by S. A. Lusher
The small man turned, crossed the room and offered his hand. “My name is Sergio Davis. My associate's name is Sharpe. We represent a corporation interested in your services.”
Trent shook it, easing himself back down. “Which corporation?”
Sergio hesitated. “We'd rather not say.”
“What kind of job?”
He opted to lean up against the wall, crossing his arms. Sharpe had fixed him with her insectile gaze, her mouth a small twist of a grin, as though daring him to try something. Sergio moved back to his original position.
“Secret, I'm afraid. The details I can give you is that it will likely be dangerous, take you out to the edge of known space, you'll be working with a team and you'll have access to whatever equipment and arsenal you can think of. Also, obviously, you'll be very well paid.”
“How much?” Drake asked.
“A million credits. Each.”
Drake glanced at Trent, who was staring at Sergio, trying to measure the man up. His speech was flawless and seemed calibrated, every word measured carefully. He was a businessman to the end, a corporate dog.
Nowadays, the corporations were so massive they were practically their own societies. They rivaled the government. If a corporation wanted something, it could have it, though they may have to jump through a few hoops. The government was always watching, though, for the most part, the companies were allowed to do their shady deeds as long as they didn't break the fragile surface tension of galactic society.
When he was younger, Trent had once asked what was even the point? Why try to hide the dark deeds at all? An older, wiser mercenary had told him that no one corporation could stand up to the government and the military. Perhaps they all could, collectively, but the corporate life was a cutthroat one, and no one trusted each other. On top of that, you never knew when the government might decide they needed a sacrifice and choose you.
So the corporations hid their darker operations and worked largely with mercenaries. What was throwing Trent off was the fact that they had sent someone, personally, to a particularly seedy part of the galaxy, to hunt the two of them down and make the offer in person.
“Will you tell us anymore about the job if we accept?” he asked finally.
“Yes,” Sergio replied simply.
Trent and Drake looked at each other. Drake nodded, imperceptibly. He was in. Trent considered it for a moment longer.
It was a lot of money.
And who knew? Maybe this was that special something. Maybe this was the job that was going to really matter to the galaxy.
“All right, you've got yourself a deal.”
Chapter 02
–The Journey–
Drake was getting dressed. Trent sat on his bed, smoking, staring off into space.
“So, what do you think?” Drake asked as he cinched the belt on his jeans.
“Seems shady,” Trent replied.
Drake laughed. “Yeah, that much is obvious. Shitload of creds, won't tell us any details. But apparently we'll be working with a team. I wonder if it's anyone we've worked with before.”
“Dunno. Maybe, maybe not. I guess it depends on their motives, what they want. Which company do you think it is?”
Drake slipped on a t-shirt. “Might be one of the mining corporations. They're usually the ones who stake claims out at the edge of known space. Maybe they dug something up and they want a team of tough guys to make sure it gets to where it's going.”
“What bugs me is...why hire us at all? If it's a big secret, why not send the company mercs out to do it?”
Drake began lacing his boots up. Trent decided it was time to get packed. He stuck the cig in his mouth, turned and began putting his belongings back into his duffel bag. It was the only thing he carried. Both men agreed traveling light was for the best.
“You send company mercs, you draw attention, maybe. Harder to hide it when it's within the company,” Drake replied.
“No it isn't. Company mercs keep their mouths shut. Guys like you and me blab.”
Drake seemed to consider it for a moment. Trent finished up, then turned to look at him. His partner was already packed and ready to go, but he had a troubled look on his face. Trent shouldered the bag, shifting it into place.
“Well?” he asked.
“The difference between freelance mercs and company mercs is...fewer people ask questions when the freelance mercs die,” Drake said finally.
Trent frowned, staring at him. “You think they're going to take us out there and kill us?”
“Once we get the job done, that's always a risk.”
“Should we back out?”
Drake shrugged. “Two million is two million, though dead men can't spend good money. However, when have we ever not been able to out-think the corporations?”
Trent considered it, then grinned. So, a challenge, then. “Okay, let's do it.”
* * * * *
With nothing but their clothes and duffel bags, Trent and Drake walked into Gibson Station's main hangar. Sergio had given him a ten digit number to contact him on. When Trent had made the call, Sergio had given them a docking number in the main hangar and told them to be there as soon as possible. With something like regret, Trent had called up Marie and told her he'd found a job. She'd been less than thrilled and hung up on him.
Trent frowned as he and Drake waited to be scanned through security. The whole notion was honestly a joke, and Trent imagined most of the security personnel's creds came from mandatory bribes. But Gibson Station was technically run by law-abiding citizens, so they had to at least put on the bare basics of a show.
His headache still lingered somewhere in the background of his skull, and the cacophony of voices and bright lights started to bug him. He just wanted to be on whatever ship they were boarding and take a nap.
A sharp, rapid beeping caught his attention. Drake had just stepped through a scanner and suddenly two beefy security guards appeared in front of him. Trent sighed and stepped through the scanner as well.
“Don't move,” one of them said. They both had their pistols out, and Trent spied another half-dozen security guards around.
“What's the problem?” Drake asked.
“You two have firearms on you,” one of guards replied.
