*Incoming transmission*
* FW:KH PM 141001-01*
*Source: Pilot’s Federation, Medical Services Wing*
*Priority: Gamma level*
*Subject: Pilot’s Log*
*Message is as follows:*
*Commander Lehman:
Our records indicate that fifteen (15) standard days have elapsed since your last journal entry. Please submit at least one (1) entry of standard size in either typed or spoken format within seventy-two (72) standard hours. Your compliance is necessary for continued medical clearance.
If you are experiencing difficulty relating current events, your suggested journal prompt is:
Your Ship’s Name.
References to illegal or extraneous activity are discouraged.
The Pilot’s Federation thanks you for your cooperation.*
This sh*t again.
Do you see what I deal with? They Goddamn know that I’ve been taking a little vacation from the normal grind. Why else would Pilot’s Fed actually suggest that I write about something from the past, instead of what I’ve been up to like they normally want? I’ll tell you why:
Whoever is on the other end of these transmissions doesn’t want to me to document how I impulse-bought both a Courier and one of those sweet new Imperial Eagles. They don’t want to read the details of how I went joyriding all day in the Eagle around Kamadhenu’s orbit, weaving through a funeral procession of Type-9s, laughing like a damn maniac the entire time.
Ok. That’s fine.
I won’t write about how I went through an entire case of Old Sol over the course of a week. Or about the redhead dock-knocker whom I may or may not have taken for a ride in my Courier. Did you know that the Courier only has one seat? So how did we make that work, you ask? And why I was all smiles while performing a routine fuel scoop maneuver?
Sorry. Not supposed to write about current events. Pilot’s Fed orders.
But above all, I’ll certainly not mention running into a certain smuggler who was making a discreet delivery on-board Shajn, nor describe what we did in my Vulture’s stateroom- and I’ll make sure to omit mentioning that she had an ass that could make a man find religion.
Instead, I’ll talk about how The Hand of Blue got her name. Ready, boys and girls? It’s quite a tale. You wanted an entry, Pilot’s Fed, so here’s a Goddamn entry. Hell, I’ll even make it a two-parter, like those holovision episodes that p*ss everybody off.
The Hand of Blue, Part 1
I assume that whoever is reading this already knows that I’ve had a pretty successful career as a bounty hunter. Starting from the time I was popping Sidewinders in The Green Salsa Avenger, I eventually made peace with the fact that reaping was both very lucrative, and that- like it or not- I was very good at it.
To make a years-long story short, I traded up to a Viper, which I named The Professor, in honor of my father. Also, it was a pretty old ship, used to teach a lot of scum the error of their ways- so the name was appropriate on several levels.
I suppose that I can’t tell the story of my Vulture without first telling how I came to be involved with Arissa’s private organization. I had been working for Denton Patreus at the time, but… it just wasn’t fulfilling. I swear to God, that guy lives to start private little wars in the systems he screws into accepting his terms for "Imperial aid". He paid well, but… I wasn’t a bounty hunter working for him, not really. I wasn’t even a soldier. I was a repo man with a carte blanche mandate to seize what Denton got the Imperial courts to rule was his.
Messy things, planetary confiscations. Everything becomes property of the state (meaning, in this case, Denton Patreus), and entire communities have to sell themselves into slavery to pay their share of debt if they defaulted to Patreus. We’re talking long-term contracts, not those slap-on-the-wrist, year-long cush jobs as an administrative aid or something. I saw husbands and wives saying goodbye to each other to work in one of Denton’s arms factories for the next decade. I saw entire cities get hit with Pax gas, turning their populations into docile cattle, ready to be told what to do by their new Imperial masters. Nasty stuff, Pax. It's been around for a century, occupies a war-crimes grey area, and still ain't fully understood. You breath it in, lose your free will for a few days, and- you come out of it either a prisoner, or a slave. A tiny minority never come out of it.
One time, after the fighting had ended, Denton was short on ground troops. So he armed his pilots, and sent them to perform “light duty”, not involving anything soldierish. That was during the Durius campaign. You might recall hearing about it on the news. Well, guess who got assigned ground-pounder duty? That same day, I found myself in a pacification squad, wearing ill-fitting combat gear and sorting through refugees in a bombed-out town. Our orders? To do whatever the hell Denton’s viceroy wanted done.
