You're not far wrong there, Rajvik.
I'd had occasional contact with Frank over the years, mostly by email. He was doing odd jobs and working towards building a ship with some buddies, and occasionally he'd put some work my way, usually someone Earthside looking for passage to one of the L5 stations. His people skills hadn't improved much, but Fenspace seemed to agree with him and he sounded happy enough.
But... Well, some of those fares made me decidedly uncomfortable. Some of them were quite clearly either Turnerites or other far-right crazies; one of them spent the trip handcuffed to a chair in the hold because he kicked off when Barbara told him to get his own coffee, and another I outright refused to take because he was stinking drunk and toting a loaded Armalite. Others weren't quite as blatantly sketchy, but once you got talking to them... Christ. I hadn't heard of Men's Rights Activism until then, and I could have happily gone my whole life not knowing it existed. And the ones who weren't hanging with that crowd all had massive chips on their shoulders over the treatment of people into geeky pastimes by mainstream culture on Earth.
I was starting to get a little annoyed with Frank about this, but in all fairness they did usually behave themselves. But the last straw came in 2011.
It seemed like an ordinary enough gig. Party of five, pickup at a little-used airfield near the US/Canadian border, destination Moonbase Alpha. I'd done a thousand of these runs, often for people who were in some kind of trouble and wished their absence to go unnoticed by the TSA. That was fine by me. The message board through which I conducted these transactions did their best to screen out anyone on Europol or the FBI's wanted lists, and as far as Convention policy is concerned, you start with a clean slate when you make it Up unless you're wanted for war crimes or human trafficking.
(I'm not 100% comfortable with that, to be honest. But if the US insists on vetoing every attempt at a comprehensive multinational extradition agreement through the UN and threatening economic retaliation against countries seeking a bilateral one then I'll be damned if they get to have their cake and eat it.)
But this job went sour fast, and damn near got Barbara and I killed in the process.
We arrived about twenty minutes before the agreed time, and I went over to the tterminal building -if you can call a collection of prefab sheds such- to pay the landing fees and get a weather report. When I entered the office, the very worried-looking airport manager pulled me aside and explained that my passengers had already arrived, but that he'd overheard some things that made him suspicious. The nearest police station was a good twenty miles away and there was no on-site security (we'd had to touch down elsewhere to sort out transit visas), so could I please verify that the sole adult of the group had guardianship or power of attourney?
Sole adult. Yeah, this didn't quite jive with the information I'd been given. Deeply suspicious and extremely displeased, I marched into the 'departure lounge' (which was more of a waiting room) to demand an explanation.
It was as bad as you're probably imagining. Four girls, all biomodded and not one of them a day over fifteen years old, with some obnoxious-looking guy in a cheap suit and sunglasses. When questioned, he claimed to be their 'agent', and was escorting them to audition for an 'independent movie' being shot on one of the asteroids to take advantage of the lack of all those tedious rules and regulations. It wasn't hard to guess the rest.
I nailed him with a good solid jab to the solar plexus, broke his nose with my knee as he doubled over and told the airport manager to call the cops. They turned up pretty damn fast when they realised what was going on, especially once Barbara coaxed the girls into giving us their names. They were all US nationals, and there was an Amber Alert out for one of them; the rest were runaways kicked out by their parents for biomodding. Child Services turned out as well, and figured out the remaining details pretty quickly.
The moment that still haunts me was when one of them said she knew damn well what she was being groomed for, but she went along with it because she had nothing to lose. She couldn't go to the police or she'd be stuck in some prison camp and treated like a terrorist or a lab experiment.
The social workers and the police had a long whispered conference, and eventually told me to load the kids onboard and go. I suppose the mess I made of that sleazy bastard's face was considered sufficient evidence that I was on the up-and-up, and it's not like they had any better options at that point. So we loaded up, took off and made for space...
You'd think that'd be the end of it, but nope. Just as we were taxiing to the runway I spotted a couple of SWAT helicopters from the other side of the border, and the radio immediately lit up as the US cops tried to invoke right of hot pursuit. I throttled up and left them to argue the toss with the Mounties.
