A door to Harper’s left had gone unnoticed for some time until it suddenly hurried open. It wasn’t the kind of slide that was customary for automatic doors; it was the jolted kind that happens when it suddenly detects someone about to walk directly into it. Harper watched a twig-like figure, dressed all in black, twist itself to get through the panicked door in time. The frame belonged to a woman who immediately approached the counter. She wasn’t the traditional kind of pretty, but she was just pretty enough for Harper to instantly forgive her for cutting in front of him.
The woman didn’t waste time saying hello to the clerk who was still rummaging through the paper files. She simply called out to him. “Monty, I need the black box files for a ship, please!” The clerk leaned forward and squinted to see the words on his side of the screen.
When Harper stepped to the side slightly, he heard jeers and enraged comments in languages he didn’t know. The words he did recognize were not worth translating in a lady’s presence. He glanced at Gally and then back to the crowd. “It’s, uh, it’s okay. She’s with me.” He looked as surprised to say it as she did to hear it.
She certainly was not with him; she looked like she had spent three days on a transport and come right here. He didn’t spend too much time looking at her hair, which was tied back, but he did see the last remnants of some eyeliner. Even then, he had to make it look as if he wasn’t looking.
Red letters were typed up across the translator screen on their side: Sure, Gally, be right with you. The clerk had answered her some time ago, but the letters remained on the screen.
In his travels, Harper had learned that the easiest way to make conversation was to find something about someone’s appearance that was noteworthy. When done correctly, it should be about something someone intentionally included, such as a brooch or a unique hair color. But seeing as how Gally was dressed in all black, looked exhausted, and smelled like a long transport ride with a diverse clientele, all Harper was left with was a name and a skin color. “So, Golly, huh? Is that Hispanic?”
Gally’s head turned, almost in surprise, as if she didn’t expect—or have time for—him to speak to her. Then her expression softened, and he watched her acquire patience. Once again, he pretended not to care. “It’s Gally. And no.” He did notice her face change slightly before a small, mischievous smile approached her face as she looked away from him. “I’ve been told it’s actually Elvish.” He wanted to laugh, but it didn’t sound like a joke.
The clerk came back with a manual that rivaled a phone book of the 1990s. It hit the desk with a thud, and the dust puffed into his tired eyes as he looked up above the text, which somehow read as passive aggressive: Can I get you anything else? A “sir” was added after a great pause.
“No thanks, uh, Monty. Just the black box for my friend here.” He pointed to Gally and leaned on the counter with a casual smile at the clerk.
The smile wasn’t returned. In fact, it was ignored all together, as the administrator talked directly to Gally. The words manifested more quickly and casually: You got the access codes?
Gally cringed in apology, knowing she was inconveniencing him. “I don’t. I’m late for two meetings. Can I send it to you after?”
The clerk pinched the bridge of his nose. After some more deep mumbling, the red text appeared again: What’s the name of the ship?
“The Ballpoint.” Her smile seemed out of surprise that she was actually going to get what she needed.
The clerk held up an index finger and walked to the back again.
Harper did his best to ignore the eyes he felt on the back of his neck during a silence. From the back, he swore he heard the racial slur for ‘typical Human’.
“You’re a pilot, right?” Gally eyed his navy green jumpsuit.
It took him a second, but he nodded and responded. “Yeah, I’m uh–” he couldn’t think of a follow-up thought. “I’m a pilot.”
“What’s your contract number? I need a pilot for a job I’m lining up.”
“Sure!” He fumbled through his pockets and pulled out a pen, writing it on the back of a nearby license application. “Here you go,” he said, quietly and needlessly.
“Thanks.” After taking it, she eyed it and folded it up, watching the clerk come back. He slid a small USB drive under the desk, and Gally took that too. “I’ll be in touch.” When she looked back at him, she gave him a small, confident smile before walking away at her usual hard-to-keep-up-with speed.
