“Strange
eyes fill strange rooms
Voices
will signal their tired end
The
hostess is grinning
Her
guests sleep from sinning”
– Strange Days by “The Doors”.
Two
days earlier…
Celeris
was a paranoid banker first and a capsuleer second. She was the
middle woman, the fixer: when people needed things done and didn’t
want to get their hands dirty or know who got the shit end of the
stick, they would call her. She would swoop down, always
inconspicuous, always cautious… and always in person. Such
attitude, combined with her gauntness, a face full of edges and
angles and bleached blond hair, the impeccable long black dresses,
filled with lace and feathers, made her look like a schizophrenic
bird of prey, although, to be honest, such posture was not uncommon
among capsuleers, so, as far as Thanagherion thought, she was only
slightly eerie.
After
she made contact with a prospective client she would pass on the
information to one of the people on her little black address book for
a cut of the profit. Unless you had a banking account with her…
then she would just hold on to your isk. It was like having a loan
shark lending you your own money: a strange arrangement, indeed, but
one that worked between them because of the trust which existed
between the middle woman and the mercenary. They shared more history
than any of them cared to admit.
The
capsuleer/banker looked her usual eccentric self. Sitting in the
corner of the high class bar, she was clearly in her element, wearing
a bright red dress and knee high, stiletto heeled boots. Her pose was
that of a queen: back upright, black mascara, hands crossed on the
table, dark grey nail polish and a ring with a gleaming red stone. It
was all topped off by a glass of red wine, the real deal, not some
cheap, space made, imitation.
Thanagherion
walked in, sporting a flowing brown and gold dress and high heels,
asked for cold sparkling water, with a twist of lemon, which elicited
a cocked eyebrow from Celeris.
‘What?’
– Thanagherion asked, as greeting.
‘Won’t
you join me?’ – she replied, clicking her nail against the glass.
‘Not
really…’ – Thanagherion answered, retrieving a steel cigarette
case and a lighter from her purse.
‘You
are not going to light that up, are you?’ – Celeris asked, the
tone in her voice indicating the remark was more than a simple a
request.
Thanagherion
simply grinned mischievously, opened the brushed steel case, pulled a
cigarette and lit it, in a single fluid motion.
‘So…
what’s the deal?’ – she said, sipping on her water.
‘I
may have something. This one’s supposed to be easy but I’m not
vouching for the man.’
‘That
doesn’t really answer my question.’ – she replied.
‘It’s
a simple smuggling run. Apparently the client needs cargo moved and
he would prefer if it wasn’t scrutinized by customs.’
‘How
much?’
‘A
few hundred thousand…’ – Celeris replied nonchalantly, while
sipping on her wine.
‘Sounds
like too much trouble for not enough pay.’
‘I
won’t argue with you to take this one. I’m just the messenger.’
– With that she got up, not before sending her a mail with the
contacts and details - all in a quite literal wink of an eye -
lingering just long enough to smile, steal Thanagherion’s cigarette
with a sleight of her hand over the smuggler’s and leave, her heels
clicking like the hammer of a revolver on an empty chamber.
The
next day, at dock eight, Corween Mosoon appeared, his security man
behind him, armed with a heavy battle rifle and 10 women - slaves,
every single one of the pretty little things. She felt sick. Slavery
was a fact of life in Amarrian space and had a strong tradition, but
she still couldn’t understand how someone could do that to a fellow
human being. She could kill someone upclose and personal – in fact
she had done so a few times – she could destroy property, she had
done damage to people’s lives on a scale it was hard for even her
to comprehend… but this she couldn’t understand. It wasn’t,
however, for her to care. It was business, pure and simple, so she
kept her peace. It was perfectly legal for her to take this contract…
that was, of course, up to the moment she crossed into Gallente
Space… There it became illegal and the simple notion of slavery was
frowned upon, but her moral views were as adaptive as a nano membrane
and she prided herself on that, so she just ignored her gut and the
feeling she would need a long shower after this run.
