TL;DR #
Keres and Duck, brothers with contrasting personalities and skills, find themselves in a seedy bar planning a heist based on information from a dubious contact about a corrupt prison warden’s hidden wealth. They decide to assemble a crew, including an ex-con pilot, U’tong, and a Navy veteran, Dayton, and a failed actress, Jill to undertake this risky endeavor.
Assemble #
Everyone is stuck on the wrong side of the Corridor. The pirate group Sauveterre, led by Jeanne Ysée Sauveterre, is still in control of the Thalassinus system (and surrounding systems), and communications are cut off. The Navy tried to set up a light relay between another system to circumvent the blockade, but it was anticipated and disrupted before they could establish comms and an emergency RSC.
Keres and Duck stroll into Pax 55, a seedy bar located in the back corner of a crowded starport orbiting Varessa. Stale smoke from cheap tobacco lingers in the air before being sent through a vent for recycling. Duck wrinkled his nose at the stale smoke, a sharp contrast to the crisp air of their last stop. Keres, on the other hand, seemed unfazed, his eyes adapting quickly to the neon-lit gloom. A dull murmur can be heard, accented by clinking glasses. Before the collapse, the starport would have been filled with traders and miners passing through on their way to one of Varessa’s domes with shipments of minerals. It took no time after the absence of the UEC for those that could leave the planet’s harsh environment to leave it. Pax 55 reflects this; at one point, the clientele was made up of tradesmen and miners. Today the quality of the patrons has dramatically fallen, consisting of drifters and pirates. It was one of the latter with whom Keres was here to meet. The bar’s interior was of synthetic wood, most of the finish worn away and stained. Dimly lit by flickering neon and terminal screens, it was hard to distinguish the patrons in the crowd. Music played softly in the background with the murmurs of low conversation filling the space. Duck approached the bar and took a seat on a dented stainless steel stool. The bartender, with his rugged features, seemed as if haggard and grizzled had a bad romance, and he was their unlucky offspring. He glanced at Duck, mostly uninterested, but with a flicker of interest, as if he would break the monotony for a moment.
“What’s your flavor?” He grunted with the thick accent of a Varessan. He was polishing a glass, its cleanliness contrasting sharply with the bar top.
“Something strong, but not so much that I’ll need to get checked out for ulcers.” Duck set down a few credits on the counter. The bartender nodded, pouring a glowing amber liquid into a glass, the faint aroma of exotic spices mingling with the bar’s stale air.
“On your way to the surface?” The bartender glanced at Keres making his way to a table before sliding the drink to Duck.
“Just passing through.” Duck said as he took a sip. It wasn’t the worst drink he had ever had, but it was a strong contender. “This place seems like it’s become a bit rundown.”
“We’re all a little rundown these days. Doesn’t pay to think too much of it.”
Keres made his way to the back, pulling up a chair across from a dull-looking man. The type of guy you’d forget the moment you looked away, if not for a couple of tattoos peeking out from below his collar. His demeanor was as nondescript as his appearance. He tensed up, glancing around before his eyes settled on Keres, then relaxed momentarily, only to become guarded once again. Keres’ gaze lingered on Kas. “Last time we crossed paths, he was brokering information on UEC fleet movements. Seems like he hasn’t lost a step,” he thought.
“What do you have for me, Kas?” Keres leaned forward, mirroring Kas’s cautious posture.
“You aren’t going to believe this,” Kas leaned in, his eyes still scanning before focusing on Keres. “About six months ago, an old friend of mine reached out. Put away for racketeering.” Kas’s voice dropped lower, scanning the room once again. “An accountant, ended up running the prison’s own rackets. All courtesy of the Warden himself.” Kas paused, letting the gravity of his words sink in.
“The Warden made sure he was treated first class, right? But here’s the catch,” Kas leaned in even closer, lowering his voice to a whisper and raising his eyes, “parole denied, sentence extended. He could live well, but leaving? Off the table.”
“How did he get out then?” Keres asked, starting to get curious.
