The Privateers

Costly principles

It was another wonderful day at Debatably Honest Bob's Ship-porium, and Lucia - freelancer delta four-dash-Lucia - was well and truly not in the mood to enjoy it. "Since when are scrambler missiles 500 credits a pop?"

"Since the IC chips that do the scrambling became contraband as cryptographic weaponry."

"Crypto-- Bloody Jesus, Bob, they're non-lethal weapons. How are they less legal than missiles that explode?"

"I'll still sell 'em to you, but I can't guarantee I can restock." Bob delivered what might be called the Customer Service Shrug, the kind of shrug that a representative gives when he doesn't want to tell his client that they're screwed.

Lucia frustratedly ran a finger through her hair, and only afterwards felt a developing itch in her scalp. "Well that's 2,000 just for ammunition, a couple hundred to brush down the launchers..."

"Missile propulsion has a way of fouling the launcher tube," Bob cut in.

"Which you've told me every bloomin' time I've paid for it. Nobody else ever talks about their launchers needing a full service clean!"

"Most other pilots don't lean exclusively on non-lethal weaponry." Bob gave a long, theatric sigh as he plopped down into his vintage Aeron chair. "Lucia, you're going to have to face it, you're being too soft out there. Fringe space is a real dog-eat-dog sector, you know."

"I don't care. My last contract only paid four grand, on account of my bounty deciding to suffocate himself in my cargo hold." She held her eyes shut, hard, for a few seconds, hoping it'd fight the facial twitch that she felt coming on. "They'd have paid double if he were still alive when I got here."

"The pirates wouldn't afford you the same leniency. They'd shoot to kill."

"Not the pirates I know."

"And who was it, the other week, that chased you halfway back to the Makin Atoll, spamming mesons and bosons the whole way?" The knowing look on Bob's face was among Lucia's least favorite things.

"They were aiming at my afterburner."

"Your afterburner was what was facing them; they were aiming at center mass."

"Robert, I'm a freelancer, not a murderer!"

"And unfortunately for you, murder is the one business that pays around here."

Lucia glared at the bill one more time, then begrudgingly jabbed her thumb into the print-reader. "Pirates don't murder. Have you ever heard of a cryo-bank?"

"There's no proof that those exist."

No proof. I'm the proof, you bellend, Lucia wanted to tell him, but the instant she told anybody that she'd escaped from one, her High-Value status would have kicked right back where it was - and then it wouldn't just be random marauding pirates she had to worry about.