Born the only son of Patrick (Paddy) Finnegan, Chief of Clan Gordon and Master of Yards, Chief Engineer for Invergordon Station, Inverness, Tim literally grew up on the inside of spaceships. Not the inside areas meant for human habitation mind you, but in thier guts, thier very hearts and bowels. Some of his first tastes and smells were grease, ground metal, and carbonized fuel resin. A wiry, sharp witted kid, Tim Finnegan struggled from the first to spend as much time helping his father in the Yards as he could.
As he could work in places that his father needed costly robots to repair, he found he was often an asset when he would 'happen past' after schooling or when he should have been in the eco-labs. As he learned the 'Way of the Wrench', his father would call it, he slowly started to wonder what it would be like to pilot one of these leviathans that tore the void or the wily fightercraft that could perforate it. He started to notice that his father always had extra time or free parts for Junkers. As he was always underfoot, he did not go unnoticed by a certain important few of them.
Timmy Finn, as the spacers began to call him, found himself doing no end of favors for passing pilots, if only for the chance to speak to them on thier bridges, rather than in some greasy gangway under a cacaphonous turbine. He could get into tight spots to help smugglers hide cargo, or to aid naval vessels in thier rat trapping. Tim Knew ships. He could hear the cough in a humming plasma valve that bespoke a blowthough, feel the vibration of fatigued metal before a gravboot broke free. Tim was learning to know pilots. Smugglers, pirates, naval officers, bounty hunters all had thier own mechanical complexities. The right tool for one person would assure smooth running, the wrong tool would ensure a critical failure. And he spoke the language of the machine fluently, flesh or steel.
By his teens he was running a succesful side business smuggling SynthWeed inside the hulls of Bretonian and Liberty Navy vessels to and from Junker operatives on other shipyards. He was able to save enough to pay for pilot certification as well as purchase an abused old Rhino freighter which needed more work than initially thought. To pay for the extra repairs and refits he became brazen, and would even pack a few extremely illegal items into a ship's nooks and crannies under the guise of repairs. Nuclear warheads stuffed into the service tunnels of a Liberty cruiser, bound ultimately for a Xeno base. Slaves drugged into sleep and strapped to the outer casing of a cruise engine cooling core. Artifacts and even Nomad brains moved through his hands, brought in by Junkers and carried through the empires by those sworn to protect them from what was happening right under thier noses....
All good things end...badly.
They came out of the sky like fireflies. Hundreds of pinpricks of light, burning blues and whites, filling the comm channels with Kusari shouts and the canned air of Invergordon with sirens. They rained a storm of tachyons, protons, and gravitons down on the station's shields, while the tiny, outdated defense turrets whined pitifully and spat laser fire back at them. Spacers and Longshormen ran to thier ships or pressure suits with wildness in thier eyes. Then came the messages.
The Royal Kusari Navy was to recieve the 2nd Prince, the Gunji-no-Kanrei Takeda, alive and unharmed or the station would be reduced to slag. Six Kusari battleships and eleven cruisers slid into range to make thier point stick. The station's Elders, including Tim's father, begged the Kusari fleet for an explanation, as they'd heard nothing of this man being missing, let alone having passed through Inverness space. While they bantered, a small contingent of fighters broke from the main Kusar fleet and force-docked, injecting armed marines by the scores into the station's bays. Tim was one of the first grabbed, as he tried to steer a gravcart in the way of approaching marines, allowing a Junker pilot he had just loaded with cases of contraband the time to slide out of an unregistered dockmount.
The station's Elders and administrators, and anyone resisting arrest was captured and carted off to a cruiser, while Kusari marines and agents literally tore the station apart in thier search for thier missing patron. From the Cortez jumphole, Invergordon was unrecognizable in a cloud of seething steel warcraft.
From the Cortez Jumphole they came. Junkers, Junker's Congress, Junker guardsman, Outcasts great and small, even scattered Zoner craft came one after the other in a fanning claw formation, demanding cessation of hostilities and withdrawal into Kusari space for the bandit fleet. After a few brief and curt conversations between the lords of the two fleets, the Kusar fleet slid off into the black. On board the seventh cruiser in formation, screams of torture and defiance could be heard ringing through the galleys.
Dark times, in blue skies.
Fuchu prison is not a pretty place. It is especially ugly to those who resist torture, fail to give information, or simply have no information, cries, or blood left to give. It is cold, dark, and run by killers. Not your common killers, such as the ego-inflated navy or police officers, or bounty hunters, or even the half crazed Xenos. The killers in Fuchu have thousands of victims, and the Kusari police like it that way. It's cheap to feed a corpse. To survive the grindhouse between the Blood Dragon killers and the Golden Chrysanthemum killers for a year is tantamount to living ten years on the outside. Noone older than forty survived it long, and certainly noone called an Elder, who could wield any kind of power, could be allowed to survive the existing power structure. Tim was orphaned at age seventeen.
Tim spent his first year in solitary confinement, questioning centers, or the infirmary recovering from one or the other. In his second year his Junker connections became known through the general population, and he again became a 'mover' or a 'fixer'. Under the protection of the Kuroi Kiri, the famed Black Mist yakuza of New Tokyo his business again flourished, although his profit now was his life and all his parts in place, rather than cash. His abilities to 'choose the right tool for the job' and to work with people of all types and motives made him a valuable player to both ruling groups in Fuchu, and thus inviolate.
In his seventh year a Junker pilot with horrible burns on half his face was shoved into the cell next to his. 'DoubleTap' was his name. Or his callsign. Didn't matter. If anyone called him anything but DoubleTap, he'd quickly find himself punched in the throat, his feet quickly tangled, and shortly after that, his skull crushed against the floor. repeatedly.
Once he'd assured himself that Tim Finnegan was the kid he'd known seven years ago, he announced himself to Tim as the pilot he'd loaded and run blocking for during the Kusari attack. And he had a gift for Tim...
Big things come in small packages.
That crate, DoubleTap explained, didnt have seventy kilos of cardamine packed in food stores, bound for Beaumont Station as Tim had been told, but rather the drugged and bound 2nd Prince of Kusar, Gunji-no-Kanrei Takeda.
DoubleTap had been sent to pay the commision owed to Tim. Apparently there were quite a few commisions due, as DoubleTap tried to explain...
The Kusar 3rd Prince commisioned the assasination of his elder brother by the Blood Dragons who had caught poor Takeda in transit and incognito, as he landed on Curacao. A Golden Chrysanthemum agent working undercover with the Dragons, unable to allow her soverign prince to be killed, drugged and shoved him into her own ship, locked the autopilot to dive to the bottom of the ocean and park there, sent an encoded message to a Junker operative, then commited seppuku, taking her own life.
The next day a Junker salvage crew hauled the wreck out of the water, discreetly packaged the Gunji-no-Kanrei, and shipped him off through the grapevine, which included Tim, bound for a smuggling operation being run out of Niverton Base, Pennsylvania. There he was met by the Kusari Ambassador and returned to New Tokyo, ordering his brother's death and reclaiming his birthright.
