Belfast Production Facility was a grim mass of metal, one of the largest hulks of construction you could call a station in all of Sirius. It circled slowly around the greyish desert planet below, a dark, cyclopean shape against the shadowy ice nebulae of Newcastle. They seemed to cast a deadly chill over the entire system, always looming in the distance, or swirling close nearby. The station's dully shining surface was pockmarked with the craters and blastmarks of the heavy fighting that was its entire past - first from the Molly takeover, and the constant skirmishes afterward as the Bretonians tried to take it back. Frost and rime from the ice that floated about the system caked on the edges of its surface, around the hangar bays and airlocks, and around the windows. Ice clusters festooned from the massive supports, buttresses, columns, girders, and bars that held the incredibly massive factory-city-station together in its near-derelict but well-defended condition. It was quite a sight, and not one that Bretonian pilots relished seeing - as beaten as it was, it was a festering and loathsome reminder of the power of the Mollies.
It served as a smelter of whatever ores the Mollies could get their hands on, either from piracy or from the rather deserted planet below. The entire interior was made up of mostly deserted habitation sectors, or smouldering smelters and factories whose conveyor belts inched along under the watchful eye of the olive-uniformed Molly guards in the shadows. It was a factory city, long under siege and long the crux of warfare. It was dark, damaged, icy, and filled with the fires of industry. It was Belfast. It was about to be host to a very shadowy deal which could resonate across the galaxy in waves of fire and antimatter.
...
A Werewolf fighter swooped past the massive docking ports that made up the outer crescent of the station, jutting out into space to service whatever capital transports or destroyers might moor in this seemingly deserted port. The red and blue engines of the fighter, was busy weaving in and out of the haphazard supports and machinery clustered on the docks, flared up. The scanty ice clinging to the surfaces reflected the flickering light from the engines of the lone pirate fighter. The craft suddenly dropped to a sublevel below to avoid a gigantic crane that had swung out into the mooring areas, carrying a gigantic cargopod full of crudely refined ingots of metals to a stolen (and consequently damaged and patched-up) Shetland train that idled at the mooring clamps in the zero-g harbour.
The craft continued on its course through the dark moorings, between the capital transports and machinery that festooned the docks. It dove down again, dropping several levels down through clamps, cranes, and the hulks of vessels clinging to the station, down to the mostly deserted warehouse areas that had considerably less activity. The massive, square structures stood on the docks platforms, almost like they would on a street on any planet - then again, it was often joked that Belfast was almost big enough to be mistaken for one, as it was based off of the titanic Interspace designs... the "rusting moon," some Mollies nicknamed the station.
The fighter slowed as it came down to this level, sublevel G, and started to make a quick descent to the air-shielded Warehouse 15 that sat, just like any of the other warehouses, dark and quiet on this sublevel. The fighter darted inside the cavernous structure, and the reddish light of its engine was quickly extinguished as the airlocks closed over it, leaving the icy bays of Belfast barely illuminated only by the flickering hodgepodge of lights that hung from the cranes and transports they serviced.
The hangar doors opened for the fighter, to reveal a few men walking about inside the warehouse, which arched over their heads, reaching its shadow-hidden peak a few hundred feet up. Some girders were placed across the empty space above, and some catwalks crisscrossed the air. Heavy-duty utility cranes stood at the sides of the warehouse, being hooked to the power grid by the Molly engineers that were busy preparing this warhouse for... something. Something big, by the looks of it.
The fighter landed toward the center of the warehouse's front, and a side hatch opened to let its pilot, Colin Breen, hop out quickly. He was just 26, but was effectively the leader of the entire Molly movement, and was as hardened as any man around - and could violently attest to that with some measure of lethal force if forced to. Much as usual, he was clad in simple civilian clothing - grey trousers, a shirt, and halfway decent vest. These were covered by his distinctive military-regulation olive overcoat. He left his hat in his rather worn fighter, letting the stale, freezing air from the ventilation systems wash over his slightly unruly, short hair.