“Yeah, so?” Trent asked.
“You got permits?”
Trent sighed. He and Drake had never bothered with permits, because they were absurdly expensive and the kind of places they usually hung out in didn't bother asking for permits. He considered it for a moment.
“Fine, I get the message. How much do you want?” he asked.
“You think we can be bribed?” the other guard asked.
Trent hesitated. What was going on? This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He scanned the crowd again and saw nothing out of place.
“Well no shit, dumbass. I bribed you guys on my way in, hoping I wouldn't have to on my way out. This is a seedy, run-to-shit station in the middle of nowhere. You cater exclusively to criminals, mercs and soldiers. Why do I even have to explain this to you?”
“I'm afraid you're going to have to come with us to the detention center.”
Someone cleared their throat, garnering everyone's attention. Sergio and Sharpe stood on the other side of the security center.
“They're with us,” he said.
“Whoop-de-fuck, I don't care, they have to go to the center,” the guard replied.
Sharpe took a step forward and the pair of guards took a step back. Sergio held up a hand. “If you don't drop the matter, I'll have you all fired and burn your bank accounts to the ground. Do understand me?”
The guards glanced at each other, then back at Trent and Drake, then at Sergio. They sighed and stepped out of the way.
“Fine, get the fuck out of here.”
The pair of mercenaries moved through the security checkpoint and joined Sergio and Sharpe. The four of them moved across the area, headed for one of the docking chambers. Judgin
g by the security hanging around the entrance, Trent figured it to be a private bay. He tried to guess the name of corporation by studying the guards, but they wore bland black armor, free of logos or any distinguishing features.
“You don't have your permits?” Sergio asked.
“Fuck no. We're not pissing away twenty grand for two documents that say we can carry guns when we can carry them just fine,” Drake replied.
“Huh, didn't know they cost that much,” Sergio murmured.
“They do if you're a freelance merc,” Trent said.
They moved past the guards and into the private bay. The roaring sound of the transit hangar was cut off abruptly as the door closed behind them, and Trent let out a small sigh of relief. He stared around the small but cozy bay. Everything was wipe-clean and shades of sterling white and chrome. The windows were smooth and pristine and clear. Each wall held a single airlock bay and there were a few more security guards inside.
“Why do you maintain a bay here?” Drake asked.
“None of your business,” Sharpe said. It was the first thing she'd said to them. Trent had expected her voice to be deeper.
“I'm afraid I must agree with Sharpe,” Sergio said, apologetically. “The fewer questions you ask, the better.”
Trent stared out the windows near the airlock they were approaching. A sleek black ship waited for them just beyond.
“Whoa, nice ship. Like a space limo,” he murmured.
The circular airlock doors divided into pie-slice segments as it opened up, individual pieces sliding into the wall. The quartet stepped into the bay and waited for it to cycle them through. The far door opened and they stepped in after an uncomfortable moment of relative silence. The interior of the ship was small, but comfortable.
Trent was bemused to see that his previous assessment wasn't off the mark. They stepped into a plush, atmospherically lit room occupied by a host of deep, luxurious chairs. There was a bar across the room and end tables beside each chair and couch. Trent spied a small but high-tech kitchen in the corner, cast in gleaming stainless steel and glass.
“Wow,” he said.
“We like to travel in style,” Sergio said with a grin.
He walked to an intercom on the far wall and spoke softly into it. The subtle sounds of the ship disengaging from the airlock were muted.
“Settle in and enjoy my private reserve, gentlemen. We're going to be in transit for a few hours, then we'll link up with another ship for the final leg of our journey,” Sergio said.
Trent looked at Drake. They both smiled and crossed to the bar. From a glance, Trent saw that Sergio's private reserve was worth ten times what they'd made during their last job. There were a few bottles of wine from the early twenty two hundreds. Trent grabbed a bottle, then turned and studied the others.
Sergio had his face buried in an infopad, studying up on something. Sharpe had taken a seat in a chair that seemed designed to hold her huge frame. She sat perfectly still, her arms on the armrests, her black lens eyes staring directly at Trent, a small smile on her lips. Trent turned away from her. He'd never admit it, but she creeped him out.
He tore out the cork with his teeth and took a drink directly from the bottle.
It was going to be a long flight.
* * * * *
Trent decided that his assessment was right. It had been a long flight. Two hours and Sharpe hadn't said a single word. He hadn't gotten drunk, not really trusting the two corporate dogs he shared a cabin with. By the time they docked with another, larger ship, he had a nice buzz going on that soothed his background headache though.
Presently, he, Drake and the other two were shoved into another airlock. Trent had studied the ship as they approached it. There hadn't been anything else around, as far as he could tell. No nearby stars, no planets, no moons, nothing.
They were truly out in the middle of nowhere, deep in the dead space.
The interior door opened and revealed another, larger lounge with a handful of people milling about. They all turned to look as the door opened and everyone stepped out.
“Finally,” one of them, a thin man with bug eyes, muttered.
“Sorry we're late,” Sergio said. “But now we can be on our way. I think it would make the most sense if everyone introduced themselves now. You all know me and my associate. You all need to work together as a team. Let's go around the room, name and specialty.”