And then, ten minutes later, a couple of F-16s started shadowing me and demanding I follow them. I replied that that I was still in Canadian airspace, my aircraft was not legally airworthy over US territory and that I was pretty sure they didn't actually have any legal standing to even be here right now, so would they kindly sod right off.
They responded by launching a Sidewinder at me. I dumped flares, jammed the throttle as far forward as I dared and started frantically dodging and weaving while hollering for assistance on the distress frequency. Someone in the Canadian Forces picked it up, and they must've done their research because they told me I was cleared hot, so I powered up the coilgun and put a round of grapeshot downrange.
I'd only tested the coilgun a few times, and never fired it at a live target until then. The effect was... pretty spectacular. The tail of one of the F-16s pretty much disintegrated from a glancing hit, and the other caught the outer edge of the spread pattern and lost a wingtip.
Both pilots lived, though the one whose aircraft took the brunt of the shot messed his back up pretty badly when he ejected. I'm glad of that, even if they were trying to kill me.
There was one hell of a row afterwards. It turned out that the Illinois State governor had turned out the Air National Guard on his own authority and told them to bring me in as an accessory, and the first NORAD heard of this was when Canadian radar saw them cross the border. The Canadian government was furious at the violation of their territory, and the British consulate had some rather acerbic things to say about it as well, even though they weren't exactly overjoyed to find out about the coilgun. The only reason it didn't blow up into something much worse than an angry exchange of official memoranda was that all parties concerned wanted to screw the lid down on the incident before it got into the media. The FCC, FAA and the equivalent Canadian acronyms put out a statement saying the message was a practical joke, and everyone but the hardcore conspiracy nuts believed them.
Me? I wanted to file it under "shit that never happened" as much as they did. Even if I am the first Fen to score a kill in combat with an Earthside military, which I sincerely doubt, I don't happen to think it anything to be proud of. I'd had my fill of killing and destruction before I ever came to Fenspace and if I never have to fire that fucking coilgun in anger again so long as I live I'll die a happy man.
Sorry. It's a sore subject, especially around the anniversary of...
Well, that's the story you've come to hear, isn't it?
I'd had occasional contact with Frank over the years, mostly by email. He was doing odd jobs and working towards building a ship with some buddies, and occasionally he'd put some work my way, usually someone Earthside looking for passage to one of the L5 stations. His people skills hadn't improved much, but Fenspace seemed to agree with him and he sounded happy enough.
But... Well, some of those fares made me decidedly uncomfortable. Some of them were quite clearly either Turnerites or other far-right crazies; one of them spent the trip handcuffed to a chair in the hold because he kicked off when Barbara told him to get his own coffee, and another I outright refused to take because he was stinking drunk and toting a loaded Armalite. Others weren't quite as blatantly sketchy, but once you got talking to them... Christ. I hadn't heard of Men's Rights Activism until then, and I could have happily gone my whole life not knowing it existed. And the ones who weren't hanging with that crowd all had massive chips on their shoulders over the treatment of people into geeky pastimes by mainstream culture on Earth.
I was starting to get a little annoyed with Frank about this, but in all fairness they did usually behave themselves. But the last straw came in 2011.
It seemed like an ordinary enough gig. Party of five, pickup at a little-used airfield near the US/Canadian border, destination Moonbase Alpha. I'd done a thousand of these runs, often for people who were in some kind of trouble and wished their absence to go unnoticed by the TSA. That was fine by me. The message board through which I conducted these transactions did their best to screen out anyone on Europol or the FBI's wanted lists, and as far as Convention policy is concerned, you start with a clean slate when you make it Up unless you're wanted for war crimes or human trafficking.
(I'm not 100% comfortable with that, to be honest. But if the US insists on vetoing every attempt at a comprehensive multinational extradition agreement through the UN and threatening economic retaliation against countries seeking a bilateral one then I'll be damned if they get to have their cake and eat it.)
But this job went sour fast, and damn near got Barbara and I killed in the process.