For keeping his mouth shut, and failing to implicate the Junkers in any of these dealings, Tim was to be rewarded by powerful members of the Junker Congress. For returning Takeda to his family, he was to be rewarded by the Kusari Royal Family, even if he were always considered a criminal by the Kusari and Hogosha powerful. For keeping both the Blood Dragons and GC's clear of implication, he was to be doubly rewarded with safe passage and haven henceforth.
And there was a ship. A mining vessel. And some chunky bank accounts in the name of the Fall River Mining Company, a shell of a company, a new beginning. All waiting it's new master. A master who was stuck in Fuchu Prison. Until his identity was confirmed by a Junker prisoner, one who vanished the next day. And was never seen again on Fuchu.
A Gordonnoch ta home
Weeks later Tim Finnegan, officialy a Junker with a Guard application on file, boarded a shuttle bound for Erie. With a "Don't ever come back to Kusari space!" ringing in is ears, and a few million Kusari credits resting in his pocket, he watched the blue skies he'd lived under for nine years wink out as they jumped into neutral space.
The Fall River Metals Company had been set up as an Invergordon based scrap operation, a lease held on the Pittsburg scrap field made it a milk run. And profitable too. But quiet. And local...
Here he was, a spaceship captain finally, and he ran loops through Liberty space. He almost looked forward to the occasional scans and pirates. Oh sure, he moved a few things here and there through the Junker networks. He was good at it after all, and his reputation for being tightlipped, trustworthy, and sly as an Alterian Watersnake soon had him working again with numerous groups, covertly moving or arranging movement of goods meant to stay off the radar.
On just another boring day not long ago, a Junker agent was sent to retrieve Tim to the Inverness system where he was to have an interview with a Guard agent for certification. Clan Gordon agent 'DoubleTap' stood in the hangar bay of Arecaibo Station awaiting Tim's shuttle, with a legion of kilted Scotsmen in full regalia. Bagpipes playes mournfully.
With a handshake and a morbid, half-burned grin, 'DoubleTap' slapped a sealed order into Tim's hand, and verigraped to his data storage device.
Under orders of his uncle, the acting Dockmaster of Invergordon, Tim was made Clan Chief of the ancient House Gordon, and was to forevermore bear the title '444th Duke of Gordon', protector of Inverness and 'Coliach an Taobh Tuath'. He was assigned the majestic con-tower suites as offices and residence, and upon his signature, would immediately take control of all Gordon interests on the remote Junker base where he had been raised. He was given the deed to a ship that awaited him, a Pilgrim class liner, fresh from the Invergordon yards.
Into the black and blue skies
Under sealed orders, Tim and his handpicked crew of Gordons, former Fuchu killers, and Junker mercenary marines pulled the recently commisioned vessel, Finnegan's Wake out of drydock for the first time.
With an empty hold, and an agent waiting on Niverton to fill it with thousands of slaves bound for Malta, T. Finnegan, Junker, began his long cruise through Sirius skies. Ever watchful, ever careful to choose the right tool for the job. He helms his Clan and Ship with a firm hand and a crooked smirk, quick to anger and to laugh.
"Mr. Murphy! Prime those bloody engines and get me a course through th' sigmas!"
"O'Malley, get these blumin' low-lifes off me comms, and switch power to cruise engines!"
"Gunner Kelley! I want a firing solution on all bandits all the time, we clear lad?"
"Aye lads, 'Tis gonna be a right fine day terday, I ken the law on yon winds. What say we give the bonny sonsa beeches a run fer 'der money?"
You see who's givin ol' Murph the one-eye there Johhny boy?
*nods to the Allentown bartender, Johnny*
*stares down over a fresh pint of porter at you, his left eye glints as if it contains diamond and steel*
T'aint right ye be starin' at a soul 'round 'ere, kid. Nea many friendly types 'ere this time o' night.
*looks you up n down, grinning slightly*
Though looks like yer a greenhorn, eh? A lil bit yellow 'bout the gills aye? I'll fergive it this once...
Y'see, Its me birthday, and I'm gettin pess drunk tonight.
Johnny lad! Pour this 'un a porter and a whiskey. Put it on Finn's tab, the scoundrel.
*places a hand firmly on your shoudler, steering you to a table*
Y'ever heard'a Invergordon? 'Swhere I met Timmy Finn...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Robert William Murphy Jr., Pilot and 1st Mate, Finnegan's Wake
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bobby Murphy was a diceman. Always had a pair with him. And a short stack of one-creds. He'd grown up in Dublin, the son of a widowed cantina owner. His father had been shot during a pazaak game and his mother, pregnant with him, was forced to assume proprietorship of the bar, if only to pay his father's debt. The cantina was a dive on Arranmore near the docks, named O'Malleys, frequented by Mollies and those that provided services to them, here he learned to gamble.
An expatriot named Brand Garrison, an Outcast recruit not much older than Murphy himself, a frequent customer taught him many games. WHile he was earning his chops with the Outcasts, Garrison would often lay low at Arranmore, and the two would rake up the c-notes by the handfulls. He taught Murphy mathematics and theory of odds and gambling as well as how to read your opponents slightest move and tell.
One day a passing Zoner astrogator named Namiras caught the two working thier magic on a group of unsuspecting miners fat with fresh pay, and decided to watch and see what developed. Immedeately Namiras was impressed by the young Murphy's intrinsic grasp of mathematical principles, and offered to employ him as a deckhand, while he apprenticed under the Sailing Master of Namiras' massive Zoner Whale.
He quickly surpassed the abilities of even his own astrogation teacher, and constantly would outbid, seemingly by feel, the autopilot calculations for delta-V's. Within a year's time he was able to twist vectors, compute thrust potentials, and gravitic curvations of seven or more ships simultaneaously, and could draw flightpaths on his console with 97% accuracy, beating even state-of-the-art vectorcomps.
While he continued to strip his shipmates of thier hard-earned cash with dice and card games, astronavigation became his first love, and he quickly replaced the original Pilot. His time on board the Whale was to be short, however.
Murphy gained the nickname 'Dropkick' because he liked to get up games of zero-g rugby and football in the cargo bays when empty, and gamble on them, often throwing them or arranging for a drill or system failure at opportune times. One day he programmed the ship's drive to hiccup at 'just' the right moment during a rugby game that he just 'happened' to have ten thousand creds bet upon, which was unfortunate because Namiras had 'just happened' to be docked with the Battleship Arc Royal at the time.
After Murphy was turned over to authorites as a gesture of goodwill, Namiras and his whale slid out of dock quietly, though a comtech had overheard the captain expressing his gladness to be 'rid of the kid' for he'd feared that one day the blamed-fool pilot would stardive the Whale or grav-whip her around a gas giant, when she clearly wasn't built for such manuevers...
A twist here, a bet there, a fried system node over here, and Murphy was back on Invergordon before his jailers even knew where they'd put him. It took weeks to remove a badmath root parameter from the Arc Royal's master compbanks, and in the end, the only way they'd ever known they'd had him was the heresay of some junior MP's and a very angry Commander and dock repair crew.