Worst job of my life.
Pacification is a beautiful word to describe an ugly task. The last day of my rotation, I was ordered to forcefully tear a little girl from the arms of her father. She couldn’t have been older than four or five, and knew nothing at that moment except that men with guns were taking her Papa away. It didn't matter that he was the last family that his little girl had. He had been convicted-on the spot- of sheltering some resistance in his house, and immediately sentenced to work in one of the Imperial mines. No place for a little girl, those. No place for a human being at all, if the rumors are true. He resisted long enough to whisper some quick words into her ear, and never broke eye contact with his screaming daughter- not when he was being led away, not even when his tube snapped shut and the cryo-stasis kicked on.
That entire moment is a blur for me. I do remember that this little girl never stopped squirming towards her father, fighting to get away from me while he was being strapped into the pod. I do remember the sound her bare feet made as she chased after the prisoner transport that was taking her father away.
Even when we left a few hours later, that little girl was still in the same spot. Still crying, filthy from the blast-off ash, people moving around her in hurries of their own. She was terrified, but no one dared stop to comfort her, the five-year-old daughter of a traitor. She was all alone, on a world where helping her had become a crime. Her shrinking, huddled form was the last thing I saw out of the viewport as our ship made for high orbit.
Like I said: worst job of my life.
I started drinking more than usual after that night. Much more.
As the weeks passed, my work for Patreus ground down almost to nothing. Eventually, I put The Professor into long-term storage, and used my earnings to buy the Type-7 that I love to hate on so much. I had had enough: of fighting, of killing, of being a party to ruining people’s lives. A man knows in the back of his head where the credits are coming from. He might even have an abstract notion of the results of his actions. But being there, seeing the system that keeps men like Patreus in power for what it is- every man has his limits.
Turns out that my limit was a scared little girl, whose last memory of her father was watching him being locked into a prisoner pod while I stopped her from running to him.
After that, I wanted to get off the grid, leave society, leave existence. So I became even more of a loner. I lived out of my Type-7, drifting from system to system. Didn’t even bother giving her a name- just used the Pilot’s Fed registration code she came with.
I lived like this for about 6 months, if “living” is what you want to call it. Hauling, mining, exploring a little. Anything to avoid what I’d done, what I’d been a party to while working for Denton. It wasn’t just about the little girl- though I would see her sooty, tear-streaked face every time I closed my eyes. It was about the man I was becoming, the choices I had made, and where I was on a spiritual level.
Spiritual? Hell. Listen to me. I guess even we secular Imperials can have an existential crisis, right?
I threw myself into piloting the 7. I hardly slept, and flew constantly, hauling loads all over space. Imperial, Alliance, Fed- it didn’t matter. I resigned my commission with Patraeus’s organization, and went back to strict freelancing.
Being alone was meant to help me grieve, to recover, to ask what I wanted to do with this life I had chosen. Was it time to hang up my wings and settle planetside? Continue the lonely life of a drifter? Or would it be better to simply disable the safety features on my ship’s supercruise, down my last bottle of Old Sol, and fly into a star?
Could I ever talk to anyone about what I’d done?
As it happened, I could. I did. Whether I wanted to or not.
I was at a bar in an Alliance system, sitting in a corner booth by myself, waiting for my cargo to get sorted out. In a 7, that could take awhile, even with the fastest loaders. It’s not like I had any friends, and holo-calling my parents made me feel… off.
So that left drinking, which between the auto-pilot, auto-docker, and auto-loaders, I had plenty of time to do.
A sharply-dressed man approached- very dark skin, short-cropped black hair. Simple grey clothing, the kind Imperials like to wear. Intelligent, piercing eyes. Rich, warm voice.
“Commander Lehman?”
I looked up.
“Maybe. What’s it to you?”
He lifted his chin, as though he were sizing me up. Just a hint of judgement shown through in his gaze.
“My name is Gideon. Gideon Hathaway. I represent someone who is on the lookout for pilots of your caliber.”
