The Sisterhood of Dreams - Encrypted Archives

[Enkidu]

Inhales stetorously on her cardamine burner, neatly wiping away the residue with an uncharacteristic precision. She is an engineer, after all, a Bretonian one too. Politeness has a functional purpose when you’re cleaning the in-ducts on the very device keeping you alive.

Munen. Body of Christ, that woman is one beast in an orchid.

So. We were shaking down the Honshu Jumpgate to Fuji artery – just sittin’ in the dead middle of it and praying to Am’ that some gunboat captain with as much guts as he has guns wouldn’t prang us at an inopportune moment – was pretty busy for New Tokyo time; managed to shake down quite a few suspicious lookin’ idiots who required a couple of mosquitos to see the error that impoliteness brings ya’ – I whacked the lanes, she played good terrorist and I played bad, and then when they didn’t check out, Munen piled the bodies. Mostly helium traders in medium transports, the odd Border Worlds crates – all legitimate cargo, save one.

Make sure you’re sitting in something that isn’t an ejector seat when ya’ read the following script; I ran into a Daumann transport, nah’, not a transport actually, more of a tanker. Captain was clearly a wise guy cuz’ he buzzed out around the lanes as soon as he scanned me – didn’t follow him tho’, thought the contents of his cargo hold were going to give him enough trouble, and I wanted to know where that Cockney Hit rocked up. Point blank, he was carrying munitions. Not even legal munitions, the real dodgy, grey-area, cocaine, hookers and drug money stuff. The kinda’ stuff the Baffin convention would blow a gasket at.

Hell, since that cargo clearly wasn’t going to the KSP, I thought I’d let him sail away – that smuggler had enough guns there to start a revolution, something like four thousand metric tonnes jimmied up in shipping containers. Raises all sortsa’ questions what a Rheinlandic monopoly well renowned for being bloodsucking, worker-murdering asshats is doing getting into the Kusari revolutionary business. Doesn’t mean I won’t dump his headless, shrivelling corpse into the space between the stars the next time he rocks up – this time, he had ma’ curiosity. Next time, he’ll have my torpedoes.

We also ran into a GMG|, y’know, one of the head honchos, who didn’t give us much in the way of decency when he blazed through the disruption zone on the lane – idiot jumped to all sortsa’ conclusions which don’t befit an organisation we support – idiot even had the stupidity to talk about our forced inter-organisational marriages on the public neural net, then bribed us when we heckled him as rude.

The sooner I can get ol’Mossie’ to start steamin’ under her own boilers again, the sooner we can hold a tribunal about what to do with these Kishiro sycophants who dare to defame us with the word “friends” – ‘Mossie’s just a lil’ too delicate to live in the cosmic backyard of a people who make a living out of selling hot air and whose words contain an equivalent dearth of substance.

Lost your faith in humanism yet? This’ll restore it. Uh, or maybe not –restore- it, but the deranged insanity of it will certainly boot you up the snatch. Check the picture.

This guy’s a Zoner – y’know, the neutral contact, callsign ‘_Axe_’. This is a still frame from the in-cockpit record of ma’ head’s up display. Axe was flyin’ an eagle when we pranged him out, an’ like most Zoners probably wasn’t up to the idea of having to Top Gun his way around two pissy sisters in an Orchid and a Tachi respectively, let alone at once, so he cut his engines without me needing to waste a trainstopper and looked at me quizzically. Naw’, nothing interesting from this trash of the border worlds, and was about to let him go before I ran a scan on his hold.


He’s carrying a cloaking device – y’know, that thing black ops operatives use to disguise themselves before sensors, the eye of man and just about everything but the goddess – some sorta’ fusion cell fed EM device, disconnected from the prime reactor presumably to prevent surging – truly good cloaks aren’t known for their reliability. He gave us some specs on it – nothing major, he has the knowledge of someone trained to turn it on and off, not somebody trained to actually install or fabricate the device – still, it was good enough to negate the practical value of stripping it from his smoking remains, so we let him proceed unmolested.

There are no limits to the havoc our Sisters could create if they had access to this technology – I’ll be in touch; I've got a particular databank to plunder.

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THE SYNDIC LEAGUES
(A co-operative of Rheinland's outlawed trade unions, determined to take the underworld for themselves.)

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