Enter Tim Finnegan, fresh in his Clan Chief seat at Invergordon. Tim was looking for a pilot who was unafraid of the rougher sections of Sirius, clever enough to evade even the most aggravated pursuit, and able to pilot a godawfully large and lugubrious ship, as well as it's attending skiff, a refit Recycler. The Wake, though older and moure touchy than the Whale he'd flown was beautiful to Bobby Murphy. The Pilgrim-class liner had a three-hundred year old gravdamper system that allowed her maneuverability he'd never seen in a ship that size. The armaments alone required her powerplant to be huge, and well within what he termed his 'experimental zone'. Her captain had built a pub complete with billiards and darts into her forward crew section, and even had an onboard brewery. The crew, being Junkers for the most part, was a bit tougher than he was used to, and the job was, well, less-than-legal at best.
He'd have to be on his guard, he thought as he boarded the Wake, kitbag over his shoulder.
This was no Zoner-milk-run, this was smuggling. Played properly, this was the path to riches.
Time to stop working the gamble on shipmates, and begin to work it on all of Sirius now.
Still, his dice rattled together in his pocket as the airlock cycled shut.
"Cap'n...this is odd....its, what the bloody...I think ye'd best see this."
"Murph, what are ye yammerin' on 'bout? Ye get me out o' me chair fer nuthin lad, an' Ill toss ye a 3-6-9..."
Tim Finnegan strode to the helm station, straightening his kilts and glaring at his unruly pilot, Murphy.
As he peered over Murphy's shoulder, he could see the comm console was acting funny. Normally green ship names against black, the comm panel had taken on a kaleidescopic blue and yellow twist, and was skewing rapidly left and right. It hissed loudly and crackled like a fire when Murphy opened the hailing frequencies. He shrugged and looked sheepishly at his captain.
As he did so, the screen twisted as if someone were stirring it, and then resolved into a blue-black silhouette of a face. An unrecognizable face, backlit and wearing solar goggles.
"Finn, you old dog," said the face, his voice distorted by some kind of scrambler into unrecogizibility. "I've got sumthin here for ya, but it'll cost ya."
"An' who the bloody hell are ye whats screwin up me comms?!" Tim shouted, as Murphy waved his hand and covered the ear Tim had just shouted into.
"Now, If I told you, I'd have to..."
"Lad!" Tim interjected, "Try ter be more original. Yer threats mean nothin' and yer joke dinna amuse me. Get on wi' it, or shut yer gob!"
The silhouette smiled, a lopsided smile that seemd to contort his face out of shape.
"Fine Fine. Yeesh, blasted Scotsmen..." Said the face. "I've heard through the grapevine that you just hauled your millionth slave to Malta. Congratulations."
Again Tim interjected, "Get bloody ON WITH IT!"
"Right." replied the distorted voice. "I am a Lane Hacker. You don't know me. I have an offer for ya. Am I goin' too fast for ya?"
Tim slammed his fist into the console hard enough to make it ring.
"Shut this bloody fool up, Murph! I tire of this." he shouted as he threw his hand up and stalked back to his chair in the center of the bridge. "Kelley, you get an inklin' of where this bugger is, ye blast 'im, aye?"
As Gunner Kelley focused his attention to the battle screen and opened his mouth to reply, all the consoles and screens on the Wake lit up with the stranger's face.
Tim braced himself, combat boots at shoulder's width, his hands on his hips.
"Did ya miss the part where I said i was a Hacker? Don't make me vent the atmo' to get yer attention." Shouted the faces in unison from every speaker Ion the bridge. "Now. here's an account number." Eleven numbers flashed on the screens below the now calmer blue-black face. "You go ahead 'n put twenty million creds into it, and I'll see that it's worth your time. I can't say what it is. No channel is secure, least of all this one. Who designed your comp-security anyway? Amateurs!"
Tim scowled, crossing his arms across his Gordon tartan. "This sounds like piracy, lad. A game I dinna play." He looked at Murphy and Kelley who shrugged stupidly in unison.
Engineer Sinclair strode onto the bridge at that moment, his red face a study in fury.
"Who's got the bloody stones to encrypt MY systems! I'll have yer blasted neck!" Looking at Finnegan he said "Cap'n this signal's not comin from outside!, I've killed the arrays. Just who is this son of a..."
"Ah!" announced the unknown face. "Connor Sinclair, I mighta known it was you. You make my work easy, son. A fantastic shipwright and designer, sure. Security engineer," he shrugged "not so much."
Sinclair stooped his tall frame over the security console, working quickly to dissemble it and expose it's innards to his master's touch.
"I'll fix this bugger Cap, give me half a minute.."he mumbled into the nest of wires and tubes.
All the screens flashed and the stranger glanced quickly to his right then back to the screen.
"I'm afraid I'll be done before you root out my signal, boys." announced the stranger. "Time's short. On
Allentown you'll find a gift left in the care of your gal, Tess, captain Finnegan. It will prove my intent is honorable. When you are satisfied that it is, please proceed with the deposit I requested. Your reward will then await you someplace obvious on Invergordon. I will not repeat these instructions, so I hope you boys aren't 'in your cups', as it were." The face again glanced to the side, then leaned in so that all resolution of shape vanished, replaced by the flash of reflected light on solar goggles. "You have the thanks of the Lane hackers for your work in Liberty. Let's let that be enough, shall we? Good day Captain."
With that the signal abruptly cleared, and all consoles returned to normal, amid the shrugs of the bridge crew and the cursing of Sinclair as he looked at the wreckage he was going to have to repair on the security console.
Days later on docking with Allentown, Tim was greeted by his flame-haired wife Tess, who handed him a brown paper-bound package she'd said had been left in the tavern one night at cleanup. A tag hanging from it addressed it to 'The Honorable Captain of the Wake'. Inside was a Charred piece of blue-grey metal and a brass telescope, a small one like the ones used by old earth sailors to navigate the seas. The paper itself bore an inscription on it's inside, "For your continued work in making a shambles of Liberty's laws. Look closely." It was a micro-fische, and under an electron microscope it contained portions of technical readouts for what Sinclair deduced as a powerplant of enourmous size and hull panel composition of an alloy he'd never seen. Also broken fragments of bulkhead layouts, wiring systems, and an enormous crescent shaped bridge with work stations for twenty crewmen. The metal, upon examination turned out to be unique, and try as he may, Sinclair was unable to find any junker anywhere who recognized it, though it matched the alloy composition on the paper perfectly.
Tim, after half a bottle of whiskey, a few pints of porter, and the urgings of his fascinated engineer, made the deposit. When he thought to check the registered owner of the account, he found it gone, and no record of it having existed, other than the 20 million cred debit on his own account. Loading up on mining machinery, he made ready to embark for Invergordon. He'd not been home in some time, despite his other wife Sheila's constant rants and pleas for him to return. He had Murphy procure some flowers and chocolates before they cast off from Philly station.
After a few jumps, and a pirate who wished he'd never tried to stop the Wake, Tim berthed her at Invergordon, sold his mining machinery, then proceeded to berth his wife. Days went by, and Shiela wondered what it was he was waiting for, and why he'd spent so much time at 'home' this time around. Eventually, as Tim had had his fill of Shiela, and Murph had gone into hiding after stripping more than a few junkers of a year's pay in games of dice and pazaak, the time had come to depart. Feeling as though he'd been duped, Tim grumpily prepared to make for Liberty space and another load of, well, passengers.