He extended his hand. I didn’t feel like shaking, but I did anyway. Habit, I guess. I gestured to the seat across from me, and Gideon sat down.
“You an Imperial?”
“Yes. Like you, I’ve pledged my loyalty to the Emperor, the Senate, and people of the Empire. Unlike you, however, my service is far more focused.”
I took a drink of my whiskey.
“You’re assuming an awful lot, pal. I did my time in the navy, but I ain’t called anyone ‘boss’ 'cept myself ever since.”
Gideon smiled.
“My employer likes that quality in her associates. Tell me- what are you doing here?”
I shrugged. “Waiting for the dockers to unload a cargo bay full of coffee, and then fill it up with the latest gizmos that are selling like crazy in the Alliance core.”
Gideon smiled again, but his eyes were narrower this time. Like he was trying to see through me.
“You misunderstand, commander. I’m perfectly aware that you’re a- how do you put it? ‘Truck driver’. My question is: what are you doing here?”
I finished my glass of whiskey.
“Listen, pal. I ain’t much for twenty questions. It sounds like you’re trying to say something without saying it. So spit it out or leave me the hell alone.”
The clean-cut man signaled for more drinks, and leaned back in his seat.
“Commander, I’ll be candid. I’ve had the privilege of reading over your Pilot’s Fed record, and it seems that you’ve done very well for yourself as a bounty hunter. You even had a successful arrangement with a prominent Senator- Patreus, was it?”
I looked him square in his smug, pampered gaze.
“If you've seen my file, then you know damn well I did.”
Gideon met my look.
“Indeed. And then, from every piece of information I could access, you simply walked away.”
I didn’t like where this was going, so I took another drink. Gideon’s face settled into something that could almost pass as sympathy.
“Commander- no, Matt. May I call you that?”
I shrugged.
“Matt, I have a question. It may be difficult. But my employer and I both feel that it is important.”
He leaned forward.
“What happened on Durius?”
Jesus. Just hearing the name of system. What was there to even say to that question?
“Go. To. Hell.”
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t feeling the whiskey at that point. I started to get up, and Gideon swiftly grabbed me by the arm.
“Commander, please! I’m not Denton, and neither is my employer! All I’m asking for is five minutes of your time. After that, if you don’t like what you hear, I will walk away, and we will never contact you again.”
Something in his voice, the urgency with which he pleaded for me to stay, made me feel reconsider. I hated him for even saying the name of the system where it happened, but something made me want to give this proper little puppet a second chance.
“Alright. Five minutes. Sell me.”
Gideon straightened his jacket, and gestured for me to sit.
“Commander, I represent the interests of Arissa Lavignly-Duval. You have no doubt heard of her. She is the rightful heir to the Imperial throne, and the best hope that the Empire has for fulfilling its proper place of leadership in the sphere of human affairs.”
I wanted to kill him.
“Another Goddamn senator? I ought to-“
“Please, commander! Please let me finish. Durius was a ghastly affair, and though Senator Patreus was within his legal rights to act as he did, he disgraced himself in the eyes of many, including Senator Duval herself. We would have expected such barbarism from Zemina Torval, perhaps, but not Denton Patreus! What he did remains a stain upon the very concept of Imperial slavery. It is meant as a safety net to preserve one’s dignity, not as a punishment, not as a contract to be signed at gunpoint! We were all shamed that day. Were Arissa Empress, Denton would have stood accountable before the Senate itself!”
Trembling, I had another shot. Hathaway continued, the urgency now evident in his voice:
“Commander, you are an expert-level combat pilot, and you know how to get cargo where it shouldn’t necessarily be. Yes, we know all about that, too. But no matter- sometimes, to uphold the law, it must be broken. There are many who excel at killing, just as there are many competent smugglers- but we believe that a man is defined by the jobs he walks away from as much as the jobs he takes. If you accept the Senator’s patronage, you have both our words that you will never be asked to repeat what you had to do on Durius, ever again!”
Jesus.
Either I was more hard-up for a sympathetic ear than I had thought, or Gideon really was displaying genuine humanity.
