Art:Space Pirates/Amar's Story
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Amar's Story
Professional Courtesy
by Abiona
“Damnation!” My heart thundered as I charged down the steel-grated bay. The contract had to be aborted with no chance of recovery. Cover blown. The rhythmic pounds of my heavy boots melded with the constant hum of the orbital generators – a second heartbeat racing against my own. I skimmed around the hull, glancing off of a stack of cargo containers adding to the cacophony, as the Hackney lurched into view.
The old girl was still sitting there, faithful as time. The other passengers in her hulking belly didn't raise their heads as I buried myself among their anonymity. Drab colors and faces worn bleak by years of drudgery rested in the rows of a transport only taken by the truly desperate. I tucked myself into my cloak and faded into my seat. No one would remember me by the time we hit Calliope Space Station. They never did. For them, I was just another phantom on an already blurred voyage.
With a groan, the Hackney detatched from the refueling ship. I caught a glimpse out the viewport as the shield parted to allow our departure. A chill coursed through my veins. I huddled down further. Probably just the adrenaline wearing off. The ship rumbled, from idle into full speed. We were off.
A short time later, I sat in a bar on the Calliope Space Station, the recirculated air easing wrinkles out of my clothing as the sharp alcohol in front of me eased the wrinkles out of my mind. I had encountered an old contact while boarding the station, and she now sat across from me at a small, dingy table. Her dark skin caught highlights from the flickering fixtures. She was watching me, eyes narrowed, wary.
"Stop it, Afya." I cleared my throat. "You know I'd tell you if someone put a contract out on you again. It makes it more fun that way."
The arms dealer's proud face drew into a haughty grimace. "Last time you told me was about three seconds before the shooting started, Amar."
"But still, I warned you." I held up my left hand. "And you got your licks in," flexing my four remaining fingers. "That's the point. Shall we say- a professional courtesy? So what's going on in your part of the galaxy?"
She rolled her eyes.
"Nothing but trouble, of course-" I snorted at that. When Afya was involved there was always trouble. She glared. "This time it's not entirely my fault. There's been a large, anti-Terran movement rimside. I'd stay away from there; after my last trip, both sides are hot."
It was my turn to roll my eyes. "Afya, my dear, you always did know how to take advantage of situations..."
She bared her teeth at me in what might have been a smile or a warning. "Amar, my dear, you always did know how to turn what should be a compliment into a deadly insult." She stood, throwing a few common trade markers onto the table. "Watch your skin, hunter. Things are going to boil over out there soon." She stalked off.
There was so much to think about. My last job may as well be scratched; my target knew he was being pursued, and the dossier indicated that he was far too smart to not muscle up before I had another chance at him. Perhaps it was time to go rimside. With all the trouble brewing, there was bound to be some enterprising upstart interested in my skill set. Let's face it, their dirty work was my meal ticket. I finished my drink and left the bar with a shower and a bed on my mind.
I ducked inside the tiny room- locked, bolted and barricaded the door. Paranoia is a nasty thing, but it had kept me alive on more than one occasion. The bathroom, if I could call it that, was about a square meter. I showered quickly, unsure if I came out cleaner than when I went in. I brushed off the last resident's filth, laying down on the pallet.
Hours later, I awoke with the plan to head rimside firmly in my mind. Something was making me uneasy, and I wanted off the space station. I felt too confined; there was definitely a finite amount of places to hide aboard, and the metallic tang that permeated everything, including the food, was starting to nauseate me.
Some sort of luck was with me today, I found passage on a ship heading rimside easily, though it did take most of my meager supply of trade markers. The owner, Devonjer, was on his way off of the station to pick up some sort of cargo. I didn't pay attention. The thing that impressed me was the ship. The Stella was light, swift and eager to go. The thought of being able to outrun whatever was distressing me was a comfort, and that was enough to decide me. I paid my fare up front. We departed immediately, leaving Calliope's spinning hubs to melt behind us.
For all that Afya had described it as a veritable powder keg, the outer rim was far too quiet. All my fears came crashing back, and they hit hard. There was hardly any traffic, and what was there did not illustrate a politically charged, rebellious planet. Sleepy merchant ships droned in the space lanes- there weren't any starfighters, and hardly any armament on the cargo vessels. Devonjer deftly guided the Stella into a trade lane, opening a communications line to check planetside chatter and receive docking permissions. It was too easy. Too ordinary. My instincts screamed that the rim was a very bad idea, and I cursed Afya for taunting my greed.
The hazy orange atmosphere rumbling around the planet shifted and swirled, growing larger in the viewport as we hit the approach vectors. Two snub-nosed light transports arose from the mist, the blue engine-glow highlighting the atmosphere as they punched their boosters and shot into space.