He glanced around that the huge structure, at his fighter, at the doors, and at the engineers prepping the bay.
He was expecting someone important here - someone dangerous.
The danger was the reason for his importance, though... and as touchy as things might be, he was a very important man to work with. And there was a very important deal they were going to work out.
Suddenly a vessel appeared on the horizon, with its form constantly changing due to numerous flickering yellow lights flashing all around thus playing tricks on one's eye. At is got closer and closer, textures of the ship revealed scars of countless battles all over the galaxy. It looked like tridente. As a matter of fact, it only had resemblance with that type of the vessel.
And, as the ship approached the docking area closer and closer, retro-thrusters got turned on, giving a sign to a group several men, who were standing bellow, that it was the time to clear the area. And it was clear that it is better for them to that in a hurry because it was obvious that pilot has missed the landing spot, especially after the port side of the vessel hit the huge stack of barrels that were placed in the vicinity. Men shouted but the sounds quickly faded away along with the sounds of the engines going quiet as it were the sounds of some ancient machine which got turned on and turned off after a very long time.
A man, clothed in purple and shadowed by the lack of lighting in the area, quickly jumped out of the cockpit and onto ship's starboard wing-holding structure, and then on the ground. While approaching the group of men, he quickly fixed up his hair that seemed constantly wet, revealing the painted face textured with scars.
- Who put those damn barrels over there? See? I'm always late. My apologies but this time I ran into few hunters in Omega 15 on my way here - says the painted man.
- No worries laddie - Collin responded with a mild smile - That's few less hunters to worry 'bout. - I never worry, Collie. That's why my face will always look so young, hahaha. - he laughed hysterically
over-exadurated and then he quickly hugs the Molly person he had always respected in his own, hilarious ways. - Something tells me that you've got some good news for me. Am I right, am I right? - his voice got filled with childish excitement. - Joker ol' boy, we'll talk business later - says Collin and raises up a huge bottle covered with dust - But first let us drink this one-hundred years old Dublin ale while I tell you the good news. - Good, good. Because all I brought with me is this tequila I bought at sales on Freeport 5's supermarket for 9,99.
And the group of men walked into a huge warehouse followed by the sounds of laughter and the bottle being opened up.
Breen poured the bottle into two glasses he held between his fingers. Once he had finished, he passed one glass to the Joker, and held the other for himself, giving the bottle to one of his aides.
"Now..." he began, looking about the cavernous warhouse. "Ye want a Scylla. I'm afraid that I can't give ye one."
He held up his hand quickly. "Now... that doesn't mean ye won't get one. It's just a bit harder." He paced a few steps away, then turned back. "Ye can put it t'gether here. I've got equipment heading doon here an' ye hae some engineers o' mine t' help ye oot." He took a sip of his ale. "A lot o' people'd get mighty worried if I were t' just give ye one." He blinked. "It's a bit hard t' be doin' this, but I'm goin' t' try t' help ye oot."
He gestured at the cranes along the sides of the facility, the engineers, and some dollies of some sort of mechanical items. "I can't get ye the raw resources, but here's the facility an' means t' create it... Belfast is massive, an' underpopulated. I've made sure nobody'll find ye here."
Breen then stuck his hand into the breast pocket of his overcoat. "An' here..." he said quietly, pulling out a 3-inch square translucent holographic disk of some sort. "Here's the plans t' a destroyer variant that was stripped o' weapons an' its powercores an' refitted fer long-range haulin'. I can't get ye the plans for a real destroyer, but this one'll take ye a lot further. It just won't do y' good in combat... unless ye get yerself a battlecruiser-level power system an' add on enough weapons mounts t' bring it back up t' rough destroyer specs. It should be on the level of a destroyer in combat then... and be about the same, really, save the powercore size an' its extreme rang... which I'm bettin' is a real plus t' ye." He offered the disk to the Joker. "It isnae going t' be easy, but it's all I can get ye... an' the end result could prove better'n a normal destroyer, if ye kin find the right materials. What d' ye say?"