Kas leaned back, smirking. “He’s not entirely sure himself, but he was released about six months back. You’ve heard of the upheaval Sauveterre caused with her little crusade against the UEC, right? It didn’t just cause chaos in that system, but all the systems in nearby proximity as well. My theory? That very same chaos made the warden a bit forgetful.”
Kas paused, letting the implications hang in the air. “In the midst of all that disorder, with the warden distracted by the turmoil, he somehow missed extending my friend’s stay. So, he did what anyone in his shoes would do: kept his head down, his mouth shut. Next thing he knew, they were handing him his belongings, showing him the door.”
“And why are you reaching out?” Keres studied Kas, searching for any telltale signs of deceit.
Kas leaned in closer, his voice barely audible. “Because, hypothetically, during his last months, my friend wasn’t just counting days. He was busy, real busy. Mapping out the place, noting guard routines, everything. And, hypothetically, he might’ve found where the warden hides his profits. Inside the prison.”
Keres visibly interested now. “Well, a prison is theoretically secure, after all.” Keres raised his eyebrows, nodding. “And you have these… hypothetical schematics?”
Kas nodded, the type of grin forming only a criminal can muster. “Got them safe and sound. But here’s the deal — it’s not just about the money. It’s personal for me, a chance to hit back for my brother.” His grin faded away to a grimace, his eyes momentarily distant. “My brother… he died in there two years ago. Didn’t deserve it. And the worst part? I can’t help but feel it was partly my doing that he ended up there. He didn’t deserve that, and I want to see that place turned to ashes.”
“What’s your price for this, Kas?” Keres asked, already calculating the risk versus reward.
“One hundred thousand credits, upfront,” Kas stated confidently, without a hint of negotiation in his voice.
Keres raised an eyebrow, skepticism dripping. “And how can I be sure this isn’t setting me up for my own stint in prison?”
Kas’s smile widened, sensing he won Keres over. “Because, Keres, I’ve included a snippet, a taste. Something only someone on the inside could know. Check it. You’ll see it for the payday it is.” He leaned back in his chair, the smile turning into a grin of someone holding a pair of aces. “And when you do, you’ll come back, ready to talk numbers.”
Moments later, Duck and Keres walked out of the bar. “We’re going to need a crew.”
A couple of weeks later, Keres and Duck sit aboard their ship, the Drumheller, docked at a small starport on the outskirts of an asteroid colony. The Drumheller, an old frigate that Duck mortgaged with his savings from his time as a physician, was once used for scouting. It can comfortably hold up to six passengers but can be crewed by as few as two people in a pinch. The hum of other ships’ engines permeates the space. Inside, the Drumheller is organized, practical, and clean. Numerous electronic instruments, jury-rigged to the consoles by Keres, add a personal touch. Through a viewport, the bustling activity of cargo being transported to and from ships is visible. The chaos of the port starkly contrasts with the order inside the ship. Duck thinks to himself, “Seems like the UEC’s struggles haven’t extended to this colony, but it could do with some processes.” At that moment, a stevedore argues vehemently with another ship’s crew, as if to accentuate Duck’s thought.
Keres diligently scans through some dossiers with a practiced eye, discarding each with a careless flick into a bin, searching for an unknown set of criteria. Across the cabin, Duck organizes the ship’s medical bay—small even by a frigate’s standard—with the same air as a strict librarian. Glancing over, he takes note of Keres’s rapid dismissals. “And I thought our father was strict. Find anyone up to your standards?” Amusement rings in his voice. Duck hadn’t seen this side of Keres very often.
Keres pauses, his gaze lingering on a particular dossier. “There are people that could work, but there’s something missing. A job like this is like a puzzle, and they are as much a puzzle piece as any other aspect of this. They need to fit exactly,” Keres responds. “I got them from an old targeting analyst I used to work with. The guy had a knack for finding diamonds in the rough.”
Duck raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “An analyst, huh?”
“A very good analyst,” Keres affirms, his eyes still fixating on that dossier. It’s a worn-looking man in his fifties. “Take this one, for instance. U’tong Terrason, ex-con, a skilled pilot before his sentence, and by all accounts, a talented fixer in the prison by the time his sentence ended.”