The communications board crackled and we received docking clearances and customs directions. Devonjer turned the ship up on her fin, and we were making the approach. The orange nimbus of the lower atmosphere was filled with storms, churning and roiling, but the sleek ship slipped through with hardly a shift in her set course. Devonjer let her down gently on the landing approach in the spaceport, hitting the boosters just a little more to delicately slide the Stella into a bay. I shook his hand, grateful to have arrived safely, and ready to be on an actual planet again, but also clinging to that small delay before having to face my unease about the conflicting evidence before me. I swung down out of the hatch, surveying the spaceport. It seemed just as busy and eerily normal as the trade lanes had in orbit. I had made it to the rim with my skin attached, now I had to find a job opportunity.
Out on the streets, dust swirled. The small city radiated from the spaceport, bright sun shining down on the narrow, neatly laid streets. Outside the spaceport, vendors hawked their wares under tiny canopies that were meager protection against the blazing assault of the sun. The streets seemed to be filled with a mix of Terran, or at least humanoid figures and aliens, with very little open animosity. I could almost smell tension in the air, though, and my eyes were open for trouble, my hand on my pistol. I sauntered into a local bar just off the main thoroughfare. I needed to make my first connections on the planet soon, or I risked running out of trade markers.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I surveyed the bar and its denizens. I sidled up to the counter, and ordered a drink. I was the outsider, so I paid before my drink was delivered. To my surprise, a mottled green hand put a marker out before I could.
"Let me get that for you, yes," the alien said, a dark, surprisingly melodic cadence to his voice evidencing the fact that the common trade tongue was not his only language.
"Thanks." I knew I recognized him from somewhere, but I just couldn't place it.
"Come, let us talk, yes, we shall sit and talk, yes, talk our business."
That was it! He was some sort of hunter as well. I was in luck, it seemed. I followed him over to a table. We sat, and I lifted my glass. "To business!"
"Yes," the alien replied. "Business. You have quite a reputation in our line, Svensson. I had hoped to chance upon you when I heard you had taken a ship out to the rim." Mentally, I had to wince. So much for keeping my plans private. The alien continued, "I have a job I cannot complete without aid. Have you taken a contract with anyone here as yet?" The alien surveyed me calmly, no expression whatsoever in his eyes.
"Not yet," I replied, a frown creasing my brow.
"There is a target- a high profile Terran- I cannot get close enough, with all the rumors and mistrust flying around out here. You would be able to, how shall one say, infiltrate far more easily than I."
This seemed a perfect place to take advantage of the political situation that was brewing. I couldn't be too careful though. Shrewdly, I asked, "and the pay?"
"Thirty percent of what was offered to me, which, I assure you, Svensson, is quite a sum." The alien steepled his fingers and perused me.
"Fifty," I said, not batting an eye.
"Thirty-five. You are an outsider, and you are not going to find a better offer. You are reaching for what is not attainable, Svensson. Let this make your reputation here. Do not play games with me."
I was in a spot, and the alien knew it, but I couldn't resist one more jab. "Half of that up front."
"Done." A rustle in a shoulder pack and two envelopes were passed to me. "The first is your pay, the second contains a location. You will go there and pick up an information packet- it is a drop intended for me."
"And your name, so I can find you when the job is completed?"
He laughed, a grating, wet sound juxtaposed to his voice. "You may know me as Delinvir, human."
We each left the bar separately, he before I, his tail lashing fitfully. I stopped around the corner to lean against a wall and slit both envelopes open with my dagger. The voucher went into a pocket in my vest to be cashed at my earliest opportunity. I surveyed the passers-by as I read the note with the location. It was in a spiky, foreign hand, but, thankfully indicated an area near the spaceport. I began to retrace my steps, and soon happened upon a market selling local produce and hand-crafted items. I meandered among the stalls, my attention focussed on the handful that were unoccupied. The signs had been indicated in the letter carefully, and before me suddenly was the very one. I ran my hand underneath the counter, then over the top. My fingers caught on a lip at the very edge, and I carefully slid a tray out and palmed the contents.
Weaving back through the market, I stopped, buying a small, green fruit from an eccentric old man. He cackled and smiled, and I nodded back, some of my unease lifting. It was just playing politics out here after all, the same as back near the core worlds. I bit into the heavy fruit, and found it to be delightfully juicy, with a berry-like taste that made my mouth water for more. The warm sun and the comforting crinkle of the voucher brightened my mood.
I read the contents of the drop as I walked. A roughly fleshed out dossier was presented to me as well as a grainy image. A naval captain on leave... this target could get me in more trouble than I had originally thought. It was no matter, though. The paper trail lead right to Delinvir, and I could be long gone before any fingers were pointed at me.
Stepping out onto the main thoroughfare again, I licked the juice of the fruit from my fingers. Without warning, a hand was clamped over my mouth and strong green arms dragged me back against a building. I struggled, but my distraction had cost me precious seconds- my arms were pinned against my sides, and I couldn't grab anything that would help me.
"Thanks for picking up the drop for me, yes..." My ear caught that off-putting vocal cadence once more. "Consider the pay a... professional courtesy, yes... though I doubt you will need it..."
I felt a sharp pain on my left temple, and my vision went black.