She
also noticed the armed security and the way her client tried to hide
the small pistol he kept in a belt holster away from view. The term
was “polite carry”: he wasn’t concealing it, just keeping it
from view. It was a statement of power: neither of them should be
allowed to carry a piece in this particular part of the station, yet
authorities overlooked that little infraction. Than hated to admit
it, but it worked: the sight of her client armed and unworried made
her feel exposed, especially considering the contents of her backpack
would get her hard time on some forsaken Amarrian prison.
She
studied every girl, the way they moved and how easy it was to simply
compare them to robots, moving without volition, their only purpose
spoon fed to them by their master. It was a freak show, in a sense,
no matter how well groomed and pampered they seemed. One of the girls
however blinked fast, trying to keep the tears away, before looking
at the pilot who would be flying her away. Corween’s hand was
gripping her arm so tight it would probably leave a bruise. She was
the tough one of the bunch and Thanagherion could see a fierce hatred
burning in the depths of those green eyes, a rage that fueled her and
never died. She thought she recognized a piece of herself in that.
The pilot could see the resolve in the way she tried to resist
through even the simplest of motions.
As
she was led to the door of the container, Than sensed all that
defiance coming to a head and it was like watching two interceptors,
microwarpdrives burning, crash head on in slow motion: she jerked her
arm away and tried to run, but didn’t quite manage to escape her
master’s grasp. The guard snickered, with a contemptuous look, as
the young girl spun and screeched propelled by Corween’s back
handed slap.
On
the back of her mind Thanagherion could only hear herself thinking
all this was none of her business and she shouldn’t get involved…
she could hear herself clearly, as she stepped between them. She knew
then she was in for a world of hurt… and that her moral code wasn’t
as flexible as she had always assumed.
The
Security guy’s face twitched as he fumbled with the rifle, while
the thought which crossed the mercenary’s mind was “Amateur”,
as she blocked Corween’s wild punch with her left arm and relieved
him of his pistol with her right hand. The Amarrian widened his eyes
in surprise as the mercenary’s arm sprung to grab him on the back
of his head and pull him against the metal container.
She
aimed at the guard and fired her stolen pistol. The uncomfortable
grip made it hard to aim and the shots came off too low and to her
right as a result: instead of hitting the man square in his forehead,
the first bullet shattered his collarbone and the second clipped him
on his elbow. Hurt but not dead.
The
Amarrian’s head hit the container with a satisfying wet thud and he
just crumpled to the ground. The security goon tried to level the
battle rifle with his one working arm. He was tough, Than conceded to
herself, but with his injuries he only managed to spray wildly until
the magazine was empty. The old fashioned slug thrower was perfect
for this sort of combat: it wouldn’t damage the equipment, just the
unarmored personnel. Thanagherion however wasn’t unarmored and the
clip wasn’t loaded with hundreds of caseless slivers of metal, just
the standard 30 rounds. Still, the two bullets that did hit her felt
like being rammed by a pack of slaver hounds, as she fell under the
fierce impact and ragdolled across the floor.
The
grunt stumbled over to her, as she groaned under the seemingly
endless weight of her bruised ribs. He was a dead man walking, but he
still managed to score a glancing blow on her left eye with the butt
of the rifle. He hadn’t count on Than rolling her head at the last
minute and shooting him in the face, which blossomed in a crimson
explosion of gore and pieces of bone.
The
blonde girl was crouched by the container, crying and keeping her
hands over her head. Two of the other girls were dead, ripped apart
by stray bullets, the rest were just running away, scared for their
lives. Than just got up, tucked the gun of the small of her back and
grabbed the girl by her arm.
-The
station guards will be here soon. We need to go. Now! – She said,
as she shoved her towards the back alleys of the docks.
In
the back of her mind she was scanning maps and paying for a room to
hide for a few hours while she planned their escape.