“Go on.”
Gideon seemed to relax a little.
“You might have heard that Core Dynamics is releasing a new class of ship soon. The Vulture, I’m told it’s called. It’s big, it’s deadly, and it’s better than anything the Empire can field at the moment. In fact, it’s even better than what the Empire will field in the foreseeable future.”
This guy wanted to talk about ships now?
“Must pain you to say that, Core being a Federation outfit and all.”
Gideon smirked ever so slightly.
“Indeed it does. But it’s not a military vessel, for either the Federation or the Empire. Too large, and more importantly, too expensive. Navies operate on a budget, you know. For the cost of a single Vulture, either power could outfit an entire squadron of carrier-based fighters. No, the Vulture is a ship for elite bounty hunters, mercenaries, or…”
Gideon locked eyes with me-
“…or Imperial Inquisitors.”
So that was the rub. I leaned forward-
“Duval's Inquisitor or Patreus's thug, it don't make a damn bit of difference what I get called. I’m just another senator’s henchman either way. I ain’t in this to give up my indy status. I ain’t called nobody ‘sir’ since my navy days, and I ain’t fixing to go back to that.”
Gideon’s smug little smirk returned.
“I thought you might raise that objection, commander. In our experience, the best inquisitors are the ones who choose to work on our lady’s behalf. You’ll be knighted, of course, but the rank is a formality and you would never wear a uniform. Whatever ship you fly would be yours, not the Empire’s. There will always be Chapterhouse work to be done, but when and how you perform these tasks is strictly up to you.”
He took a long drink, and-
“… and of course, there is the issue of compensation. As a patron, Senator Duval is most rewarding when it comes to maintaining proper order within her systems. Those vermin who prey upon the weak see the largest bounties in the Empire placed upon their heads. Arissa herself supplements any and all vouchers from her own private treasury. Depending on the political situation, the bonus can be up to fifty percent- but is never less than twenty.”
So he’s appealing to my love of justice and my love of credits. Smooth.
With that, Gideon rose from the booth and straightened his jacket.
“Commander, I leave tomorrow morning. Core Dynamics will not mass-produce this new ship on any significant scale, and the wait list for it is quite substantial. If, however, you are willing to accept our offer, our patron can guarantee the delivery of one such vessel to you as soon as you complete the sims for it.”
Gideon reached into his inner jacket pocket, and pulled out a credit chip with Arissa’s coat-of-arms laser-etched into it. He slid it across the table to me.
“This is one million credits. Consider it a signing bonus, should you choose to accept. If not- I ask only that you keep us in your thoughts. You’ll find my contact information embedded in the chip, as well. You may access it once, and the chip will then wipe itself. Please consider carefully. Now, if you’ll excuse me.“
I stumbled up, almost knocking over the table.
“Where the hell are you off to?”
Gideon turned around, that damn smug look on his face having returned.
“My apologies commander, but did you think you were the only pilot in this system worth contacting? As charming as your company is, I’m afraid that my duties involve slightly more than what you’ve seen. Good day to you, sir.”
And just like that, Gideon was gone.
I didn’t sleep that entire Goddamn night. I just sat in the pilot’s chair of my Type-7, rolling the credit chip through my fingers and letting everything that had happened at that bar unfold in my mind. The hourly rental at the starport’s landing pad was ticking, but I didn’t care.
Normally, I would have taken off hours ago.
Then again, there was nothing normal about that conversation. Contacted by an agent of the Inquisition who seemed to know everything about me, and then- being offered a dream gig to work for one of the most powerful people in the ‘verse?
There had to be a catch. But there was only one way to find out.
I powered up the ship’s comms, and slid the disk into the universal slot. The credits hit my account automatically, and the computer asked if I wanted to contact “G. Hathaway”. I answered “yes”. A moment passed as it connected us, and there he was, in a flight suit this time, piloting a beautiful white ship that I had never seen before. Later, I learned that he had been granted the privilege of test-piloting one of the Imperial Courier prototypes, long before it hit the market.
Gideon didn’t say anything; he just looked at me with an expectant gaze.
I took a deep breath.
