Chapter 2 - kill-9

Danes was glad to be back aboard his ship.  It had been a weird few
days for him.  What had begun as a simple smuggling mission to
generate a bit of extra cash had turned in to a decidedly weird and
more dangerous task than he might have wished.

It was two days since his encounter with Marco and Matroska The
Prussian in the small cabin on Enrico Hern\'andez's cocaine plantation
in the mountains of Colombia.  The time since then was spent getting
down the mountain; a day's journey in the ancient truck to Medill\'in,
almost another getting from there to the port at Turbo where the
kill-9 was moored.  They spent the night in Medill\'in of course.  In
the most derelict old hotel you can imagine (!!please elaborate!!).
It could have been worse, the morning after the they got to
Medill\'in, a car was waiting for them outside the hotel.  Danes
didn't know who sent it, Enrico or someone else, possibly working for
the Satanic Society; still he appreciated it.  The bus to Turbo, spent
crushed in the hot, muggy cabin, between a toothless old hag and a
crate full of chickens; was not Danes' idea of a pleasant way to spend
the better part of a day.  As it was he spent it in a nice, cool,
air-conditioned BMW.  Whoever these people were, at least they had a
modicum of class.  The entire time Matroska said nothing.  All he did
was tinker upon a small laptop computer that he pulled out of some
hidden pocket inside of his enormous daemon-jacket.  Every now and
then Danes would try to sneak a look at the screen whilst Matroska's
head was turned.  As soon as he got within glancing distance though,
Matroska's face would snap back around and give him a cold stare with
those deep black-hole pits of eyes.  It was to no avail; however, the
one time that he actually manager to get a glimpse of the screen, all
he saw was what looked like random static.  The output of the monitor
must be encrypted in some way.  Danes was not sure how Matroska was
decoding it; he guessed some sort of corneal implant which would
intercept the image and decrypt it.

They arrived at the docks just as the sun was dipping into the ocean,
painting the water with orange and gold.  They got out and the
mysterous car departed immediately and without a word.  As it pulled
away Danes noticed that it didn't even have a number plate.  Weird.  A
few minutes walk brought the to the mooring point of the kill-9 on one
of the more secluded piers.  There were only a few ships attached to
this one, opposed to most of the others that were decidedly full.  It
was the height of the sailing season in the carribean and the docks
and marinas were filled with the boats of rich American buisinessmen
and drug lords, cruising around, flashing their cash and generally
having a good time, as they are want to do.  Not normally prime-time
for smuggling, but Danes was (up until recently that is) running a bit
low on capital and moving a few hundred kilos of the Bolivian marching
powder never fails to fill the coffers.

As per usual the crates containing his deviant cargo were already
stowed away when he arrived.  The Hernandez cartel was nothing if not
efficient.  They have agents here at the docks and as soon as the deal
is brokered, a message is sent out and arrangements are made with the
ship's mate to sort out the details.  After all, why waste time when
there's smuggling to do?

When they arrived the crew were readying to make sail, they had seen
them coming and Danes never liked to stay in port any longer than he
had to.  As they ascended the gangplank he noticed Matroska stiffen
slightly in his gait.  He had noticed kill-9's first mate Hans lurking
in the shadows off to the right, taser in hand, waiting for the
stranger to come into range.  Danes had sent a message whilst in the
hotel in Medill\'in but Hans was ready just in case it had been
coerced.  Danes flashed off the subtle hand-signal which indicated all
is well.

Hans lowered the taser and emerged from the shadows.  A diminutive,
blond-haired Austrian man, his short goatee was perfectly cropped and
oiled to a point.  He was thin, not gaunt and stretched like Matroska
but compact without looking gangly.  His sleight frame had a hint of
containing some hidden power underneath.  Danes had met Hans 10 years
previously whilst he was jaunting around Europe.  Hans had been
running a small-time underground hacking shop at the time.  Doing
freelance work for minor eastern European mafia type capers.  He had
tried to break into Danes' personal network while he was chilling out
at a cafe in Prague.  Needless to say the penetration attempt failed
but Danes recognised Hans' talent and invited him to join up for an
enterprise that he was working on.  After some cajoling and a few
beers, an alliance was formed; not yet broken.

On seeing Hans and his lowered weapon Matroska finally relaxed and out
of the corner of his eye, Danes thought that he saw a flicker of muted
steel vanish up Matroska's right sleeve.

``Sup dude?'' enquired Hans in his bizarre Irish/Austrian hybrid
accent.  Although he had been raised in Vienna, Hans' parents were
both Irish catholic expats working there with the church.  He received
an old beater of a computer at the age of 12 and spent the subsequent
week figuring out how to crack one of the many nearby wireless
networks (his parents never had the 'net, too subversive).  For the
next few years he learnt his trade, at first frequenting various
script-kiddy hangouts but he soon realised that shit was for noobs.
He left home at 15 when he worked up the courage to tell his parents
that he was an Atheist (another side-effect of the his furtive 'net
access) and his father went ballistic and beat him up with a belt.  He
spent the next five years as a vagabond, traipsing around Europe
freelance hacking for whatever he could to get by.  Until he met
Danes, that is.  Since then Hans has been Danes' right-hand man and
most trusted onfidant.  When Danes got tired of the European weather
and skipped out the to Carribean, Hans was right there with him all
the way, and when he had acquired the kill-9 as payment (well, maybe
compensation is a better word) after one particularly hairy caper,
Hans fell into the position of first mate.  Despite having no previous
sailing or nautical experience of any kind, after 6 months at sea in
the waters of the gulf of mexico, he was as salty as any old dog.

