The Ballad of Bessie Bishop

[Big Bison Bessie]

Episode 01: Pennsylvania Blues. Ryan Petrov.

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The entire cockpit rumbled and rattled quietly as the rush of space through the trade lane hurled the tiny ship along at a tremendous velocity. Each of the titanic rings that passed did so with another subtle shudder and fleeting flash of blue that washed over the cockpit’s intricate controls and readouts. Otherwise, the red lights of the HUD illuminated the interior controls and instrumentation panels. It was a kind of red that was easy on the eyes. It outlined keypads, switches, numerous small monitors, and the flight controls, painting the whole interior of the ship that dull color. The inside of an AP-18100 Hammerhead was a blend of contemporary ship technology, and older, more stubborn, tried and true bits of analogue. Kishiro Tech near-3D displays made up the majority of the HUD around the canopy’s transparent metal, along with the scanner display in the center of her cockpit. The shimmering, non-factory standard red is what lit up most of her view, and was probably the most sophisticated gizmo she had installed that she could lay her eyes upon. It was like well defined embers from a fire, or thousands of tiny little red lasers that were easy on the eyes, not the kind that stabbed you when you saw them. Below and off to the side sat screens nestled into little alcoves, each one practically surrounded by buttons and switches and indicator lights. The myriad of controls covered everything from targeting to fuel consumption adjustment to scanner recalibrations to IFF interrogators and so on and so on. Every so often in the red light, one could spy an aftermarket panel or monitor that looked newer than the others. It was a rough mish mash of a cockpit, one that smelled of cigarette smoke. What passed for an ashtray, effectively a divot hooked up to a little vacuum, saw frequent use by the pilot. A smoldering cigarette burned in it, crumpled up and waiting for her to press the button to suck the ash away.

Her heavy hand gently tapped along the edge of the flightstick that sat off to her right, her scarred fingers strumming along the well worn bits of leather grip. Her seat creaked under her as she adjusted herself, grunting in discomfort as she tried to get the straps not to chafe her chest. The straps holding her down caused her shirt to bunch up as she moved, but her seatbelts refused to give her much room until they were released. A necessary discomfort. Aside from the occasional beeps from her instruments and the rumble of her ship, her ears were treated to quiet and twangy guitars that slowly floated on down from her ship’s intercom as she let the computer run through her collection of old music. It wasn’t enough to be a distraction though, other thoughts dominated her mind. Her tired eyes moved from the navigation display that counted down the distance to Planet Erie, back to her tactical scanners and the two white dots that hovered at the flanks of her ship's sensors.

A glance out the portside window revealed the small, dart shaped silver craft that rocketed through space with her. One of two identical ships, both sporting pointed, fin-like pairs of tails and bore the star of Liberty upon their sides. And police markings. Or, technically, private contractors that had the mask of a policeman. Her ‘escorts’ kept quiet all through the trade lane, and through to the tail end of it at the rapidly approaching planet beyond. They arced through the stars, chasing ring after ring as they slid through the dilated space. Their ships collectively rolled over and with a flash were tossed into a high orbit as the last trade lane ring flew by, all three ships returning to the uncompressed and relatively stationary space/time the rest of the universe occupied. Quietly, one of the screens on her left flickered to life:

Ageira Service Fee- $217
Liberty Police Incorporated Security Services- $1297
Interspace Lane Coverage (281-C Package)- $124
House Liberty Federal Travel Tolls- $121
Pennsylvania Travel Tolls- $110
Convenience Fee- $2

Total Trade Lane Fee- $1871

A quiet grumble came from the tired pilot as she watched her credit account quickly tick down before a ‘Thank You’ appeared on the same screen. Two thousand one hundred and sixty seven left in her account. And landing the ship would be at least three hundred when all the fees came together. A receipt printer came to life with a series of electronic clicks below. It spat out a more detailed list with several specific identification codes for herself, her ship, the trade lane, and the manifest from her ship. It hung in the printer, sticking out at her like a child’s mocking tongue. The blade on the thing had gone dull a long time ago, and it would hang there until she tore it free herself. With a huff, she reached up and toggled her manual controls back on, clicking through a few control and safety switches before the last one jostled her ship ever so slightly as if rocking a boat. The auto-ACS thrusters toggled off, and the ship was now in full manual. Her hands soon found the familiar feeling of the old grips on the throttle and flightstick, and with a subtle motion her ship came to life and accelerated away from the toll gate at the end of the trade lane. The whole world rumbled quietly around her as her engines flared on and she burned away from the lane.

The dull red radar and scanner combined display that sat in the middle of her instrumentation panels quietly beeped as new contacts came into and left short range scanner range. The various nav buoys she passed by soon gave way to a corridor of space filled with dozens of holo-adverts that lined the path towards the docking ring. New Synth Paste, new optronics, new vacation spots, new CTE high performance racer, new drugs. Those signs were probably the newest thing in this system. Numerous small shuttles and the occasional larger transport passed the three ships as they vectored towards the docking ring at the top of the orbital elevators. Radio chatter from the nearby traffic control stations filtered through the background of the comms, various messages streaming along in their garbled little bundles of static.