Striding onto the bridge, he found another paper-wrapped package on his Captain's chair, tagged with the simple line 'Told ya I was honorable'. After berating Invergordon security and his entire crew for the lax oversight, he and Sinclair retired to the engineering bay while Murphy slid the Wake out of port and pointed her nose at the Pennsyvania system.
This time the package was filled with wonders. The paper again was micro-fische, and contained the missing
portions of the schematic. The Spyglass schematic. They boggled. Sinclair about fell out of his chair.
"Cap, this is, well, this shoudln't be." he stammered. "Hackers wouldn't sell this for eighteen systems and a shipload of dancing girls..."
Finnegan could only nod. The Spyglass was one of the best kept secrets in the entire Sirius system. While Sinclair poured over the schematics, piecing them together on the draftingcomp, Tim looked over the items found inside. There was another piece of the charred metal, this one had a blueish hue to it and was extremely lightweight, almost featherlight. Also included was a Data disk which, when placed on the reader, showed glowing circles of light over certain debris fields in various Liberty Systems. These cirlces were tagged digitally with the names FRAME, POWERPLANT, TRANSFER SYSTEMS, JUMP DRIVE, and other critical ship systems. Also on the disk were complete rundowns on the mystery alloys, with chemical equations and specifications on how to fabricate, repair, and fuse said metals.
Finally, there was a holo-jector, and a handwritten note. The note read;
Tim,
As requested, Portable Bay 19 has been undocked and placed within working distance of Culebra Smelter, within the cloud nearby. You also have access to some of our new assembly bots, as well as unfettered access to the smelter's processors, provided your orders do not conflict with Congress orders. Thank you for your payment of 20 million credits. I can't wait to see what you're doing to the wake, but your orders were precise, so I'll not peek until you're done. Again thanks,
Jaques Martin, Dockmaster, Vieques, Puerto Rico.
While the Wake slid through the California system, Tim called his bridge crew into the onboard pub and locked it down for the viewing of the holo. While Murphy tapped his latest keg of cider-porter, Tim placed the holo-jector on the billiards table and grabbed his half empty bottle of whiskey, slumping soundly into the easy chair near the fireplace.
In the greenish glow of the 'jector's field a face appeared. The same goggled, shadow-hidden, backlit face that had plagued his bridge weeks before. It smiled that crooked smile again, and spoke its electronically muddled voice at the crew.
"Ho, Tim Finnegan! Thanam an Dhul!" it said in the ancient Celtic tongue.
"I've learned never to assume anything, but I can guess that you've looked over my gifts. I'll make this simple. The Spyglass, I mean, OUR spyglass, as you know was developed clandestinely by the Liberty Navy," here the face sneered. "and stolen by our glorious ex-patriarch. Bound evermore to serve the Lane Hackers and the Hellfire Legion. Now, noone ever builds just ONE working prototype. Frames and alloys need to be stress tested, mockups of drive systems need to be built and rebuilt until they perform to specs, and so on. Those Liberty dogs went to great expense to destroy and hide all of the early work they'd done before they built the Spyglass prototype."
"I've gone to great expense to undo thier labors. I've done so outside of the" *cough* "permission of the Hackers, because I beleive our goals are mutual."
"Rare few have sold so many of Liberty's citizenry into the fields at Malta, I mean, over a million? you're a
bastard, you know that right? Anyway, I digress. Rare few also have poisoned the children of Liberty with
cardamine as you have. I'm impressed. And it takes alot to impress me. So I give you a gift."
"You'll wonder why I didn't turn this data over to Hacker command, and that's a simple explanation. They'd destroy it. I think you can do more harm to Liberty with it than without it. Im sure in the end my superiors will understand. Of course, you'll be having to deal with them soon enough, as word of this leaks out, as all information does eventually."
"In the meantime, I have included a map for finding the lost pieces of the prototype vessel. I have included schematics taken from what was thought to be lost and forgotten databases belonging to the LSI and LNS. I have added sample alloys and instructions on how to fabricate and repair these parts. The powerplant, I leave in the capable hands of your engineer, Sinclair. The one you'll find was eventually scrapped and a new, more appropriate one was built for the final version of the 'Glass. You may have some problems there, as it would certainly be my head were I to reveal OUR powerplant specs, but I've seen your resourcefulness. I'm not worried."
"As to the payment rendered, you'll see I'm no pirate, and it was immediately transferred to Vieques for the use of a platform in which to begin your salvage op. The only profit for me is to see great, pompous Liberty flat on it's face."
"This holo-jector is erasing the message as it plays, so that this will not come back upon me. You're on your own, and the Lane Hackers will come down on you like holy thunder if word of this leaks out so keep it quiet. Not to mention what Liberty's bound to do if they catch wind of it."
"Anyway, good luck to you and yours. I hope to one day, with the approval of my superiors, share a pint and a laugh onboard your new flagship. I'm sure one day they will see the reason and purpose in what I have done. I'm also sure you won't dissapoint me and throw all this in the recycler." Here the face leaned into the camera, and filled the air above the billiard table, as gold light danced across the surface of the goggles. "Don't try 'n contact me. Don't even look. I'm a friggin' ghost. I'll find you. Good day to you Captain and crew of the Wake."
The 'jector made a popping sound as the light went out and a greasy grey tendril of smoke drifted up from it. The crew sat dumbfounded, thier beers barely touched and getting warm. Tim's whiskey bottle slid from his hand to smash on the floor. He stood, straightened his kilts, and looked intently at his crew.
"Lads! Double time! Stations!" He shouted.
"Kelley! Get me the Lobelia, the Cassus-Belli, and those blasted AI rats on the comms! Call the Zodiacs, tell 'em we've got a job for 'em. And get me the Ambassador!" He yelled at the scrambling crew.
"Sinclair, I dinna care ter see yer face 'till ye've done with those bloody plans."
"Murphy! Set course for Puerto Rico, and call those Rogues at Niverton, tell 'em we won't be showing up terday!"
He slapped his hand on the intrcom panel and shouted, "All hands! Prepare for salvage cargo! Stow the cargo bay life support and prepare to lay in supplies for an extended tour!"
With that, a wide grin spread across ol' Tim Finnegan's mug, as he surveyed the now empty pub. He decided he'd best call his wives and make excuses.
"Well now," he said to himself as he poured a pint from the tap, "Look's like it's gon'be a banner year 'ere fer us spacedogs. I wonder jus' how much trouble I've gotten meself into now...."
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.
"...its' tha' mother right there lad!"
"Radio check. Radio check.!"
"..terminus at accessway 182 starbord. Panel niner."
"Check, One two, Check"
"...engineering said it was the capacitor to the air scrubbers. Im sure it don't go there..."
*POP*
*SCREEEEEEeeeeeeeeee............*
"Check, Check, Check"
"Dammit lads! Who's fried th' bloody transfers NOW?!?!"
