"Pensive, da? Thank you for the drrink, tavarisch, it'll help me relax after hours spent in Nyx's tight cockpit."
Pavlov sat next to Neville, in front of the window.
"Goddamn Bretonian fascists, taking over yet another planet"
"Fascists?" Neville asked.
"Da. Bretonia is a mix of bloodlust capitalism, represented by BMM, official monarchism showed by the aristocracy, while masses experience famine and are forced to eat livestock feed. There's also practical military dictatorship ruling the country during the war. "
"Fascade of kingdom with powerless queen, " - Pavlov continued - "military dictatorship working with fat bourgeois capitalists caring only of themselves. It's classic example of fascist state, tavarisch."
"military dictatorship working with fat bourgeois capitalists caring only of themselves. It's classic example of fascist state, tavarisch."
Neville frowned as he took another sip
''I never really looked at it that way. It makes sense, in a way. Though they say all is permitted in love and war. And at the moment the military is all that's keeping my business running, even though it's not safe. But let's talk about something else. I am a freelance trader, or at least I was until recently. If I would give up this business, what business do you offer in return? That, I would like to know...''
Neville was surprised at his confidence. The alchohol was reassuring he was on the right path. Or clouding his judgement, he couldn't tell. He looked upon his new made 'friend' and waited for a reply.
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"Stop gambling. You'll end up dead", Martin replied dryly. "You must have used up most of your luck surviving that wound."
Martin sat up a little straighter. "So. You're here looking for safety. Protection. A new life, perhaps. One with fewer stabs to the stomach." He rested his index finger on the table between him and Johnson. "Right here, men have changed their lives."
Martin leaned back again, and stayed silent for a few seconds before continuing. "Perhaps yours could be changed as well. Knowing who stabbed you, and why, would be helpful in figuring that out."
Johnson was a bit skeptical. Mireen was the last person who seemed to take an interest in him, and she did that through her own means. She never asked him what she wanted to know, she simply knew it. Now the issue is whether this fellow doesn’t know or wants to look like he doesn’t know.
Johnson looked down at the index finger on the table.
He already knows who you are. What do you really have to lose, boy?
He held up his hands.
“This seems to be your roof. I suppose you’re entitled to know who’s under it.”
He leaned forward as much as he could to gauge the young man’s reaction.
Nada.
“A corsair decided my body needed an exit for my blood supply. When I was young, I knew his brother. Bastard of a man, killed dozens of refugees on Gran Canaria. Well, one day it became my job to represent him in the justice system. Met him in a bar one day, something or other happened, and I ended up falling. Caught his throat on the way down, and I probably broke something.”
Didn’t you want it, though? Truly? Killing a mother holding her baby. Despicable.
“A friend of mine smuggled me off the planet.”
And you killed him, too. Spill those beans while you’re at it?
“Met Mireen at one of the Freeports, but I honestly don’t remember which any more. She knew my parents and supposedly knew me when I was a boy.”
How’d they die again?
“She gave me that ship docked in the hangar, told me some places I could go to make some money. She told me more Hispanics would be looking for me. Over the years, learning how to avoid people had the possibly inadvertent effect of allowing me to find other people who wanted to do the same.” Something tells me this fellow knows a bit about that. He doesn’t give it away, though.
“What else is someone supposed to do when they’re given a fighter? ‘Fight-er.’ Pretty self-explanatory. Maybe it would be different if she gave me a ‘Trade-r,’ but too late for that. I tracked cargo, ships, parents, children, families, whatever someone wanted found.”
Then did whatever they paid me for once I found them. I feel like he knows about that, too.
“Regardless, the Hispanics found me, and now I find myself here. Mireen seems to be controlling my life from afar in a fitfully despicable way.”
Johnson motioned to the young man’s datapad.
“I used to have one of those. Had the entirety of Gran Canaria’s libraries on it. I thought one day I could read through every pixel, imagining it being a dusty, crumbling page.”
Johnson leaned back in the booth, his core on fire from trying to support his weight upright against the table.
“I’ve wanted a new life day after day, night after night. Now, I just want to keep the one I have.”
He put his hand on his side.
“So tell me, who just wasted ten minutes of his life to hear about a knife fight?”
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Martin reached out and shook the man's hand. "My color is Cerulean." He let go of Johnson's hand and smiled - a genuinely friendly one, for a change. "Blue, if you insist."
He poured his new, unfortunate, friend a glass from the bottle on the table.
"I'm afraid you'll have to make do with that for now. Not many know my old name, and I'd like to keep it that way."
The tablet came into play once more. Martin remotely accessed the hangar's scanners.
