It started, as these things often do, with me perusing the bulletin board at one of my favorite hangouts in my home system. Eravate is an interesting place: Nominally independent, but with plenty of Fed-leaning groups and Starbases as sort of a shambling corporate presence in the background. Now, I wasn't expecting a Fed mission to show up in this part of space, but there it was, a black ops dossier. Apparently one of their Generals, Gordon by name, had gone rogue, absconded with a ship and taken up a life of terrorism and plunder for some indeps in the Chamunda system. Now, at first I was leery: The Feds had sent me on wild goose chases before, and I'd spent many an hour scouring the space lanes for the infamous, nefarious and probably fictitious Maelstrom. This time, though, it felt different, more personal. I decided to risk it.
Now, usually, I'm a pretty peaceful guy. I make my fortune through trading and getting pally with the locals by doing things they can't do for themselves, like basic shopping. It's netted me the pilot seat of a pretty sweet Asp, the Insurance Claim, which I had kitted out with a souped up Frame Shift and a top of the line distributor. Now, the IC was rigged for trading, packed full of maxed out bays and completely unarmed, which isn't much help in a gunfight. So, I cruised on over to my local high-tech hidey-hole over in GD 219 (That damned white dwarf gives me the willies every time I pop out of hyperspace, cooked my ship too many damned times when I forget to put her in brake), to get loaded for bear.
Power wasn't really an issue, and I had a couple million spare above my disaster money to work with. GD 219 is a classy place, they had pretty much top of the line everything. I considered getting a plasma accelerator or two, but that would have tied up way too much of my war chest. So, I went with the classic mix of beam lasers and multiguns, all of them on gimbal mounts, with one big one of each to the sides of the cockpit, two smaller beams in the nose twin mount, and a pair of smaller multis out wide on the shoulders. For defence, I added in a point defence turret, chaff launcher and an ECM mount, with an A2 shield cell bank replacing a 4-ton cargo bay. It was time to head to Chamunda, and make with the hunting.
I shifted in and immediately headed a couple hundred light seconds out from the star: I fought a mean desperado in a viper once who perfected the art of attacking out of the sun, which is a nightmare when the sun is twenty per cent of all you can see. I slowed to minimum cruise speed and scoured my sensors for signal anomalies that might betray the presence of my prey. Came across a couple Wanted guys with local Fed police in hot pursuit, so I opted to field test my new toys and make a few creds in the process. At first, it worked like a charm: My beam array cut through shields like they were soap bubbles, and the chattering roar of my multiguns was a staccato laugh at the very concept of hull integrity. Then disaster struck: One of the lawmen skewed his Viper across my line of fire, and suddenly I was a wanted man myself. Now, it's a harsh law, but a necessary one: Out here in the black, there's a fine line between friendly fire and cop-killing. If I'd been packing those plasma accelerators, I could've widowed that pilot's spouse and orphaned their children. So, I bugged out, jumped one system over, headed for a quiet outpost and called my guy at the Pilot federation, transferring my apology money and taking off clean.
Back to the hunt. It was a busy day in Chamunda: I bagged myself a bevy of Cobras, a couple Asps and some lighter fighters that thought they could chance it. I helped the cops with their enquiries a couple more times, mindful to make sure that neither of us got on the end of each other's stray fire this time around. One time, I dropped in to no less than three Cop Anacondas taking on a criminal in the same model. I tell you, those things are murder on void wings, I didn't have time to close into strike range before the bad guy got ripped apart. Hell of a sight, too: I've seen bigger ships, but I've never seen something that big on opposite sides at close range, turrets blazing. I moved on, stumbled across a fellow bounty hunter in passing with a bunch of Fed vipers in their wake. They scanned me, I scanned them, we both came up clean so we tipped our hats to one another and moved on. Nice to see a bit of professional courtesy out in the black.
Then it happened. I dropped onto a mysterious signal source, and saw a boxy vessel, pretty big, off in the distance. Type seven, maybe? Nope, that's no Lakon. My initial scans clocked the name just as the burst lasers opened up on my shields. "Light 'em up, Boys!" rang out over the open Comms as my blood ran cold: This was Gen. Gordon, he was flying a Federal Dropship with twice my mass and twice my gun weight, and he had the drop on me. I boosted power to shields and engines to launch into a desperate series of evasive maneouvres, but it wasn't enough to save my shields from going down and my hull from taking a pounding. A warship tricked out for a general's joyride packs a mean punch, that's for sure.
Now, those things are big and well armed, but my Insurance Claim is no slouch, and with near-constant engine boosts I was able to buy myself some breathing room, despite the weapons fire chipping away at my superstructure. I threw my Asp into a spin as my shields came back online, popping a cell to bring them up to full right away. I was faster, more maneuverable and could out-turn him, so I trimmed down to three-quarter impulse and drew a bead on him. Three lances of crimson coherent light speared into the onrushing boxcar, and the sweetest sound in the world, my trusty ship AI telling me the target's shields were down, was my signal to spin up the rotary guns. I took my revenge in the form of gouging chunks out of the General's hull, but his own guns were returning fire pretty damn sharply. I used a couple more shield cells as we danced and jousted, his heavier calibre stuff hitting harder but my weapons doing their job. All too soon, his shields were back up, but mine were back down. I backed off as best I was able, but the kitchen sink launchers he was firing were leaving a mark. Hull integrity at fifty per cent, forty percent, thirty per cent... I was doomed, it'd take a miracle to pull this one off.