Radio chatter near Culebra was cacaphonous, CSV and Salvager traffic no less than a swarm, and credits were being paid out at a dizzying speed. Captain Finnegan was inbound with the resonance pods he'd requested, along with a full week's ration of 'all pissed off', so Connor Sinclair was in a bit of a pinch.
The Spyglass buildup was becoming both beautiful and nightmarish. She was bloody near complete. She shined like dolomite in the sparse rays of Puerto Rico's dodgy sunlight. Long and lean of beam, and tall of mast as they used to say, She cut an impressive line indeed. Like some huge silvery shark poised to kill, she hulked in the shadow of Culebra smelter, crews converting her scaffolding into spare parts and ships stores, until she hung alone in the dark, dreadful and stunning.
When all three of her converted Mass-Vector Asteroid Tug engines were lit, the glow could be seen throughout the system. Her acceleration curve rivaled the swiftest gunboats and freighters, and she could thrust two of these engines laterally, a design inspiration of Pilot Murphy's, allowing her to turn tighly without the drifting so common to these battleship class vessels. So powerful were these three engines however, that they were rapidly becoming the bane of Engineer Sinclair.
"Allright lads, Engine room, I need full open, zero thrust." The ship shuddered percievably.
"Pipes lit, sir!"
"Taccom, bring up the shields." Lights on the bridge dimmed then strengthened.
"Aye sir, shield holding."
"Weapons, ready group one."
"Aye sir."
**POP**
Pitch black. Then red. Smokey red.
The slight vibration of the great engines died slowly as the enormous, skyscraper-sized turbines wound down. Auxiliary lighting splashed rose and black shadows about the bridge as tendrils of greasy smoke drifted from the power and weapons consoles. As backup life support came online, the smoke began to dissipate.
"Sonofa....Engineering Report!" Shouted Sinclair into the air, then grimacing, grabbed a hand radio and repeated himself. "Engineering, status?"
"Shunts one through 13 cooked sir." crackled the radio. "only thirty-two left."
"Every -CENSORED- time the -CENSORED- -CENSORED- this bloody happens! Right! Get yer boys ter replacing the -CENSORED- -CENSORED- !"
"...oh, and get me Vieques on the horn, gonna need more -CENSORED- shunts."
-----------------------
Finnegan's Wake shuddered into existence near the Texas jumphole, came about, and thrusted toward the construction site. The ancient Pilgrim liner began to feel smaller and smaller as they approached the leviathan parked in the cloud.
"Murph, prepare boarding clamps, and get me Sinclair." Finnegan grumbled. He pointed at the deck next to his chair. "Put 'im 'ere inside 15 minutes. Or it's both yer hides. An' dinna wake me till then." He tossed back the tag-end of his pint, crossed his arms behind his head, kicked his boots onto the console, and closed his eyes...
----------------------
It was hard to tell which of the two Junkers was more angry. If it were simply a contest of red-facedness, Sinclair would have won, due to the advantage of having recently spent two full days on the sun-side of the hull with a heat sink problem and the sunburn that went with it.
"...But it's NOT bloody WORKING, cap'm!" Exhasperated Sinclair. "Theres just no way the powerplant we salvaged was ever meant to do more'n supply the engines. If that!"
"Aye, an' what ken ye 'bout addin' some power to 'er?" Asked a fuming Finnegan, arms crossed
"I swear I need another whole reactor just for the shields. An' another fer the weapons. Only if I run that much juice through the capacitor, well let's just say you don't wanna be in the system if all three reactors fail....or any nearby systems. This containment shielding is OLD."
"The Wake's bloody transfer system can handle 'er pipes as well as 'er guns, Connor!" Shouted Tim. "An' she's nigh as old, if nay a bet older even!" He was poking his finger into Sinclair's chest now, backing him across the bridge. Gunner Kelley moved to break up a possible fistfight. This had happened before.
"An' Ye can bloody 'ave it if tha's what it bleedin' takes to make that big dog hunt!" Raved Finnegan, stabbing his non-poking finger at the dark hulk hanging outside the windows.
"Son, I've put me name, me money, and me arse on th' line fer tha' bloody ship there. Now I'm puttin yer arse on th' line in front o' mine." He grabbed the front of Sinclair's tunic in his gnarled fist. "Ye get tha' bird ter fly, Yesterday! Or yer frozen corpse'll make her a bloody fine hood ornament!"
"Two months!" He shouted at the ceiling, raising Sinclair to his toes. "I've waited two bloody months! An' what've ye done wi' tha' parcel from Malta? Aint heard a squeak about it 'nall this time."
Finnegan drew Sinclair in close, almost touching noses.
"This bird's nigh on broken me bank already, I dinnae see why ye cannae just bankrupt me..." he breathed hotly into Sinclair's face. "Call th' Zoners, see if they got any specs on these rottin' coils. It's gonna cost me, I'm sure...Hell, call the Hellfire bleedin' Legion! I need this bird ta fly, an' so do you lad."
His fist tightened, veins standing out.
"Engineers are ruddy cheap, lad." he was whispering now. "Specially 'round Junkers, aye?"
Returning Sinclair to his heels and releasing him, he spun toward his chair, kilts flaring.
"Now get back to th' trophy ship, lad, an' bleedin' fix tha' powercore! R' th' next whine I hear outta you will be the air leavin' yer husk."
He grabbed the half-full pint of Invergordon Black Ale from the Dais and scowled at Sinclair's receding back.
"Murph! Call Ames, have em prep that software for Casablanca."
"Three weeks..." muttered Connor Sinclair, rubbing the stubble on his chin and glancing repeatedly out of the enormous window at Culebra Smelter in the mist. "Three bloody weeks...."
Alone he paced the shiny deck of the recently completed bridge. Console lights glittered and reflected from gleaming, untouched bulkheads. Shrinkwrap still clung to most of the crew chairs, and white packing material piled in tiny drifts at the corners of dock consoles. The bridge of this salvaged Spyglass-class battleship veritably sprawled, the far corners lost in darkness. Gangways, platforms, console banks, and the command dais broke the huge space into multiple areas, with work stations for twenty-eight crewmen.
It gleamed, sparkled, and shone. Waiting for a captain who was nowhere to be found.
"Claymore, this is Culebra hailing." said a voice from the speakers above, halting Sinclair in his tracks.
"Go ahead Culebra. Sinclair 'ere." he answered into the air as he moved towards the commrack, knowing the smartcomm system would follow him with hidden speakers and microphones to his station.
"Connor, duty crew seven is outbound to you now, shuttle away." announced Andy Riddick, Chief of Comms for the station. "Also have a wave from the Ambassador, it's not good. Still no sign of Finnegan." he paused. "Ive pulled those strings I was tellin' ya about, an' still nuthin. Best i could do was an IFF ping from Barrier Gate Station about three weeks ago. Noone's seen him, his crew, or his ship since. An' I mean noone."
"Roger tha' Riddick." frowned Connor. "Keep tryin'. I finally get this bird spaceworthy n' the Cap goes off'n gets hisself lost." He spotted the blue driveflame of the crew shuttle bringing the cleaning crews in from the space station. "I'll be glad ta see the last of the scaffolding gone, anyway... thanks, lad. I'll be on the next shuttle back. Nuthin' left ta do 'ere, an' it's high time I went out lookin' fer the Cap'n."
