T. Finnegan, Junker

[TFinnegan]

THE SEXTANT and the SPYGLASS, part 2

Tim Finnegan looked past his boots, kicked up and crossed atop his console, and through the bridge windows at the vast ship being assembled in dock 19 near Culebra.

While his trusty Pilgrim Liner, the Wake, was a large ship indeed, it was dwarfed by the monstrosity before him. Skeletal, This original Spyglass frame was both longer, and seemingly more fragile looking than its successor, but had the innate immenseness that both could claim as thier own. It dwarfed the docking platform it was being framed by, sticking out fore and aft by a full half kilometer in either direction.

Intermittent flashes popped where hull panels were being slid into place and welded down. Swarms of assembly bots and EVA teams crawled aross it like so many spiders. In places, the interior bulkheads were open to space. The third and topmost engine nacelle was being winched into place by a pair of CSV's, and the bridge was being pressurized - suited figures could be seen by the lights within, fitting all the fabricated consoles and controls to the deck. The radio chatter was enough to bring tears of frustration to even the most hardened of Manhattan's air traffic controllers.

Timmy Finn re-checked his bank accounts for the fourth time today. A billion credits plus. Gone. an exact number scrolled acoss his datascreen, 1,125,000,000 in debits in one week. He shook his head and reached for his half full pint of porter.
"Better be bloody worth it..." he muttered into his glass as he sipped.

It had been a rough week indeed, he thought as he spun around in his chair to face his crew. Aside from losing the liquidity of years of hard work, he'd lost some hair, a friend, and nearly his trusty ship and command. Like scratching at a scarring wound, he looked again at his vessel logs, and read...

--Our first night was a resounding success! With the immeasurable help of the JGS-Lobelia, we chased off gawkers, held a sector of the Pittsburg debris field, and even dealt with a Liberty Carrier and a not-so-intelligent pirate!
45 million creds were paid out in commisions and bonuses, and we look forward to our 2nd night!--

--Our second night was another resounding success. The ZEF and AI units came in force to our aid, holding a secure area for two full operations. Aided by our new friend Ak-See/hairy, We have now salvaged the entire frame structure as well as parts of the fuel conditioner and the air recycler. She's starting to take shape there on platform19...Sinclair can't sleep.
61 million creds were paid out in commisions and bonuses.

--Night three found our ragtag fleet working to salvage frozen fuel mix in the Tahoe field, hunted by the VR-
Ravager, and discovering fission reactor core parts in the wreckage of the Dallas. The addition of the battleship Cassus.Belli to our fleet helped repel the USI and calm the Ravager, as well as ensure that we had zero problems with Liberty forces. Hull panels, superconductor mesh, interior bulkheads, life support and weapon hardpoints are being installed. Sincalir's still not sleeping.
52 million creds were paid out in commisions and bonuses.

--Night four involved the largest salvage fleet to date. All three engine cores were found in the Copperton field and towed back to Vieques at great risk to the transport convoy. Also the final Pittsburg field operation yielded the high stress plasticenes needed for the interior bulkheads. The size of the fleet alone discouraged most interlopers, however a Lane Hacker with an attitdue needed nudging from the exile, Cassus.Belli, that he wont soon forget. Dock 19 is indistinguisahable from the massive ship growing within and without it.
91 million creds were paid out in commisions and bonuses.

--Our final night. Of course it would be tonight that they come. The Navy dogged our ops all night, the Xenos wanted to be sure that only real Liberty citizens were employed, Legacy wanted to tax us, and gawkers of all colors came to see the sparks of the EVA teams working the field. With quick wit, sharp tongues, and hot cruise engines, we were able to avoid all but a few real conflicts. The AI team as well as the Exile, Cassus.Belli handled the few problems we actually did have, introducing that Legacy vermin to vacuum, and running off the over-zealous Xeno pilots. We did however lose a key player, the pilot of the Knife's.Edge, to a Rogue patrol. She was avenged brutally and will be missed greatly. Sinclair reports all materials present and stored near the yards. I have decomissioned him to complete the project, and am taking the Wake for a final Malta run. I now merely await a signal from Puerto Rico...
55 million creds were paid out in commisions and bonuses.

