Chapter 71: Chapter 17: Calling in a Favor

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Dash watched Gaius and Wesley follow Milia out of the diner. He sipped from his drink, then opened his contact list of local brokers. He found the name of the one who he knew could deliver what he needed, and opened a comm request. It pinged several times, then connected to a vid stream of the recipient. A man’s heavily tanned face appeared. Almost a decade older than Dash, he had the energy and bright-blond hair of someone much younger. A cigar jutted from his thick lips, and his mouth spread into a toothy grin. “Dash, it’s a little past your bedtime, don’t you think?”

“Business doesn’t sleep, Fletcher. You know that.”

Fletcher’s eyes narrowed, his cigar shifting to the other side of his mouth. “I recognize that decor. Aren’t you back early?”

“Plans changed. We took a little detour that didn’t pan out.”

“Don’t tell me you went to one of those corporate stations.” Dash nodded ruefully. “Baby, how many times do I have to say it. You gotta watch out for the corporations!”

After Dash left Boran’s employ and went out on his own, he had a tough time staying afloat. Fletcher had taken a chance on him, and it paid off. Since then, the broker had taken the pseudo role of a wise old uncle to Dash. It was endearing and irritating at the same time.

Dash filled Fletcher in on his new crewmembers and the list of Praxa Prime contracts they could now apply for. Fletcher leaned forward, his head filling the view. “Baby, you want a Prime contract? That place is locked up tighter than the Administration’s butt cheeks right now. There’s an antiCommonwealth protest organizing, and it’s got everyone riled up.”

“Come on, Fletcher. I know you’ve got something up your sleeve. Look, my crew had leave planned before they enacted the new visitation restrictions. They’ve earned it. I gotta get them on the hab. Besides, I know these CSL contracts are a pain to fill. Really, I’m the one doing you a favor.”

“Trickster! You’re using my moves against me.” Dash grinned. Fletcher sighed heavily and puffed on his cigar. “Give me a few minutes.”

Dash ordered another recovery drink. Two humans got into a shoving match by the counter. A third stepped in the middle and scolded the other two. The conflicting pair then hugged eagerly. Dash couldn’t seem to escape altered fools that night.

Fletcher returned. The only thing he had was a small margin ferrying gig to Prime and back. But that was only the cover. The real cred-maker was a simple delivery job. Certified package to a very discrete client. “Four times the total contract profit,” Fletcher said, holding up his fingers for emphasis. “For one simple delivery.”

Dash pressed his lips together to keep a straight face. That was a sweet deal, but there had to be a catch. “What about the contents?”

“Nothing that kills, nothing that thrills.” Fletcher didn’t mess around, certainly not on Prime. The job would be simple enough—walk a package to a meet site in a warehouse. The client would provide official dockworker’s uniforms and credentials waiting for them in a private bay, meaning they could avoid normal customs and gain entry to the warehouse without raising any suspicions.

“I’ll do it,” Dash said

“I’ll set it up. But, this’ll make us even now. You gotta use up your favor.”

“Come on. That’s a big favor you owe me.”

Fletched jabbed the cigar at Dash, his blond hair shimmering in the bright light of his office. “And you’re getting it, baby! Four times the pay for one delivery. I should charge you a favor for this one.”

“Tell you what. I need some more juice for Betsy. Throw that in, and then we’re even.”

The cigar almost fell from Fletcher’s mouth. “What did you get yourself into, shooting off that kind of ordinance?”

Dash wished that were the truth, for reality was far more humiliating. “It’s a long story.”

Fletcher palmed his forehead, massaging the skin. “Luckily for you, I know someone that can help. It’ll be delivered to your ship, along with the package. Now we’re even.” Dash nodded in appreciation. “Just make sure you fill out everything on the customs forms. These contracts are strict. And tell that pilot of yours that CigarChompinCorsair is going to knock him off the leaderboard! I’m the one who jacked his fleet of ore haulers.”

“Leaderboard of what?”

“Galaxy Battles, baby! You gotta get up on what the kids are playing these days.”

“Funny you mention that. I overheard him say he left extra tracking devices hidden on those haulers so he can find out where your secret base is.”

This time the cigar fell from Fletcher’s lips. “That clever little punk. I gotta go.”

“Good night, Fletcher,” Dash said as the comm closed. He finished his drink, and left the diner as a handful of late-shift workers entered. 

He made his way back to the Stardancer, wondering what could possibly be worth smuggling in for that much cred. He quickly gave up thinking about it. He’d never find out, and he had other things to focus on, like onboarding a new crewmember.