Sinclair flicked off the open comm channel with disdain and leaned back in the plastic-wrapped chair.
"Three bloody weeks...."
Coppery tasting blood pooled between his teeth and his split and swollen lips. Too damaged were they to even spit, so it ran down the corner of his mouth into his greying yellow beard. His head lolled drunkenly as he tried to bring his blackened and nearly swollen-shut eyes up to meet his antagonist.
Tim could make out the wheezing form of Murphy in his cell. Curled into a ball on the floor cradling broken ribs with one hand and a pulped and bleeding nose with the other, he had mercifully passed out and been tossed into his cage until further need to dehumanize him arose.
Finnegan's arms were tied to the chair behind him, and his naked torso bore the bruises and cuts of the most extreme form of interrogation, one with no real answers. Or questions. Or end, except sweet death. As his view rolled past Murph's cell, it wandered past the grinning face of his tormentor, and upwards to the moldy ceiling before he caught it and in a vain effort at control, brought it back down squarely into the eyes of his Colonial Remnant jailer, and his cocked Colonial Remnant fist, which pounded it back to the left and up to the ceiling again as the flesh sledgehammer slammed into his cheek, spinning his head as far as the sinews of his neck would allow.
"Fphurg yer mmllurgh, blurch.." was the best he could muster as he tried again to right his disobeying head. "I'll 'aff yer fphurgin' eed, you Fphu.."
"...Aye an' thanks again Strick. This ol' Salvager oughta do the trick." grinned Sinclair into the antique commset, as he set course for Invergordon, the Spyglass dropping away below and behind as the rusty, overworked Junker ship made for the Texas jumphole. "Just hope I can get this bird there by mesself. In one piece."
"Don't mention it Connor," Replied the voice from Vieques. "Go find 'im. I put the word out on all Junk channels, should be a crew waitin' for ya there. Told em Finn needed help. He's got friends, you'll probably be turnin' em away."
"Aye an' Tess managed to put together a crack team of ass-kickin' Junker marines awaiting pickup at A-town." Connor grinned toothily as he wound up the jump engines for engagement with the anomaly. "If he's out there, we'll find 'im. Sinclair out."
Finnegan lifted his head, unable to open his eyes. Dried and drying blood smacked and crackled as he unstuck his head from the clotting smear on the steel floor. He could still hear Murph in the cell with him, his punctured lung giving away his presence in the confusion of sounds.
Gunfire and running boots sounded through the steel bulkheads of the Colonial ship. Shouts and alarms raising in inensity as the door to the brig hissed open. He strained at his bonds, but his hands were bound together with a wire-tie, which were bound to his feet behind him with more ties. With herculean will he rolled to his cut and bloody knees....and was slammed face-first into the deck by the WHUMPH! of a shock grenade detonating very nearby.
Pain and Darkness....
...He was being dragged by the armpits, his bonds gone. Blind and unable to lift his head, he bobbed between two men as he tried to gather his feet beneath him. Gunfire erupted in his ear, and hot spent shells danced off his head and back. Answering shots were fired from somewhere nearby, one hand dissapeared from his armpit and something wet and warm splashed across his side. Bullets dink-dink-dinked off of a bulkhead nearby, and he was unceremoniously dumped to the deck.
More gunfire. More Pain. Darkness...
WHUMPH!
CRACK! CRACK!
"Get Murphy! Get the crew!" he tried to shout from the bottom of a deep pit of awareness, turning it into more of a pleading gurgle as darkness once again stole him from the world.
Blinding light, ruddy red through swollen eyelids.
The sound of a drive engine humming.
Hushed voices.
PING.
"He's coming around." a female voice, sweet like rain on a lake in the sunshine. "Ten CC"s of somazine."
PING.
Shooting pain in his lip as another stitch was sewn into it.
"Mrph?" he asked out the corner of his mouth.
"He'lll be fine. Just fine." a male voice. Close. "We got the whole crew. Kelley was hit in the firefight. Workin' on them both now."
Finnegan strained to open his right eye, and the blurry image of a man in battle armor, splattered with blood, coalesced above him. The sounds of others engaged in triage came to him from nearby. The medic smiled at him and bent closer, needle and thread in hand. "Tess sends her best." he said as he reached across to apply another stitch. The Junker Guard patch on the medic's shoulder reassured Tim, and he closed his eyes, relaxing at last. Safe.
PING PING PING PING
"We're losing him!" shouted the female voice. "Crash cart now!..."
"Well Connor, ol' boy. I dinna know what else I ken do fer ye." Tim Finnegan stood with one hand on Sinclair's shoulder, both men made silhoutes by the glowing red of the Culebra cloud as seen through the enormous bridge window. Silent and clean no longer, the bridge sang with the sounds of a crew at work. The view drifted to the starboard as the gigantic ship was brought about and pointed towards the jumphole.
"Nuthin' ya can do Ca...erm, Tim." stammered Sinclair. "The early retirement would be enough, but ya had to throw in the whole mining corp too, huh?" he shook his head. "Still an' all, I'd do it again fer free."
"An' that, lad, is why ye get yer own chance. I'll nay 'ave th' man who risked his life fer me n' mine beholden to me fer nuthin'." said Tim through healing lips from behind a soon-to-be-removed eyepatch. "Yer at the very least an equal now, laddy. Go make yer fortune, second in command to noone. Yer ship's in th' main hangar bay, and the ol' Fall River corp awaits it's CEO." he grinned, hooking an arm around Sinclair's shoulders and steering him toward the portside lift.
Murphy grinned as much as the bandages on his shattered nose would allow, and nudged Seamus Kelley, whose arm hung in a sling, and whose left leg was still in an aircast. He remarked quietly what a different relationship those two had as of late.
He'd always thought for sure he'd see the Cap'n space the engineer. Now Finn was giving him everything. His highly profitable mining company, his personal Salvager-class frigate, and his entire life savings of four hundred million creds.
Everything but the enormous ship recently christened ~Claymore.O'Gordon~ that now put it's nuclear-hot engines between them and Puerto Rico system. A sleek reconditioned Salvager slid off into obscurity in the cloud behind them, the name Parliament.Junkadelic gleaming freshly on her prow.
"Bloody hell!" Tim bellowed as he strode onto the bridge, kilts flaring, his trusty sawed off shotgun in one hand, resting across his shoulder. "Never seen a sorrier lot in all me days! Snap to ya dogs!" he shouted, grinning as he mounted the command dais and spun his chair about.
"I'm bleedin' broke now, and we're gonna hafter start all over. No pay for you lot till we break profit margin, and before ye go off whinin' at me, let's remember, I bought all'a yer lives today. An' yer no' cheap! So ef ye'd like ter keep em, ye'd best put another bloody system in tha' bloody window. FAST! I'm bleedin sick ter death of Puerto Rico."
He crossed his legs, flung his boots up onto the console before him, and surveyed the gleaming hulk seeming to emanate from him. His kilometer long ship, his crew, and the healing scars on his legs and hands.
"Aye, an there's some Colonial puke-rats what's got some answerin' ter do...."
