Deterrence [DTR] - Message Dump

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Sender ID

Sacramento Serrano

Location

Classified

Recipient

Deterrence High Command; The Corsair Elders.

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Dear Deterrence High Command, my beloved Corsair Elders.

My designation is Sacramento Serrano, a name etched into the birth ledgers of Planet Crete on July 10th, 835 A.S.
How my path crossed with my ships is a tale for another time, a memory best kept in the void.
My chronicle began with the Executor, Daní Herrera, whose legend casts a long shadow over my own adventures. This is the log of the Corsair's Cache.
It all began on Crete, where I loaded the mighty DTR-CCS>Galindo with artifacts and set my course for the stars.

Departure from Planet Crete

—

Omega-41 felt like a tomb.
The neutron star rendered my systems useless, a chilling darkness that my scanners couldn't penetrate.
My Corsair blood was my only guide, a primal defiance that burned through the fear.
"If it comes," I swore, "I'll take it with me, or die protecting my Cretan honor."
Leon Base slid by, a fleeting speck of light, but the quiet felt like a prelude to a scream.

—

The jump to Omega-5 was a cold relief.
The dead silence of the void remained, but my scanners once again cut through the dark.
I navigated the short distance to the Omega-11 jumphole without incident, the quiet feeling less like peace and more like a held breath.

The Jump to Omega-11

—

The silence of the void shattered the moment I entered Omega-11.
Zoner traders hailed me, their chatter a jarring contrast.
I gave them a curt "fine" and a warning:
They were fortunate my cargo demanded speed.
Otherwise, our meeting would've been less cordial.
As I passed the red giant, a distant memory flickered - a child's dream of starlight.
I felt a surge of cold satisfaction.
I wasn't living a dream; I was surviving it.
The Dresden jumphole beckoned, pulling me toward the Red Hessian heartland.
My grievance with them, a simmering fury, will be addressed in due time.

Omega-5 and its beauty

—

The Dresden system was a ghost town.
The absence of Hessian patrols, the complete lack of traders - it was uncanny.
Only a fool would run these lanes, ripe for the picking by them or by me.
For now, the emptiness is a gift, a clear path through a graveyard.

Dresden, a way to a hearth

—

Entering the New Berlin system, my blood pressure spiked.
I was in the heart of the Rheinland beast.
A government vessel spotting me here would be a death sentence.
I sent a grim prayer to Santa Raba, asking for a clear path, knowing that if I were found, I would either annihilate them or die in the attempt.
As I burned past Bonn Station, their guns opened up, a pointless show of force against my vessel's speed.
A quiet stretch of void led me to my destination:
Kreuzberg Depot, a Junker hideout lost in the New Berlin system.
My artifact shipments, always in demand for their "R&D," were eagerly received.
In return for the risk, they paid me well and, as always, restocked my cargo holds with a full load of black market munitions.
Their gratitude was a grim currency.

The hearth of the beast

—

The voyage back to Crete was a cold, silent meditation.
It ended when the Hessian appeared - a flicker of arrogance on the comms, demanding my cargo and a king's ransom of half a million creditos for my breath.
The gall of it was almost beautiful.
I offered him a chance to live, a courtesy he answered with fire.
His frigate was just scrap waiting for a purpose.
My Raba consumed him, a silent maw of steel and plasma.
He died trying to crack an iron will, a soul forged in the heart of Crete.
He forgot that a Sair's gaze remains calm, even as the world around him burns to ash.
There is no sorrow in this void, only a dead man's bounty waiting to be claimed.

The price of a fool

—

Crete. After the Dresden run, the name itself was a cold comfort.
I shed my cargo and found the fleeting oblivion of a good rum at the bar.
The DTR-CCS>Cucaracha was already waiting.
I loaded her with artifacts and prepared to launch again, another haul into the black.

—

Again, I slipped through Omega-41 and Omega-5, untouched by the void's grasp.
I arrived in the Cambridge system, a phantom hidden from the patrols in the icy fields.
My destination: New London.
The BAF, BMM, and CDI patrols were everywhere, but they never saw me. I don't know if they're blind or if my systems are just that good.
Either way, they missed me.

Camebridges icy clouds

—

New London. Another system of fools.
Police blips speckled my scanners, but their eyes were sealed.
I carved a path through the red void at the core of Bretonian society, a phantom savoring the burn of cold rum, my passage undisturbed.

The belly of fools

—

I arrived in the Leeds system, just a short burn from Halifax Freeport.
My scanners picked up a CDI-Deputy. He was not prepared for what followed.
I intercepted and disabled his ship, a swift act of piracy.
I demanded 25,000 credits for his life, or he would die under the guns of the DTR-CCS>Cucaracha.

But he was low on cash, a fool's mistake.
He countered with a far more enticing offer: a full shipment of Bretonian hull panels and weaponry for the mighty Imperio of Crete.
It was too good to be true, so I ensured he understood the terms.
He seemed like a man of his word, and the potential windfall was far better than a paltry sum of credits.
I let him go and proceeded to Halifax Freeport to unload my cargo.

