[center][h2]Trouble Behind[/h2][/center]


Trouble with Skyplexes is the walls got eyes.

Ears, too.  And when Cal Strand decided to tell the approach controller he’s comin’ in with a load of cattle, those ears perked up, a chance at grabbing some fresh beef this far out in the black being a rare happenstance.  So when China Doll’s cargo bay door flew open to reveal nothing but some ugly yellow contraption, there’s a good many folk felt a might disappointed.

Soon enough, that disappointment turned into curiosity…curiosity of a sort can get a man killed.  Even though they played it low, China Doll and her crew were under a microscope the entire time they spent in dock.  Didn’t take long to suss out that they were packing on some big grub, and the load of structural truss, chain hoists and hardware for “a mining camp” didn’t fool nobody.  

It was clear to anybody had eyes that China Doll had a score.  Trouble was, nobody could conjure just what they were playing at.

As cash cows like this go, word soon reached the ear of the local outfit, the Blackborne Riders.  Their head honcho, Buck Sadler, could smell profit in whatever angle Cal Strand was working.  Trouble was, he just couldn’t put two and two together on it.  So that meant he’d have to put a tail on ‘em…let ‘em run their business first.  Then, once their hold was full and they were somewhere in the deep black, he’d hoist the Jolly Roger.   Reliable enough tactic, used time and again in a piece of the ‘verse known for Reaver attacks.

And so, he had a boat on the prowl.  Scalded Dog was once a rich man’s racing yacht…leastways til he fell on hard times and tried making a run from his creditors.  Ain’t no tellin’ where he and his mistress might turn up some day, but his old boat was now sporting a new name and a layer of hijacked Alliance Navy stealthcoat.  Even if China Doll was using their radars, Scalded Dog would have to be running pretty durn close to show as more than a fake echo on screen.

Inside was cramped, built as she was for day racing with a crew of four.  The Riders had tucked in berths for a dozen, fleshing her out to suit their purpose of a tracker/raider.  And now, as her Captain watched their prey through his high gain telescope, he reported what he knew to the boss.  “They’re still runnin’ quiet, Buck.  ‘Cept for a lookout on the hull they’re all shut down an’ blind as bats.”

On the screen, Buck Sadler rubbed the stubble on his chin.  “What the Sam Hill are they up to?”, a question he’d asked himself on more than one occasion.  

“Damned if I know,” the Captain shrugged.  “Tell ya what.  We’re down to one day’s rations.  They don’t show their hand right quick, I’ma have to fish or cut bait.”

“It’s gotta be a scavenger op,” Sadler ventured.  “So many dead boats driftin’ about Miranda after that whole broadwave dustup.  All that truss they built on their hull?  Just makes sense that they’re tryna bring in some big scrap.”

The Captain shook his head.  “Sure seems like a lot of risk.”

“Yup,” Buck nodded.  “Either which way, I think once you’re both clear of possible Reaver attention, it’ll be time to run ‘em down, Chet.”

“Copy that.”

“Try’n take ‘em alive,” the crime chief ordered.   “Try’n git ‘em to make the score for you.  Then deal with ‘em…[i]dohn mah[/i]?”

“I do indeed.”