“Mutiny is not to be taken lightly, Henrik,” Rosalie said, cradling a frosted mug.
“You think I don’t know that?” Henrik replied. “But Dash has really screwed us over in coming here. Something needs to change before our livelihoods are destroyed, or worse, someone gets hurt.” The chief engineer drained the last of his beer. He set the empty mug on the strip of recycled freighter hull serving as the pub countertop, trying to think about something else other than punching his captain in the face. It was a daunting task given their heated argument after the confrontation with the Terminus dockmaster an hour earlier.
“You can bet on that,” added Brock. The technician’s big hands almost wrapped fully around his mug. The pale skin held a brackish hue, as if colored by a perpetual lubricant stain.
“I don’t think we should be talking about this in public,” Draug said. Its heavily lidded eyes swept around the pub like Dash himself might be listening in nearby. Seeing they were still in the clear, Draug gulped half its mug. Its brownish skin seemingly flushed a shade pinker with each drink.
“Relax. It’s hauler talk. It’s not like he hasn’t brought up mutiny before,” Rosalie said. She polished off her fourth mug like it was a glass of water. Brock grunted in appreciation.
Henrik slapped a hand on the countertop, startling Draug. “I mean it this time!” Try as he might, he couldn’t flush from his mind the events of the past day. Not with his temper already in a constant state of redline. It came to a head almost a cycle ago, when Dash had the audacity to critique the quality of Henrik’s maneuvering thruster calibrations. This coming from the man who couldn’t even be bothered to buy the correct parts for any of the repair work.
Nothing was ever good enough for Dash. He reminded Henrik of the head engineers at the merchant academy. Salty old cranks who rode everyone hard. The only explanation was Dash had to be jealous of Henrik’s academy education, while Dash somehow managed to con his way into getting his own ship.
Given all that, Dash’s surprise announcement was doomed from the start. Out of nowhere, he tells the crew the Stardancer is heading to a corporate mining station to pick up some medtech and take on a contract as a debt payment to his old captain, Boran. Besides taking on a crew member they couldn’t afford to pay, the ship was “randomly” inspected upon docking and slammed with safety violation fines for violation of newly-enacted Commonwealth commercial operational standards. Enough where Dash can't afford to say no to the contract.
Truth was, if it wasn’t for Henrik, the ship would fall apart in no time. Dash was just too stubborn to admit it.
“Do you realize how screwed we are?” Henrik said. “The mining guild has all the leverage. We’re going to get stuck with a bad contract.”
Rosalie gave him the knowing smile of someone who’d heard decades of “bad captain” diatribes. “I think you’re being dramatic.”
“And you’re being naive.” In Henrik’s view, Dash got complacent in a good economy, and the ops crew tolerated his mediocrity. Now, the galaxy was a mess, and he couldn’t hack it.
“But isn’t it our job to put up with Dash? He’s the captain, we’re the ops crew,” Draug said.
Henrik scoffed. He’d been on the ship the longest, and knew better. The flight crew always came first, while the ops crew had to make do with what they had. “The ship never puts in for major maintenance milestones, leaving us to pick up the slack. Meanwhile, that punk wannabe of a pilot keeps dinging up the ship and racking up fines because he’s too distracted with his ridiculous gaming life. And Tinker has had so many patchwork repairs it’s almost worthless, further putting us in a maintenance hole. Believe me, you’ll feel the same way soon enough.”
“I like Galaxy Battles,” Draug said. “Gaius is really good at it. You should follow him.”
Henrik stared at Draug. Thinking about the ridiculous space conquest game—with its unrealistic fighters and oversized warships floating in space and trading blows like lumbering giants—made him want to gag. “I’m going to pretend you never said that.”
“This is my tenth ship in my career. Overall, Dash has been the worst of the bunch with managing shares,” Rosalie said. “But given that it’s been only cycles since Auturia, I’d say he should get a little slack.”
“And Lords bless all those poor souls,” Brock said, and raised his mug. The others did too, and drank. A somber energy settled over the table.
Brock said to Rosalie, “Did you ever meet a Ferrulian back in the day?”