“I’m in.”
* FW:KH PM 141001-01*
*Source: Pilot’s Federation, Medical Services Wing*
*Priority: Gamma level*
*Subject: Pilot’s Log*
*Message is as follows:*
*Commander Lehman:
Our records indicate that fifteen (15) standard days have elapsed since your last journal entry. Please submit at least one (1) entry of standard size in either typed or spoken format within seventy-two (72) standard hours. Your compliance is necessary for continued medical clearance.
If you are experiencing difficulty relating current events, your suggested journal prompt is:
Your Ship’s Name.
References to illegal or extraneous activity are discouraged.
The Pilot’s Federation thanks you for your cooperation.*
This sh*t again.
Do you see what I deal with? They Goddamn know that I’ve been taking a little vacation from the normal grind. Why else would Pilot’s Fed actually suggest that I write about something from the past, instead of what I’ve been up to like they normally want? I’ll tell you why:
Whoever is on the other end of these transmissions doesn’t want to me to document how I impulse-bought both a Courier and one of those sweet new Imperial Eagles. They don’t want to read the details of how I went joyriding all day in the Eagle around Kamadhenu’s orbit, weaving through a funeral procession of Type-9s, laughing like a damn maniac the entire time.
Ok. That’s fine.
I won’t write about how I went through an entire case of Old Sol over the course of a week. Or about the redhead dock-knocker whom I may or may not have taken for a ride in my Courier. Did you know that the Courier only has one seat? So how did we make that work, you ask? And why I was all smiles while performing a routine fuel scoop maneuver?
Sorry. Not supposed to write about current events. Pilot’s Fed orders.
But above all, I’ll certainly not mention running into a certain smuggler who was making a discreet delivery on-board Shajn, nor describe what we did in my Vulture’s stateroom- and I’ll make sure to omit mentioning that she had an ass that could make a man find religion.
Instead, I’ll talk about how The Hand of Blue got her name. Ready, boys and girls? It’s quite a tale. You wanted an entry, Pilot’s Fed, so here’s a Goddamn entry. Hell, I’ll even make it a two-parter, like those holovision episodes that p*ss everybody off.
The Hand of Blue, Part 1
I assume that whoever is reading this already knows that I’ve had a pretty successful career as a bounty hunter. Starting from the time I was popping Sidewinders in The Green Salsa Avenger, I eventually made peace with the fact that reaping was both very lucrative, and that- like it or not- I was very good at it.
To make a years-long story short, I traded up to a Viper, which I named The Professor, in honor of my father. Also, it was a pretty old ship, used to teach a lot of scum the error of their ways- so the name was appropriate on several levels.
I suppose that I can’t tell the story of my Vulture without first telling how I came to be involved with Arissa’s private organization. I had been working for Denton Patreus at the time, but… it just wasn’t fulfilling. I swear to God, that guy lives to start private little wars in the systems he screws into accepting his terms for "Imperial aid". He paid well, but… I wasn’t a bounty hunter working for him, not really. I wasn’t even a soldier. I was a repo man with a carte blanche mandate to seize what Denton got the Imperial courts to rule was his.
Messy things, planetary confiscations. Everything becomes property of the state (meaning, in this case, Denton Patreus), and entire communities have to sell themselves into slavery to pay their share of debt if they defaulted to Patreus. We’re talking long-term contracts, not those slap-on-the-wrist, year-long cush jobs as an administrative aid or something. I saw husbands and wives saying goodbye to each other to work in one of Denton’s arms factories for the next decade. I saw entire cities get hit with Pax gas, turning their populations into docile cattle, ready to be told what to do by their new Imperial masters. Nasty stuff, Pax. It's been around for a century, occupies a war-crimes grey area, and still ain't fully understood. You breath it in, lose your free will for a few days, and- you come out of it either a prisoner, or a slave. A tiny minority never come out of it.
One time, after the fighting had ended, Denton was short on ground troops. So he armed his pilots, and sent them to perform “light duty”, not involving anything soldierish. That was during the Durius campaign. You might recall hearing about it on the news. Well, guess who got assigned ground-pounder duty? That same day, I found myself in a pacification squad, wearing ill-fitting combat gear and sorting through refugees in a bombed-out town. Our orders? To do whatever the hell Denton’s viceroy wanted done.
