Page 9 of Alien Mercenary's Wife
The pattern was clear to anyone willing to see it. Question was, how long before her name joined the list of tragic accidents? And how much damage could she do to Nexus Dynamics before they managed to silence her permanently?
Her left hand cramped suddenly, her fingers curling up into a claw that took thirty seconds to release. The timer was running down, and she was running out of moves.
But she wasn't out of the game yet. Not by a long shot.
The holographic displayflickered above the command table, casting blue light across the faces of his crew as they studied the available contracts.
"The weapons job pays three times our usual rate," Tank said as she paced behind her chair, fingers tapping rapid patterns against her thigh. "High-grade military hardware, probably stolen from some imperial depot. We intercept, we keep what's useful, sell the rest."
T'Raal leaned back in his chair, arms folded, watching the debate unfold. This exact argument had played out dozens of times before as the crew picked the next job.
"Sure," Sparky countered from across the table. "But look at this one." He gestured at a different contract with a grin that made T'Raal wonder if humans had a death wish encoded in their DNA. Probably, knowing Sparky. "Explosive demolition on a corporate mining platform. Boom, crash, done. What's not to love?"
Fin pulled up tactical data with a frown. "Err, the fact it has a twelve percent survival rate? Where Tank’s pick has a sixty percent survival probability rate, based on the last known cargo manifest… We’re talking hardened shields and automated defense systems. The whole shooting match. Literally."
"Those are rookie numbers," Sparky chirped. "I've survived worse odds than that. Remember that thing on Korvain?"
"You mean when you nearly blew yourself up?" Red asked from her position at the engineering console, not looking up from her maintenance reports. "And took half the dock with you?"
"Key word being 'nearly.'" Sparky grinned at her. "Besides, explosions are just chemistry with attitude. Very predictable once you understand the molecular?—"
"The client reliability index on both jobs is questionable," Mayce interrupted. “The jobs history shows delayed payments,contract modifications mid-job, and one instance of outright refusal to pay."
Red snorted. “Yeah, no… We need the credits. Ship maintenance, supplies, ammunition... None of that comes free."
"What about this one?" Skinny's deep voice cut through the argument, the heavy-worlder's massive frame making his seat creak as he pointed at a different contract. "Cargo escort through the Veil Nebula. Moderate risk, decent pay, straightforward job."
"Boring," Tank muttered.
"Safe," Skinny arched an eyebrow at her. "Credits in the bank, no one shooting at us, everyone goes home intact."
"Where's the fun in safe?" Sparky asked, though his tone had lost some of its manic edge. There was one thing that got Sparky’s interest as much as blowing things up, and that was money.
T'Raal studied the three main options displayed. There was the job that Tank favored—dangerous but lucrative, the kind of job that would set them up for months. Then, Sparky's demolition nightmare that would probably get half of them killed. Bringing up the rear was Skinny's sensible escort run that would pay the bills without unnecessary risk.
"Tal?" he asked, glancing over at their medic. “You got an opinion? You’ll be the one patching us up if this shit goes sideways.”
The ship's medic looked up from the readouts with a grimace. "If we hit resistance on the weapons job we’re talking probable casualties. Combat injuries and possible fatalities if we're unlucky. The demolition... I'd recommend updating everyone's wills and next of kin details first."
"Cheerful," Red muttered.
"Realistic," Tal corrected. "The escort run means maybe some minor injuries if pirates decide to test us. Nothing I can'thandle. I might even get lollipops for the medbay if you’re all good girls and boys.”
“Asshole.”
Tank leaned forward, her hands flat on the table. "We're mercenaries, not merchants. The dangerous jobs pay well because they're dangerous. That's the whole point."
"The point is staying alive long enough to spend the credits," Fin replied.
"Look." Sparky's usual manic grin faded, his expression growing serious. "I know the demolition job sounds mental, but the target is a corporate facility. They've been dumping toxic waste into inhabited systems. Someone needs to stop them and fast.”
T'Raal raised an eyebrow. It wasn't often that Sparky revealed the moral compass hidden beneath his chaotic exterior.
"The weapons shipment could be heading to slavers," Tank pointed out. "Or worse. Military-grade hardware in the wrong hands..."
And there it was. The real reason Tank wanted the job. Not just the credits but the chance to make a difference. To strike back at the systems that had chewed up soldiers like her and spat them out broken.
He studied the display for another moment, weighing options against personalities, risks against rewards. His crew was family, and like any family, they each needed different things to stay healthy and whole.