“Yes, I’m old enough to have met one,” Rosalie jibbed the big tech. “I worked a ship which made runs to one of their outposts. The few I spoke to were cordial, but they were also guarded. They didn’t embrace outsiders.”
“With good reason,” Henrik said. Two decades prior, the Ferrulian colony ship was destroyed as it attempted to land on Auturia, prompting the confirmation of the Reconciliation. The entire culture was wiped out in one horrific moment.
“On the bright side,” Rosalie said with a mischievous grin, “at least Brock can’t waste all his creds on booze and brothels now.”
Brock shrugged, mimicking her expression. “What else would I use creds for?”
“Dash has the advantage. It’s not like we can end our contract and hop on a new ship. The market is terrible right now,” Rosalie said.
“I bet he’ll pay that uppity medtech before he pays us,” Brock fumed.
Draug played with the straw in its mug. “Wesley seems nice enough. The captain said it will help us get more work in the long run and won’t affect our shares.”
“Please. Creds gotta come from somewhere,” Henrik said, and drained his mug. “This talk’s got me down. We need another round.”
“Do we have the cred?” Rosalie said.
Henrik waved at their bartender. “We’ll find out.”
The Ace of Terminus pub was located in what used to be the aft section of a Conestoga-class ore hauler. The industrial scent of processed minerals still permeated the establishment. The usually bustling bar was sparsely populated with a handful of other hauler crews. The Stardancer’s ops crew had been there since Dash and Henrik’s shouting match. The temps pooled together what little hard cred they had and left the ship while the flight crew followed up on Boran’s job. Rosalie suggested the cheap stuff to prolong their fun, but even that strategy had its limits.
The bartender stopped playing around on his datapad and sauntered over to the crew. “Looks like we ran dry here,” the pudgy man said.
Henrik showed the bartender his datapad. “How much can we get for this?”
“You’re short for another pitcher. But I’ll cover it, for all your captain troubles,” he said with a wink.
“Much appreciated,” Henrik said as the bartender left. “See, if Dash were that generous, he’d be doing a lot better with us.”
“How come he doesn’t take any of us to these contract meetings?” Draug asked.
“He’s old school. The flight crew handles business. We toil down below and do the real work,” Henrik said. “This mess wouldn’t have happened if I was in charge.”
Brock choked on his beer. Rosalie laughed and immediately covered her mouth.
Henrik scowled at the other temps. “Why is that so funny?”
“Look, I like you, but you’re not captain material,” Rosalie said.
“You’re a little too volatile,” Brook said.
“Screw all of you,” Henrik said. He squeezed his mug as he fumed, like an overloading power core. Then he caught himself and exhaled slowly. “Yes, I have a bit of a temper. But I’m angry about us not getting our shares. I’ve reached my breaking point with the situation. Don’t tell me you’re not either,” he said, and took the others’ silence as agreement.
Rosalie broke it first. “What’s your grand plan then, captain for a day Henrik?”
“I haven’t thought it through! I’m too busy keeping the ship together.”
“I see you’re serious about this,” Rosalie said, one of her eyebrows raising pointedly.
“To start, I’d do the opposite of what Dash would do. How’s that?”
“We could always try pirating. Heard that’s back in style,” Brock said with a grin.
“Booty has a different connotation here, my dear,” Rosalie said with a bigger grin.
The bartender returned with the pitcher as promised. The crew made quick work of the pitcher and decided to call it a night.
“I’m stopping by the refresher,” Henrik said, and peeled off as the others headed toward the exit. He relieved himself in a stall, then cleaned his hands at the sanitation counter. He relished his buzz, and wished he could’ve stayed longer.
A voice said, “Captain order you back to the ship?” Henrik was surprised to see the bartender standing inside the door. He moved in unexpected silence given his bulk.
“No, but if he tried that, I’d tell him off,” Henrik replied. “I’d stay here longer if I had the cred.”
“From what you said, seems like your ship operations could run a little better.”
Henrik eyed the bartender in the mirror, wary of his sudden interest in him.