Duck walks over, peering at the dossier over Keres’s shoulder. “An ex-con with a knack for getting things done? Sounds like he might be useful. But can he handle the stress?” His medical mind assesses the toll such a life must have taken. “We can’t afford any liabilities.”
Keres leans back, excitement emanating from him. “He’s not just a survivor; he’s a pilot. And not just any kind of pilot. He can operate jump drives without the aid of an RSC.” Duck raises his eyebrows at that revelation. With the expansion of the network of stargates known as RSCs, managing jump drives outside of well-established routes carries a far greater risk of catastrophe and has been a declining skill set reserved for those in the outer reaches with less infrastructure. “We won’t need to use an RSC’s corridor to leave the system!”
Keres lets out a chuckle, setting aside U’tong’s dossier. “Exactly!” His attention quickly shifts back to the stack, flipping through with renewed interest. Suddenly, he pauses, his expression shifting to one of recognition. “Ooh,” he murmurs with a mixture of surprise, “I know this guy!”
Intrigued, Duck leans in closer, trying to catch a glimpse of the dossier that’s caught Keres’s eye. “What’s his story?” he asks, his curiosity piqued by Keres’s reaction.
“Dayton Freemon,” Keres starts, his tone mixing respect with reminiscence. “Navy guy. We crossed paths a few years back during a hostage situation with pirates. Despite everything crumbling around him, Dayton was a rock. He kept his cool and was crucial to our survival, especially when our comms fell apart. We didn’t get through that day without losses, but without him, the casualty count would have been far higher. I thought he’d be on the fast track after that, but it seems fate had other plans, and his career took a downturn. He washed out around the same time as us.”
Duck nods, impressed. “Sounds like the kind of guy we want.”
Keres grins, a plan forming in his mind. “Exactly. He’s got the demeanor of a ‘Jem Bravon’.”
Duck’s brow furrows in confusion. “What is a Jem Bravon?”
“A term field agents use mostly. It means someone who can navigate the tough spots, blend in. Plus, he knows his way around a fight and can pilot as well; He’s no Terrason, but redundancy never hurts, right?” He tosses Dayton’s dossier on top of U’tong’s. Keres places Dayton’s dossier on the short pile and dives back into the remaining candidates.
Keres resumes his search, diving back into the remaining dossiers, murmuring, “Just one more piece.” His focus narrows until a particular document catches his eye. “Oh, this is too perfect.”
Duck leans in, “What’ve you found now?”
Keres’s eyes light up. “Listen to this! The governor’s daughter from the neighboring system. She’s been drifting aimlessly for nearly a decade, mingling with both the right and wrong people. She knows her way around both sides of the corridor. After a failed stint in acting and a brush with fame, she’s found herself in a considerable amount of debt, now trying her hand at becoming an influencer.”
Duck frowns, “An influencer? That’s light years away from our line of work.”
Keres chuckles, “Exactly. She’s perfect. She can act, and her social connections give us unparalleled access and cover. Plus, she’s desperate.”
“If my source is right, they should be here any time now,” Keres said, lounging in his seat on the bridge, his eyes scanning the multiple screens arrayed across it. Each screen displayed a feed from the ship’s external sensors, calibrated to pick up the faintest emissions in the asteroid field’s shadow. “Our guy’s coming in hot. The corvette he’s piloting isn’t just any scrapheap,” Keres remarked. “It’s been retrofitted with a Halden drive, an old tech that allows for sharper, quicker jumps. Perfect for a smuggler needing a quick getaway.”
Duck inhaled the last of his noodles, peering over the rim of his cup at the terminal that started spewing data. “Those Halden drives are notorious for their energy signature. Is that what we’re picking up now?”
“Exactly,” Keres nodded, tapping a few commands into the terminal. “And there’s more. The corvette’s hull is patched with a polymetal alloy, likely scavenged from military scrap. It’s not just durable; it’s nearly invisible to standard sensors at this range or it would be, had he afforded to replace the entire hull. At the very least, it’s a marked improvement over what was there before.”