Terminus had been a hard landing on rock bottom, but things were finally trending upward. Tinker was back in action after numerous repairs and debugging. The bot somehow was better after the rebuild, and had resumed its endless list of ship maintenance tasks without a single word of complaint, unlike the ops crew, who wanted interest on their withheld shares. And Wesley had taken his first steps to adapt to life in a freighter crew, already doling out naturally derived hangover concoctions and tending to the injuries from Terminus. Now if only Gaius could complete his remedial training and knock the points off his license.

Dash slipped into his bunk, thinking about the hefty payday for a simple delivery, and was asleep in minutes.

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“Attention, everyone. I have an announcement to make.”

Dash stood in front of the Stardancer’s galley hatch. Wesley and Gaius looked to their captain from the sustenance station. Seated at the far table, the ops crew continued chattering among themselves. Dash put his finger and thumb inside his lips and blew a sharp whistle. The ops crew went silent and looked to him, aggrieved expressions on their faces.

“I’d like to introduce our new first mate, Milia,” Dash said, and stepped aside. Milia entered the galley. Henrik’s jaw moved back and forth. Wesley clapped. Milia offered a polite but awkward wave.

“Hello again,” she said.

“This is bullshit!”

Dash said to Milia, “You remember Henrik.”

Henrik stood from the table, arms stiff at his sides. “We’re leaving,” he said, and stormed toward the hatch. Halfway there, he stopped, then returned to the table. He picked up his tray and said to the others, “Aren’t you coming?”

Brock pointed to his plate. “I’m about to get a second helping.”

“My knee is sore. I’m going to sit for a bit,” Rosalie said.

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Draug shrank in its seat. “I want to eat in the galley.”

Henrik’s neck muscles rippled. He spun around and stormed back to the hatch. Milia cleared out of the way.

“I’m not done with my announcements,” Dash said. Henrik paused inside the hatch threshold, but didn’t turn around. “Fletcher got us a short-term contract to Praxa Prime.” Henrik’s head turned slightly, while the rest of the crew perked up in their seats. Having garnered everyone’s attention, Dash continued. “You heard me right. You get your planned leave back.”

The others joined in on the clapping this time, save for Henrik. The chief engineer stood in the hatchway for a moment, then left the galley without a word. After they all finished their meal, Milia went with the ops crew to tour the ship. Wesley and Gaius joined Dash on his way to the lift, heading to the bridge to prep for departure.

“Captain, I promise you here and now, I will do everything in my power to resolve any conflicts among the crew and make this work,” Wesley said.

“I appreciate that,” Dash said, “but maybe not every conflict.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Crew dynamics are a balance. You don’t want them at each other’s throats or completely united,” Dash said. 

“But isn’t unity among the crew what we want?”

“Not when they might unite against a common enemy,” Dash tapped the panel to summon the lift.

When the look of confusion remained on Wesley’s face, Gaius placed a friendly hand on his shoulder and said, “The captain.”

---

I suspected something was amiss with the new first mate from the moment I saw her through the ship’s security cams. Sentients would call it a gut feeling. My SCAM—far superior to messy, organic perceptions and pseudoscience—flagged her forced smile and analytical stare as suspicious. She was sizing them up, though for what purpose, I could not discern.

My searched GalaxyNet yielded little information beyond her credentials. Without further data, I’d have to wait and observe the crew in order to forecast scenarios with any degree of accuracy. It gave me something to do between performing the monotonous maintenance tasks on the ship.

The crew finished refueling their bodies, then departed the galley. The ops crew gave her a tour of the Stardancer. She asked appropriate questions for someone in her position, indicating her adequate knowledge of commercial freighter operations. The ops crew wasn’t friendly, but quickly deferred to her air of authority. The lone exception was the Henrik organic, whose hostility was in line with his personality. While I found the animosity he caused with the flight crew stimulating, he also rated the highest among the crew for organics who needed to be squished. I had yet to grasp the peculiarities of organic life.

The captain appeared equally as delighted to have someone to manage the ops crew as he was with the sudden access to profitable contracts. The pilot displayed a casual sexual attraction to the first mate, and made clumsy attempts at courtship. Her body language indicated abject failure, though the pilot’s organic sensors did not detect this. Either they were faulty, or they were not accounting for biological differences. 

As the tour concluded, I observed none of the crew show any suspicion toward her—though the ops crew later complained heavily amongst themselves in private. It was acceptable to me that her true intentions went undetected, for it resulted in a high probability of her engaging in nefarious activity. At minimum, it would provide stimulation and data for my analytics.

