Chapter 47: Chapter 41: The Con

“Who the hell are you?” Dockmaster Porter said, a nervous edge in his voice.

“Just a crew looking to spend some creds,” Cutter said, remembering the obnoxious dockmaster from the agents’ previous Terminus visit. The man had been unforgettable in a bad way, stomping about the docking bay, barking orders while stuffing his face with carbohydrate wraps. The Terminus officials stood with a rough-looking crew and the line of prisoners. Behind them were the four other crews of equal character who were there to bid on the captives.

Sentient traffickers.

Or as Cutter thought of them, absolute scum.

He eyed the service stations and the refreshments spread out across them. He then imagined lining them up and gunning them down over their snack bar. The spreads wouldn’t be so appetizing covered in blood.

“You look familiar,” one of Porter’s accompanying security officers said. Boci, by his badge. His partner, Galo, watched Cutter and his companions with wary eyes. None had their weapons out, but their tense postures marked their readiness to do so.

“We swung through not too long ago,” Cutter said, still unable to see all the prisoners and the other crews. He spotted a tuft of blond hair among the prisoners, but couldn’t confirm if it was the kid. He kept walking at a casual pace, Parr and Bloek by his side, and hoped Parr’s scowl was at least subdued, lest he cause a firefight by his facial expression alone. “Found out you had the goods we’re looking for, so now we’re back.”

The other crews came into view as the recovery agents neared the center of the lounge. A female Slyvarkian captain looked Cutter up and down with an uncomfortable intensity, while a Manore captain seemed amused by the whole spectacle. The Eviun captain held an unpleasant scowl worthy of Parr. Then Cutter saw the Gyhera crew and his stomach dropped.

Fear squeezed his insides, reminding him of the encounter with the family brood at the Customs facility on Praxa Prime. His subconscious brain connected the dots, and he realized it wasn’t unthinkable to see Gyhera there. The broods always followed behind troops as they expanded. And it wasn’t unfathomable that a trafficking operation existed in a mid-tier system like Praxa. Terminus was a corporate-owned station without a SecForce affiliation operating on the Atan system’s edge. With a collapsed economy, hosting trafficking exchanges was a way to stay afloat, though at the cost of your soul.

It was a dirty secret that Gyhera had no qualms about trafficking. He’d seen firsthand what the vile fur balls were capable of. It changed the course of his entire life. Their presence only added to the urgency of the situation—if the Gyhera got the kid, he’d be lost forever.

“This isn’t some estate auction advertised on GalaxyNet. I want to know how you heard about this,” Porter demanded, his paranoia evident.

Cutter slowly removed a small clear bag from his jacket pocket. He shook the bag, the cred chits within jingling together. “With help from one of your fellow Terminus officials. Don’t worry, we’ve got plenty left for bidding.” It was a gamble if Porter and his stooges were the only ones in on the scheme. But the Dockmaster said nothing to call the agents out.

A portly woman stared hungrily at the bag of creds. “Where’s my manners? Come on down.”

“Hold on a minute, Rakton. We don’t know them,” the Eviun captain said.

“We all barely know each other, which is a good thing in case someone gets caught,” the Manore said.

“Or tries to turn is in to SecForce,” the Gyhera added. The captain’s shifty eyes bore into Cutter, turning his stomach.

“Speaking of SecForce, what if they’re undercover agents?” the Eviun said.

“If they’re SecForce, then they have the worst sting operation of all time,” Rakton said. “This is a corporate station. There’s no chance SecForce is legally operating here. Even if they are, there’s only three of them. What are they going to do, arrest all of us?”

Cutter held his hands out innocently. “Can we get started now?”

“No. This reeks of spoiled meat,” the Eviun captain said.

Rakton said. “You don’t want the extra competition. Well, too bad. Deal with it. I’m the one with the goods. I say they can stay.”

“I’ll allow it. If you don’t like it, you may leave,” Porter added, as if in an attempt to make it clear his word was the final one.

