PLS-7Z continued

Wooden doors. They would be a sign of wealth here, if it weren't for the sorry condition. Musta been a long ago transpo for some merchie with more money than sense. No windows on the ceramicrete, just grafitti. How is there is always grafitti in the merc districts? No kids here, just sorry assed gun bunnies and their dupes, marks and bosses. Not even any pilots or mechwarriors here from what I have seen.

Time to see if the cat can drag something in...

The unit rep is a woman. Not too common out here in the periphery, but, as she looks up from a datpad, and lances me with her eyes, I feel like I need to check my AMS for inbound. Not a random hireling, this woman. Gray hair flecked with what must have once been brown, and brown eyes that reflect a million negative emotions combine to tell me this one has seen much.

"You got business, or are you just gonna gape at me 'til I space your ass?"

I have business for her, "Need a lift. Terra."

"Terra ain't on the schedule for a few months. Since you obviously know we are going there, you may want to tell me why you wanna ride with the Blades."

"Can't afford regular fare on a liner....well, can't pay the regular price. All I have is trade in if you are willing."

"Terra is a long way from this rock, and while we are in business for a few C-bills here and there, you don't look to have anything worth the price of steerage in a Union from the Exodus fleet. Change my mind or piss off."

I pull a datapad from my pocket. Nearly 40 years old, it is a relic of my own formative years, and something I only have because I am a one helluva good pack-rat, junk style. "How about this in trade, balance for cost difference to be paid in C-Bills on arrival, Sol system. You don't even have to get me planetfall on Terra, just in-system will do fine." I slide the worn out data pad across her plasteel desk, and she glances at the readout.

"Nice pic, but that ain't proof. Lots of folks claiming they got Old SLDF stocks around."

"It is real enough. In fact it, is already here on this asteroid, and for a holo-proofed ticket on that Hunter you have in orbit, the locker number, combination and sentry decode for the N type Maxi inside to keep unwanted curious types from taking it."

"Okay, so maybe you're serious. How do I know it is legit? Brian Cache, sure, but there ain't no way to prove that. There are only 5 merc outfits I know that have ever acquired Type-4C Man-pack PPCs, and they don't exactly let them go. No house military woulda just let someone take it either. What's the deal? Talk fast, lunchmeat, you got 20 seconds before the cavalry gets here and you explain it to them."

I know she punched the hold-up alarm nearly a minute ago. She did it as soon as I walked in the room. I also know, that it take the OP Police at least 4 minutes to get here, since there are only 8 of them, all obese, and all watching skin vids when I cased their station 45 minutes ago. "I'll humor you. In the future though, please don't bother trying to bluff me. Press page down."

She presses the pad, and her eyes lose focus for a second. "This is time stamped, holographically. Those are real? You have them? Here?" She is hooked, and I know now that the ticket is really gonna cost me what I planned originally. She can't know that it is immaterial to me, but the cash value of what she is looking at in the display cannot be ignored.

"Yes, yes, and yes. You can see that they are not 4Cs now, and there are 12. Considering that I know that no-one has ever sold a confirmed, Type-5, Block C Man-Pack PPC, I figure I can name my price. No more questions. One ticket. One-way. Terra. Myself, and point eight-seven tonnes of cargo in bonded containers. Agreed?"

"Oh sweet, sweet fortune, yes. Agreed, with one request."

"Yes?"

"Your name, please?"

"Call me Marshal."