Worst job of my life.
Pacification is a beautiful word to describe an ugly task. The last day of my rotation, I was ordered to forcefully tear a little girl from the arms of her father. She couldn’t have been older than four or five, and knew nothing at that moment except that men with guns were taking her Papa away. It didn't matter that he was the last family that his little girl had. He had been convicted-on the spot- of sheltering some resistance in his house, and immediately sentenced to work in one of the Imperial mines. No place for a little girl, those. No place for a human being at all, if the rumors are true. He resisted long enough to whisper some quick words into her ear, and never broke eye contact with his screaming daughter- not when he was being led away, not even when his tube snapped shut and the cryo-stasis kicked on.
That entire moment is a blur for me. I do remember that this little girl never stopped squirming towards her father, fighting to get away from me while he was being strapped into the pod. I do remember the sound her bare feet made as she chased after the prisoner transport that was taking her father away.
Even when we left a few hours later, that little girl was still in the same spot. Still crying, filthy from the blast-off ash, people moving around her in hurries of their own. She was terrified, but no one dared stop to comfort her, the five-year-old daughter of a traitor. She was all alone, on a world where helping her had become a crime. Her shrinking, huddled form was the last thing I saw out of the viewport as our ship made for high orbit.
Like I said: worst job of my life.
I started drinking more than usual after that night. Much more.
As the weeks passed, my work for Patreus ground down almost to nothing. Eventually, I put The Professor into long-term storage, and used my earnings to buy the Type-7 that I love to hate on so much. I had had enough: of fighting, of killing, of being a party to ruining people’s lives. A man knows in the back of his head where the credits are coming from. He might even have an abstract notion of the results of his actions. But being there, seeing the system that keeps men like Patreus in power for what it is- every man has his limits.
Turns out that my limit was a scared little girl, whose last memory of her father was watching him being locked into a prisoner pod while I stopped her from running to him.
After that, I wanted to get off the grid, leave society, leave existence. So I became even more of a loner. I lived out of my Type-7, drifting from system to system. Didn’t even bother giving her a name- just used the Pilot’s Fed registration code she came with.
I lived like this for about 6 months, if “living” is what you want to call it. Hauling, mining, exploring a little. Anything to avoid what I’d done, what I’d been a party to while working for Denton. It wasn’t just about the little girl- though I would see her sooty, tear-streaked face every time I closed my eyes. It was about the man I was becoming, the choices I had made, and where I was on a spiritual level.
Spiritual? Hell. Listen to me. I guess even we secular Imperials can have an existential crisis, right?
I threw myself into piloting the 7. I hardly slept, and flew constantly, hauling loads all over space. Imperial, Alliance, Fed- it didn’t matter. I resigned my commission with Patraeus’s organization, and went back to strict freelancing.
Being alone was meant to help me grieve, to recover, to ask what I wanted to do with this life I had chosen. Was it time to hang up my wings and settle planetside? Continue the lonely life of a drifter? Or would it be better to simply disable the safety features on my ship’s supercruise, down my last bottle of Old Sol, and fly into a star?
Could I ever talk to anyone about what I’d done?
As it happened, I could. I did. Whether I wanted to or not.
I was at a bar in an Alliance system, sitting in a corner booth by myself, waiting for my cargo to get sorted out. In a 7, that could take awhile, even with the fastest loaders. It’s not like I had any friends, and holo-calling my parents made me feel… off.
So that left drinking, which between the auto-pilot, auto-docker, and auto-loaders, I had plenty of time to do.
A sharply-dressed man approached- very dark skin, short-cropped black hair. Simple grey clothing, the kind Imperials like to wear. Intelligent, piercing eyes. Rich, warm voice.
“Commander Lehman?”
I looked up.
“Maybe. What’s it to you?”
He lifted his chin, as though he were sizing me up. Just a hint of judgement shown through in his gaze.
“My name is Gideon. Gideon Hathaway. I represent someone who is on the lookout for pilots of your caliber.”