"The Sabre? Robust, easy to maintain. Not a bad choice."
A self-satisfied smile appeared on his face as the device showed the scanners' full readouts.
"Military-grade weaponry and armor plating. You didn't just find people, did you?"
Both he and Johnson knew this question didn't need an answer.
Martin leaned forward, put his elbows on the table, and his hands together.
"You're in luck. I represent the Reaver Mercenary Company. We do what you once did.."
He grinned.
"..But better."
"There is safety in numbers, and you need safety. I need numbers. Perhaps we could help eachother out."
He relaxed and leaned back again, waiting for the man's reply.
Zero to amicable in 3.6 seconds, and I got a drink out of it.
Johnson raised the glass to his lips and took a small sip before dipping his fingertips in the alcohol. He stuffed them under his bandages, letting it burn at the curled edges of the wound.
"I'm not sure how much use I am to anyone in this shape, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't appreciate your offer. Never owed anyone much of anything before. Made my own way on my own time in my own fashion."
He readjusted the dressing on his abdomen, the blood-soaked cotton sticking to his skin and tugging at it with all of its might.
"Things change, it seems. I used to collect debts from less-than-stand-up type folks in the Edge Worlds. I suppose you do the same, but if you've got a crew behind you, I assume you've found more of those people than I ever did."
Johnson pulled out a white, chalk-looking rod.
"Mireen let me have this to seal the wound on a temporary basis. Two weeks out in space was probably a bit much. If you don't mind letting me take care of this whole . . . situation, I'll do you and your company the same good will you've done me. Since you seem to know more than I've ever told anyone about that ship of mine, make some use of her in the meantime if you can. She’s taken care of me as well as could be asked."
He put the rod back under his bandage.
“Mr. Blue, let’s see where our lives take us from here and whose lives get taken on the way.”
Johnson finished his drink in a few visibly taxing swigs. First one I’ve actually been able to finish in a month. Cheers.
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Martin leaned out of the booth and gestured towards the back of the bar.
"There's a clinic in the back. They can't work magic, but they should be able to patch you up."
He signaled for a waitress.
"Take your time to recover. I need you to be able to perform your best. That's what our contractors expect."
"What can I get you today?"
Martin looked up at the waitress, then pointed at the bottle on the table.
"A glass. And tell the boys at the clinic to be ready."
He nodded at William.
"Mr. Johnson here needs a few stitches."
"I'll be right back, sir."
Martin had a quick look through the Sabre's equipment on his datapad.
"Although I appreciate your offer, I have no use for her."
He chuckled. "The Sabre, that is. Not to mention that I'd definitely scratch it."
"However, some of our contractors have technology you might be interested in. Guns in particular. We could have your Sabre reoutfitted by the time you're ready to fly. Of course, that's up to you."
“I’d appreciate the retrofit, truly. She’s almost in the same condition now as when I got her, and being outmatched was more common than I’d like over the past few years. I’ll be ready when she is.”
The waitress gave Johnson a curt smile, her eyes drifting to his bandages.
She’s seen much worse, though. If that’s the case, I’m sure I can get sealed up just fine here.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll find my way to the clinic on my own after a few minutes. Never wanted to get too comfortable sitting here, but this bench is a welcome change.”
He turned to Cerulean.
“And while I’m down for the count, let me know where you picked up that tablet of yours. I’ve been too long without mine.”
"Starting to feel it, tavarisch?" - Pavlov smiled - "It's good you asked about it. The Coalition always needs more gyeroys capable of transport pilotage.
Our supply lines are stretched, sometimes it's difficult to ship materials unnoticed. Coalition transport fleet, although small, is crucial to our liberation efforts. The people of Sirius, workers and farmers longingly await to be freed from the capitalistic opression.
Every delivered container with supplies brings us closer to that goal, to the victory of our right people's-democratic Cause. It's a great honor to become Coalition shipping captain. You'd see a good portion of Sirius which is unavailable for vast majority of Houses' inhabitants, meet people from similar-minded organisations, experience living in a blessed political and economical system....
Da, tavarisch Neville. There's no greater luck a man can experience than being a citizen of the Coalition..."
Neville looked into Pavlov's eyes. The inner fire burning inside his soul could almost be seen in them.
Neville stared at the face across the table from him for a moment. Just for a second he was sure he saw a flame in the reflection of the strict eyes. He was sure this man was passionate about this group. He wasn't driven by money, or personal gain. He was there because he wanted to be there, 'had' to be there. It was both frightening and appealing to him. He made the decision... He drank his last gulp hastily and let the glass bang on the table to show it was empty.
''Let's get a move on. You lead, I follow''
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