Freeport 10's Involvements

[The_Godslayer]

Freeport 10

"No such thing as a free lunch."

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Freeport 10 was a bustling place. Not really through any fault of its own. Outside of the occasional IMG and Outcast, Tau 37 was a backwater system. It had a tendency to wash up no-name trash, and just as fast as they came they were gone again. Then a slave revolt happened in Omicron Alpha, seeing a wave of refugees crash through the docking bays. Suppose that's why they call it a "Free" port. A lot of those refugees went on, trying to make it to Planet Yuma and the Crayter Republic. A lot stayed.

Chaos remained. Refugees were always on edge. They had a Cardamine dependency that the Outcasts were very aware of. Families with inescapable nooses around their necks, acting in the only manner they had left: fear. Scared people were violent people, scuffles, brawls, and even a shootout, fighting for food, fighting for space, fighting for the drug that controlled whether they lived or died. And one fine day, a stranger arrived.

No one dared to speak to him, but everyone saw something new in him. The station security said he was a Zoner, but he looked more like some exaggerated caricature of a Liberty Rogue. A poncho made from the hefty fur of some animal was draped across his shoulders, and he was fitted in weathered armor plates. Deep gouges told stories of old fights that he perhaps should have lost. Over all of that, a netting was attached, with jade talismans and tokens dangling. But what they saw the most was the massive handgun on his hip.

He didn't speak to anyone, but he saw something here that he hadn't seen in a while. This place reminded him of his hometown. A bunch of desperate people taking their desperation out on each other. They didn't have a Romulus or a Remus to put them in order. It wasn't his problem, it very clearly wasn't his problem, but a month later he'd already put getting into Gallia on hold.

Max had taken the job of a simple mediator for some time. A judge for the various complaints of the people, especially the remaining refugees. Originally, they simply had mistaken his detachment for stoicism, but then he got a reputation for fair and reasonable judgement. Of course, he'd been cheating to get that. He kept an artifact on him ever since he'd fled the Omicrons. It told him the future in a parable once, but more importantly, he heard voices. Usually suffering screams, but it'd pick up the feelings of crowds if there was enough nearby, too. Max knew better than to question alien artifacts, no matter how grating the screaming got.

Other incidents had happened, though. He had a reputation for justice, yes, but right next to it was a reputation for swift mercilessness. Which means the men approaching him today while his artifact whispered angry threats were angry enough to ignore that reputation. Max was hunched over at the bar, a very regular day-to-day position for him. "Somethin' on your mind?"

The leader of the group slammed the bar beside him with a small projector, which fizzled to life a copy of the announcement that was posted in the entrance to the biodomes. That leader was a man by the name of Jeffery Wane Vanderbrook, a refugee from Malta. "I'm gonna ask you once. What the hell is the meaning of this?"

Max spun his barstool around to face the man. Of course, he didn't need to read an announcement he posted, he was just freeing up his right arm in case he needed to draw his gun. "I think it means exactly what it says."

The text on the announcement scrolled back to the top.

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Attention:

The families listed below are those who donated to Bethlehem Station. It has been found, as a finding of fact, that the recipients of the donations, largely weapons and weaponry material, are of a rebel group not allied to the Administrator of Bethlehem.

Should any fighting break out on Bethlehem as a result of this group, or otherwise by the actions of this group should families be displaced, resources from the listed families will be docked to support potential Bethlehem refugees.

Affected families are: Vanderbrook ; Caowthel ; . . .

---

"Not a single one of you boys felt the need to tell me that those crates weren't for defense", Max continued, meeting the angry glares with an apathetic gaze. "It's fine when other children die in the name of politics, so long as it's not your own, izzat right?"

A light scuffle occurred as Vanderbrook attempted to lunge at Max, and he was held back by his cohorts. Max didn't even twitch. "It's not politics, you self-righteous cunt! You've never been a slave, you don't know what the boot of oppression actually feels like! They deserve real freedom, and that coward administrator is selling them right back into slavery!"

The accusation came as a surprise. He forgot that he'd never told them about growing up as a generational debt-slave on Pittsburgh. Max stood up from his chair, causing a general scuttle backwards among the gathered protesters. He rested his arm on his gun in its holster, causing even Vanderbrook to shrink back a little. They remembered what happened to the "Reconquerers". "Careful, there, Jeff, you still got one daughter left. Let's not break her heart." The threat was heard loud and clear, and now that they were ready to listen, Max continued.

"What kind of freedom do you expect to sell them? I get regular cardamine shipments in so that the whole lot of you don't keel over with total organ shutdown. Outcasts upsell the hell out of me because they know that any price goes when you got no choice to buy. You ain't free. You just spread your slavery to other people."

"So, I ask again: What kind of freedom do you expect to sell them? They start an uprising on Bethlehem. They shoot and space a bunch of men, and their wives and children too. They slaughter dissenters, and take over the station. There's your bastion of Free Pennsylvania. What next?"

"Next, they take the fight to Liberty! They get the help of Phoenix and they free Erie and avenge everyone that Liberty slaughtered!"

It took a lot of effort for Max to not roll his eyes. His response carried enough sarcasm to make up the difference, though. "Sure thing. Phoenix can definitely spare forces to fight the entire House of Liberty while they're also fighting the entire Corsair Empire and the Spirits that they woke up because they helped the Order antagonize them. Who else can come help? The Medics? Maybe the shipping company?" Max offered a single dry laugh to the gathered protesters.

"I'll tell you what's next: They get slaughtered. Bethlehem isn't unknown. The moment they hear that it's an outpost dedicated to fighting Liberty, they'll make it a testing ground for whatever their newest WMD is. Congrats, they died fighting for something they believed in. Sacrificed all their families doing the same."

Max tapped the announcement. "So you played a stupid game and won a stupid prize. I know none of you got faith in the Spirits, so I don't know who you have left to pray to. But you better pray it don't come to fighting, yeah? And if it do, we get to see if you're ready to support them living for their freedom the same as you're ready to support them dying for their freedom."

Max sat back down in his chair, daring them to move somewhere other than the exit. Members from the security team had quietly filtered into the bar as Max told them off. Muttering among themselves, they slowly began to filter back out into the hall, most likely on their way to the residential corridors. A few officers from security followed them discretely. The bartender slunk out from the back room. He'd retreated just in case things went south. "You know, you really should get in touch with the network. You'd make a great Administrator."

"Nobody wants that, Ken", Max said, picking up his drink. The ice had melted, watering it down incredibly.

"Mmh, you'd be surprised. So, what the hell was all that?", Ken asked, gesturing to the protesters shuffling down the halls.

"Meh", Max shrugged. "Everybody wants to be an outlaw until it's time to do outlaw shit." Ken mirrored his shrug, and poured Max another drink.

---

I'll do something about my superiority complex when I cease to be superior.

"Whatever happened to catchin' a good old-fashioned passionate ass-whoopin and gettin' your shoes, coat, and your hat tooken?"