Then the miracle happened. A lot of pilots swear by keeping schtum about any crimes committed against them, the better to hide their own sins and to rack up a revenge bounty. I don't hold to that code of omertà myself, and it was about to pay some serious dividends. The cavalry arrived, in the form of a brace of Fed Navy Vipers, checking in on the report of a clean Asp getting fired on by a dirty Dropship. Now, any pilot knows you can't ignore one Viper, let alone a wolfpack, which gave me the time I needed to get back into fighting trim. The IC was in a sorry state, down to 27% hull integrity, but I'm not one to give up easily. The cops were a nice distraction, but they weren't doing much more than heating up the General's shields. I owed them twice over, between my earlier misfiring and their big damn heroes act, and I wasn't going to leave them hanging. I popped my last shield cell and cruised right back into the fray.
Dancing with the law dogs meant I had time and space to line up my opener, and I made sure I didn't waste it. I made his shields flare from blue to red to dead before he could adjust to the new threat, and at that point my multiguns were battering his hull like a hailstorm on a flimsy groundcar. He was a wily old bird was Gordon, and it didn't take long for his souped up armaments to start lashing at my Asp once more. Even as my shields started dimming, I kept my guns trained on his power plant, and held down my triggers like grim death itself: Only one of us was going to fly away this time. His shields were trying to regenerate even as mine finally gave up the ghost: This was no time for half- measures. My digital aide warned me hull integrity was dropping below 20 per cent and my canopy was getting compromised, cracks beginning to web across the reinforced transpex. I was in a bad way, but the enemy was worse: I got him down to single digits, and added the weight of triple laser fire to the chatter of the main guns. I was running dangerously hot, dangerously close to losing everything and praying the Vipers got to my lifepod before the mad General.
Then everything stopped. The Dropship hung there for a moment, perfectly still, before secondary explosions tore it apart from within. My AI chimed in with an 'Objective Complete', and notification of a bounty reward, six hundred credits. I killed my thrust, let my red hot gunbarrels slow to stillness and gave the overworked laser capacitators a cooldown cycle before stowing my hardpoints. I limped into port, had to downgrade a cargo bay to make repairs and keep out of my disaster funds, but that was better than relying on those funds to make a fresh start. I returned to my home system of Eravate to let my contact know the deed was done, and he responded with a field promotion to a full-on Petty Officer. Job done.
(The federal black ops kill mission is now fully operational. Your targets will appear in the allotted system. Happy hunting!)
Now, usually, I'm a pretty peaceful guy. I make my fortune through trading and getting pally with the locals by doing things they can't do for themselves, like basic shopping. It's netted me the pilot seat of a pretty sweet Asp, the Insurance Claim, which I had kitted out with a souped up Frame Shift and a top of the line distributor. Now, the IC was rigged for trading, packed full of maxed out bays and completely unarmed, which isn't much help in a gunfight. So, I cruised on over to my local high-tech hidey-hole over in GD 219 (That damned white dwarf gives me the willies every time I pop out of hyperspace, cooked my ship too many damned times when I forget to put her in brake), to get loaded for bear.
Power wasn't really an issue, and I had a couple million spare above my disaster money to work with. GD 219 is a classy place, they had pretty much top of the line everything. I considered getting a plasma accelerator or two, but that would have tied up way too much of my war chest. So, I went with the classic mix of beam lasers and multiguns, all of them on gimbal mounts, with one big one of each to the sides of the cockpit, two smaller beams in the nose twin mount, and a pair of smaller multis out wide on the shoulders. For defence, I added in a point defence turret, chaff launcher and an ECM mount, with an A2 shield cell bank replacing a 4-ton cargo bay. It was time to head to Chamunda, and make with the hunting.
I shifted in and immediately headed a couple hundred light seconds out from the star: I fought a mean desperado in a viper once who perfected the art of attacking out of the sun, which is a nightmare when the sun is twenty per cent of all you can see. I slowed to minimum cruise speed and scoured my sensors for signal anomalies that might betray the presence of my prey. Came across a couple Wanted guys with local Fed police in hot pursuit, so I opted to field test my new toys and make a few creds in the process. At first, it worked like a charm: My beam array cut through shields like they were soap bubbles, and the chattering roar of my multiguns was a staccato laugh at the very concept of hull integrity. Then disaster struck: One of the lawmen skewed his Viper across my line of fire, and suddenly I was a wanted man myself. Now, it's a harsh law, but a necessary one: Out here in the black, there's a fine line between friendly fire and cop-killing. If I'd been packing those plasma accelerators, I could've widowed that pilot's spouse and orphaned their children. So, I bugged out, jumped one system over, headed for a quiet outpost and called my guy at the Pilot federation, transferring my apology money and taking off clean.
