Traders Wild - Chapter 1
From the moment the hatch unsealed, I could hear the tourists yammering, bustling around the spaceport while exclaiming over the angular beauty of the mountains on the horizon or the strangeness of a world with two suns. I didn’t even glance up from the tarmac, because I’d seen it all before. Two suns or three, mountains or jungles or ice planets, worlds orbiting other larger worlds - you name it, I’ve seen it. To the tourists, this was something new and exciting, something strange and beautiful (and the locals were happy to keep them thinking that way). But to me, it was just another planet, another world on the long list of places I’d been, a list that would keep growing for as long as I was alive. And that would be a while.
You see, I’m a Trader, and we live longer and travel farther than anyone else in the galaxy. Some say we’re lucky, blessed, even, to see generations pass us by, to be born in the sky between worlds, to live our lives there, and finally die there too, out in the vastness of space.
Me, I don’t see what they see in it.
From birth to death, we live our lives in tin cans, surrounded by an infinite nothingness and constantly reminded of our own insignificance, watching the worlds from a distance - a people out of time, a people without a home. Doesn’t sound so grand an existence now, does it?
And as for me, well… I don’t even fit in with my own people. Legend says that every Trader has someone born to be their soulmate - their One - but I haven’t found mine yet, and after a hundred and some odd years, well, I’ve kinda given up on it ever happening. After a while, you get used to being the odd one out while everyone else you know pairs off. And that’s perfectly alright with me, ‘cause I wouldn’t wanna be stuck with them anyway.
Other people tend to get in my way, so I’d really rather work alone. My Overseer, Cas, says that shows some serious psychological problems - I think his exact words were something along the lines of, “Dean refuses to communicate with or accept assistance from others, and should be considered a high-risk individual.” This from a guy whose job entails sitting on his ass all day, handing out assignments because he can’t cut it on the ground…
He keeps sending me out on jobs, though, the ones no one else wants because they’re too dangerous or have a high potential for something to go wrong, because even though my psych profile may have some issues, I always get the job done. No matter what, any means necessary. And I work best alone.
I sometimes hear the other Traders whispering when they think I can’t hear, calling me deranged, insane, a disgrace to the Traders. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I am crazy. But I can negotiate with rebel groups and outland gangs and set up profitable deals in the middle of warzones, so that will have to be good enough.
It’s good enough for Cas, at least, and I try keep my mind on the job at hand, so it works for me, too.
And this job was a big one - high stakes involved, and a huge potential payout if I picked the winning side.
Gordon Trade and the Interplanetary Shipping Corporation had been fighting each other for control of the Nissul Corridor for decades now - a quiet war waged through sabotage and corporate espionage, with neither side ever quite managing to achieve economic dominance. But according to the Traders’ data, both sides were within reach of victory, if the other side could just be manipulated into a very few key decisions. If we played our cards right, getting them to bid against each other for our esteemed services, we could come out a whole lot wealthier than we started, without ever investing a cent - we call that good business.
But after the first two Traders sent in came back without their heads, Cas decided my particular skill set was going to be necessary for a successful conclusion to this deal. Sometimes I wonder if he isn’t just trying to get me killed so he can be assigned to a new agent, but I love the danger so I don’t complain.
After all, when I’m walking a knife edge with torture on one side and beheading on the other, I don’t have time to think morbid semi-philosophical thoughts about how empty my life is or how I’ve never quite fit with anyone, Trader or human. Danger is good - danger keeps me out of my own head and focused on the job. And this job looked to be right up my alley.
So I was docked on Garrula, a little planet whose only claim to fame was its spectacular scenery, waiting to hear back from my ISC contact, and on my way to meet my inside man from Gordon Trade and set up a more private meeting with his superiors. I kept an eye out for any sort of a tail as I left the spaceport, and I wasn’t surprised to pick two of them out of the crowd before I’d gone more than a few blocks.
One was doing a particularly bad job of tailing me, staying too close and wearing very distinctively patterned clothes. I figured he was the one I was supposed to see, so that when I lost him I wouldn’t look for another. The other guy was much more discreet, but when he lingered a little too long outside a bar while I ducked in for a drink, the game was up for him as well. Apparently the ISC wasn’t paying enough for proper espionage skills.