We arrived about twenty minutes before the agreed time, and I went over to the tterminal building -if you can call a collection of prefab sheds such- to pay the landing fees and get a weather report. When I entered the office, the very worried-looking airport manager pulled me aside and explained that my passengers had already arrived, but that he'd overheard some things that made him suspicious. The nearest police station was a good twenty miles away and there was no on-site security (we'd had to touch down elsewhere to sort out transit visas), so could I please verify that the sole adult of the group had guardianship or power of attourney?
Sole adult. Yeah, this didn't quite jive with the information I'd been given. Deeply suspicious and extremely displeased, I marched into the 'departure lounge' (which was more of a waiting room) to demand an explanation.
It was as bad as you're probably imagining. Four girls, all biomodded and not one of them a day over fifteen years old, with some obnoxious-looking guy in a cheap suit and sunglasses. When questioned, he claimed to be their 'agent', and was escorting them to audition for an 'independent movie' being shot on one of the asteroids to take advantage of the lack of all those tedious rules and regulations. It wasn't hard to guess the rest.
I nailed him with a good solid jab to the solar plexus, broke his nose with my knee as he doubled over and told the airport manager to call the cops. They turned up pretty damn fast when they realised what was going on, especially once Barbara coaxed the girls into giving us their names. They were all US nationals, and there was an Amber Alert out for one of them; the rest were runaways kicked out by their parents for biomodding. Child Services turned out as well, and figured out the remaining details pretty quickly.
The moment that still haunts me was when one of them said she knew damn well what she was being groomed for, but she went along with it because she had nothing to lose. She couldn't go to the police or she'd be stuck in some prison camp and treated like a terrorist or a lab experiment.
The social workers and the police had a long whispered conference, and eventually told me to load the kids onboard and go. I suppose the mess I made of that sleazy bastard's face was considered sufficient evidence that I was on the up-and-up, and it's not like they had any better options at that point. So we loaded up, took off and made for space...
You'd think that'd be the end of it, but nope. Just as we were taxiing to the runway I spotted a couple of SWAT helicopters from the other side of the border, and the radio immediately lit up as the US cops tried to invoke right of hot pursuit. I throttled up and left them to argue the toss with the Mounties.
And then, ten minutes later, a couple of F-16s started shadowing me and demanding I follow them. I replied that that I was still in Canadian airspace, my aircraft was not legally airworthy over US territory and that I was pretty sure they didn't actually have any legal standing to even be here right now, so would they kindly sod right off.
They responded by launching a Sidewinder at me. I dumped flares, jammed the throttle as far forward as I dared and started frantically dodging and weaving while hollering for assistance on the distress frequency. Someone in the Canadian Forces picked it up, and they must've done their research because they told me I was cleared hot, so I powered up the coilgun and put a round of grapeshot downrange.
I'd only tested the coilgun a few times, and never fired it at a live target until then. The effect was... pretty spectacular. The tail of one of the F-16s pretty much disintegrated from a glancing hit, and the other caught the outer edge of the spread pattern and lost a wingtip.
Both pilots lived, though the one whose aircraft took the brunt of the shot messed his back up pretty badly when he ejected. I'm glad of that, even if they were trying to kill me.
There was one hell of a row afterwards. It turned out that the Illinois State governor had turned out the Air National Guard on his own authority and told them to bring me in as an accessory, and the first NORAD heard of this was when Canadian radar saw them cross the border. The Canadian government was furious at the violation of their territory, and the British consulate had some rather acerbic things to say about it as well, even though they weren't exactly overjoyed to find out about the coilgun. The only reason it didn't blow up into something much worse than an angry exchange of official memoranda was that all parties concerned wanted to screw the lid down on the incident before it got into the media. The FCC, FAA and the equivalent Canadian acronyms put out a statement saying the message was a practical joke, and everyone but the hardcore conspiracy nuts believed them.
Me? I wanted to file it under "shit that never happened" as much as they did. Even if I am the first Fen to score a kill in combat with an Earthside military, which I sincerely doubt, I don't happen to think it anything to be proud of. I'd had my fill of killing and destruction before I ever came to Fenspace and if I never have to fire that fucking coilgun in anger again so long as I live I'll die a happy man.
Sorry. It's a sore subject, especially around the anniversary of...
Well, that's the story you've come to hear, isn't it?