The Indy Diaries, pt. 2: Meeting Edison Trent

I met him once, you know. Edison Trent, freelancer and hero
of the Nomad war. Second time I had seen him, though. Like most folks, the
first time was on the news right after the peace agreement. At the time, I was
waiting for a payment at a bar in Denver when his mug flashed on the
holovision for everyone to see.

Goddamn boy scout,
was my first judgment on seeing his prettyboy face. The news story was a
recruitment pitch as much as it was news, the anchor lady breathlessly
reminding the public that volunteers would still be needed for fleet to protect
Liberty’s borders and the freedoms of her citizens. Trent pretty much dropped
off the radar after that.

For a freelancer, anonymity is a blessing. You do the job,
get paid, and have a drink. Take a real shower and sleep in a real bed, and
then it’s back in your ship. Still- over time, you develop a reputation, based
on the kind of jobs you take and who it is that’s giving them to you. It can be
a real balancing act trying to minimize the amount of people who want you out
of business. Most of the time, security at a port is the ability to just blend
in with the rest of the riff raff while knowing who to see for your next job.

If Trent went back to ‘lancing after being awarded that
shiny medal by Jacobi, he was sure as hell picking some interesting clients. He
wasn’t seen on any of the house worlds for a long time after the war, and even
his stops at Freeports became rare. In the ‘lancer community, he became
something of an enigma. We ‘lancers are a solitary bunch, but if you stick
around long enough, you start to recognize faces and names- and the rumors that
accompany them. No one ever heard of Trent getting in trouble from his
drinking, nor had they ever seen a drowsy dock knocker slipping away from his
ship. Bartenders, when asked, would shrug and say that the man seldom speaks-
and when he does, it’s all business.

Inquiry about Trent eventually disappeared, except the
occasional remark by dock techs that he never seemed to land in the same ship
twice. More than that, he was usually flying some fancy vessel that had only
ever been seen in brochures- and sometimes not even that. Naturally, gossip and
speculation about where and how Trent acquired the credits for such high-end
ships always made the rounds in the bars, but no one ever seemed to know
anything solid about the man or his clients.

It must have been- fifteen?- years after the war that I saw
him. I was on Freeport 9- way the hell off the beaten path- when the same Edison Goddamn Trent strolled into the bar. Did I say same? That might have been a stretch- he
almost looked like a different man. No civie leather jacket and slacks like I
had seen before- he was wearing a black flight suit of the sort you only see in the
Edge worlds. In addition to needing a shave, he wasn’t dying his hair that
stupid academy blond anymore, either, and he had inked some facial tattoos from
God knows where. A ‘lancer doesn’t mark his face like that unless he’s been
involved in some serious shit with some serious people. Never did ask, though.
I figured if Trent decided it was my business, he’d walk up and tell me the
story.

As it happened, Trent did
walk up to me- or rather, next to me at the bar. He ordered a Sidewinder Fang
and paid the bartender with a generous tip. He didn’t say anything after that.
Him and I just sat side by side, watching the holovid behind the bar. Even out
on Freeport 9, Zoners reported events as word trickled in, doing their
best to ape the news programs you’d see in house space. The story at the moment was covering the
opening of another metropolis on Crossfire.

I felt the need to comment. “Something else, huh? The houses
securing the system and kicking up whole damn cities like that?”

Trent didn’t take his eyes off the holo.

“It ain’t secured.”

I turned to glance at him. “What do you mean?”

Trent took a drink, and his face hardened.

“I mean it ain’t secured. Crossfire don’t belong to no one.
You’re as likely to see an Outcast as you are Alliance. The houses have all
their beef in orbit around the planet and that shipyard- but outside their
perimeter, it’s a crapshoot.”

I took a swig of my own.

“You ‘lancing in those parts?”

He let out a short, bitter laugh.

“More like passing through. Making contacts. These days, I’m
more of a messenger than a ‘lancer.”

A long moment passed as we watched the holo. I took another drink.

“You know, you looked kinda stupid with blonde hair.”

Trent didn’t turn away from the holo, but he didn't face me to reply,
either.

“Careful, friend. That was a long time ago.”

I tried a smile and gestured to the assemblage of pilots,
techs, and the odd dock-knocker. “No worries, partner. We’re all just chickens
in this coop.”

For the first time, his face threatened to resemble
something approaching friendly. I held out my hand.

“Name’s Dax.”

He shook. “Trent. But I suspect you maybe knew that.”

“Ain’t everyday a ‘lancer saves Sirius and makes the news.”

He snorted. “I was the only one the news could get away with
showing. A lot of folks did more against the Nomads than I did, sacrificed a
hell of a lot more, too. But they ain’t exactly the types that a Liberty
president is going to publicly thank.”

I turned back to the screen. “Ain’t politics a bitch?”

Trent had turned towards a young women who had walked into the bar. Real respectable, from the way she carried
herself. Dark hair, maybe half-Kusari from the looks of her. Pretty young
thing- clearly no dock knocker, but she seemed as comfortable navigating the Freeport
bar as any roughneck there. She made brief eye contact with Trent before settling down at a booth.

Trent finished his drink, never taking his eyes off her.

“That they are, friend. That they are.”

With that, Trent rose and ducked into the booth with the
mystery woman. I’m not one for staring, so I kept watching the news until I
finished my drink.

Last I saw Trent and his associate, she was sliding him a
holo-disk across the table. I never even heard them say a word, but that wasn’t
what struck me as odd. It was what I saw in that glance, the way they were
looking at each other. These two- whoever the hell she was, and whatever the hell Trent had become, had a history. That was plain as the tats on
his face. They regarded each other with familiarity, and respect, and… pain?

I thought about ordering another drink, decided against it,
and made my way to the pilot showers. Something about what I had witnessed
between the two strangers didn’t sit right with me. I’m no mind-reader, but
there was a lot between Trent and that woman. It ain’t right to leave things
unsaid, not in a ‘lancer’s line of work. Still- I don’t meddle in the affairs of a man I
met at a bar for ten minutes, either. Even if that man is Edison Trent. Especially
if that man is Edison Trent.

I never saw Trent or the mysterious woman again after that,
and I don’t reckon’ that I will, either. A ‘lancer always has his own hide and his own
ship to worry about, and there ain’t much room for the affairs of others-
unless those affairs are the next job. Made me think about my early days of ‘lancing,
still a fresh-faced kid flying a civilian-spec Hawk and taking whatever jobs came
his way. Once, an old veteran next to me at the LD-14 bar had downed a few ales
too many, taken me by the shoulder, and slurred you know, every ‘lancer is this Goddamn business is either chasing a pipe-dream,
or running away from something.

I hope that Trent finds a port he can call home one day. I
hope that him and his silent lady friend find their peace. I hope that he can
see the things that he’s seen, and do the things that he’s done, and still
remember who he is. A man can know every port and every jumphole, but if his heart is elsewhere, he ain't never going to be anything but lost.