The final bretonian destination

—

A generous payment and a cargo hold full of military surplus from the Freelancer was my reward.
But the moment I reached the Cambridge system, the Bretonian police were waiting.
They descended on me with full force - multiple fighters, bombers, gunboats, and a battleship.
I was outmatched.

I dumped my cargo.
My blood is Cretan, but my will is not suicidal.
I will return for vengeance, but with an armada of Sairs at my side.
I dropped my shields and emptied the power core in a single surge, forcing a jump to Omicron Gamma.
A torpedo hit me, but I made it to Planet Crete, my ship a broken husk.

They will pay for this.

—

Once I landed on Planet Crete, I gave my beloved Cucaracha in the skillful hands of Cretes finest shipworkers.
I went to the bar drinking a few bottles of rum, praising santa raba that he protected me and to calm the shock of this event.
I also visited the Corsair Elders… but they told me to keep still, the Bretonian time will come but for now they ain’t a real threat and will be dealt with once they are a worthy opponent for the Cretan Imperio.
Somehow struck with sadness not to get my revenge in mean time I prepared the DTR-CCS>Galindo again and typed in a new destination. I launched into the darkest of voids again.

—

My ship, the wounded Cucaracha, was left in the hands of Crete's best.
I found the nearest bar, using rum to quiet the trembling in my hands and a prayer to Santa Raba for my survival.

I went to the Corsair Elders, seeking permission for vengeance, but they denied me.
"Their time will come," they said. "They are not yet a worthy opponent."
A cold sadness settled over me.
Without revenge to guide me, I simply prepared the DTR-CCS>Galindo for the next job and launched back into the void.

—

Kusari. That was the destination.
I slammed the throttle through Omicron Theta, a blur of speed and light.

I arrived in Sigma-17, where the silence was broken by the petty demands of the Gasminers Guild.
They tried to harass me, but I was faster.
I was smarter. I left them in the void, a ghost on their scanners.
I continued through Sigma-17 unhindered, a phantom on my way to Kusari.

The wonderful blue sight

—

In Omega-19, those micho da putas from the Gasminers Guild tried to harass me again. They were relentless, but I am better.
I slipped through the cracks of their scanners, a ghost in the void.
I left them behind, unhindered, on my way to the Honshu system.

The green gifting life

—

The Honshu system was a ghost.
No Blood Dragons, no Golden Chrysanthemums, no Farmers Alliance scum, and no Kusari police or military.
The silence was unnerving.
Had the chaos just moved elsewhere?
I took a moment to appreciate the beautiful scenery, a cold comfort from the violence of the Omegas and Omegas.

I was greeted with a torrent of fire as I approached the Osaka Storage Facility.
But their guns were toys.
My Raba tore through the void, ignoring their hails, and I slammed through the jumpgate to the New Tokyo System.
What awaited me there was a story for itself.

A warm kusarian welcome

—

I glanced at my scanners and swore.
A Kusari Naval Officer, right on top of me.
I slammed the throttle to cruise, a desperate burn for the trade lane.
Just as I reached it, the officer shut it down.

I was exposed. At their mercy. Or so it seemed.

I hailed the vessel, demanding to know what the hell was happening.
"I was about to ask you the same thing," the baffled officer responded.
I gave him my coldest, most logical lie: I was a journalist, a civilian travel writer for a magazine on Planet Crete. Baffled, he let himself be played. He gave me permission for my "photo session" while he waited for some smugglers. A fool. He could have had a bounty on my head. Instead, he got a lie.

I hit cruise speed and tore toward the Shikoku Jumpgate. Before I disappeared, I snapped a picture of Planet New Tokyo, a monument under the protection of the KNF. The irony was not lost on me.

The beginning of a travel magazine

—

I reached the Shikoku System, a welcome silence after the chaos.
I made it to the Noshima Freeport without issue, where the Freelancers were eagerly awaiting my artifacts.
They paid me a king's fortune and, as a bonus, filled my cargo hold with black-market pharmaceuticals for the sick on Planet Crete.
A ruthless business, but one with a strange sense of honor.

Wonders over wonders

Medical trading

—

In the grim dark reaches of the void, there is no glory, only the grind.

Two hundred thousand... it's just a number in a ledger.
A mountain of dead rock clawed from the depths of forgotten spaces, moved from one desolate corner of the galaxy to another.
A grim parade of inert trophies for the soulless elite.

The price wasn't paid in credits.
It was paid in blood.
Good friends - their names are now just whispers on the comms, swallowed by the void. Foes were simply noise to be silenced, their screams just another part of the warp's static.

I have no need for a name of honor.
I've earned a title that speaks the cold truth of the work.
I hereby ask the Corsair Elders to mark my ledger with a grim acceptance:
"The Relic Hauler," for the cargo I carry.
And let them call me "The Demandless Reaper," for I have reaped creditos without demanding them.

This is Sacramento Serrano, on his way to defend Deterrence Sanctum and drinking his rum.

Over and out.

For the Empire. For Crete. For the Elders!
Sacramento Serrano