“Continue then,” the Manore said.

Rakton waved at Cutter. “Join us.”

The three agents walked to one end of the semicircle. They ignored the other crews, their attention solely on the prisoners. As they came to the open spot besides the Eviun crew, the prisoners’ faces came into view. Standing there, no more than five meters away, was their target.

“That’s him. Finally this is over,” Parr said in a low voice.

“Not yet,” Cutter said. Some of the prisoners looked in their direction, but not the kid. He stood unmoving, facing forward. He barely blinked. “Need to win the bid.”

“Easy enough when the client will foot the bill,” Bloek said.

Then the kid’s head rotated in the slightest, as if he were summoning the courage to look. His warm blue eyes took stock of the agents. Cutter met his gaze. Though he’d seen plenty of pictures of the target, he found himself saturated with a sense of unease. He’d encountered enough unsavory people to have a sixth sense, a biological radar, for knowing the content of one’s character. Nothing about this kid gave Cutter the chills—in fact, it was the opposite. That young face held a warmth that reminded him there was good in the galaxy. It also gave him pause at handing the kid over to the Envoy.

The kid blinked and offered a slight nod. A thank you. Cutter replied with a nod of his own. He thought back to the moment, a half-cycle prior, when the secure message came through over GalaxyNet. The Pursuit had launched out of Praxum’s orbit, sweeping the vast expanse of the Atan system for any signs of the Stardancer. They found nothing, not a clue to follow. He ignored the Envoy’s repeated requests for an update. Then, while he was reading the latest on the Praxa Prime unrest, the client’s intelligence source forwarded a message from the kid’s hacked personal account. Which was odd, given the kid hadn’t used it since Terminus, meaning he knew it was hacked. Cutter read it and sat back in his chair.

Bloek picked up on it first. “What’s going on?” Cutter threw the message on the bridge display.

I know you can read this. You’re meant to. We’ve been captured by pirates. A modified scavenger ship—the Trusty Terran. We haven’t displaced since leaving Praxum Depot, just thrust cycles until a brief stop to salvage. Don’t know where we’re going, but it’s our last stop aboard. If you can figure it out, find us, and save my crew, I’ll surrender myself to you. It’s up to you now.

It seemed too good to be true, leaving Cutter with the thought it might’ve been a trap. But how? The kid didn’t have the creds to hire mercenaries or anything of the sort. And even if he enlisted the services of his seemingly cutthroat crew, they were no match for the three agents.

There had been only one choice—they were going after that ship.

Bloek ran projections based on the limited data. The part about pirates threw Cutter off. How could pirates operate in Praxa? There was no way they’d go near SecForce around Praxa Prime and the Depot. That left small mining and processing operations, a research center—and Terminus. Then he remembered the brief mention of a barge destined for Praxa Prime that had disappeared. The protesters lost containers of supplies for another upcoming event and decried a conspiracy. The kid mentioned a stop for a salvaging operation. Bloek then ran the estimated vectors and travel times. The results suggested, with high enough probability, that the kid was back on the way to Terminus.

Cutter looked at him again, admiring the young man. He’d been resourceful enough to stay ahead of his pursuers, and now sacrifice himself to save his crew. The earnest intensity in his eyes reminded Cutter of himself as a young man.

It left Cutter with one nagging question—what could the kid have done to warrant such a bloodthirsty pursuit?

In a few short minutes, when the kid was theirs, Cutter would ask him. Soon after, he’d deliver the kid to the Envoy, never to see him again. Same for Bloek and Parr.

For Cutter, despite all his patience, the end couldn’t come fast enough.

---

Dash tried to not throw up as the auction began.

Rakton started at the low end of the crew hierarchy. Draug went first. The poor Ghupto trembled as the Gyhera captain hissed in satisfaction at the winning bid. Of all the ops crew, Dash knew Draug deserved a fate at the hands of the Gyhera the least. Rosalie went next. The Manore captain took her at the minimum bid. Rakton was annoyed about that, and so was Rosalie when the other crews made a comment about her age. Brock followed, immediately subject to a bidding war between all the crews.