The man stepped closer, a warm smile on his face. “What would you say if I told you I could help out with your situation?”
“I’d say you’re full of shit,” Henrik said.
“That’s always a possibility,” the bartender said. He placed a cred chit on the dull surface of the counter. “But I’m definitely full of something else.”
Henrik eyed the chit, then the bartender. His mouth salivated at the thought of another drink.
“Let’s talk. Maybe we can find a mutually beneficial solution to your woes.”
Staring at the bartender, Henrik opened a comm to Rosalie. “I’m going to hang out a bit. Head back to the ship.” He ignored her complaints and closed the comm. “I want top-shelf ale.”
The bartender smiled and gestured toward the door. “After you, my friend.”
Henrik left the bar counter, struggling to keep a smile off his face. He felt even lighter than the 0.9 standard-g the station provided. He touched the cred chit in his jacket pocket. He’d have to keep it out of sight of the crew. They’d demand to know where he got it from. Someday, he might tell them. For now, the secret was his own.
He weaved through the empty tables and sustenance stations, approaching the exit. Fashioned out of the former freighter’s airlock, its bulk loomed over the pub’s interior. He reached for the door as three stone-faced men dressed in pristine freighter crew garb pushed through. The stocky one bumped into Henrik, who bounced off the surprisingly sturdy body.
“Watch where you’re going,” Henrik said.
The stocky man’s beady eyes shifted up to meet Henrik’s. “Talk to me like that again, and I’ll break your jaw.”
Henrik squared up with the man. He found a hard and fearless face staring back at him. The man’s two companions had equally serious stares: one tall and dark with long blond hair, the other with a beard and weathered skin. What little sense remained in Henrik’s anger-riddled mind told him these three were not the normal dullards the he occasionally tussled with.
“There’s no need for that,” a voice said. Rosalie, hidden behind the bulk of the three men, skirted around them and stood next to Henrik. “He’s had too much to drink. We’ll be leaving now.”
“I’m not done,” Henrik said, glaring at the stocky man.
“Yes, you are,” the bearded one said, not so casual anymore. The three men parted their jackets enough to reveal a weapon grip.
“Time to go now, Chief,” Rosalie said. She wrapped her hands around Henrik’s elbow, guiding him to the exit with surprising strength. Once outside, she said, “You should be thankful I decided to come back for you. You almost picked a losing fight with recovery agents.”
“Bounty hunters?” Henrik said, and looked over his shoulder. The men were now inside the pub and out of sight. “Are you sure?”
“Please. It’s obvious. The outfits, the weapons, the general unpleasant demeanor,” she said, then seemed to notice the peculiar look Henrik gave her. “I used to be one back in the day. Small-time work, but ran across some other big-time agents.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Another story for another time.”
“Bounty hunters or not, that little guy was an ass,” Henrik said.
“So are you, my dear,” Rosalie said, and patted him on the arm. “Let’s not get killed because of it.”
The three recovery agents surveyed the pub. The patrons did not return the favor, for they were too focused on their drinks and vapor lines to pay attention to the newcomers.
Parr crossed his arms, a heavy frown on his face. “This looks promising.” He shot Cutter an annoyed glance. “What now, boss?”
“Grab a seat. Have a drink,” Cutter said. His focus remained on the other people in the room.
Parr managed a rare smile. “At least I’ll get a drink out of this.” He eyed the displays showing the bar offerings, and his smile faded. “Even if it’s cheap, homemade rock dweller swill.”
They sat at a small table near the bar. Parr and Bloek purveyed the menu. Cutter sat with his back to the wall. He scanned the crews in the pub, seeing none held the target.
“No bot server? No wonder the station is failing,” Bloek said.
“It makes for a more personal experience,” Cutter said. He was no longer watching the crews, his gaze now focused on the bartender.
“And how does that do us any good?” Parr said.
“Bots don’t gossip,” Cutter said. He nodded toward the bar.
Parr and Bloek looked in the direction Cutter indicated. Standing behind the bar, a pudgy man tended to a microbrew machine. He spoke in hushed tones into its PD.
Cutter stood. “But people do.”
