Chapter 56: Chapter 32: Hostile Intentions

The doors of the Cranky Crate pub shut behind the recovery agents, regulating the patrons’ disgruntled conversations to a muted background drone.

The agents navigated the corridor to the nearest lift, fresh lead in hand—the go-to brokers for Praxa Prime private contracts. And all it took to get the very short list from complete strangers was for Cutter to lend a sympathetic ear and creds for a round of drinks. The habitat’s lockdown had brought a real sense of immediacy to the locals, who had thus far only had experience with what most in the commercial freighter business would describe as standard cyclical inconveniences—high market fluctuations, hysterical media campaigns, and inflamed politics. All of which finished far behind the results of the physical stoppage of business—ships stuck in berths, cooped-up crews, and irate customers.

The jam of freighters needing berths at the Depot was a welcome turn of events, meaning the Pursuit could dock at a passenger slot and the agents could get ahead of the crew carrying the target. The lift doors parted, and the agents stepped out. The corridor stretched away on either side, office doors lining the hallway. Cutter took point as they navigated to the office of one Mr. Fletcher.

Cutter tapped the door panel. The doors parted, and they stepped into a waiting room. There were a few chairs, an aquatic life tank, and a bipedal service bot standing at a desk. It was uncommon to have more than just a service AI—and even rarer to have one dressed in a blouse and skirt, with a blond wig on top—but apparently this Mr. Fletcher preferred a particular tactile experience.

“Good morning. Do you have an appointment?” the reception bot said.

“No. This is a drop-in,” Cutter said. “We heard Mr. Fletcher has an exceptional talent at procuring certain Praxa Prime contracts. We’d like to speak with him regarding that.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Fletcher is quite busy at the moment. You may book an appointment and return at another time.”

“We’ll be very brief.”

“I’m sorry, I cannot—”

Parr took a step closer to the bot. “We’re not leaving until we talk with him.”

Cutter heard a boisterous voice within the office. The bot said, “Mr. Fletcher has informed me there is an opening, and he will speak with you now,” the bot said to the agents.

The door opened, revealing an office beyond. Windows spanned the back wall, revealing an impressive view of the station’s outer ring dockyards. A desk sat in the middle of the room, with two chairs on the nearest side. Behind it sat a hefty man with slick black hair, tan skin, and a cigar stuffed into his mouth. He wore business wear adorned with flashy highlights, glistening fasteners, and colorful fabrics. An outfit normally reserved for Core systems industry titans, not an independent mid-Arm system like Atan.

“Baby, listen to me. I have no influence over Praxa Prime Port Authority. I can’t do anything to get them to lift the lockdown. You’ll just have to wait in line like everyone else.” Fletcher said. His eyes flicked to the newcomers in his office. “I got to go.” He swiped a hand to end the comm. He sighed, rubbing his forehead, and said to his guests, “My friends, as you witnessed, Praxa Prime is a no-go at the moment. Like Shelia said, book an appointment, and we can discuss future openings.”

Cutter entered, Parr by his side. Bloek waited with the bot. “We’re not looking for a new contract. We’d like to talk to you about a recent contract you placed,” Cutter said.

“And you are?”

“We’re agents contracted to investigate commerce complaints. We believe one of the ships you recently placed may have had their contract unjustly nullified. We’re just gathering some basic information for our investigation.”

Fletcher crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Show me your credentials.”

Cutter shared them to Fletcher’s display. The broker glanced at them. “This is a recovery agent license.”

“It’s a sensitive investigation, hence the secrecy.”

Fletcher removed the cigar and stabbed it at Cutter. “You’re not fooling me. I’ve met enough recovery agents to know what you’re up to. I don’t deal with any of that unless I’m specifically listed in the contract. In that case, you can deliver the forms to Shelia. She’ll show you out now.”

Cutter paused, appreciating the proper addressing of their job classification. “We’re looking for a ship with a male Slyvarkian pilot. Also a Human male medtech. Blond hair. All we need is a ship name.”

“I’m not in the business of snitching on my contractors, except in the rare occasion they’re real slime. You show me you’re going after murderers, or traffickers, something real bad, then maybe we’ll talk.”

Before Cutter could respond, Parr said, “How about I show you this?” He opened one side of his jacket to reveal the repeater.

Fletcher laughed. “That’s cute. Do you cuddle with it at night?”

Bloek stepped into the office. In one hand was his blade, extended and brilliant beneath the office lights. He approached the desk, and drove the blade into it. “I sleep with this.”

Fletcher stared at the edged weapon, his eyes not brimming with fear, but with anger. He stood, uncoiling like a battle bot rising from its drop pod. Hands on his hips, his glare shifted between the three agents. “You must be new around here. In case you were unaware, this system is an independent state and Commonwealth protectorate. You save this lowlife intimidation act for the fringe where it belongs. Now take your little poker and get out of my office!”

Bloek removed the blade and raised it over the desk, tip pointing at Fletcher. His hand shot out and poked it into Fletcher’s shoulder. The broker yelped, more in surprise than pain, and looked at his shirt. A tiny smear of red formed around the slim hole.

“Are you crazy?” Fletcher said.

Bloek nodded to Parr. “No. He’s the crazy one.”

Parr sneered, teeth bared like some top-of-the-food-chain predator. “It’s about time that stick of yours drew some blood. Let’s see what else it can do.”

Fletcher’s brow twitched as he understood the seriousness of the threats. “Shelia!” he said.

“She won’t be joining us,” Bloek said. “You’ll also notice your PD can’t connect to the station network. We’re all alone at the moment.”