As they watched, the corvette executed a seamless jump, materializing within the asteroid field with precision that spoke of a skilled pilot. The ship’s external lights flickered on, illuminating a nearby asteroid where an abandoned mining rig clung to the surface. A canister, glowing faintly with internal power, was smoothly ejected from the corvette’s underbelly, destined for a pre-arranged drop point.
A moment later, another ship floated into view, smaller and sleeker. Two people in vacc suits emerged from the airlock. They maneuvered with practiced ease through space, securing the canister with magnetic grapples before returning to their ship. As the corvette stretched and disappeared into the star-studded black, Duck and Keres shared a look.
Keres let out a low chuckle. “This is our guy. Holy shit that was impressive.”
A few days later, Duck and Keres made their way through the throng of a bustling market, heading towards a bar nestled in the heart of one of Varessa’s domes. Despite the dome’s protection, the air carried a faint tang of the planet’s corrosive atmosphere, a stark reminder of the peril that lay just beyond the dome’s transparent alloy barriers. Varessa, once a popular destination for miners and traders drawn by the allure of wealth amidst danger, now wore its isolation like a shroud, the fall from the UEC’s grace evident in the wearied faces of its citizens. The bar, a relic of better times, hummed with the low murmur of conversations, punctuated by the occasional clink of glasses. The lights, set in fixtures that once spoke of luxury, now flickered with the slow cadence of the dome’s poorly maintained power grid, casting dancing shadows across the walls adorned with relics of mining glory. The harsh atmosphere had not only accelerated the physical decline of Varessa since being cut off from the UEC for a couple of years but also its socioeconomic fabric.
Amidst the dim glow, Duck’s keen eyes caught the silhouette of U’tong, a lone figure at the bar. The brothers took seats adjacent to him, Keres offered a nod of acknowledgment before signaling the bartender. As the drinks were ordered, the ambient noise of the bar seemed to fold into the background. “Impressive piloting a few days ago,” Keres ventured, his voice casual yet laced with an undercurrent of respect. U’tong’s gaze, sharp and assessing, shifted from one brother to the other, his response measured, “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Yet, the slight stiffness in his posture, a subtle readiness to disengage, betrayed him.
Keres smirked. “It’s rare to see people jump without RSC guidance these days, especially into the middle of a field.” Surprise at the comment flickered across U’tong’s face, momentarily betraying him. His muscles tensed, the posture of a man always ready to bounce at the first sign of trouble.
The bartender slid over a trio of frosted glasses, the liquid inside catching the dim light of the bar. Duck thanked him, handing him the credits. Once he was gone, Duck cut to the chase. “We have a job, something you, in particular, might be interested in.”
U’tong made a move to get up. “Forget it,” he said. Keres dropped a document in front of him. U’tong paused, his hand on the back of his chair, the document catching his eye just long enough to halt his departure. “What’s this? Some kind of joke?”
“No joke,” Keres assured, his eyes locking with U’tong’s. “We thought you, in particular, might find this interesting,” U’tong’s gaze lingered on the document. The official seal of the Merivigian Penal Colony glaring up from the paper. A laugh erupted from a nearby table, briefly cutting through the tension at the bar.
“Why would I be interested in even thinking about that place again?” U’tong asked skeptically.
“Because,” Keres leaned in, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper, “our sources indicate that the management there, particularly Warden Marcus Tull, has been playing fast and loose with the rules. And his infosec hasn’t been as tight as he thinks it is.”
U’tong mulls this over, before taking a drink. No longer the posture of someone about to leave. “You’re looking to expose his corruption? What do you need from me? Testimony? Because I’ll tell you now, that’s a dead end.” Duck and Keres both gave an air of being educated and from good standing. Lawyers, he thought.
Duck exchanged a glance with Keres. “That’s only part of it. We do, of course, want to expose his corruption,” Duck replied.