The man of many jokes gazed at holographic image of refitted destroyer in silence for several minutes, while drinking a second glass of ale with his now already an old friend. Collin Breen did not want to interrupt him. He understood this painted man in his own unique way. In Collin's mind, the Joker was fighting for his own independence, independence of mind. They never discussed their ideals and reasons between themselves. Yet they understood each other completely.
The ship itself did not look anything special and the Joker surely was not looking at its design. What he was looking at is all the things he could do with it, how powerful it will be once it is ready for battle, how much fear it will cause to the people when they see the ship on the horizon. For him, it was nothing but a tool for creating chaos - the one and only thing he ever believed in. Or maybe it was the one and only thing he was ever forced to believe.
- Can't rely on anyone these days - he finally spoke. - Have to do everything yourself. I always have. And it's not always easy... - Then he turned off the holographic image, looked Collin into his semi-drunken eyes and said. - It seems that I can rely on you, my friend.
- It is the best I can offer to ya, J-man - mister Breen responded. - Oh, I know that. I really do - he continued with his voice filled with. - The life never gave me no choice, Collie. My insanity never gave me no choice either, hahahaha. Of course I'm gonna accept what you're offering. Have your engineers ready, I'm gonna get them what they need in just few hours so they can start working immediately. And here's a small stimulus just to speed things up.
But now I only have one question; are the keys in the ignition, hahaha? I wanna take it out for a little spin.
Meanwhile in the Dresden system, in the deep halls of Vogtland Base's fleet administration sector...
Major Hoerst stood in a large hall, almost at attention, while reading silently from his PDA. Information was flashing before his eyes quickly, as he skimmed through the latest intelligence reports sent straight to him. Behind him stood around half dozen highly decorated officers, each with either a large scale acquisition form, a strategy file or waiting nervously, while in front of him there was a large decorated door guarded by two large men armed with state of the art pulse rifles and power armour. Next to the two men was an officer, clearly a leutenant, sitting at his desk, throwing looks at his console and at the row of people standing in front of him one after the other.
One could almost mistake this place for the halls of one of the many military academies on New Berlin, was it not for the large banners draped across the sides of the room, depicting either symbolic paintings or simply the distinctive hammer and pickaxe symbol - the symbol of the Popular Revolution.
The leutenant stood up suddenly and turned toward the door to open it by hand. As he opened the door, he let out a uniformed man, no doubt a raider commander from one of the outlying bases here to claim a promotion or a medal. The man went right past the waiting line, and the leutenant turned his head toward Hoerst.
- "Herr Hoerst. The Revolutionary Council is awaiting you."
Hearing this, the Major simply looked up from his PDA and took a quick walk toward the door, the sound of his tanned heels echoing across the metallic corridor. As he quickly disappeared through the doorway, the leutnant closed the door behind him and sat back down at his desk.
Hoerst found himself staring at a large, decorative wooden desk, behind which a cabal of Hessian military officers, generals and high ranking civilians sat. The man at the centre of it kept writing down something on a piece of paper for a minute, before finally looking up to see the Major standing at attention in front of the desk.
- "At ease Major. What do you have for me?"
Hoerst didn't even hesitate. He was used to this by now, being the chief liaison for the Coalition forces in Rheinland. This time however, his visit had a different purpose.
- "Meine Herren, I have come to ask you for permission to assign the prisoners from Holding Pen B to Operation Durchbruch, under my personal command. I have all the needed paperwork right here."
The council chairman looked at Hoerst for a good second, then turned a scowl.
- "Holding Pen B? The traitors and insubordinate officers pen? Herr Hoerst, what use could you possibly have for the biggest rogues and criminals of the Volksrevolution? The entire pen of them no less..."
Hearing that only made Hoerst smile a bit. He looked down at his PDA and kept talking while accessing different files on it.
