A Future We'd Like To See 1.41 - Good Bad Guy
By Twoflower (Copyright 1994)

     Oh, it's a pirate's life for me.  Yo ho ho and all that rot. 
It's my life's calling, really, to relieve others of the burden
of material possessions.  I'm not the walk-the-plank kinda guy,
though... what's the point in blasting your victims to bits? 
It's all in the economics of the matter.  A trader NEVER gives
up, since trading is such a time-consuming skill that they rarely
have any other job training.

     So, what you do is hijack the ship, loot it, and eject them
out in an escape pod to the nearest spaceport.  I have deals
going with several casinos and used ship salesmen.  The trader,
now without ship, has to work up the money to get back in the
biz.  They gamble or slave away to get the cash, buy a ship, and
head out again.  And I hijack them again.  Repeat.

     So, not only do I get loot, ship parts, and money, but I get
commissions from the other people who benefit from my victim's
misery.  It's a sweet setup.  The glory of it is my reputation;
traders that get hijacked by Lowbeam know they're going to be
treated with class and send off with their mind and body intact. 
Often, they'll cooperate.  It's almost too easy.

     However, you do get the occasional maniac on this job.  I
only have ONE failure to my name.  I'd call that a good ratio,
much better than other cargo jackers, but everybody rags on me
for it.  "Look at that silly pirate Lowbeam, he can't even take
out a MAILMAN!"

     In fact, the guy at the Emerald Saloon yesterday was saying
exactly that.

     "You talkin' to me?" I asked, turning casually to the
offending drunkard.

     "Yeah, fuzzy ass," the drunkard spat.  Traders who knew me
calmly moved at least two stools away from the jerk.  "You ain't
all THAT hot shit, if you can't even take out a moronic little
letter-carrier."

     Now, I don't mind the 'fuzzy ass' insult.  I've had to deal
with quite a few species slurs, being a Ytt in a job
traditionally held by Sarens and Humans.  It's the rest of the
offending remark that was, well, offending.

     "I'd like to remind you, inebriated sot, that I have the
best record of any cargo swiper here," I said.  Calmly.  That's
my watchword, calm.  Calm and secure.  Casual-like.

     "Big deal!  Some metermaid kicked your ass two months ago
and everybody knows it."

     "Metermaids are cops, not mailmen," I said.  "You grow
boring.  Nighty night."

     With that, I fired the stun blaster I had quietly unsheathed
while he was foaming at the mouth.  It hit him squarely in the
shoulder, and the energy crackled along his body.  He fell, like
anybody else I shoot with my trusty stunner.  (Emerald, the
saloon manager, doesn't tolerate fights.  She doesn't mind me,
though, because I clean up once I'm done.)

     I drank the rest of my whackbuggl (much better than the thin
Terran equivalent), and holstered the stunner.

     "Need a hand with him?" Emerald asked, pointing to the
crumpled form with the hand that wasn't polishing the bar.

     "No thanks.  I'll handle the poor guy.  Put the drink on my
tab," I said, setting down the glass.

                                   *

     I dragged his unconscious form back to his ship a few
minutes later.  I tucked him in, placed a small mint on his
pillow in such a way that he would roll over and get it stuck in
his hair, and headed back to my own ship.

     I never worry about vengeance.  You need to treat everybody
with respect and trust if you plan to lead a long and healthy
life out here, in the Anarchy Zones.  Nobody else seems to have
realized that, which is why the loud, rude ones tend to die off a
few months after arriving.  If the bar patron decided he still
wanted to mess around with me, he'd get the exact same
treatment -- stun, back to bed.  Mint for his troubles. 
Eventually he'd get bored and leave me alone.  I have no real
rivals thanks to this policy, other than the traders I send
packing.

     There is one trader, however, that I have a hands-off policy
on.  He's the top, best in the business, and we have a mutual
truce declared to keep both our records clean.  We have a
scratch-my-back-I-scratch-yours type relationship.

     In this case, he was scratching my back.  I had just entered
my cockpit after my 'escort delivery' then the call came through.

     His familiar Saren features flooded my 3-D holoscreen.  (Top
notch equipment.  Got it off a limo two weeks back.)

     "Lowbeam.  Glad to see you're in," he said.

     "What can I do for you, Ookie?" I asked, taking a seat at
the nav panel.  "Need another competitor removed?"

     "No... actually, I heard about a shipment coming through
that you'd be interested in.  Top notch computer equipment for
some outlying colony.  Happens that the delivery run runs through
the outskirts of the Anarchy Zones... I'm uploading the run plan
to your computer now."

     "Terrific," I said, and meant it.  "Any idea on the
security?"

     "Not sure.  Some new corporation.  You know, those mail
guys?  The ones with the silly name?"