Two minutes later I’d lost both tails. The little touristy shops were perfect for dodging them - in the front door, weave between the racks, then vanish out the back door and into the crowd while they were still trying to figure out whether to come in after me or not. I might not be much of a people person, but mobs of tourists can be really handy when you need to disappear.
I kept checking over my shoulder occasionally as I followed my nav-tech to the spot my Gordon Trade contact had chosen for the meet, but no one else suspicious caught my attention. That didn’t mean that I completely let my guard down, of course - I still took a couple extra detours, then looped around the block once before I headed into the rundown little cafe where my nav-tech had sent me.
Pushing open the door, I could tell right away why he’d chosen this place - low lighting, high partitions between the booths, a moderate number of customers, and two alternate exit points. If you wanted to get in, do whatever you’d come for, and then get out without being ID’ed, this place was perfect. I was suitably impressed with my contact’s choice of meet locales - I’d only worked with him once before, but he’d just upped my opinion of his usefulness.
He was waiting for me in the booth closest to the back door, his cap brim pulled down low, making it impossible to get a good look at his face. I’d pulled up my hood while coming in, and with the low lighting, neither of us would really be able to ID the other afterward. There were already two cups of coffee and a nearly polished-off sandwich on the table - he’d gone ahead and made sure this would look like a normal lunch meeting - so I got right down to business.
“I need you to set up a meeting with your supervisors. I have information on how to devastate the ISC’s ability to do trade along the Nissul Corridor, and I’m willing to work with Gordon Trade to make it happen.”
“Provided the price is right, of course.”
I didn’t reply - he already knew more than enough to take this to his superiors, and he was nowhere near being important enough to negotiate payment amounts.
“Alright, I’ll see what can be done. If you can actually do what you claim, they should be very interested in your offer. Give me twelve hours to make arrangements, and then you’ll be contacted with the location for the meeting.”
I nodded once, and he stood up, then downed the rest of his coffee before ducking out the back door. It wasn’t until the door had shut behind him that I realized he’d stuck me with the check. That was one expensive sandwich, too.
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After leaving the restaurant, my next move was to check into one of the many seedy motels in town. It wasn't the Ritz, that was for sure, but it was far from the worst place I'd stayed. No bed bugs is always a plus, and if you're looking for someplace where you can pay in creds up front and not give your name, you can't be too picky.
I flipped the vid-screen on first thing, and dropped onto the musty bed to scroll through channels. Hopefully, I'd been able to set the wheels turning at Gordon Trade, and if I was lucky, my guy at the ISC would contact me in the next few hours as well. Best thing I could hope for would be to go into this next level of negotiations with both sides making bids for my expertise, driving up the price and my eventual payout.
In fact, I was feeling pretty good about this whole job, right up until the moment where I changed to a news channel and saw the breaking news bulletin - "Interplanetary Shipping Corporation CEO Found Dead in Hotel Room." Yeah, that wasn't good news.
And it only got worse as I listened to the newscaster - stock prices plummeting, the company trying desperately to rearrange its senior management and reassure the public that everything would continue as per usual. Not exactly the best environment for conducting sensitive negotiations.
The news kept on going downhill from there, too. Turns out the ISC was involved in some major government contracts, which meant the investigation of their CEO's sudden demise would fall under the jurisdiction of the Coalition itself. That's right - the government whose reach spanned galaxies would be poking around inside the company, while I tried to nail down a deal that fell distinctly outside the realm of legal action. Sounds like fun, yeah?
Then, just when I thought this whole mess couldn't possibly get any worse, the universe proved that it's always got one more twist to throw at you. Want to know where the CEO was vacationing at the time of his unfortunate demise? You guessed it - Garrula. Of course.
My luck officially sucked - first the check, now this.
I thought for a second about getting the hell outta Dodge right that moment, but if they did connect my inside guy to me, fleeing the scene of the crime would probably be enough to make me at least a person of interest. Looked like I was going to be sticking around for a bit, and, with any luck, going unnoticed ‘til things had died down.
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Chapter 2