The shuttle slid up against the station’s docking port, clicking into place with a ‘clunk’. Beatrice Estrada did a last check of her mercenary wear while Charlotte Pelletier sniffed with an upturned nose. Beatrice reminded herself that she was working on getting along with the chief tactical officer. She said, “Remember, we’re here for information. Violence is our last and final option.” Pelletier rolled her eyes, offended at the implication. Estrada was firm. “Raelin gave you firm orders, Charlotte.”
The Frenchwoman grumbled, “My incident rates have been on a downward trend.” She didn’t look her partner in the eye and busied herself with packing her satchel.
“One mission does not a trend make. Just…follow my lead.” Estrada zipped up her own bag and moved to the rear hatch. “Information only.”
“Information only.” The sigh at the end from Charlotte felt like resignation to Estrada. She would take what she could get. The docking ring rumbled open, and an indifferent dockworker greeted them.
“Welcome to Pole Station. Please scan your identification cards.” The computer beeped, and the haggard security door groaned open, shuddering with age and lack of maintenance.
Estrada grimaced inwardly at the sound and the sad state of care for the station. She led her partner into the dingy promenade, if that word could have counted. Half the lights flickered, and the smell hovering just above eye level bordered on pungent. The station’s paint scheme was at best boring and at worst further evidence of an indifferent engineering crew, if one even existed. Estrada glanced at Pelletier. The mixed look of annoyance, horror, and disgust was comforting and amusing to her. The XO walked further to the bar that had been in the briefing. Information usually flowed through places like this. They sat down on uneven stools, the leather cracked, peeling, and tattered. Ambience, Estrada decided instead of focusing on how clean the place was or wasn’t.
“What do you want?”
Estrada put her hand gently on Pelletier’s. “Beer. Two.” The portly bartender scoffed nonchalantly and slapped two ice-bathed bottles. She slid her credits across, and he hungrily grabbed them, stuffing them deep into his apron. He walked back to the other end of the bar, scrolling through his tablet, nibbling at what looked like a chicken wing. Estrada tore her eyes away and surveyed the rest of the place. Tired-looking faces occupied a few tables in the corner, and the music droned softly from a wall jukebox. They sat, slowly sipping. They both winced from the strong alcohol, but the medication they had taken to ward off its harshness brought them comfort.
Fifteen minutes passed.
Fifteen more.
Then thirty.
“Another?” The bartender was back. His eyes were more focused this time, and he seemed to give each of them a once-over. Estrada nodded, and two fresh bottles sans caps appeared. He didn’t leave this time, standing there and judging them. He asked, voice full of grating gravel, “You lookin’ for somethin’?
Beatrice shifted in her seat, quietly thankful that Charlotte gave her a slow, sidelong glance. “We’re looking for something, maybe someone. A shade or two of green, maybe.”
If the man knew what she was referring to, he didn’t show it. He stared at them for a little longer. “I might know something about someone. Or something.” He pursed his lips, wiping his hands with a dirty towel. “Might.”
Beatrice wanted to reach across the bar, grab the idiot by the shirt and slam him into the bar until he told her what he knew. It had worked before, but this was not then. This was delicate. Conversational. Besides, Charlotte was the muscle on this mission. She sighed, mostly for dramatic effect. A second later, she pulled her satchel up on the bar and ripped it open, slapping down three bars of latinum. “Might?”
The bartender’s eyes widened at the sight of the pressed bars. He licked his lips, and his fingers reached out for the shiny currency. “Oh, for that, I do.” Estrada pushed the bars, and he touched them, a crooked smile cracking his sweaty face. “Two green for three, I say. There’s talk of a green-blooded hostage, worth a lot over three. Valuable and for sale. Pointed ears and all that.” He pulled one bar at a time and set them down on the shelf below. “The other green, well, you know he’s not a nice one. Visits here once a month.” His eyes narrowed as he did math in his head. “He’s due here in three weeks, on the dot. Meeting up with some…council.” He shrugged. “I think that is worth three.”
Beatrice was catching her breath internally. Tougun was the latter clue, but the former? That had to be the missing officer from Montana Station. She grumbled theatrically and slammed two more bars down. “Will this get us a date with whoever’s selling the pointed ears one? We have need of something like that.”
The bartender’s eyes were wide now, and sweat beaded his face. “You drive a hard bargain. Yes. This will get you a date, dinner, and something more. Wait here, and I’ll find out.” He shuffled into the back.
Charlotte whispered, “That was unexpected.” She turned on her barstool, eyeing the bar and the promenade beyond. “If this is a setup, we must be ready to run. Fast.”
Estrada gulped.
Danger never seemed that far away from the Relentless crew.
