Wilhelm had never seen a teetotalling hunter before. In fact, that was the precise opposite of the usual tendency.
He was nursing a scotch, and asked the bartender for more ice, all the more to nurse it longer.
He got up and approached the newcomer's table and asked if he could sit. Receiving a gesture somewhere between neutral and affirmative, he did so, and gestured at the insignia on the man's armour.
"Not sure whether to address you as 'Reverend' or 'Father' or 'Chaplain', but I recognise your unit. The four-fives got chewed up very badly in the Taus. I don't suppose that was an easy experience."
The man looked down at his exoskeleton, clearly intending to indicate thereby that, oh yes, indeed, the experience was considerably less than pleasant.
Wilhelm continued, a little pessimistic, but not to be discouraged just yet.
"I also see you're browsing for work. I wonder..", he began, sipping his scotch, "if you had ever contemplated steadier work, free of some of the, um, sleazier elements of the business."
"I was never a Chaplain. I took holy orders after my time in the Marines. Father would be the appropriate form of address. Reverend is a style, not a title." Father Keane took a drink of his water. "Steady work, you say. That depends on what the work is. Jobs like 'recover some stolen blueprints and kill the thief' or 'Mr. Scheisskopf was caught sleeping with the local Guild boss' wife, make an example of him' aren't why I'm out here."
The priest took a moment to consider the man across from him, deciding if he should say more or not. In the end, he decided it could do no harm.
"I'll start by answering the question that brought you over here, but you've been too polite to ask. Then, you can decide if there's a place for me with your group."
Keane paused again for a moment.
"You're wondering why a priest is here, doing this. My name is Father Robert Keane. I was, as you've read from my armour, a Sergeant in the 45 Commando Royal Marines. During the Battle of Tau-31, my unit was assigned to one of the BAF's destroyers defending the Holman terminus. The Navy boys did their best, but the position was quickly overrun and our ship was boarded by enemy marines. In the fighting that ensued, my entire unit was killed and I took shrapnel to the back from a Kusari grenade. I managed to drag myself to a nearby escape pod and made it back to Harris. Doctors there told me I'd never walk on my own again and gave me a medical discharge."
Father Keane took another drink of his water before he continued.
"Not all the injuries I received were physical, though. During my recovery, I struggled with alcoholism and guilt for surviving when so many good men and women didn't. I was looking for a reason why, and a purpose for living. The Church provided both. After I was discharged, I attended the seminary, and after receiving my ordination, I was assigned to a church on Leeds.
No need to guess what happened next. Life under Gallic occupation was hard, but I served the needs of my community as best I could. The Gauls didn't consider a crippled priest to be much of a threat and allowed me to continue to hold services. On the final days of the war, word came from the local resistance cell that the Gallic Navy was about to begin bombarding the planet's surface. I gathered my flock, and any Gallic civilians that wanted to come, and took them to the resistance's evacuation site.
It was chaos everywhere. The Gallic authorities were too concerned with their own evacuation to try and keep order, and most didn't even try to prevent anyone from leaving. Even so, it took us a while to make the journey, well after the bombardment had begun. Once we got to the evacuation site, we loaded on to a shuttle piloted by a Crayterian journalist, I think her name was Olsen, who had decided that saving lives was more important than covering a story. We made it off the planet and through the Gallic lines without incident and thought we were safe once we entered the smog cloud on the way to New London.
It wasn't to be, sadly. We struck a mine which took us out of cruise and disabled the shuttle. The journalist was killed immediately, but everyone else survived. While everyone was disoriented, a larger vessel latched on to the shuttle and we were boarded. We were worried that the Gauls had caught up to us, but the situation was far worse. We were caught by slavers instead, taking advantage of the evacuation. The men who boarded held all of us at gunpoint and looked each of us over, deciding who was worth taking and who wasn't. They shot the ones they found unfit and took the rest onto their ship. When they came to me, though, they let me live, leaving me alone on the shuttle with the dead members of my flock. During the boarding, they towed the shuttle well off plane and out of most ships scanner range, so maybe they thought a crippled priest wasn't worth a bullet when failing life support would do the job just as well. Maybe they just enjoyed letting a man die alone, slowly and without hope of rescue.
The why of it didn't matter. I was alive, and that counted for something. After they left, I managed to repair the ships' comms well enough to send a simple SOS pulse. Life support was nearly gone when the BAF finally tracked down my signal, but I lived all the same."
As Father Keane finished his story, he drained the last of his water and looked the Rheinlander square in the eye.
"Twice now, the Lord has seen fit to spare my life when better people than I lost theirs, and I've finally come to understand why. In Tau-31, my injury and discharge set me on the path to God's service. At Leeds, he showed me the face of true evil, embodied in Gallia's butchers and the slavers that took my flock. My service in the Marines and my faith in God has given me the skills and strength of will to face down evil, and with the Lord as my shepherd, I have faith that I will triumph. I have no time for recovering stolen property, or destroying ill-placed weapons platforms. Every day, I search these job boards, looking for true evil, and I send them to their final judgement before they can harm any more innocents.
So, tell me, do you have a place for a man with a mission from God?"
Wilhelm put his drink down, and put his hands together under his face. He looked like he was praying, and self-consciously stopped once he realized that.
"Father", he began, "I think we have a place for you. Even more than that, really."
Keane looked at him quizzically.
"We don't do the jobs you're describing, the ones you do not want. We go after the real troublemakers. And we are paid by the legitimate authorities to do it."
He continued, "But we have a lot of different sorts in our group. All are professional to varying degrees, but some of our pilots are hotheads, liable to take risks and get themselves or someone else hurt, or worse. They are mostly ex-BAF, and certainly you know the type."
"You could help me temper some of that enthusiasm. Does that suit you?"
His drink finished, and his offer, Wilhelm awaited a reply...