``It would seem that our little courier job has turned into something
more substantial,'' replied Danes with a slight inclination of the
head towards the towering form of Matroska, following behind him on
the gang plank.

``You're telling me!  Is that...'' with this Hans squinted into the
dying light, trying to make out details but his mind failing to
acknowledge the truth his eyes were telling it, ``Matroska the
motherfucking Prussian?!'' exclaimed Hans, an incredulous look
creeping across on his tanned face.

``The very same.  Though I should warn your little friend there never
to point a weapon at me again, whether or not he thinks I am aware of
it.  The consequences for doing so can be rather...unpleasant.''  The
voice was a mirror of the man, formidable and sinister, dark and full
of intensity.  He spoke quietly as if he trusted that the world would
quiet itself to hear him speak, and with intent.  There was no
bragging to his words, just truth.  A man who walked within the
circles which Matroska frequented had no use for posturing and
bluffing, he simply spoke what was needed and expected others to take
him at his word.  They rarely got a second chance to underestimate
him.

``Fuck me!'' gasped Hans, ``No worries on that point matey.  From now
on all my weapon pointing will occur in directions strictly not
towards you!''

Matroska stared, his blank face betraying no emotion, no hint on what
was going on behind those black obsidian eyes.  He gave a curt nod.
``If someone would show me to my quarters?''

Hans, now recovered from his surprise at seeing the most notorious
hacker alive up close and in person, quipped ``Well now that we're
mates, let \emph{me} show you,'' as he turned and ducked down the main
hatch and into the bowels of the ship.  Matroska, saying nothing,
followed silently.

During the entire somewhat tense exchange Danes and the rest of the
crew had been nervously rooted to where they stood.  Danes wondered
what would have happened if Matroska had taken offense at Hans'
manner.  He shuddered to think and made a mental note to tell the crew
that their special guest was not to be disturbed.  As Matroska
disappeared down the hatch, the crew slowly resumed preperations to
make sail.

The kill-9 was not an especially large vessel, just 30 metres from the
tip of the bowsprit to the taffrail.  She was a ketch, gaff rigged,
and Danes had spend a lot of time over the first few years he owned
her refitting her to be largely automated.  In an emergency she could
be sailed single-handedly, and indeed Danes had had the great fortune
to test this on one particularly memorable voyage, though he had no
desire to repeat the feat.  As a consequence of her size, automation,
and the relative difficulty of finding good crew for the less than
above board voyages she frequently embarked upon, the kill-9 carried a
crew of just four souls, and of course the occasional passenger,
wanted or otherwise.  There was of course Danes, owner, captain,
smuggler, hacker, and all round adventurer.  First mate Hans, the
Irish-Austrian loudmouth we've already encountered.

Frank was portly, middle-aged and balding with a ring of straggely
greying hair wrapped around the back of his leathery, tanned pate
which he pulled back into a small pony tail.  Danes thought it looked
a little ridiculous but Frank would hear no word of fashion advice
directed at its removal.  He said that he was determined to retain the
same amount of hair he had in his youth, even if it was migrating
rearwards and down at a rate of 5mm per year.  Frank used to work for
Google as a data-centre technician during the golden years of the
'00s, back when ``don't be evil'' actually meant something.  He was in
charge of the kill-9's numerous computer systems and was also the
resident brew-master famous throughout the carribian for his pale ale.

In 2013 his wife left him for and Italian romance novel cover model
named Bastino.  This triggered some sort of early mid-life crisis and
after the divorce was finalised he cashed out his Google stock (of a
not insubstatial value) and skipped out to Florida intending to spend
a while soaking up the sun looking at beautiful beach babes and
drinking fruity drinks with umbrellas in them.  After a little while
he realised that Florida was just full of old people and this time he
skipped out again, this time to the bayous of Louisiana after watching
too many re-runs of ``Swamp People''.  Once he found out, yet again,
that the location he had chosen was not exactly as popular culture
would have had him believe, he decided this time to just stick it out,
as at least here he had peace, quiet, good fishing, and never had to
watch fat old ladies walking down the beach in far too little
clothing.

And that was where Danes found him, in a little known and completely
uncharted creek off the Mississippi River, sitting on his porch
reading a book and sipping on a fine india pale ale of his own
brewing.  The kill-9 had just come through some particularly bad
weather in the Gulf of Mexico and had some delicate systems that
needed expert attention.  After discreetly asking around he had hear
rumour of a sort of reclusive technical wizard living in the nearby
swamp, and had gone questing.  As it turned out, Frank was getting a
little bored of the bayou life away from the machinery he loved and
jumped at Danes' invitation to come aboard as the kill-9's resident
tech-guru.