"Cap'n!" Murphy's shout broke him from his reverie. "Incoming call from, well it says Vieques, but th' source code aint authentic... Shall I put it onscreen?"
"Aye lad!, G'head." Tim answered, clunking the now empty pintglass onto the console, splashing the perspiration ring left there across the log viewer.

A face appeared. A goggled face, black amongst its blue backlight, the only color being the hint of gold dancing across the solar goggles. The face grinned. Teeth barely showed in the low light.

"Tim Finnegan, Thanam an Dhul." the now familiar stranger drolled, still grinning.
"I knew I'd picked the correct man for this. You've done disgustingly well. For a slaver. Hell, for anyone. Still and all, ya made enough noise I'm suprised ya pulled it off."

"Oy!" Tim sighed. "I s'pose now's the time ter pay fer this so-called boon, aye? I told ye there'd be a catch, Murph." He grinned at his first mate. "Still, lad. I guess I'm glad ye didnt just burst onto me screens as is yer want. Ye gave Sinclair the twitchin' fits the last time."

"No no," answered the face, still smiling. "when the Liberty rats realize what's happened right under their noses, when the intel chatter heats up, and heads start rollin' at LSI, thats when I collect my pay. I have plans larger even than that ship you're lookin' at. This is but a cog in a machine that when turned on, will bring great pompous Liberty to her knees. And I thank ya for it. No, I've called because you've so impressed me with your ability to command a large scale operation that I feel you're worthy of a final gift. A token really. But something youll want to have Sinclair look at. You Still have that telescope you recieved?"

Tim reached under his console and pulled out the ancient brass instrument, holding it in his open palm to show the stranger.
"Aye laddie, tis a lovely lil' trinket of old Earth, worth a small fortune I'd wager."

"Indeed." replied the face, the smile slipping slowly. "You've a fine eye or a good estimator on payroll. Well, there's another gift like it waiting behind the bar for you at the Port Tavern on Malta. Hand them both over to Connor Sinclair. Tell him to use them to, and this is the important bit, 'Sight the right star, and chart the wrong system'. If he's half the engineer I think he is, He'll get it. It's not neccesary that he does, but I promise the both of you won't be sorry with the result." The transmission sizzled for a spit second, and wavered.
"Sonofa....Gotta go Finn, old boy. I wish you the best. Looks like the ship will be done in a few weeks huh? Too bad you lot aren't Hackers, but I daresay you're certainly Junkers through and through. 'Till another day, Captain." And with that came a black comm screen.

Reaching around to grab the full pint from his middie, Tim coughed and scratched his chin.
"Murph! ready all..."
"Way a'bleedin' head 'o ya Cap." Murphy interjected. "Malta course punched in, by way of Niverton."
"Aye lad, no sense wastin' fuel. Best we make some cash on this run." He tapped his pitifully empty bank console screen with the base of his pintglass. "got bills ter pay."
He stood, straightening his kilts and enjoying the hum of the engines being spooled out, possibly for the last time on this ancient Pilgrim Liner.
"Call Sinclair at dock 19. Ask 'im ef he needs anythin' while we're out in th' black. Send a comm to me wives as well. Tell 'em we're doin' a farewell run fer the Wake afore we scuttle 'er. They'll be happy ter hear tha'. Contact Niverton, ask em to saddle up some more 'passengers'. Aye, an' bay crews, lets get that life support re-installed, and no I dinna care ef she's still hot from that injector core. Radiation aint never hurt no slave I kin recall..."

As Finnegan's Wake slid towards the Texas jumphole, behind her a great light lit up the Culebra cloud. Then another, and another, as the great engines now mounted to the skeletal Spyglass-class Battlecruiser frame were fired up to test specs. A crew in EVA suits clung to the shivering hull, pausing thier work of painting great letters, seventy meters high, across either side of it's prow.

It read;

~CLAYMORE O'GORDON~

---