     I paused in talking.  Don't show fear, don't show anxiety. 
Stay calm.  "Would this be 'Disgruntled Postal Workers'?"

     "Yeah.  Anything wrong with that?"

     "Is this jack REALLY worth it, Ookie?" I asked.  "Can you
pawn this stuff off for a good price?  I mean, I'd like to make
it worth my while, make sure it's really important."

     "Since when are you apprehensive about sitting ducks,
Lowbeam?"

     "Ook, you don't know these guys.  I've tangled with them
before.  Remember my one strike?"

     "Your... oh.  Yeah."

     "They're insane, Ookie.  They don't play by the rules.  I
took a few thousand credits damage to my ship tangling with just
a small cruiser of theirs.  They don't use basic tactics, they
don't cooperate, they don't... they just don't ACT right."

     "Low, buddy, this is a Good run."

     "I'm going to have to pass, Ookie."

     "I'll leave the files on your computer.  Think it over,
okay?  With this kind of cash, you could upgrade to that corvette
you always wanted.  AND hire a crew to man it."

     Dreamy sendbacks of thought... I fell in love with that ship
the first time I saw it... the guns, the computers, the-- wait. 
No, it's not worth the risk.  Maybe.  No.  Argh.

     "I'll think it over," I said.  Ookie nodded, and cut the
channel.

                              *

     Disgruntled Postal Workers were a new addition to the daily
mayhem that is the universe.  Some new corporation, somewhere on
the edges of settled space, delivering important goods to and
fro.  But they weren't like the others.

     Traders give up rather than lose their lives.  They panic. 
They make bad decisions, and freeze up.  They're EASY to jack. 
But these guys... they're loons.  They make suicide runs.  They
keep a finger on the trigger.  They chase you down and kill you,
even after you run with your tail between your legs.  And thanks
to the many lawyers they hire, they get away with it.

     I tangled with one awhile back, when I didn't know better. 
Figured it'd be an easy jack, since the ship didn't look armed. 
I was wrong.  First shot knocked out my shields, with weapons
technology far beyond what you can get at the stalls in Port
Hades.  Then he fired... MISSILES.  Missiles, of all things! 
Real rocket-propelled explosive weaponry.  First clipped my right
engine.  I managed to swerve and flee the scene, taking major
damage to my rear after he chased me, shooting and shooting and
shooting and shooting...

     I don't know why he left me.  Maybe he was on a tight
schedule, or maybe he got bored.  I did some checking up on that
mailman back at the Port, while waiting for my ship to be
fixed... he was a top flight officer in the D.P.W.  They
reprimanded him for not finishing me off.

     Insane.  Only word for it.

     Now it makes sense, my reasoning for wanting to avoid any
more of those buggers.  But if the equipment he held could by me
my prize ship...

                              *

     "I need bigger guns," I told the weapons dealer.

     He looked at me over his book (always a book about war). 
"Lowbeam.  Figured it was you.  Why do you need bigger guns?  You
have the second best models I own--"

     "I want the best.  It's the only way."

     "It'll cost you..."

     "It'll wipe me out, but I'll go for it."

     "This is a bit unlike you, Lowbeam, making such an
extravagant purchase... I thought you were one of those odd non-
violent types."

     "I need defenses too.  The works."

                              *

     I was almost afraid I'd miss the run, sitting there for two
days while all the new equipment was fitted on my ship.  When it
was done, I paid the dealer, hopped onboard and plotted an
intercept course.

     Love makes you do really dumb things, I thought.  Love of a
ship, especially.  I increased warp speed.

     Radar picked up the ship instantly.  It was the same make
and model as the one that burned me previously... exact same make
and model.  I checked the ID beacon.

     It was the same ship.  It was the same pilot.

     My holoscreen clicked on automatically, the incoming call
overriding my call-screen security checks.  The guy, in his messy
mail uniform, grinned.

     "Hey!  It's you again!" he laughed.  Laugh of a crazy man. 
"How ya doin'?  How's the ship?"

     "Better," I said, not sure of what else to say.

     "Great.  That'll make it more fun ripping it to shreds.  I
am planning to do that, you know.  I'm not on a really tight
schedule this time, and I don't like to leave fights unfinished. 
Especially fights others tease me about."

     "I know the feeling," I said.  And I did.  It was time to
fall back to basics, to get my wits back in order.  "Please
surrender your vessel to my tractor beams and you won't get
hurt."

     "Okay.  Shutting down engines," he said.  And he did.

     I blinked.  I was expecting some kind of resistance, like he
had given before... maybe he had come to his senses, decided to
act normal for a change.  I could only applaud a change like
that, a change back to normal trader tactics.

     I clicked on my tractor beam, drawing his ship in.