Fletcher’s tan face lost its color. It only took a few minutes for the agents to get the information they wanted. Ugly business Cutter didn’t enjoy, but it was necessary. For the job, for his mission.

Finished, the agents left the office, heading for the docks.

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Leaning on the armrest of his captain’s chair, Dash felt the creep of exhaustion pull at him. His eyes grew heavy, his head drifting toward his chest. He massaged his forehead, reading through the message to Boran once more. He’d lost count of the times he was about to send it when he received a notification that their docking request for the Depot had finally been approved.

He acknowledged the message and set the autopilot to take them in. He then pinged Gaius, knowing the pilot would need as much time as possible to rouse from his bunk. A ping came back immediately, but not from Gaius—another report had come in from Tinker. He’d been getting spammed with them lately. Tedious documents full of technobabble. He stopped reading them, and made a mental note to have someone update the notification module to send out condensed reports, or if that didn’t work, turn it off.

He returned to Boran’s message again and started rereading it. Another comm request came in, and he wondered if it was a sign that he should give up on the message. He was surprised to see that the request was from Milia. He hesitated a few seconds before accepting, needing the time to summon the mental fortitude for a potentially antagonistic conversation.

“I’m in the galley,” she said. “Why don’t you join me, Captain?”

Dash hadn’t expected that. “We usually settle scores in the cargo bay. There’s more room and less things to break.”

“No need for that. I heated up some of Draug’s homemade recovery.” When Dash wavered in his response, a yawn forced its way out. She said, “Sounds like you could use it.”

Dash eyed the navigation on the main display. He had some time to spare before they would dock with the Depot. “I’ll be right down.” He left the message to Boran unsent. Best to sleep on it. He stood and left the bridge—taking the backpack with him—and headed for the lift.

The passageway lighting was still dimmed for the early morning ship hours. He stretched his hands overhead, listening to the sounds of the vessel. The gentle flow of air from the diffusers, the faint hum of the engine core. At least the ops crew wasn’t awake, talking loudly and making a ruckus.

He stopped at the lift and summoned it. Milia had calmed down faster than he thought she would have, given how upset she’d appeared since the brawl. He hoped she’d see the reasons for his actions in order to survive the situation.

His meandering thoughts returned to reality where the lift had yet to arrive. There were only three decks on the ship. It should’ve been there in no more than a few seconds.

He swore under his breath and walked to the nearby ladder. He climbed down, stepped off, and bumped into a metal form. He jumped back, hands up. “You scared the crap out of me.”

“Apologies, Captain,” Tinker said. The optics on its head aimed downward. “I fail to detect a waste spillage—”

"It's a manner of speaking,” Dash said. “Nevermind, just get back to work.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Dash rubbed his forehead and walked toward the galley. The startle had rocked his heart rate, jolting him awake. He supposed it was good thing, given their imminent docking. He'd catch a good bit of sleep soon enough.

Ahead, light spilled into the passageway through the galley's windows and open hatch.

When he stepped inside, he found it empty. No Milia, no homemade recovery drink.

Nothing.

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The stretch of corridor outside docking bay seven was bright and lively. Daily life commenced—haulers and traders coming and going, bots performing maintenance or deliveries, while station personnel tended to their duties. An underlying discontent filled the space, seen in the short, terse conversations and tense body language—an unspoken irritation with the upper-class denizens of Praxa Prime making the lives of the Praxum Depot working class even more difficult. Cutter sympathized with their plight. He’d known no sense of financial stability until recent years, and that came at great personal sacrifice.

The wall display for the docking bay seven showed a fast-approaching arrival time of the incoming ship. Bloek pointed to an opaque-glassed room along the bulkhead opposite the bay doors. “Observation lounge.”

“Perfect,” Cutter said, and led the team inside.

The lounge was devoid of organic life. On the far end of the room, a lone cleaning bot worked on a stain in the carpet. A row of seating stretched along the back wall. Mounted displays rotated through docking listings, work shift schedules, informatics, and advertisements.

Parr breathed out heavily, fidgeting with the weapons harness beneath his jacket. “Soon as we turn the kid in, I’m spending a half-cycle aboard one of those pleasure cruises. Buy myself one of the staterooms with a view, and some lady friends. Been cooped up with you gents too long. No offense.”

“First of all, no one wants that mental image,” Bloek said. “And second, you’ll start by paying off your lost bets.”

“I’m a man of my word. You’ll get what’s coming to you.”

“Be ready,” Cutter warned. “This could get ugly if the crew doesn’t want to give him up. We don’t need a bloodbath on our hands.”

“They may be murdering rock haulers, but it’s doubtful they’re dumb enough to stick their neck out for the kid,” Bloek said.

Parr patted the repeater beneath his jacket. “I hope they do.”

Cutter ignored the banter of his crew, his eyes on the bay’s display. He focused on his breaths, on the awareness of his arms and legs. His mind let go of the noise and embraced his senses. The ritual was as automatic as breathing to him, performed countless times over his career. His mind unexpectedly drifted to its origin, developed long ago, from a formative time in his life. He remembered the hunting trips with his father, the taste of the forest’s chilled air, tinged with tree sap and clay. How they waited hours in the tree hide for deer to slip through the forest, their senses attuned for predators. How the rifle felt against his shoulder and cheek, the kick of recoil as he fired. The taste of the meat, palatable for human consumption with one pop of a digestion-aid pill. How life as he knew it came to an end, after his family was killed days before Cutter’s tenth birthday.

Atonement had eluded him since. His mission would rectify that injustice.

The lounge display updated the status for bay seven. The freighter Stardancer was inbound.

Cutter continued his measured breaths.

Soon the hunt would end.

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