Harper’s smile didn’t leave his face after she departed. This was a smile that was given to the clerk, but not intentionally. This was a smile that said, “I just gave a cute girl my number”.
The clerk replied with a smile of his own. Being in a blindingly good mood, Harper took it to mean “way to go, buddy”. In reality, it was the kind of smile that didn’t reach the eyes and really meant “get out of my line, asshole”. Harper proudly took the mountain of a manual off the counter, patting it twice before giving an unreciprocated wave goodbye to the clerk.
Jupiter Proximity Station:
Jutt’s Tavern
Nitro sat across a small, dirty table in a crowded, metal-walled tavern full of rowdy transients and travelers. He had a drink in front of him, and leaned on his elbows. His eyes were serious and focused, having recovered from the mistake of looking at his team to see Boomer attempting to juggle detonation tubes. “Fifty grand.” His tone was elevated, due to the noise level around him, but it was firm and intense.
Across the table sat a fat Hoxer, a dog-like humanoid with a trunk and wide ears. He chuckled to himself as he leaned backward, his trunk squirming into the bowl of liquid in front of him as he spoke. “A Ruxian class shuttle isn’t worth fifty new!” His mouth closed as his trunk pulsated a little, his drink slowly draining. “No, I’m afraid thirty-five is the best I can do.”
Nitro stared at the man, his athletic frame curling into a hunch over the table. He shifted his weight before making a counter-offer. “Forty.”
“Done.” The Hoxer replied immediately while holding in a belch. He leaned to one side and pulled fifty thousand currency from his pocket. His furry fingers dashed over the slab-like data squares, counting out forty thousand over to Nitro’s side of the table. He did so in a pleasant tone, as if he’d outsmarted some local color.
Nitro bit his lip as he watched the currency be flung to his side of the table. He was also counting, having been displeased by the Hoxer’s tone the entire time. He glanced over to his team and saw Ox angrily place oranges on the counter before snatching the detonation tubes from the surprised-looking demolitions expert. Josie and the captain met eyes, and she patted the others on the backs as a sign to finish their drinks.
“Your insignia.” the Hoxer’s trunk slowly wormed over and pointed to the plaque on Nitro’s chest. “What’s it mean?” He made conversation while his hands continued counting.
“Means ‘captain’,” Nitro said with a flat tone and even flatter eyebrows.
“I understand, but what’s its origin? Captain of what division?”
Nitro’s eyes darted up for a moment, as if annoyed to describe a band no one had heard of before. “An independent one.”
The Hoxer chuckled again, this time more condescendingly. “Independent? I didn’t realize you people were so organized.” He gave Nitro a half-amused, half-pitying look. “Or that numerous.”
“Yeah.” The captain looked down once the chips finally stopped flowing. “There used to be more of us.” Something called to him, a dark part of his past in the back of his mind, telling him to rip that trunk right off the Hoxer’s face. But he was older now, and he told himself he was in control of such urges. So he resorted to tapping on one of the chips with an index finger. “Speaking of, there’s a hole in the windshield.” Originally, this information was going to be omitted from the conversation. The Hoxer would discover he’d been taken for a ride once the Purple Company was long gone. But he’d made the same mistake as many enemies on the battlefield:
he’d made Nitro mad. The shocked expression, albeit one that still had a trunk, was all the solace Nitro would be given. And it was almost enough. The captain stood up and slid all but one of the currency tablets into a bag, which was then handed off to Josie as she approached. Nitro wouldn’t look at the Hoxer again, out of fear of losing control. As the rage goaded him once more, he compromised with it and let out an angry grin as he clapped the Hoxer on the shoulder. “And a body in the cockpit,” Nitro added.
The flustered buyer began to protest, huffing and turning angrily. But before he could stand, his argumentative face and arched trunk were met by Ox and the rest of the scrappy-looking group. The Waykind raised an eyebrow and gave the slightest daring smirk to the Hoxer, who promptly returned to his drink.