Back to the hunt. It was a busy day in Chamunda: I bagged myself a bevy of Cobras, a couple Asps and some lighter fighters that thought they could chance it. I helped the cops with their enquiries a couple more times, mindful to make sure that neither of us got on the end of each other's stray fire this time around. One time, I dropped in to no less than three Cop Anacondas taking on a criminal in the same model. I tell you, those things are murder on void wings, I didn't have time to close into strike range before the bad guy got ripped apart. Hell of a sight, too: I've seen bigger ships, but I've never seen something that big on opposite sides at close range, turrets blazing. I moved on, stumbled across a fellow bounty hunter in passing with a bunch of Fed vipers in their wake. They scanned me, I scanned them, we both came up clean so we tipped our hats to one another and moved on. Nice to see a bit of professional courtesy out in the black.
Then it happened. I dropped onto a mysterious signal source, and saw a boxy vessel, pretty big, off in the distance. Type seven, maybe? Nope, that's no Lakon. My initial scans clocked the name just as the burst lasers opened up on my shields. "Light 'em up, Boys!" rang out over the open Comms as my blood ran cold: This was Gen. Gordon, he was flying a Federal Dropship with twice my mass and twice my gun weight, and he had the drop on me. I boosted power to shields and engines to launch into a desperate series of evasive maneouvres, but it wasn't enough to save my shields from going down and my hull from taking a pounding. A warship tricked out for a general's joyride packs a mean punch, that's for sure.
Now, those things are big and well armed, but my Insurance Claim is no slouch, and with near-constant engine boosts I was able to buy myself some breathing room, despite the weapons fire chipping away at my superstructure. I threw my Asp into a spin as my shields came back online, popping a cell to bring them up to full right away. I was faster, more maneuverable and could out-turn him, so I trimmed down to three-quarter impulse and drew a bead on him. Three lances of crimson coherent light speared into the onrushing boxcar, and the sweetest sound in the world, my trusty ship AI telling me the target's shields were down, was my signal to spin up the rotary guns. I took my revenge in the form of gouging chunks out of the General's hull, but his own guns were returning fire pretty damn sharply. I used a couple more shield cells as we danced and jousted, his heavier calibre stuff hitting harder but my weapons doing their job. All too soon, his shields were back up, but mine were back down. I backed off as best I was able, but the kitchen sink launchers he was firing were leaving a mark. Hull integrity at fifty per cent, forty percent, thirty per cent... I was doomed, it'd take a miracle to pull this one off.
Then the miracle happened. A lot of pilots swear by keeping schtum about any crimes committed against them, the better to hide their own sins and to rack up a revenge bounty. I don't hold to that code of omertà myself, and it was about to pay some serious dividends. The cavalry arrived, in the form of a brace of Fed Navy Vipers, checking in on the report of a clean Asp getting fired on by a dirty Dropship. Now, any pilot knows you can't ignore one Viper, let alone a wolfpack, which gave me the time I needed to get back into fighting trim. The IC was in a sorry state, down to 27% hull integrity, but I'm not one to give up easily. The cops were a nice distraction, but they weren't doing much more than heating up the General's shields. I owed them twice over, between my earlier misfiring and their big damn heroes act, and I wasn't going to leave them hanging. I popped my last shield cell and cruised right back into the fray.
Dancing with the law dogs meant I had time and space to line up my opener, and I made sure I didn't waste it. I made his shields flare from blue to red to dead before he could adjust to the new threat, and at that point my multiguns were battering his hull like a hailstorm on a flimsy groundcar. He was a wily old bird was Gordon, and it didn't take long for his souped up armaments to start lashing at my Asp once more. Even as my shields started dimming, I kept my guns trained on his power plant, and held down my triggers like grim death itself: Only one of us was going to fly away this time. His shields were trying to regenerate even as mine finally gave up the ghost: This was no time for half- measures. My digital aide warned me hull integrity was dropping below 20 per cent and my canopy was getting compromised, cracks beginning to web across the reinforced transpex. I was in a bad way, but the enemy was worse: I got him down to single digits, and added the weight of triple laser fire to the chatter of the main guns. I was running dangerously hot, dangerously close to losing everything and praying the Vipers got to my lifepod before the mad General.
Then everything stopped. The Dropship hung there for a moment, perfectly still, before secondary explosions tore it apart from within. My AI chimed in with an 'Objective Complete', and notification of a bounty reward, six hundred credits. I killed my thrust, let my red hot gunbarrels slow to stillness and gave the overworked laser capacitators a cooldown cycle before stowing my hardpoints. I limped into port, had to downgrade a cargo bay to make repairs and keep out of my disaster funds, but that was better than relying on those funds to make a fresh start. I returned to my home system of Eravate to let my contact know the deed was done, and he responded with a field promotion to a full-on Petty Officer. Job done.
(The federal black ops kill mission is now fully operational. Your targets will appear in the allotted system. Happy hunting!)
