The Star Pirate's Folly

Chapter 32: Needs

Optima's capitol city Understone sprawled across miles of caverns, hollowed out over the years to excavate the valuable resources within and create living space for new residents on the planetoid. A domed crater at the city's surface level housed those who could afford the rent—others, like Fix, found cheaper space below.

The stocky mechanic slouched over his dwindling cup of lotus wine, tracing in his mind the route home from the bar. His single-room dwelling, little more than a pressurized cell, was one of hundreds that branched off a section of an old ice tunnel. Another one or off to bed, the familiar debate. His fingers found coin in his pocket. Fix downed the dregs and rose for another cup.

As he stood a gravelly voice from a corner table called out to him. "Hey, Fix! Didn't see you there. You heard the news from up top? Snub told me he passed the message along to all you scrappers."

An involuntary wince flashed across Fix's face. He removed it before he turned to join the table. "Tjarko. Didn't see you either. Yeah, Snub told me. Ten thousand coin—pretty good for one job."

"Great!" shouted Tjarko, raising his cup. "Looks like we got another recruit!"

A cheer went up from his crewmates and Fix swallowed as he shook his head.

"Sorry, Tjarko," he said. "I'm staying put this time. Family orders."

The five men lowered their cups in unison.

"You heard what Snub said," Tjarko said. "This is straight from Boss Hawk. You gone out with our crew before. We already got twenty grubs, two more ships. We need every pair of hands we can get, Fix—especially mechanics. Could be a long float going after Anson."

"Whoa, Tjarko. You gotta see where we're coming from here. Anson don't jack around and Starhawk, man—"

"What about Boss Starhawk?" Tjarko demanded, the question a challenge.

Fix glanced around the bar, took stock of the occupants. A handful of other Family members, none of them fellow Donovans, and Tjarko's men outnumbered them all. "Council ruled on it. Starhawk's no Boss—ain't even Family anymore. No reason for me to stick my neck out for him. Especially not going after Anson."

"Coward." Tjarko spat at Fix's feet.

Fix took a step back, crossed his arms. A firm stand was needed or Tjarko would walk all over him. He couldn't let the insult go unanswered, spoke loud and strong. "I'm not shipping out with a bunch of leaky-brain shitheads flying scrapheap floating coffins. Not against Anson. Not for Starhawk. Hump that, bud, I'll keep breathing. You want to go against the Council's ruling there'll be more than just Donovans after you—the Families are together in this."

"Fine, coward," said Tjarko and spat again, this time on Fix's boot. "You want to bend a knee to the Core-dwelling scum that's your choice. Starhawk's on his way out here, victorious after sieging Surface. After my crew takes out Anson for him we'll be rich, and after him we'll move on to the rest of the privateers. With the Core Fleet back home the whole outer rim will be ours. This is the beginning of a new age, Fix. You're with us or against us. Think hard one last time. Whose side you want to be on?"

Fix thunked his empty cup down on the table and met Tjarko's glare with unblinking hickory-brown eyes. "I'm a Donovan. Starhawk's not Family anymore and neither are you. Best of luck, though."

He turned to leave with his heart exploding in his chest, every muscle in his body goading him to run, but he kept his shoulders back and his head held high. Fix felt the target on his back, the hairs on his neck rigid in warning. Keep walking, he told himself, just get home. They see you run with your tail curled under you're a dead man anyway. After he entered the tunnel and started moving—with more than a few sly backward glances along the way—his heartbeat slowed and Fix relaxed.