Brahms wasn't sure if it was the time of the day or the fact that he was feeling nervous to the point of discomfort, but Colorado was particularly quiet that evening. He had landed on Planet Denver over an hour earlier than requested, and as he waited for clearance on the docking bays he took the task of going through the next steps he would take.
First there was the contract. He was supposed to meet a man by the name of Klaus Baker - an Interspace Commerce employee relocating to the planet - who would oversee his resignation and make sure his ID and equipment checked out. During the next day or so, he assumed, they would undergo endless hours of non-disclosure agreements, breaches of contract and incredibly monotone sentences to try and drive him to sign the most ridiculous of agreements.
Then there was the case of the Crane. Being officially "reduced" to a Freelancer, Brahms would have to change his ship to a smaller one, so it would register properly on the civilian database. Although all they needed to do was to replace the engine and remove a cargo link to appease said need, he knew not how long that would take but that the result would be far from the an appropriate one. There was also the matter of the Crew.
Brahms looked down at his datapad, where the page marker flashed in green letters "How to Properly Act during a Military Inspection", "page 893". Theory.
He poured a dose of gin inside his tea and sat down beside it, looking through one of the windows. It was him, the scent of the herbal mixture, the silence of the empty Crane and the so many stars outside.
- "I'm overcomplicating." He affirmed, trying to relax. "I can clearly do this. What I need is people. People I can trust." He looked around the room. It certainly did not feel like home. "... and a different Raumschiff. With a proper name this time."
He stood up, with the cup on his hand, savoring the taste. Clearing his mind, he started pacing around the room, allowing himself to talk loud:
- "So... I will need an engineer and a pilot." - He went through the contacts he had. His home, Kusari, Bretonia, Liberty... and, to some extend, Gallia.
- "A scientist, a medic... and probably a security officer to keep everything in place." - He turned to the window once again.
It was clear he would certainly need people who knew what they were doing, but would it be enough? He would also need builders. People with access to facilities, scientists and manufacturers he didn't had. The Junkers had not answered yet - he stared at his datapad - but there was no harm into looking for more alternatives. Instinctively he remember the Freeports. During all those years, the Zoners always kept to themselves and reassuring the safety of the place. Going past the trading administrators, however, was something he never thought about doing, but those ships had to come from somewhere. Maybe he could reach someone that would be interested in some sort of mutual agreement. These were people, after all.
- "Stuttgart first then." - He looked towards one of the Crane's walls, gently resting his hand on the metal surface. - "Then we should start planning your retirement."
The flight to Stuttgart was small proof - for the first time Brahms had commandeered without a hired captain. The crew had done almost a mechanical job from jumping from lane to lane, and other than just straight out flying out of troublemakers way, there was no true challenge. His home planet, on the other hand, was gonna be harder.
On Sunday he'd made a call he never thought about doing, and although he didn't explain fully to his father what he wanted with a sympathizer, Helmutt Brahms knew his son far too well just to write it off as a "chat" as he had told him.
The pair were really close. The senior Brahms had taught almost everything he knew about politics, taking the young Allan to visit the Reichstag for tourism since he was a kid. So many visits, in fact, with so much talk about political careers and "changing the system from the inside", that Allan believed his father had secretly wanted him to join the government, something he never desired. It was only when his sister and brothers came to be that the visits stopped - Brahms went towards his profitable career in logistics and that was it.
Having cleared Hudson, Allan realized he could uncross his arms. He had been standing straight up in the middle of the bridge all this time in silence, his pilot and crew in somewhat a discrete silence.
- "I will be inside my quarters. Pilot, ring me if there's any trouble." All this recycling, he had realized, bothered him. No names, no faces, no friends - inside the ship it was only business. These people were always being replaced, so much in fact he didn't recall the last time he had a proper chat with one of them.
He entered his room and picked up the documents he had spread over his table. There were five different colors lighting up the desk - different people, different tasks.
First there was the contact his father introduced him to years ago in New Berlin. Brahms knew little of the man, other than he was an accomplished engineer and knew quite a lot of the Reichstag political movements. If there was one person he knew he had to trust was the one responsible for the engines, and no one better than a person his father trusted.
For the matter of the piloting the ship, he had thought about going to Kusari. Perhaps one of his friends in New Tokyo would be able to point him to an able hand, someone used to moving through and away from trouble, preferably unscathed. The reputation mattered, of course, but having a pilot with a decent sense of honor seemed like a good idea.
Both the scientist and the medic would be issues, however, since he had no experience on those fields. He would have to trust someone to pick those candidates for him and once again he thought about the Zoners. Freeports would have to be visited and people would have to be talked to.
Finally, the security officer was an incognito. He did not want a Rheinlander taking care of the ship's safety nor a Libertonian, so he would have to search on Bretonia or Gallia. This spot would probably the harder one to fill, so he thought to leave it to last.
Then his intercom ringed, pulling him out of his thoughts.
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Personal Log :: 8250420![[Image: iuBiGXG.png]](https://imgur.com/iuBiGXG.png)