Trent went first. “Trent Stone. I'm pretty good at shooting people.”
“Drake Winters. I also shoot people with a decent level of skill and I like to play with bombs.”
There was a brief, uncomfortable silence, then the man with the bug eyes spoke up. “Stephen Baxter. I'm a genius with all things technical. Systems, gear, vehicles, guns, you name it, I can make it work.”
Trent sized him up, wondering how he'd do in a fight. Probably not all that good. He was tall but thin, kind of gangly, all awkward limbs and unhealthily pale skin. He kept his head shaved bald and that only made his eyes seem to pop out even more. He paced about the room ceaselessly, chewing on his fingernails.
“Gideon Stewart. People typically hire me for protection.” The next man to speak was black, enormous and muscular. Trent immediately decided that he didn't want to go up against him in a fist fight. The man must have been six seven or six eight, at least. There were small nests of wrinkles around his eyes. Despite his hulking appearance, everything about the man spoke of a relaxed composure. Even his voice was quiet and reserved.
“Tristan Webber. I'm a freelance medic. I work well under fire.”
Tristan was tall, slender and well-built. Her black hair starkly framed her pale face. Her eyes were lit from within, though from a no doubt razor intellect than from anything technological. She leaned casually against one wall and had an air of immense calm about her. She'd been studying an infopad before they'd come in.
“I'm going to come right out and say it now, so that no one gets angry later. I'm a company man. My name is Trevor Yu. Let's just say I'm a tech guy.”
Trevor had Asian features, as well as a medium height and build. He kept his dark hair buzzed close to his skull and the amiable smile he had on seemed right at home. He wore a professional-looking blue zippered jumpsuit.
Trent realized Drake was staring at Trevor, and smiling. Trent glanced at Tristan, who had gone back to reading her infopad. Well, maybe there could be fun to be had for both of them. Two days was plenty of time to hop into bed.
“Okay, everyone knows everyone. Living quarters are to the right. They all have your names on them. Everything you should need is there. Relax, mingle, drink, I don't really care what you do. We don't need to speak for the next two days,” Sergio said.
With that, he and Sharpe headed through a door to the left, which, presumably, led to the bridge. Everyone looked around at each other. Tristan sat down and kept looking at her infopad. Stephen turned and left, heading into the living quarters section. Trent had a hunch, and decided to play it. He approached Gideon, who had taken a seat. Drake followed. The pair sat down across from the massive mercenary.
“Gideon...you seem familiar. Have we worked together before?” Trent asked.
Gideon pulled out a narrow cigar and lit up. “Yes. We did. Two years ago, we were all hired to play courier for the Black Rock Mining Corporation. Micrometeorites hit our ship, compromised the hull, we barely managed to get to our destination.”
Trent's eyes lit up. “I knew it! Man, you were fantastic on that job. So calm and cool. How long you been doing this?”
“Forty eight years now,” Gideon replied. He sighed out a big cloud of smoke. “Probably gonna be doing it for another forty eight. If I'm lucky.”
“Damn. So, have you heard anything about what we're doing?”
“No, they wouldn't tell me shit. Normally I don't do jobs blind, but I've been bored lately. In a rut. I decided it was time to shake things up, do something stupid, maybe. How about you two? I remember both of you being pret
ty competent yourselves on that job.”
“We've been at it for damn near twenty years,” Drake said.
Trent considered something. He doubted if anyone had been told anymore more than he had about their job. His eyes fell on Trevor. The young tech was seated across the room, staring intently into his infopad. Trent decided he should pay the tech a visit. Kill two birds with one stone. Try to get info and get Drake closer.
Trent stood. “Let's go see if the company man is willing to spill the beans.”
“I'm cool with that,” Drake said, standing as well.
“Go ahead. I need to go unpack,” Gideon replied, standing and heading for the dorms.
Trent and Drake crossed the lounge. Trevor looked up as their shadows fell across him. He offered the pair a smile.
“What can I do for you gentlemen?” he asked.
“What is Sergio being so tight-lipped about?” Drake asked.
Trevor laughed easily. “I'm afraid I can't tell you anything about our mission. I've been sworn to secrecy. All I can say is I think you should enjoy this calm before the storm. You should take a load off, relax.”
“I don't suppose you could help me relax?” Drake asked.
Trevor didn't miss a beat. “Maybe, I guess it depends on what kind of relaxing is going on. But,” here he stood, “if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I need to go forward and speak with Mister Davis.” He crossed the room and left.
“He totally wants the D,” Drake said, staring after him.
“I dunno, man, I don't think he's into dudes,” Trent replied uncertainly.
“Whatever, you don't know what you're talking about.”
“Uh-huh...well, now what?”
Drake seemed to consider it for a moment, then shrugged. “Relax, I guess.”
Chapter 03
–The Arrival–
The next two days passed in bits and pieces.
Drake learned that Gideon had a love of chess, and even carried a small, magnetized set with him. The pair spent several hours in the lounge, chins in their hands, eyes glued to the board. Tristan seemed to like to spend time out there as well, seated in a big reclining chair with her shoes off, feet tucked up beneath her as she read an infopad.
