Zero Sum

Patrol

"What is he saying?" Kabuki mask asked out loud. Having turned off the masks voice modulator, the voice was clearly female.

The rest of the heist crew knew perfectly well that she was not asking them.

"Vector and I have an, understanding. I gather intel for him, and ask no questions or eavesdrop on his personal communications," Doc Plypro replied.

"You must be such a saint. Helping out a hired killer. While collecting a sizable part of the rewards for yourself."

"My dear miss, I merely provide a public service. What is done with the information I obtain is for my clients to use as they please."

"That public service include recording your clients activity in secret, and selling it to the highest bidder."

"My dear, information is a commodity. I simply facilitate getting that information to where it wants to go."

Kabuki mask had stopped listening and was typing what looked like a keyboard wrapped around her forearm.

"Your fee has been transferred now Doc," Kabuki mask kept on typing without looking up and added, "tell me, have you been feeling any nausea lately?"

"I have no heavenly idea what you are getting at I feel fine," the Doc replied rather harshly.

"Act tough all you want Doc, what you are feeling are the effects of a toxin. Try all you want you will not be able to diagnose it in time, I promise. Oh wait, you have already figured that out now haven't you?"

"You snarky little bitch, I know a bluff when I hear one, I have heard them all and you don't scare..."

"Sector WAH4E..."

"Alright, alright enough!" the Doc's demeanor had gone from sour to desperate. "What do you want?"

"I need you to hack again, this time, into the live feed of Satellite Reunion."

"You henpecking little tart, that station is a..."

"I know how this is going to go, you are going to try and object, saying only a crazed person would hack into a Galactic Cooperative owned station, and I am going to say you can and will do it, but let's save each other the trouble, your toxins aren't getting any younger."

-----

"Satellite Reunion." The automated voicing system for the space station began. "Request for exit granted. Confirmed. Proceed to Bay 3."

"Bay 3, what a stupid name," grumbled one of the space travelers. There were over a hundred on this station alone. With many others either in free orbit, or part of a space elevator.

"At least it's better than calling it Bay C," returned another traveler. "Or worse, Bay B."

"Heh, Bay Bee has my vote," said the first as he mounted his spacecycle, "speaking of, I need to pay a visit to my bootylicious side piece when we get back on the ground," licking his lips lasciviously. Vice Dragoon was not known for his subtlety.

"Get your rocks off on your own time Dragoon," replied Rife Endleton, his fellow traveler, "we have a job to do now." Endleton typed up some numbers on a levitating keyboard, logging this excursion into the job log. As protocol dictates they should.

"Go kind yourself Endleton," the word 'kind' being the vernacular used out here for the act of intercourse, "I have jurisdiction over my sector and my body."

The hanger bay release procedure began its countdown. "Dragoon, you'll smear the entire planetary campaign," Endleton, ever the stringent one, "and I am waiting for your E-signature on here," he motioned to the levitating monitor above the keyboard.