“I’ll go in for another fifty,” the Slyvarkian captain said.

No other bids came forth. Rakton walked to Brock, and squeezed his muscular arm. “My friends, look at him. Young and fit! A fine prize!”

The Manore’s crew murmured among themselves. “He looks unpleasant,” the Manore said.

“I’m not unpleasant,” Brock said, his expression showing anything but.

“Wipe the scowl off your face,” Rakton whispered out the side of her mouth. The Manore captain eyed the Slyvarkian, then raised his bid, only to be outbid by her yet again.

“That’s more like it,” Rakton said, and faced the Manore. “What do you say, Chesser? How bad do you need a strong and skilled technician?”

Chesser huddled with his companions, then turned to Rakton. “We’re not bidding.”

Rakton faced the Slyvarkian captain. “You are now the owner of a cargo operations technician whom you don’t have to pay. Make sure to feed him so he doesn’t shrivel up,” Rakton said. The Slyvarkian nodded in appreciation, then eyed her prize hungrily. Brock scowled back at her.

“I’ve got a highly skilled chief engineer here. But first, I’d like to offer you a special treat. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to see a lot of bidding here,” Rakton said, and pointed to Wesley. “My friends, here we have a licensed medtech. He’s a young pup too, if you’re into that sort of thing. Now, bidding will start a little higher than usual—”

“I’ll take that bid,” Chesser said.

Rakton pointed at him. “I love the enthusiasm. Who says this can’t be fun?”

“Raise a hundred,” the bearded man said.

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“Two hundred,” the Slyvarkian captain said.

“Three,” the bearded man said, and then the Gyhera joined in, only to be outbid by the Slyvarkian.

The bearded man crossed his arms, chewing his lip. His eyes rose to meet those of the Slyvarkian. She smirked back at him. With a blank expression, he said, “We’ll raise a thousand.”

Rakton beamed, while the Slyvarkian captain’s mouth dropped. Her lips moved in a string of curses. Her first mate leaned close and whispered in her ear. She threw her hands up. “We won’t counter.”

“Neither will we,” the Gyhera captain said, the fur on her forehead stirring in irritation.

Rakton gestured to the bearded man. “Congratulations, newcomer. The medtech is yours.”

Dash’s heart sunk. He struggled to keep upright, his knees suddenly weak. He knew it was coming, but the finality of losing Wesley crushed him more than he expected. At least the Gyhera hadn’t gotten their hands on him.

But then, Dash met eyes with Wesley, trying to offer him some sort of consolidation. Instead he found a hardiness—a relief—in Wesley’s eyes. He couldn’t figure out why, and wasn’t given the chance when a guard poked him from behind, demanding his attention remain frontward.

---

Cutter allowed a relieved breath to slip past his lips. With the target now in the agents’ grasp, he risked a longer look at the kid. He seemed accepting of his fate, but also something else Cutter couldn’t put his finger on. Then the kid nodded toward the imprisoned Slyvarkian and the seasoned hauler next to him. Cutter didn’t know what to make of it.

“What’s the kid nodding at?” Parr asked.

“Two of his other crew members, it appears,” Bloek said. “We’re secured the bid for the target. We should extract him immediately.”

“No, don’t interrupt the process,” Cutter said.

“The longer we delay, the more we risk interference by the other crews.”

“Leaving too early will draw suspicion.”

“We should buy up the rest of them,” Parr said. “Maybe they’ll have dirt on the kid, something we can leverage for more creds.”

Cutter couldn’t believe what the man proposed. “You’re suggesting to extort the client?”

“Listen, we’ve been chasing this little snot for cycles. All I’m suggesting is that we make sure we’re getting paid what we deserve. We could even turn over the captain and crew to Terminus security. You’re telling me they won’t scrounge up some creds for us bringing in the people responsible for the murders in that suite?”

