Slave World Read Free Page B

breakaway had been detected. Even in the dim red of post launch lighting, I swore I could see an intent ‘human’ stare of seriousness etched in his face. I knew he couldn’t be nervous, but I sure as hell was. This was the moment of truth; we were about to enter the Federation far orbit picket line.
    Thus far everything had been golden. I’d taken a roundabout flight path after leaving Johannesburg, blending in with the commercial traffic as best I could, before engaging my jammers and making a run for it. Sometimes, the best way to hide was in plain sight. Fleet was no doubt watching all the usual backdoors and unauthorized flight corridors, like a hawk. I didn’t think the Trade Corporation would send word ahead of my launch; there was no love lost between them and the Feds, but all it would take is one greedy narc to get wind of my identity, and I was screwed.
    I broke into a cold sweat, holding my breath, beginning to pray. Because of the Haley Accord of ‘30, Fleet wasn’t allowed to actively scan Darien or any ships still within its planetary boundary, but what if they’d gotten a visual on the Tramp at some point, and ran it through their database? What if the new, yet second hand countermeasure suit and cloaking upgrade I’d recently installed, wasn’t up to the challenge of defeating military grade hardware? So far it seemed to be doing the job, but if just one of those Fleet weenie’s noticed even a slight discrepancy in his sensor returns… With the current state my ship was in, I seriously doubted if I could outrun a patrol boat; let alone a modern System Corvette.
    Fortunately for me, picket duty was about as boring as it got, and if I’d timed this correctly it should be close to shift change on board ship. The sensor techs would be anxious for their relief to show, lulled into a near comatose state from staring at their screens for the last twelve hours. My ace in the hole was that if Fleet personal still held true to form as when I was in, only one of three things would be buzzing around inside their heads at the moment: chow, sleep or a quick roll in the sack before their next duty shift. Who wanted to waste time on a slight sensor glitch that was probably nothing anyway, when they had a wet and wild piece of ass waiting for them in their bunk, right? I’d waited in plenty of bunks over the years, so you trust me on this one.
    I smiled with a rare sense of personal satisfaction, so far so good. The Fed ships continued to move further away on their deep orbit station. You can always count on Fleet to come through in a pinch I scoffed, inputting the jump point data into the navigation computer. The Tramp diligently responded, beginning the lazy turn to a new heading, and hopefully the big score that I needed for a change.
    I finally allowed myself to relax, closing my tired and sore eyes against the first twinge of a massive headache. The chaotic last minute rush to finish the overhaul, punctuated with apprehensive fear, had been nerve racking to say the least. Besides that, the stim tabs I’d taken were beginning to wear off, and it was really doing me in this time. It felt like I hadn’t slept in a week, but it had only been 36 hours. At some point, my helmeted head flopped wearily on the padded headrest of my seat. I don’t remember dozing off, but I must have. My eyes snapped open at the sound of John’s voice.
    “Are you okay, Captain?”
    “Yeah I’m fine, just a little tired is all,” I mumbled groggily from under my darkened visor that contained a heads up display on the Tramp’s status. “Have the picket ships changed course, at all?”
    “Negative. Passive sensors indicate an unchanged and prescheduled course per standard Federation doctrine. It would appear the ECM upgrade is functioning adequately. At our current speed we will reach jump point 411 in twelve hours. Captain, if I may be so bold,” John asked as hesitantly as his artificial brain would allow. “This would be