implant in his eyes that glimmered as it operated.
Baz couldn't hear what was being said, but he saw the man's eye slowly widen in realization, then his features blanched. He glanced back towards Baz in disbelief. Not knowing what else to do, Baz simply smiled.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Baz muttered under his breath to Kessler.
"Just a little improvisational deviousness. Mr. Casmir here has been keeping certain records that he shouldn't have been in a directory that wasn't as secure as he thought it was."
Whatever was being piped through the commlink, the man looked positively sickened. Nodding, he turned back and stalked over to Baz's seat, pulling himself into the bench opposite.
"I am… sorry for the disrespect, Mr. Bassart." The thug said wearily, as if sitting across from a rabid animal.
Baz gave the man a crooked smile, maintaining the illusion he was some sort of wicked beast in disguise. "Listen, I don't want to cause you any trouble, Casmir… I just want to find a man."
"Who are you looking for?"
"His name is Maxim Yarl, a fixer who worked the BW civil war. Supplied the mercs."
Casmir grunted consideringly. "I do not know the man. Probably an alias, but I can tell you where he can be found."
"Oh?"
"If he was smuggling, best place to do so is Droshad Station. It is a ground launch complex for big freighters lifting forged plates into space. Plenty of opportunity to hide equipment in shadows of bigger vessels."
"And who do I talk to when I get there?"
Cas shrugged. "Not my circus, but best place for you. I swear."
It was at this point that the barkeep came by and deposited a tall glass of amber liquid on the table, then paused in confusion when he noticed Baz's guest. Even roughed up as he was, however, a glare from Casmir was more than enough to send the man scurrying away.
Baz took a moment to reverently pick up the glass and take a deep reverent drink, earning a quirked eyebrow from his companion. The beer, after so many empty years, was divine.
"Sorry, it's been… a long time." Baz grinned. "Now, I have to ask… how did you get so shit-kicked?"
Casmir rolled his eyes. "Gangers… You best be careful sniffing around family right now. Lots of bad blood between us right now. I got jumped while doing a job."
"What's been happening?"
"Normally, Family and Gangs don't step on each other. They are too… low to be worth it. Last week, however, an industrial accident happened and a bunch of habs choke on bad air. They claim it was Family being cheap on filters. I do not know the truth, but gangers like to be angry. They like to fight, so… we fight!" He shrugged, a slightly bewildered look in his eye. "Ugly business… I got lucky."
Baz nodded. "I get that… Want a beer?" Raising his own glass to the question.