Jupiter Proximity Station:
Government Building 17C
Dry shampoo was the best friend of any traveling female government employee. This was because showers were, apparently, a luxury. They—along with restful sleep, decent food, personal space, and silence—were not to be found on a public transport ship. Now that new eyeliner and lip balm had been applied, Gally recalled her college days of lobbying against government employees using luxury vessels for business travel. How wrong she’d been.
Against the familiar sound of her heels clicking through the halls of the office building, she began to mentally bury the events of the past few days. All the grief, the pain, the anger, it would all wait; it would all need to hide, for the time being. The only indication of it all, as she approached a large doorway, was how tightly she clung to the tablet in her hands. Two security guards stood on either side of the door, and she was happy to know she still possessed the ability that made people clear a path for her. She opened the door herself and walked right into Col’po’s office as he was in the middle of a holo-call.
Large portraits of legendary alien diplomats and political leaders—some of whom Gally had actually met—hung on the burgundy walls. Other than that, and the furniture shaped for every body type imaginable, the office was decorated in the fashion of a twentieth-century American president. And while Col’po had about as much responsibility as one, he wasn’t nearly as revered or well protected.
He was the most Human non-Human Gally knew, and she had quietly found him amusing for this. Over his tusks and patches of rough brown fur along his pink skin, Col’po wore a massive three-piece suit and carried just as much “another day, another dollar” as any Human adult. She could see it in his beady little eyes, the relief of seeing her walk in.
He pretended to look concerned as he assuaged the neon green flashing figure in front of him. “Terribly sorry, your Floshness, but something just came up. Keep me informed of the conflict, please!” The neon figure promptly dissipated as he pressed a stubby finger against the holo-phone. After a moment to collect himself and sigh, he looked up at Gally. “You know, I really should hire someone to come barging in like that. Comes in handy.” She smiled as she took the closest seat to his desk. Politely, she waited for him to begin the conversation. “It seems I owe you one. What do you need?”
She gave him an apologetic look as she started, picking the worst possible subject she could recall. “I need access to the Kova-Nine report.”
One long, bushy eyebrow rose above Col’po’s beady black eyes. After a moment, he responded. “What?”
Knowing this report was well above her paygrade and security clearance, Gally came with a good excuse. “I’ve got evidence that implicates Tollo Dune in the sabotage of the air vents, and I just need—”
Col’po massaged his head with one hand as he interrupted her. “Admiral. Admiral Tollo Dune. And for shit’s sake, Gally, there are things at work on this thing that—”
“Just one hour alone with it, then!” she pleaded, leaning forward on his desk. Had anyone else interrupted him, he would have been irate. No one else in this building could do such a thing, but no one else was as familiar as she’d become.
He sighed and leaned forward as well; his naturally foul-smelling breath was covered up by copious amounts of breath mints. “I want you to understand,” he started slowly, “that when I say ‘no’, I’m doing it because I care for you and your safety.”
She couldn’t help but smile. Their years of working together never really seemed to come into conflict until this subject, and she was happy to see him be so gentle. “You’re a good representative, Col’po.” She twisted a bit with a wink. “Probably my favorite.” She rose from her seat.
“Yes, well,” the politician smiled, which pushed his tusks apart as he leaned back; all in all, he seemed happy to see her be done with the issue. “You’ll be perfect for this job, once it kills me,” he joked.
As she stood, coyly, in front of his desk, she laughed. Gally had begun to walk away, running her hands over a recliner with more twisting shapes than one could possibly perceive as being comfortable, when his tone changed once more.
“Gally.” His voice was deep, rumbling, and concerned. She froze, out of respect and because she knew what he was about to say. “How are you?”
It wasn’t the usual ‘how are you’ when you meet someone at work. Those kinds are usually met with a kneejerk and insincere “Good, how are you?” This was different; it was weighted and encompassing. The veil she’d placed in front of her grief faltered for a moment. Her eyes watered; she suddenly felt as if she was standing in mud.
