Tar Pits are an illegal salvage and piracy gang operating in remote areas of the Stanton system by posing as legitimate towing and repair services.

“70,000 for a LumaCore? This is ACOM, not A&R, you’re out of your mind”.
I opened my mobiGlass as the doors to Dumper’s Depot hissed closed behind me. Current balance: 25,000. Long way to go, especially now that my Otoni handler here in Area18 had gone dark. The Stanton III jobs board was noticeably quieter than usual, which left one unsavory option.

30k didn’t go as far as it used to, but at least the job didn’t require anyone except the drugs to get hurt. The facade of ignorance helped to alleviate some of my apprehension. I had never personally interacted with Tar Pits, and if they’re pissing off both Hurston and the Advocacy they must be doing something right, but the dishonor of becoming hired muscle for some shipjackers wasn’t easy to dismiss. Still, I had my own less-than-scrupulous aspirations and they required me to be around Stanton I. This job would cover the cost of the trip and get me closer to being able to afford that power plant, overpriced or not. I sighed, lowered my wrist, and headed to Riker.

Dupree Industrial Manufacturing Facility © Unknown via Spectrum

Under the night sky and dense smog of Hurston’s crippled atmosphere, the center was visually indistinguishable from Farnesway, another off-limits production center publicly owned by Hurston Dynamics. This confirmed to me that the company had been involved in its construction, though it didn’t speak to their involvement in its current operations. I wasn’t sure who was running the place now, but figured that Hurston could and would have shut it down if it wasn’t in their best interest to keep it going. If Tar Pits didn’t want to handle this job themselves then it would probably be best to proceed with caution.

I shut my weapons and shields off as I lowered my ship below the clouds, trying to limit the Defender’s emissions as much as the conspicuous Banu ship could manage while remaining flyable. Weaving through bombed-out canyons and valleys, the billowing smoke and glittering lights of the massive structure finally rose over the last ridge and joined the stars and nebulae sitting silently overhead.

The quiet didn’t last long as the automated missile emplacements caught a glint from the ship’s golden hull and locked the entire cross section, immediately sending four missiles to intercept it. I dumped chaff and turned, too hard, with barely enough time to roughly plant the claw-like landing gear into a boulder-laden crater. Shaken but breathing, I sprinted out of the cabin before the outlaws occupying the facility and surrounding ancillary buildings came to investigate.

DIMF supply network, including automated rail transit between departments © ArenoMusic via mobiGlass feed

The main entrance gate was covered by a security checkpoint that led to the cargo area and landing pads. I spotted a maintenance access ladder between two of the pads, climbing up and into the exterior cargo loading section. Sneaking past a group milling around one of the cargo elevators, I ascended further up a catwalk and onto the roof of elevator structure itself. Using the ventilation systems as cover, I made my way towards the main entrance along the rooftops.
There was a patrol making rounds from the lower security checkpoint, walking slowly up the streetlight-lined road towards the main entrance and exit. Judging by their pace, they were not very excited about their task at this time of night. I took a moment to relate while I waited for them to round the corner at the top of the road, and quietly followed behind once they were out of sight.

The guards were headed for the entrance, leaving the exit gate wide open as I crept closer behind the concrete barricades along the side of the road. The interior of the production center was similarly unguarded, which gave me easy access to hallway leading to the storerooms where the outlaws were stashing the narcotics. I approached the bulkhead door to the supply rooms and winced as the proximity sensors jolted the door open, creaking and groaning as it was raised. I heard a voice behind me and didn’t even think before bolting straight through.

The rooms were directly on my right upon entering the supply section. I punched the first door’s console as fast as I could.

Empty.

No narcotics, no production equipment, not even some loose credits. Just standard maintenance garbage and a fucking Pico the Penguin plushie looking back at me with his beady black eyes. Was this a joke? Did Tar Pits get bad information? Was it a setup? These questions didn’t have time to form as I ran to the second room, which was also completely empty. The voices had swelled to shouts, obviously directed at me. I looked back at the beams franticly illuminating the pipes and cables of the bulkhead I had entered through and decided the only way out was going to be to go further in. Turning my back to the oncoming force and menacing Pico, I crossed the next bulkhead into the warehouse.

The facility was a maze of transit lanes, scaffolding, hallways, staircases and elevators, providing plenty of options for my escape. I dropped into a vent, let my eyes adjust to the darkness, and lurked through the innards of Dupree Industrial. Clearly, I wasn’t the first person to spend time here as there was an assortment of food and drinks around what appeared to be someone’s makeshift habitation unit, tucked next to a slowly humming fan. I helped myself to their leftover blue bilva before continuing through the damp underbelly. It tasted like home.

At the end of the tunnel, another vent opened into a lobby with a bank of elevators. I awkwardly climbed out, surprised to find this large area was also devoid of any personnel. Whoever operated this place was doing it on a skeleton crew, and most of them were seemingly off looking for me. I took the closest elevator back to the main entrance level, hoping the patrol that had been there earlier was the same one that chased me deeper inside. Cassa finally smiled upon me. The entrance was vacant. I said my thanks and sprinted back towards the cargo elevators. Too fast, I realized too late. Part of the group that had been at the cargo elevators earlier was still there – four of them – and they spotted me right away. They didn’t waste any words, opting to go straight to bullets instead, and I dove behind a fence-lined crate as they opened fire.

I had brought the S71 for my own sense of security more than it’s actual firepower, and the ninety rounds of 5mm I equipped for it started to feel like ninety pebbles. Before I could start to consider engagement distance and armor penetration, I was standing and shooting at them. They weren’t targets so much as they were single points of light, uninterruptable beams from their helmets constantly shooting photons right back at me. I kept shooting as I felt my TrueDef armor take a round, then my undersuit, and another. Bleeding, I am bleeding, I thought, but I couldn’t see how many beams were left through my compensator-amplified muzzle flash and the grid of the fence. The mag clicked empty and I dropped behind the crate again. The bleeding wasn’t as bad as I had thought, a single medpen put the hemozal where it needed to be to do its work. My vision blurred as my BDL spiked, and I rolled over to see how many attackers were left. No beams. Scrambling, I grabbed what supplies I could from the four outlaws and ran to the landing pads.

Dupree Industrial Manufacturing Facility, some of its perimeter defenses and supporting buildings © Unknown via Spectrum

The 7km walk to and from the location where I had landed my ship had given the outlaws plenty of time to go check it out, but it seemed like they had been preoccupied with my infiltration and left it alone. The ship warned me that the defenses still had us locked as I dropped what little gear I had taken from the site and took the pilot seat. I dumped more chaff on takeoff and flew straight towards Stanton, hoping the star would cover some of my signature. The missile turrets threw their final volley which careened off course and slammed into the side of a mountain, no doubt already bombed countless times, as I sped away from the facility and back into space.

In orbit, my quantum drive started acting up. It would spool just fine, and it could calibrate to a location, but it wouldn’t activate. I cursed the stock power plant, the entire reason I took the job in the first place. I couldn’t service it from the outside with the damage to my undersuit, which I was going to have to replace. With no drugs to destroy, Tar Pits wasn’t going to pay me or even offer another contract, and now I was out the cost of the trip, too, putting me even further behind. At least you’re alive, I thought, and settled in for the flight to Lorville, the long way.