- "Well you see, sir. One of my many personal projects is a man who shows great promise. A man that, given enough incentive and direction, will be able to upset the balance of power across whole houses. My agents have been watching him for a long while now, building a file."
- "Major," - the chairman interrupted the major. This made him look up from his PDA again. - "I do not see how your request has anything to do with this. The people you're requesting to be transferred to your command are a danger to both themselves and everyone around them, they are by all descriptions completely mad -"
- "Exactly, sir. - Hoerst in turn interrupted the chairman, almost with a degree of disregard in his voice. - I believe I know how to make them useful on the Omega front. This project of mine is... very capable."
Hoerst looked very sure of himself. He knew his plan had a good chance of success and he was willing to gamble it. To the generals and leaders in the room however, it simply looked like a done deal.
- "I hope you know what you are doing, Hoerst."
The chairman looked at his peers, all of them completely quiet, unwilling to protest against Hoerst's scheme on account of the man's effectiveness. The chairman simply sighed and continued.
- "I'll have the paperwork returned to you this morning. I don't want to know anything about this until it's over. And, Hoerst. This project of yours had better be successful..."
Hoerst looked at his PDA once again as it automatically opened his latest intelligence report.
- "Herr Chairman, you have no idea how successful it already is..."
Newcastle, [color=#33CC00]Belfast Production Facility
The Joker stood on the bridge of his destroyer with-no-particular-name-in-mind, with his smile wider than ever before and his ego exploding all over the deck. Aboard the ship only the skeleton crew was present, no more than five men in total, all with clown-masks on their faces, three of who were on the bridge. Remaining two men struggled down on engineering deck trying to get the rusty engine up and running.
Call quickly came from lower deck and one of the clowns approached the purple clothed man. - Joker, we're ready. Engine is okay to go - thug fearfully said. - We've got problems with starboard thruster but nothing what can't be fixed at Vogtland base.
The Joker quickly turns around, pulls out his little knife and stabs his thug in stomach two times. As he got more close face to face with the stabbed man, he removed his mask. The thug was in horrible pain, breathing his last breaths. - From now on in, on this ship only, I shall be referred to as Captain Joker - he proudly said laughing his brains out. - "Captain Joker", hahaha-haha-haa. "The Captain!" A-haha, haha, hahaha.
Dresden, [color=#33CC00]Vogtland Base
The crew of already notorious vessel stood in front of their captain listening to every word coming out of his mouth. They already heard that one of the crew-members had an accident so they had no other choice but to pay the close attention. To the most of them, the Joker was a famous man of hilariously evil deeds. But to the rest of them, he was nothing but a strange clown with war-paints all over his face. Some of these people were locked up for years and years in hessian jails, without any news ever reaching them. They were nothing more but a deserters, hardcore killers, misfits, thieves, psychopaths, rapists - leftovers of mighty Hessian Army.
- I... I really don't care who are you or who've you been - he started his speech. - I don't care if you're menace to society or was innocently locked up. What I do care for is that you will listen to my orders. Those who don't will taste the nothingness of vacuum. I intend to run a smooth operation. That doesn't mean that I'll require discipline or some up-tight army attitude around here. Just be effective while on duty. Simple, isn't it? In your free time, you can kill each other for all I care. Just don't kill our female crew-members. We need them to keep the morale high up, hahaha.
Remember, if there wasn't for me you'd still be locked up in some hell-hole somewhere counting cigarettes you stole from they guy you butchered in the canteen that day. Don't forget that. You owe me. You work for me now. And you'll kill for me from now on in.
Then he sat into his command chair relieved that he is finished with all, to him boring, but necessary introduction. Crew-members were standing still on the same spot they stood before the Joker started his speech. - Well? What a hell are you waiting for?! To tell you a few jokes? Run to your posts, hahaha! - he shouted and laughed. - Orders, mein Kapitan? - navigation officer asked after he settled in his chair. - Three quarters of impulse - the Joker gave his first order. - Lets see what my baby can do.
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