She took a moment, her tan face showing a hint of pink as the corners of her mouth seemed to wrestle a frown into a smile. It was the unconvincing, sad smile of a girl whose entire life revolved around the comings and goings of the military.
“Go home.” Col’po used her silence to push the moment forward. “I approved you for bereavement time yesterday.”
“No,” Gally immediately shook her head and responded. “No, I need to keep busy,” she sniffled.
The representative nodded, looking down. In these moments, he’d noticed other Humans offer that one could let the other know if anything was needed. But his species had their own way of dealing with grief, and he translated as best he could for her. “Your weight is mine as well,” he told her.
“Thank you,” she nearly whispered as she wiped her eyes. Once a somber moment had passed, she went to the door. Before she opened it, she looked back at him. “Oh,” she sniffled again, looking back at him with a weak voice. “Something came up on Sabile, and I want to extract Martin Collier.”
Col’po furrowed a brow as he tapped his desk. “Why do I know that name?”
Gally’s tone grew calmer, more casual. “He developed the Carbonic Mutator. The Heruleans took him before they surrendered.”
Col’po shrugged and tried not to wave too dismissively. “Sure, sure. You have the docs?”
She nodded as she approached the desk once again. With greater care than necessary, she held out the tablet and put it over the desk. He pressed his large thumb against the device, and it gave a beep after scanning. “Thanks.” She still sounded vulnerable as she turned away.
Before she closed the door, Gally let the grief fall from her face. She looked angry, determined. She’d just been approved to take off her leash.
Jupiter Proximity Station:
Refueling Station A
The Atticus was a sturdy, albeit small vessel. Her frame was sleek where it could be, and long where it needed to be. A navy green steel frame carried tight, firm wings and a large transport area for cargo, people, or anything else her clients could think of. She sat upon the tarmac at the Jupiter Proximity Space Station, watching the stars twinkle past the effervescent blue atmosphere shield that kept her pilot breathing. Her AI was currently housed in a metallic black humanoid frame that helped load empty cargo crates as refueling finished up.
The AI’s frame detected the pilot’s key coming back within vocal distance. It then detected his voice. “Sydney, run a diagnostic on the media player before we leave.”
It did not look up from moving the crates as it answered,
“media player is unresponsive.”
Harper’s eyes rolled behind thick reading glasses. “Yeah, I know. I’m trying to find out why.” He wiped the remaining mustard from his mouth as he finished his approach; the giant owner’s manual was tucked under his arm. Every day, he experienced some form of buyer’s remorse regarding his ship. Sure, she was dependable where it counted, but all of her bells and whistles had fallen off, one by one, in the course of a few years. It was a wonder Sydney still functioned, although he found himself arguing with it like an old spouse.
Before helping load the containers, Harper stopped, just short of entering the vessel, and watched the AI work. Maybe he’d been in flight for too long, he considered, as he tried to focus on what needed to be done to get home. The jobs were taking a toll on him, and they were becoming more and more work for less and less pay. Not to mention the monetary cost of the career: This fuel run alone nearly took half the pay of his last job. Deciding against entering the ship just yet, he approached the fueling station, shaking his head in disbelief as it churned out a receipt.
“You fucker,” he groaned as he ripped the receipt from the station’s mouth and crumpled it into his pocket, having already felt the big bold numbers take their bite out of him.
Sydney twitched to stand upright, and Harper caught it in the corner of his eye. He walked into the cargo bay, waiting for it to notify him of an incoming message. A green light flashed on the top of what would be the frame’s scalp.
“Incoming contract,” Sydney’s metallic voice carried out from within the cargo bay.
Harper smirked before he kicked some trash out of the way, approaching the frame. He knew it was from the girl at the administrative desk, and his eyes twinkled with curiosity. He sat on a crate in front of it and leaned his elbows onto his knees. “Sydney, open contract.” He had expected her to contact him, but not this quickly. Perhaps one more job wouldn’t be so bad, he thought. At the very least, he’d get to know more about her.
Stars Gods Wolves: Book One: Carrion Page 4