“I think this is all about you getting your hands on that chief engineer,” Bloek said. “If it wasn’t for him, you would’ve had the kid on Terminus. Instead, you had your own stunner jammed into you.”

Parr glanced sidelong at Bloek, unable to keep a wicked grin from his face. “Look at you, reading my mind.”

“We’re not doing either of those,” Cutter said. What was wrong with them? “Both of you stand down.”

“Moving on,” Rakton said, resuming the auction. “We’ll return to the chief engineer. Everybody needs one of these. What good is a cargo hold full of minerals if you’re dead in space—”

“We’d like to settle up,” Bloek announced.

“No, we don’t,” Parr said as the other crews peered in their direction. He said to Bloek, “What are you doing?”

Rakton swiveled her head to the agents. “You want to leave already? We’re not done yet. That’s kind of rude, don’t you think?”

Cutter might’ve found the slovenly captain’s assessment— that leaving a sentient auction early was bad manners—morbidly amusing had he not wanted to throttle both of his partner agents. Bloek and Parr had played their hands. The damage was dealt. It was best to get the kid and get out of there as soon as possible.

“We spent more than we budgeted, so there’s no point in hanging around,” Cutter answered. He peered at Bloek long enough to convey his displeasure.

“Are neither of you two going to listen to me?” Parr said.

Rakton, hands on her hips, looked over the agents. “Fine. Mylo, go take care of them.” The waif-like young man removed the kid from the line of prisoners.

“I’m not leaving,” Parr said out loud.

Cutter stepped close to Parr. “We’re not risking the contract so you can stroke your ego.”

“We’re done here,” Bloek said. “Let’s go get our reward.”

Cutter watched Mylo escort Wesley toward the agents. The kid’s eyes were riddled with fear, but he held his chin up defiantly. Mylo held out a datapad for payment. Cutter opened his and waited while the transaction processed.

“You must bid on my captain and pilot,” Wesley said in a low voice.

“Shut up,” Mylo said, and shook Wesley by the shoulder.

“Go easy. He’s mine now,” Cutter said.

“Payment hasn’t processed yet,” Mylo said. He met Cutter’s hard stare for a moment, then averted his eyes.

“See? Even the kid agrees,” Parr said.

“Please,” Wesley said. “I promise that if you do, I’ll make it worth your while. And I won’t cause you any trouble.”

“You? Trouble?” Bloek said. “That’s funny.”

“I’m staying. I’ll do it,” Parr said.

“No. We’re done here,” Cutter said.

“What’s the problem,” Rakton called over from the median.

Cutter said, “There’s no problem—”

“We’ve had a change of heart,” Parr said. “Normally, we don’t dip into reserve funds. But the stock here is just too good to pass up.”

The words of praise elicited a glimmer of warmth in Rakton’s eyes.

Cutter said, “Bloek and I are leaving. You’re on your own.”

“You need to take me back if you want to see any of the reward,” Parr said.

The other crews objected the delay. Any goodwill obtained with Rakton dissolved from her expression. “Give me a minute,” she barked. She hopped down from the median—grunting from the exertion—and stomped over to the agents. “Are you morons bidding or not?”

“Yes, we are,” Parr said.

Cutter had to focus to keep his voice from raising. “You can do whatever you want with your own cred.”

“What kind of operation are you running here, Captain?” Rakton said to Cutter.

Cutter froze at unexpected fire in her eyes. She eyed each of the agents like an agitated customs official staring down a nervous sentient with a bag full of hard cred and no itinerary. She jabbed a chubby finger at them. “This stinks like a waste tank spill on a sun-scorched landing pad. You’re up to something.” She swept her piercing stare to each of the three agents. Bloek and Parr remained silent. Cutter went to speak when Rakton grabbed Wesley by the elbow and pulled him away. “Nobody cons me! I changed my mind. The medtech stays.”

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