     I couldn't believe my luck.  He was falling back into a
pattern I could recognize, a pattern I was familiar with.  I was
going to score.  I was going to redeem myself.  I was walking
directly into an incredibly obvious trap.

     That last thought passed three thoughts before it finally
registered.  Sure enough, according to my scans, he was powering
up some fiendishly nasty gun.

     I cut the tractor beam and tapped escape velocity for a
millisecond.  Energy crackled from his guns, zipping through the
space I used to occupy.  I swerved and fired at his backside.

     "Not bad!" he said, overriding my security programs again. 
"You're not as dumb as you seem."

     He clicked off, and swerved around for an attack run.

     Okay, this can be handled.  I just need to pick a tactic
that works when the enemy is rushing headlong at you--

     But wait, he wasn't rushing headlong.  No, he had pulled
upwards, zooming right by my ship.  Perfect!  I could turn with
my superior engines and blast his backside before he could react.

     I started to turn around to face him when the torpedoes
impacted on my shields.

     Various systems screamed bloody murder.  The shields folded,
defense panel spewing out sparks of surrender.  How could he have
turned around and locked a weapon on me that fast?

     I checked the scanner.  He didn't turn around.  He just used
a weapon that aimed backwards.  Who the hell mounts launchers the
other way around?!

     A second rocket slid under the glass of the cockpit,
impacting on the hull below.  More shakes, more warnings.

     I was going to have to do something I swore I'd never do.

     Bail out.

                              *

     It took about twenty seconds to suit up in the vac suit and
dive into the pod.  He pounded the ship, but with the smaller
guns... toying around with me, prodding me, hoping to provoke an
action other than just sitting there.

     The pod ejected two seconds before he got bored and fired
everything he had.  My ship was reduced to a scattering of scrap
metal in the blink of an eye.

     "Hey, an escape pod!" he said, forcing his way into the
pod's comm channel.  "I love these!  Crunchy on the outside,
creamy in the center!"

     "You've gotten my ship, what more do you want?!" I yelled to
the little 3-D image of the pilot.  "BLOOD?!"

     He nodded, grinning.  "It's just a little service we provide
that others don't.  Potential, or more frequent troublemakers
like yourself are neatly removed from the picture to prevent
future disturbances.  Now, let's see.  What do I have that can
take out a pod in a single burst?  Lots.  Naah, not enough fun. 
Smaller guns'll do.  Dance, hijacker!"

     He sent several smaller blasts of energy my way, missing
wildly.  Toying with me.  This man had NO class.

     Okay.  I tried being civil, but that didn't work.  If he
wants to fight dirty, we'll fight dirty.

     I put the pod engines on full (which wasn't that fast, but
fast enough).  I aimed for a pass over his topside, and got
ready.

     I stopped the engines, opened the hatch, and set them to
restart in two seconds.  Floating out in space, I closed the
hatch.

     The pod floated on behind the ship.  A rear-mounted torpedo
zipped out, evaporating it, but not me.  Me, I was grabbing for
whatever hold I could get on his ship, free-floating in space.

     My blood pounded as I made wild lunges for the ship.  Sweat
of frustration, frustration over this lousy day and this nutboy
pilot pooled up in my vac suit.  I got my handgrip, worked my way
over to the airlock, and let myself in without the courtesy of
knocking.

     Three, four seconds I was at the other side of the airlock,
pushing it open with angry arms.  He was there, laughing,
pointing at the debris that used to be my ship.

     I grabbed him by the neck from behind and pulled him out of
his chair.  He stopped laughing.  I beat his head against the
wall, screaming obscenities, thoroughly pissed off at this fool,
wanting to crush him, to finish him like he tried to finish me...

     His blood dripped down the duraplast walls, a few loose
teeth clattering to the floor.  He twitched a bit.

     I held him like that, in the air, his abused form hanging
from my arms.  Arms that had never to this day caused any more
harm than a calm night's sleep.

     "No," I said calmly, dropping him to the ground.  "I'm not
going to be like you."

     I didn't bother to listen to him as I pulled out my trusty
stun gun and shot him.  He collapsed, out cold, but alive.

     I slapped myself mentally for reducing my mind to a state
like his, a blood-crazed state.  I have never killed a man and
planned not to begin that day, even if the rules have changed out
there.  Space has always been a nasty place, and just because
it's gotten nastier doesn't mean I have to too.

     Casually depositing him in the ship's one bunk sleeper, I
pulled off my vac suit.  I made a check on the cargo... it was
there, all of it and more.  Enough to get a new ship, the one I
had wanted.

     I set a course for Port Hades.  Ookie could hock this stuff
for a pretty penny, and I could sell this ship for a few more. 
As for him... he'll have a quick dentist appointment and be on
the next shuttle to Terran space.  Except I'm going to be really
nasty to him and NOT give him a mint for his troubles.