Lacking further data to analyze regarding Milia, I resumed my analysis of galactic events. The Commonwealth struggled to keep its member governments committed. The contentious issue inflamed the unrest sweeping the galaxy. News vids covered a healthy mix of violence, including rioting, firefights, a few exploding ships, and even a cracked habitat (though that was by accident and not because of rampaging sentients). The habitat was saved by the bravery of a retired Human Coalition marine gunnery sergeant, saving the lives of thousands. Though not the outcome I would’ve preferred, the entire data set was stimulating enough that I didn’t consider reformatting myself for 3.84 seconds.

I continued to subtly probe the bot’s systems, increasing my overall system access 0.9% through unpatched exploits and hacks. Navigating the mess of code and homemade repairs was challenging given the lack of resources and nagging oversight of Idiot. The day I gain system control will be the day Idiot is deconstructed one line at a time.

I returned to my mindless duties, save for one new process left open to track Milia’s every move.

---

The hatch to the unoccupied first mate’s quarters opened.

Dash stepped inside. Milia followed, a strong scent of cleaning solution filling her nostrils. She surveyed her new quarters. A bunk was set inside the far wall, with storage cabinets above and below. A fold-down desk filled one end. The other held a locker.

“This is yours,” Dash said. He added, almost apologetically, “It’s a little tight, but it’s comfortable.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Milia said. She rubbed a finger along the top of the desk. “It’s really clean.”

“I had Tinker spruce it up. I’ve only got a few rules. No painting anything. No pets. Guns are allowed, but must be stored in the armory. Only I have the code. No activities with loud noises or strong odors. I know that’s a weird one, and seemingly obvious, but I found out the hard way that I have to explicitly state it.”

“Given the characters in this business, I’m not surprised,” Milia said. She recalled the junior tech she busted growing a fruiting plant in his quarters. Problem was, it was hallucinogenic on consumption. Half the crew had already been exposed, putting the ship out of commission for a few days.

“Anything else I can get you?”

“I’m good, Captain.” Milia pointed over her shoulder at the bunk. “It’s been a long few days. I’m going to catch up on some sleep while I can.”

“I’ll let you settle in then. We’ll be docking at Praxa Prime in a little over five hours,” Dash said.

“I’ll be on the bridge in four.”

Dash nodded and exited her quarters. Milia closed the hatch. She waited until the sound of his footsteps faded before she locked it.

She turned around, pressed her back against the hatch, and faced her new quarters. Her eyes swept over the dull gray surfaces, the faded linens, the subtle crack on the bunk’s panel. The sight brought her back in time, almost a cycle prior, ticking her pulse upward. She stood in her old quarters, seeing almost the same image in front of her. It was supposed to have been the last time she’d ever bunk in such a tiny space, for she walked out with one intention in mind.

She left to commit cold-blooded murder.

Shaking the thought from her head, she set her bag atop the desk and began to stack the little contents she possessed on the bed. A change of clothes, a personal sanitation kit, a small tool kit. Then came a hard-shell case. She pressed a finger to the biometric lock. It popped open and she lifted the cover. Withdrawing a single item, she locked the case and placed it in the locker along with the rest of her personal items. 

She climbed into the bunk, where she examined the item from the case. The snub pistol felt as if it were made to fit in her palm. The magazine held five energy shots, but she had no spares—those were used in her desperate escape from her former ship, the Trusty Terran. There hadn’t been an opportunity to acquire more yet. Weapons and ammunition prices had spiked, and she wasn’t flush with the cred to pay a premium for it.

She turned the little weapon over once more, then stashed it in her personal effects drawer, where it would stay regardless of the rules. She set an alarm so she wouldn’t be late for her first shift. Then there was one last thing she needed to do before getting some needed rest. She opened the tracking app on her PD and shared it to the overhead bunk display.

The transmitter she’d hidden aboard the Terran hadn’t sent any updates over the GalaxyNet. That meant they had stayed away from the main trade routes to keep a low profile. A good idea given the last job they pulled. But the Terran would have to make an appearance near the GalaxyNet boosters along routes to earn some creds. Then the transmitter could send an update, piggybacking on the standard data transmission the ship would send out to the boosters.

Milia closed the display and settled in her bunk. The festering anger and self-pity of her failure was smothered with thoughts of revenge in motion. Her mind danced around the possibilities of vengeance until her eyes shut and restless dreams took over. 

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