Freeport Blues

[NixOlympica]

Charlemagne was sitting in one of the many lousy bars located close to one of the many the loading docks of Freeport 11. There was nothing remarkable about the bar itself. A score of cargo pilots, several unsavory existences, alcohol menu that was mostly crossed out with only watery beer and some sort of mysteriously named local bootleg spirit remaining. Charlemagne did not order anything. For one, they did not feel like going on an adventure of alcohol poisoning. The other reason being that Charlemagne was donning a spacesuit helmet with the visor shut.

This whole thing smelled like a trap. Marinenachrichtendiensts trap to be precise. Yet the order was given and Charlemagne listened. It was another less-than-legal job that was assigned to them. This one just had the perk of rotting in a federal jail for the remainder of Charlemagne's life. They reached for a pack of cigarettes in their pocket and then stopped. Smoking would require opening the visor and revealing the face of the person waiting for the trap to be sprung. Charlemagne felt their blaster instead. Not that it would help much when a full squad of marines storms the bar. Charlemagne did pay the local security operator a hefty sum to give them a warning if they spot something resembling a squad but the operator's allegiance could easily be swayed by even more money. Or a gunpoint. The lack of jurisdiction at a Freeport would hardly matter if the MND wanted to kidnap someone.

Charlemagne checked out the whole bar for an umpteen time. Nothing changed. Then their wristpad beeped.

"I'm here. Meetup?"

Charlemagne's heartbeat quickened. They thought about just standing up and walking away. Once the location is given, the life-sentence might as well be handed out. After a moment they sighed and typed in the location of the meeting place. Then added a short message.

Come alone