Keres added, “Testimony isn’t what we’re after.” He chuckled softly, the sound tinged with a hint of dark amusement. “That prison, it turns out, is a veritable treasure trove. Not just evidence of money laundering but the machinery of it. We’re talking bars of precious metals, account details for vaults brimming with jewels and art.”
U’tong regarded his drink thoughtfully, the weight of the proposition dawning on him. “You realize the type of risk involved in what you’re suggesting,” he stated, more a fact than a question.
“Exactly,” Keres replied, his gaze unwavering. “And we’re planning to split the rewards evenly among us.”
U’tong shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. “This isn’t a job for just the three of us.”
Duck nodded in agreement. “And it won’t be. We have a few more candidates in mind.”
Keres slid a memory stick and a card across the table to U’tong. “This contains some of what we know so far. Take a few days, mull it over. If you’re in, meet us at the location on the card. We’ll take it from there.”
Three days later, they departed together aboard the Drumheller.
Dayton Freemon grimaced as he wrapped up another grueling session at the gym. The facility came highly recommended, a common rehab spot for veterans like him, looking to reclaim what was lost to him in the accident. He had been put into cryosleep for a long journey and the thawing process had been unkind, leaving him with diminished coordination and muscle mass—a stark contrast to his prime years in the Navy. As he navigated the aftermath of the incident that ended his career, Dayton found himself in a limbo of rehabilitation and aimlessness, his once-promising path now obscured by the shadows of uncertainty and neglect.
Ariden, with its terraformed landscapes and equatorial serenity, had become his refuge, a place where the fallen echoes of the UEC’s dominion still lingered, offering a semblance of familiarity amidst the chaos. But even here, amidst the rallying of forces against the Sauveterre threat, Dayton felt like an artifact of a bygone era, overlooked and forgotten.
Dayton made his way to a local café, a place where the panoramic views offered a temporary escape from his inner turmoil. As he sipped on his coffee, lost in the vistas and his thoughts, a familiar figure approached his table. Keres stood before him, a shadow of intrigue cast in his eyes.
Dayton looked up at Keres, and smiled, a sense of wariness mixed with curiosity taking hold. “Keres,” he replied, “to what do I owe this unexpected reunion?”
Keres slid into the seat across from him. “A new chapter, perhaps,” he suggested, a cryptic smile playing on his lips. “Tell me, had you ever considered a career shift?”
Later that week on Ariden, the pulsating rhythm of club music melded with the kaleidoscope of neon lights, casting a vibrant glow over the inhabitants. In the heart of this sensory overload, at a trendy bar known for its eclectic crowd and elusive aura, Jill navigated the dimly lit spaces with the ease of someone well-acquainted with nightlife.
Her laughter mingled with the cacophony of sounds, a temporary reprieve from the specter of debts that loomed just beyond the night’s escapism. Yet, as fate would have it, that very specter decided to make its presence known amidst the revelry. From the corner of her eye, Jill caught the unmistakable stance of hired muscle, their gazes scanning the crowd with a purpose that sent a chill down her spine.
Her path collided with that of Keres. Duck, his brother, along with U’tong Terrason and Dayton Freemon, were somewhere amidst the throngs, their presences like anchors in the shifting tides of the club’s atmosphere.
Keres, wasted no time. “Jill, isn’t it?” he began, his voice barely rising above the music’s din. “Word I’ve heard is you have mountains of debt. What if I told you there’s a way out? A job, unconventional, perhaps, but lucrative enough to clear the slate.”
Jill, caught between the hard gaze of her pursuers and the intriguing proposition from Keres, found herself at a crossroads. The offer, shrouded in the unknown, promised a glimmer of freedom, a chance to outrun her debts and perhaps.
As the music’s rhythm enveloped the room, Jill considered her predicament. The promise of wiping her slate clean was compelling, yet the inherent risks loomed large in her mind. However, cornered by her mounting debts, the potential payoff began to overshadow the dangers. In this moment, teetering on the edge of desperation and opportunity, Jill contemplated whether the gamble before her was the lifeline she needed.
“Tell me more,” she found herself saying.