He extended his hand. I didn’t feel like shaking, but I did anyway. Habit, I guess. I gestured to the seat across from me, and Gideon sat down.
“You an Imperial?”
“Yes. Like you, I’ve pledged my loyalty to the Emperor, the Senate, and people of the Empire. Unlike you, however, my service is far more focused.”
I took a drink of my whiskey.
“You’re assuming an awful lot, pal. I did my time in the navy, but I ain’t called anyone ‘boss’ 'cept myself ever since.”
Gideon smiled.
“My employer likes that quality in her associates. Tell me- what are you doing here?”
I shrugged. “Waiting for the dockers to unload a cargo bay full of coffee, and then fill it up with the latest gizmos that are selling like crazy in the Alliance core.”
Gideon smiled again, but his eyes were narrower this time. Like he was trying to see through me.
“You misunderstand, commander. I’m perfectly aware that you’re a- how do you put it? ‘Truck driver’. My question is: what are you doing here?”
I finished my glass of whiskey.
“Listen, pal. I ain’t much for twenty questions. It sounds like you’re trying to say something without saying it. So spit it out or leave me the hell alone.”
The clean-cut man signaled for more drinks, and leaned back in his seat.
“Commander, I’ll be candid. I’ve had the privilege of reading over your Pilot’s Fed record, and it seems that you’ve done very well for yourself as a bounty hunter. You even had a successful arrangement with a prominent Senator- Patreus, was it?”
I looked him square in his smug, pampered gaze.
“If you've seen my file, then you know damn well I did.”
Gideon met my look.
“Indeed. And then, from every piece of information I could access, you simply walked away.”
I didn’t like where this was going, so I took another drink. Gideon’s face settled into something that could almost pass as sympathy.
“Commander- no, Matt. May I call you that?”
I shrugged.
“Matt, I have a question. It may be difficult. But my employer and I both feel that it is important.”
He leaned forward.
“What happened on Durius?”
Jesus. Just hearing the name of system. What was there to even say to that question?
“Go. To. Hell.”
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t feeling the whiskey at that point. I started to get up, and Gideon swiftly grabbed me by the arm.
“Commander, please! I’m not Denton, and neither is my employer! All I’m asking for is five minutes of your time. After that, if you don’t like what you hear, I will walk away, and we will never contact you again.”
Something in his voice, the urgency with which he pleaded for me to stay, made me feel reconsider. I hated him for even saying the name of the system where it happened, but something made me want to give this proper little puppet a second chance.
“Alright. Five minutes. Sell me.”
Gideon straightened his jacket, and gestured for me to sit.
“Commander, I represent the interests of Arissa Lavignly-Duval. You have no doubt heard of her. She is the rightful heir to the Imperial throne, and the best hope that the Empire has for fulfilling its proper place of leadership in the sphere of human affairs.”
I wanted to kill him.
“Another Goddamn senator? I ought to-“
“Please, commander! Please let me finish. Durius was a ghastly affair, and though Senator Patreus was within his legal rights to act as he did, he disgraced himself in the eyes of many, including Senator Duval herself. We would have expected such barbarism from Zemina Torval, perhaps, but not Denton Patreus! What he did remains a stain upon the very concept of Imperial slavery. It is meant as a safety net to preserve one’s dignity, not as a punishment, not as a contract to be signed at gunpoint! We were all shamed that day. Were Arissa Empress, Denton would have stood accountable before the Senate itself!”
Trembling, I had another shot. Hathaway continued, the urgency now evident in his voice:
“Commander, you are an expert-level combat pilot, and you know how to get cargo where it shouldn’t necessarily be. Yes, we know all about that, too. But no matter- sometimes, to uphold the law, it must be broken. There are many who excel at killing, just as there are many competent smugglers- but we believe that a man is defined by the jobs he walks away from as much as the jobs he takes. If you accept the Senator’s patronage, you have both our words that you will never be asked to repeat what you had to do on Durius, ever again!”
Jesus.
Either I was more hard-up for a sympathetic ear than I had thought, or Gideon really was displaying genuine humanity.
