The name’s Baines, Lascott Baines – but all you need to know is that I’m trouble with a capital T. The type who rolls into town with a blaster carbine in his hands and bad news on his heels. I was discharged from Star Zeta Academy after yet another incident caused by my arrogant, anti-authoritarian streak. The old fool of a captain who was heading the ship I was assigned to drifted us right into the middle of an asteroid cluster without even realising it. He was too spineless to turn off the computer navigation system, so I knocked him out cold and took the helm myself, engaging the manual controls.
That decision saved all our asses, and none of those thirty eight crewmen would be alive today if I’d stood idly by. The Academy didn’t approve of my headstrong methods, and now I’m flying from space station to space station in an old bucket of rust taking whatever backwater jobs I can find. The kind of jobs where they don’t care if you shoot first, and don’t even bother asking questions after.
Now I’m looking for somewhere that’ll let me engage my self-destructive tendencies on a grander scale. I’m signing on for a suicide mission, to head a crew of the dregs of society to infiltrate the Marktar central planet and assassinate Emperor Grabn’ol sitting right there in his Astro Palace. You’re going to give me the job because I’m the only sorry son of a bitch who’s up to it. I know it’s a one way ticket, and that’s exactly how I like it. So long as you’ve got a squad of guns I can count on, then just point me in the right direction, and stay out of the way. I’ll get the job done, and that’s all you need to worry your pretty little head about.
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