"Kelley! get those weapons batteries tight as a prom date!"
"Murph, you old dog, let's see what this betch can do! Kick 'er in th' teeth once, lad!"
From near Vieques Station, Connor Sinclair watched as the Claymore's trio of engines lit like a star going supernova, and winked out of existence at the texas jumphole.
"Crazy ol' dog's gonna need me" he said to noone. "Best keep the comms open."
Congressman Tim Finnegan, while outfitting a new Pilgrim Slave Liner after the Sigma-13 Refugee Incident at his home base of Inverness, recieved a vague communique from a former contact.
Kai Winochu, a Blood Dragon operative who'd spent time in the same cell block on Fuchu as Finnegan had a message for him and needed to see him in person, deep in Tau-23 space.
Grabbing a Clan Gordon Recycler, kept on-base at Invergordon, he made for the coordinates attached to the message.
The Katana and the Recycler hung in space, nose to nose.
"Captain Finnegan-sama. So good of you to meet me. I see old bonds do not break in your hands, unlike so many of the gaijin you associate with." said the scarred face in the commscreen.
"It honors you more than you know. Your name is not unheard in the darker places, as I am about to reveal to you. If you would be so kind as to open a datafeed, I will send the pertinent information."
A letter displayed itself on the Recycler's datascreen, one that extracted a sharp intake of breath from the aged old Scotsman.
It held two seals; the first, Junkers of Gaul. The second, the seal of the office of King Charles XI, 2nd Grand Visier. Addressed specifically to him, it read:
Monsiuer Finnegan,
Clan Chief of the Gordon Junkers, Adjudicator Inverness, and enemy of the Kusari Emperor
I will be brief. The Gallic Junkers and the Great Soverign Nation of Gallia have need of your services.
More importantly, your own people have need of your compliance.
A contract is hereby offered that will result in the safety and sanctity of your home system, Inverness. As well as a generous bottom line.
One billion Sirius credits, and the promise of our protection in the coming years of Scotshome, Inverness.
All you need do is report to Bourge-en-Brasse, crewed and ready to haul.
There we will further explain our needs and reasons.
Your safety is promised by the forces of King George XI and all under his hand, you will not be threatened nor harmed.
But let me be succinct. The lives of the Gordon Junkers of Inverness hang in the balance.
The continued existence of your beloved Congress itself is in deep jeapordy, and it is only your good name and our generosity that stays the executioner's hand.
Come to Bourge-en-Brasse. Meet with me and hear me out. If you do not find my argument persuasive, you may leave. Unchecked and unharmed.
Know that your failure to appear will be the cause of much suffering in Inverness. Though the suffering will be short, it will be acute.
Jean-Phillipe LeBlanc.
Warrant Officer, Junkers of Gaul
Finnegan rubbed his beard, scowling at the threats and suggestions flowing across his screen.
"Finnegan-sama." Captain Winochu intoned. "I was not instructed to recieved an answer, only to see that you recieved the data. I will now depart." the aged Blood Dragon warrior nodded and smiled.
"However," he steepled his fingers before his lips, hesitating. "I will tell you this. These are honorable men, and they have been of much aid in our war against Emperor Kogen and his patsies. They mean business, and you should consider them thoughtfully."
With that, he bowed his head deeply and smiled, his engines beginning to whine.
"Sayonara Finnegan-sama. Your face is good to see, I await the day when next we meet. Fare well."
The Katana spun and flared, dissapearing into the black on a trail of cruise engines.
Finnegan set course for Invergordon. He sent a tightbeam comm asking about the progress of his new Liner, requesting that the crews be doubled and the work shifts be tripled.
He tore through the void with a troubled brow.
Tim Finnegan sat at the end of the bar in The Drunken Junker Pub, muching jack-nuts and counting a pile of crumpled cred notes, the month's earnings.
A half-full pintglass sat in a ring of ale on the bartop near his compdeck.
Johnny polished glassware as Declan MacTavish locked the back door and Tess flicked off the 'open' sign and made to close the front doors for the evening.
Next to the ledgers and cash was a timeschedule of the refit of The Wake. Another week or so...
"Finn!" Tess' voice was sharp, and very worried. "Dekker!" she shouted.
She was backing away from the front door, arms straight out to her sides.
A shining katana blade followed her in through the dark opening, point dancing near her throat.
It's master still unseen in the gangway.
Finnegan's barstool slid quickly back with a creak of wood on wood.
The mug Johnny had been wiping hit the deck with a crack.
Dekker's bunched muscles creaked like wet rope being twisted.
'Dropkick' Murphy dozed drunkenly in a booth with a snore and a grunt.
A tall Kusari followed the curving length of steel slowly into the Stagger Inn.
His black hair tied in a traditional topknot, his steel grey suit still buttoned, he looked a perfect Hogosha Killer.
Finn had seen his like before. His hands bunched whitely. His shotgun rested on the bar just out of easy reach.
He eyed it. "Lie, Finnegan-sama. Your gaijin wench dies headless if that gun moves." the Kusari virtually hissed.
He flicked a look to Dekker, approaching slowly like a landslide. "Sorry, great one." He bowed his head slighly in respect. "Not today will we dance. Save your strength, I mean no har--"
His words were strangled by Murphy's belt looping around his neck and jerking tight, leather creaking as Murphy pulled with all his might, curled into a ball, and rolled the Hogosha assassin over his back like a sack of potatoes.
The katana whistled in an arc, slicing cleanly through the tight belt as the Hogosha cartwheeled over the top.
Twisting, topknot scribing a crescent in the air behind him, he landed cleanly on his feet, knees bending deeply.
One hand splayed out before him for balance, his katana hand behind him, the blade dancing above him like a scorpion's stinger.
He crouched there for a moment, letting the severed belt fall from his neck.
Then sprung towards the drunken Murphy who sloppily staggered to his feet.
Singing, the katana made a silvery arc towards Murphy's midsection-
-Then whiplike, the katana changed direction to counter the falling meat cleaver swung by it's master, Sean Argylle, Head Chef of the Drunken Junker.
The two blades met with a sharp clang as Murphy gratefully skittered backwards on the floor, his feet losing traction.
Argylle grinned with glee as he produced yet anoth another cleaver in his left hand, worked himself underneath the crossed blades, pivoted, and sparks flying, engaged the Kusari in earnest.
The three blades met again and again. sometimes with a clang, sometimes glancing off of one another.
Sean Argylle began to lose ground, and his eyes widened as he realized he was outclassed.
Suddenly, the tip of the katana caught in Argyle's sleeve. With a twist and thrust he was caught and the katana slid toward his unprotected ribs, through the sleeve-
[color=#CC9933]*Clack-Clack*
Both barrels of Finnegan's shotgun shoved in his ear, the Hogosha froze mid-thrust, his head tilted to the side by the shove Finn gave his weapon, for emphasis.
The assassin, fingers now loose on the hilt, slowly slid his sword free of Sean's shirt.
Tim Finnegan's calloused fist swung cleanly around, punishing and ruinating the Hogosha's face.
Again.
And again.