“Go on.”
Gideon seemed to relax a little.
“You might have heard that Core Dynamics is releasing a new class of ship soon. The Vulture, I’m told it’s called. It’s big, it’s deadly, and it’s better than anything the Empire can field at the moment. In fact, it’s even better than what the Empire will field in the foreseeable future.”
This guy wanted to talk about ships now?
“Must pain you to say that, Core being a Federation outfit and all.”
Gideon smirked ever so slightly.
“Indeed it does. But it’s not a military vessel, for either the Federation or the Empire. Too large, and more importantly, too expensive. Navies operate on a budget, you know. For the cost of a single Vulture, either power could outfit an entire squadron of carrier-based fighters. No, the Vulture is a ship for elite bounty hunters, mercenaries, or…”
Gideon locked eyes with me-
“…or Imperial Inquisitors.”
So that was the rub. I leaned forward-
“Duval's Inquisitor or Patreus's thug, it don't make a damn bit of difference what I get called. I’m just another senator’s henchman either way. I ain’t in this to give up my indy status. I ain’t called nobody ‘sir’ since my navy days, and I ain’t fixing to go back to that.”
Gideon’s smug little smirk returned.
“I thought you might raise that objection, commander. In our experience, the best inquisitors are the ones who choose to work on our lady’s behalf. You’ll be knighted, of course, but the rank is a formality and you would never wear a uniform. Whatever ship you fly would be yours, not the Empire’s. There will always be Chapterhouse work to be done, but when and how you perform these tasks is strictly up to you.”
He took a long drink, and-
“… and of course, there is the issue of compensation. As a patron, Senator Duval is most rewarding when it comes to maintaining proper order within her systems. Those vermin who prey upon the weak see the largest bounties in the Empire placed upon their heads. Arissa herself supplements any and all vouchers from her own private treasury. Depending on the political situation, the bonus can be up to fifty percent- but is never less than twenty.”
So he’s appealing to my love of justice and my love of credits. Smooth.
With that, Gideon rose from the booth and straightened his jacket.
“Commander, I leave tomorrow morning. Core Dynamics will not mass-produce this new ship on any significant scale, and the wait list for it is quite substantial. If, however, you are willing to accept our offer, our patron can guarantee the delivery of one such vessel to you as soon as you complete the sims for it.”
Gideon reached into his inner jacket pocket, and pulled out a credit chip with Arissa’s coat-of-arms laser-etched into it. He slid it across the table to me.
“This is one million credits. Consider it a signing bonus, should you choose to accept. If not- I ask only that you keep us in your thoughts. You’ll find my contact information embedded in the chip, as well. You may access it once, and the chip will then wipe itself. Please consider carefully. Now, if you’ll excuse me.“
I stumbled up, almost knocking over the table.
“Where the hell are you off to?”
Gideon turned around, that damn smug look on his face having returned.
“My apologies commander, but did you think you were the only pilot in this system worth contacting? As charming as your company is, I’m afraid that my duties involve slightly more than what you’ve seen. Good day to you, sir.”
And just like that, Gideon was gone.
I didn’t sleep that entire Goddamn night. I just sat in the pilot’s chair of my Type-7, rolling the credit chip through my fingers and letting everything that had happened at that bar unfold in my mind. The hourly rental at the starport’s landing pad was ticking, but I didn’t care.
Normally, I would have taken off hours ago.
Then again, there was nothing normal about that conversation. Contacted by an agent of the Inquisition who seemed to know everything about me, and then- being offered a dream gig to work for one of the most powerful people in the ‘verse?
There had to be a catch. But there was only one way to find out.
I powered up the ship’s comms, and slid the disk into the universal slot. The credits hit my account automatically, and the computer asked if I wanted to contact “G. Hathaway”. I answered “yes”. A moment passed as it connected us, and there he was, in a flight suit this time, piloting a beautiful white ship that I had never seen before. Later, I learned that he had been granted the privilege of test-piloting one of the Imperial Courier prototypes, long before it hit the market.
Gideon didn’t say anything; he just looked at me with an expectant gaze.
I took a deep breath.
“I’m in.”
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