“One-five kilometers, mark-”
“Mid one, two nine one. Maintain two three zero-.”
“-and well with the airspace-”
“Should just wait-”
“Roger that. Standby-”
“-gulf one seven, requesting docking clearance-”

The lively orbital space was still nothing compared to the major inner systems of Liberty. The orbit of Manhattan would have five, or even six times as many moving through the lanes, and leaving all the comm lines open for general monitoring would turn the cockpit’s speakers into worthless chatterboxes. Planet Erie had grown dramatically in size as she flew down the trade lanes, and now, in high orbit, the blue and green world sat below her like the ocean with the stars above. It was a rocky world, recently annexed by Liberty, and was still largely wild despite the house’s attempts to civilize it. As the docking ring loomed on the horizon she finally had gotten close enough to transmit her docking codes and destination. She sat there, in line quietly waiting as the planet slowly turned, other ships falling into line behind her, all generously distancing themselves from one another. The traffic control officers took a moment to process her request, before finally a garbled transmission came back to her.

“Roger that, Coyote II, your request to dock is granted. Please proceed to landing pad twenty four at Seneca.”

She unclasped the microphone from the console and dragged it and the curly cord it was attached to up to her mouth.

“Thank you kindly. Starting my approach.” The pilot’s drawl was thick and syrupy like molasses. And as she clicked her radio off she turned towards her ‘escorts’ and let out a meandering stream of grumbles that left her mouth with a breath.

As she followed the flight path the traffic controllers laid out for her, one of the blinking red indicators on her instrumentation panel finally went out. The ‘Target Lock Detected’ indicator shut off with a hollow click and an accompanying low beep as the two LPI ships that had followed her in de-activated their targeting computers and finally pulled away. She watched them gain distance on the scanner a moment before she turned her attention to pulling into the docking queue with the other shuttles and small freighters. No risk of the cops having a hair trigger anymore. Not now at least, they’d let her do her work in peace. Allegedly.

With the orbital elevator, effectively a tunnel of force fields and weather manipulation technology, reentry into Erie was a smooth and easy affair, one that lacked the fiery flare of a manual reentry. Most ship shields couldn’t survive such a thing anyways, and if those went, the hull went next. As space bled away and got bleached out by a pale blue sky, jagged mountains and planes of tundra came into view far down below. Between the splotches of pale green and brown beneath her, the ground quickly opened up to glittering, dark blue seas as she crossed down, past the mountain ranges, and over towards the walled Seneca City colony. One of the oldest settlements on the planet, Seneca was built by the wayward Zoners decades ago, and has steadily grown in size as facilities were constructed to process mined material from the nearby Ralson ice fields. Even from a couple thousand feet up she could clearly make out the large refineries with their towers and massive fields of storage tanks. It was like a huge farm of metal cylinders and pylons. People and drones no doubt work around and between them like little bees.

Ironic that the Zoners, who fled from the influence of the Houses, would find themselves trapped in Liberty once the system was annexed. Liberty was not as just as its namesake suggested. No, they were scooping up everything not nailed down. Civilization at any price. And that included running over the Zoner colonies for their shot at resources and tax revenues, and to route out any pirates that sought safety in the backwater sector. All at the expense of the Zoners. Now they struggled to even get by, suddenly oppressed by the powers they fled. They hadn’t fled far enough, and now they were floundering in the shallows as the tides of progress threatened to rip them out to sea. Sucks, but they needed to grow a backbone, she figured. Though, she thought, any that did had likely already been stomped out.

Out past the refinery sat the sprawling city. Old, ill maintained, but still large. As she descended she could more easily make out the near ramshackle buildings, originally laid out with no real plan, she figured. The city grew organically over time, but time had not been kind to it. As she swung around towards pad twenty-four she took in the rusting space port, she passed by a duct-taped together looking set of communication towers that stood out like grand old metal trees amidst the rusting forest. It almost felt like the Junker scrap peddlers were the ones to put this place together, and for cheap. Not cheap in a cheap way, but cheap in a way where no one wanted to spend the money on getting brand new equipment. Not when you could rig up what you needed from half a dozen old busted machines to make a new functional one. Heck, Coyote II felt a bit like that half the time. But if it worked, it worked.

There was another fee to use the landing pad.

Going anywhere had a way of draining one’s wallet fast. Her receipt printer mocked her with that same electronic sound as she pushed her seat way back and climbed out of the back of the cockpit and into her cramped little living space. The sounds of her ship’s engines and reactor died down, leaving only the quiet rattle of the life support system and the music on the ship’s intercom. The small door leading into her ship was barely big enough for her, and it creaked loudly as she pulled it open and shut as she passed through. Dull and pale LED lights lit up the little space. There really wasn’t much more than a bunk, a narrow door leading to the refresher and toilet, a small food prep station, a handful of storage and weapon lockers, and a pair of doors leading deeper into her ship. She didn’t need much, this was a fighter after all. All it came down to was a place to sleep and eat and get clean. Ports would offer her the rest of the facilities she needed, if she was lucky and had the money.

Though a few sinful pleasures did squirrel their way in here as evident by some of her decorations. Pornographic posters of men and women hung above her disheveled small bunk on the wall, flaunting their raunchy nature. Cigarettes and stray packs of booze were tucked into gravity secured alcoves near her bed. Lockers lined some of the walls, ranging in size, and holding weapons, tracking gear, and other bounty hunter paraphernalia. Though notably in the room sat a small console near the cargo bay, one that had the control panel for a half-dozen seeker drones. They were little semi-autonomous Kishiro Tech Magpie-32 drones, quick little things that could rapidly traverse an area and gather information on the topography, landmarks, traffic patterns, people, etc. Normally they’d be used in game hunting, but there were a lot of common aftermarket modification kits available. Ones that could be programmed with facial recognition and set to scout the nearby area for their target…

Well, her target.

With a few keystrokes, the cargo hatch atop Coyote II opened up, yawning into the dull blue sky, and a small cadre of reconnaissance drones took off and scattered into the air above the city.

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