As the Kusar's eyes rolled glazedly back, the stock of Finn's shotgun whirled in an arc and executed a perfect cricket swing into the side of his head. [color=#CC9933]*CRACK*
Tess dumped a pitcher of Invergordon Black over his head.
As the Hogosha came to, sputtering blood and ale, and realizing he'd been trussed up and tied akimbo over a table, he pleaded. "Lie, Sumimasen....Lie" His swollen left eye barely open, he sought out the hazy figure of Tim Finnegan, "Please. Captain-sama, I came to speak to you, not fight you."
Tim rubbed his sore knuckles and bent over to look into the face of their assailant. "Ye'd best ge' bleedin' on with it lad. Yer time be shorter n' ye think."
He hovered above the bound Hogosha, a look of bemusement on his normally grim face. "I've dealt with yer kind afore. Kill it afore it breeds, I been taught."
"Lie, please. I bring a message from the Oyabun, Jiyo Tanaka, of the Hogosha of Kyushu. He knows that you did time in Fuchu Prison with his nephew Hirohito, and protected him. Hear his words, I implore you, Finnegan-sama."
Blood ran from a split in his lip, down his cheek and wet his hair, sticking it to the table. "Cap'n," Dekker's deep baratone rang as he indicated the sheathed katana on the bar. "Th' bee's lost his stinger. I b'lieve I can handle him now."
Finn rubbed his beard. "Right. Untie him. Pour the lad a pint, Tess, aye?" He nodded to the darkness of the corner booth.
"Murph?"
"Got 'im dead ta rights, Cap'm."
The gleam of blue neon shining off the long barrel of Murphy's Mauser and Grey needle pistol bespoke death from that corner.
A bloody rag sat on the bartop next to a bloody and swollen Hogosha. His suit unbottoned and tie loosened, he sipped at the unfamiliar black ale with a look of barely concealed disgust. "...so Oyabun Tanaka-sama sent me to tell you that we are not unaware of the whispering winds from Gallia. The way of Ido is under threat from more than just the honorless Kempetai who slaughter civilians. Now is a time to choose what to do with this wind - to stand immobile as the lotus tree, or to bend as the willow. And he knows that you ponder this same question, and have felt these same whispers ruffle your hair."
He looked pointedly at Finnegan and sipped again. "I cannot discuss this further in this company." His eyes flashed about the room at his captors. "The Oyabun's words are for you alone, Finnegan-sama."
The Hogosha straightened in his chair. "You are therefore formally invited to a tea on Tsushima Depot, to meet with the Boryokudan, and to be made ready to meet with his Supreme Exaltedness, Oyabun Jiyo Tanaka."
Tess gasped. "You can't be serious?!" she exclaimed. "A Junker in that den of snakes? Finn, you can't."
The Hogosha held up his hand. "Lie, O'Malley-san. There's the catch." Here he looked at Finnegan. "For obvious reasons, there is no way you can come as a Junker. and you must come alone. A Hogosha Raba has been placed in stasis, hidden in the Taus, for your entry to Kusar. I can shuttle you to it in my own ship, If you'll allow. From there you will be smuggled in with the frieght."
Finn finished another shot of whiskey, turning the glass upside down next to a veritable armada of other emptys.
He smiled at the battered messenger. "Cap'n." Murphy droned. "Tess' right. Ye cannae do this." "Finn..." Tess implored. "You can't trust this sot. Tell 'im to bugger off."
Finn motioned for another round.
And thought.
And pondered.
Then decided.
The Hogosha walked unsteadily toward a nondescript Dromedary parked in Hangar Bay Three, a pace ahead of Tim Finnegan, who was wearing a mechanic's flight suit in place of his kilts. A kitbag hung from Finn's shoulder, his ancient shotgun held loosely at his side.
They boarded as Tess watched from the back office security console, angry and fretful at once.
Her brow creased in worry, the master keys to the Drunken Junker Pub, kept always in Finnegan's sporran, dangled from her finger.
Some time later...
...high above the orbital plane, Tau-23
Finnegan chewed his cheek and continued to glare out of the Wake's main viewport from below a heavily furrowed brow.
The tiny outpost glinted in the light of approaching CSVs. Six of them had just disembarked from the Wake's cargo bay, loaded with hull panels, structural components, and electronics.
EVA teams huddled around strobing green and blue welding torches, looking alien in thier pressure suits as stacks of panels spun slowly behind them in the ether.
This supply dump and listening post would be complete by tomorrow, and he would head back for a load of munitions and ordnance to fill it.
It wasn't the work that troubled Finn, nor the fact that he'd abruptly, and without explanation, resigned from Congress.
It wasn't the Gallic Royal insignia stamped onto every crate in his hold, nor the sneers of superiority aimed at him by many of the Gallic Junkers and docksmen with whom he associated of late.
Not even the fact that this was the sixth such depot he had helped build and supply, many of which hung deep in dangerous Kusari space.
No. These discomforts are part and parcel of a scoundrel's life. They did not irk him.
What kept him awake at all hours, stalking the bridge and scowling into the inky black was that nearly every jump put them inexorably closer to Inverness.
All of this, this 'greasing the wheels of war', was for Inverness and her peoples. His peoples.
Tim Finnegan was, as were the over two-hundred Gordonnachs in direct blood line before him, Coileach an Taobh Tuath. Cock o' the North - Clan Chief of the House Gordon.
As overseer and de-facto leader of the Junkers of Invergordon, Tim's fathers had bargained hard for thier soveriegnity, and won it. As such, Inverness was the only non-patrolled space in Bretonia.
Now, through this grisly work for the Junkers of Gallia, Tim was paying his own dues to Lady Inverness.
He was buying her people's freedom from the coming brutal conflict which swelled and boiled in the Gallic skies behind him.
-Or so he was promised.
Robert Murphy stood behind his captain, and coughed into his fist. "Aye Murph, lad?" asked Finn, gruffly. "Cap'm." answered the Molly pilot of the Wake, his XO and friend. "Gunner Kelley's up in th' bloody comms array... sez e's got summin' wha' ye oughter put yer eyes 'pon, e' says."
Murphy indicated a winking amber light on the bridge comms panel with a sweep of his arm. "E' sez it's comin' from tha' bloody Gall-Junk's Salvager there." He pointed with his chin out the viewport.
The familiar profile of a Junker Salvager stood on the far side of the depot, winking in the arclight.
Finnegan's eyebrow arched, his scowl becoming a sneer.
He unclasped his hands from behind his back, and turned to the panel.
He watched the scrambled data being shunted to him from the tower array, as it resolved itself into what was clearly a piggyback message, buried in the background chatter of the Gallic Junker's comms.
Finnegan stared daggers at the words on the screen, his fingers whitely trying to claw into the comm panel's side.
His other hand gripped tightly his antique family kiltpin.
BYDAND is a Gaelic term, usually rendered as 'steadfast', 'enduring', or 'abiding'.
It is the 'present tense, continuous' of a verb which does not have a good English translation, but is similar to the United States Marine Corps' Sempre Fidelis in that it implies being (and remaining) completely prepared and waiting to be called upon.
(Click the kiltpin for more on the Clan Gordon Highlanders, of which I am a real-life blood member)
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