All is Fair Ch. 02

He picked up the registration and scanned the tag into his holographic interface, then checked her picture on the ID to the captain's details on the ship's details, then turned to check it against her appearance. It was odd, just like countless officials over the years, the customs guard before her had seen her face on the ship's credentials and again on her ID, but they never seemed to actually see her until they looked right at her. Bethany was a good-looking woman, maybe not quite elevated to the dizzying heights of "hot," but she took care of herself and took pride in her appearance. More than that, men seemed to be intimidated by attractive, well-dressed, regal-looking women; a dressed down freighter captain with no makeup and her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail seemed to be much more achievable. The guard's eyes widened a little as he took her in; his back straightened, and his lips curled into a fairly attractive smile. "Um..." he fumbled his words as he tried to compose himself. "What is the purpose of your visit to Fort Collins?" he finally said, trying to look professional and aloof while succeeding at neither.

Bethany smiled. A genuine one this time. She had been single a long time, so fucking herself to release on some stranger was not beneath her, and if this guy was a decade older, she might have considered it. But he had that look that just screamed, "I would show you the time of your life... until you got naked, then you would have to show me what to do, 'cause my game, experience, and general understanding of human anatomy ends there!"

"Business," she replied politely. "Should be heading back out tomorrow." pre-empting his next question.

He nodded and tapped her responses into his system. "Any packages, bags, or luggage being brought through security with you today?"

"Nope, just me."

He smiled again, "Port Collins has the right to inspect any ships using our docking bay with or without the presence of the crew. As the Captain, you will be liable for any contraband found in these inspections and can face up to 25 years imprisonment if found guilty of trafficking or smuggling offenses. Can you confirm you understand for the record?" She had heard that script more times than she could count, but she was a clean Captain and had nothing to worry about.

"Understood, loud and clear." she nodded. Being inspected in an Imperium port wasn't just routine; it was expected. But she understood the need for the spiel. "Is Jango's still open?" she enquired in as friendly a voice as she could, asking after a certain beverage-serving establishment she had enjoyed on her last visit to Port Collins a few months earlier.

"Yup," the guard smiled, "It's still going. I'm actually headed over there after my shift." He added with a somewhat optimistic smile and a less-than-subtle glance at Bethany's cleavage.

"Maybe I'll see you there then...?" she smiled at him as he handed back her documents.

"Err, Tony..." he answered with a nervous grin, "Tony Albright."

"Thanks, Tony," she winked, tucking her ID and Freighter documents back into their pouch. "See you later."

"Later, Ma'am." His eyes followed her as she headed toward the main concourse and the traders' emporium, his attention only yanked back to his job by an impatient cough from the guy who had been behind Bethany in the queue.

She chuckled to herself and strode on.

Every major port in the Imperium had a marketplace like this. They may have varied in size and grandeur... and general odor... but they were all more or less the same. If you were lucky enough to land a contract directly with one of the big industries or with the planetary governor themselves, you were usually allowed to land directly in the destination city or in one of the sprawling industrial complexes dotted around the planet. But if, like Bethany, you just had a general cargo you wanted to offload, that meant finding a buyer, and those buyers knew where to congregate to get first dibs on the newly imported goods. Over the years, those merchants had grown their little stores into large, well-presented offices where all manner of cargo could be bought and sold without ever having to leave the port facilities. If a captain was in a rush, they could have their old cargo unloaded, their new cargo loaded onto their ship, pay the extra to receive priority refueling privileges, and then be back in orbit within two hours of landing.

Bethany had never found herself in that much of a rush, though. She liked to savor her visits planetside, especially ones to worlds like Caspian III, with its clean air, pleasant climate, and lack of conflict. It was the closest thing to a Core-World-ambiance as could be found this far beyond the Inner Ring. More than that, it would almost certainly be her last proper rest stop before having to traverse the desolation of the Hudson Expanse to get back to the core worlds at all.

Usaf was a man who could accurately be described as larger than life. His enormous character and booming voice were only matched by his towering height and his barrel chest. Bethany imagined that he looked like the lovechild of a three-bell prize fighter and a younger version of Santa. The man looked like he could pick up a hover truck with less than a passing effort and yet exuded nothing but warmth and friendliness. Of course, the latter of those qualities was one to be wary of when found in a trader. Killing someone with kindness was a very effective way of wiping out their bank account, too.

If the man's size and affable character were not enough, he had the memory of an elephant. It had been more than six months since they'd had even the most fleeting of contact, and yet his booming voice echoed over the office only a few moments after she passed beneath its archway. "Bethany, my most precious of captains!" he beamed at her, stepping out of his office, arms spread wide and almost dancing across the foyer toward her. "You look even more ravishing than the last time your presence graced our humble bazaar." he wrapped the comparatively tiny cargo hauler up in a bear hug for the ages. "Did you miss me?"

She'd met the man twice, once six months ago and the first time a little more than a year before that.

She chuckled and hugged him back. "Hey, Usaf, it's good to see you, too."

"I know you have brought me something good; what do you have for me?" he said, that mammoth smile still on his face as he released her.

"Processed Silicon, sixteen tons."

She couldn't tell if the way his eyes lit up was through genuine mercantile excitement or if it was an astonishingly effective act designed to fill naive captains with ill-advised and unearned confidence. Either way, it worked. "Oh, the joys of working with a professional!" he gleefully exclaimed. "Come into my office, and we can discuss terms... Comecomecome!... Dimitri...." he called out to one of the younger-looking clerks. "...a bottle of our finest white, as soon as you can."

Bethany arched an eyebrow. Remembering her name was impressive after all this time, but remembering her favorite drink from one celebratory glass on her first visit was pretty incredible.

"Now," he said, ushering her into his large, glass-walled office and holding out a leather chair for her, waiting for her to sit before he moved to the other side of the enormous mahogany desk that took up most of the floor space. "What are you looking for me to take the whole lot off your hands?"

"Two point eight should see me suitably ... unencumbered." she offered, leaning back into the chair. This was another one of the games; she knew it, he knew it, but they played it anyway, all whilst pretending they weren't. Most traders offered a ridiculously low price, and then the captain had to haggle their way back up to something more realistic. Usaf was one of the rare breed that let the captain dictate the price and he tried to work them down. She knew that he knew that she had added a few hundred thousand credits onto the value of her cargo, but such was this timeless dance.

Usaf seemed to pause for a minute, his eyes losing focus as he looked to be considering it. "And do you want credits for this, or would you like to buy cargo for your return home?"

"Cargo would be ideal, but it would depend on what you've got available... and the price."

Usaf nodded again, spinning in his chair to face his computer interface. "And where is the Long Haul headed next? Always plenty of money to be made running relief to the poor souls of Orpheus IV." He looked at her speculatively.

"Not this time, I'm afraid. I'm heading core-ward."

If it was possible, his eyes lit up even more. "If you would be willing to accept two point six, I could make it worth your while."

She'd spent years working on her poker face, and all that self-control suddenly came of age. Her entire cargo was worth two point four-five at a push. But she somehow managed to keep a lid on the blossom of excitement bursting in her chest. "I'm listening, worth my while, how?"

The smile never left his face as he leaned back in his own chair, the leather and the steel itself creaking under the enormous pressure. He steepled his fingers. "A much less upstanding courier than yourself was due to transport a shipment for me last week but didn't show up. I am under contract and will suffer a great blow to my reputation if these goods are not transported to the capital on time. The contract is valued at three million credits, three point five if it is there within the fortnight. What I am offering is that I hand this cargo to you, and you cash it in for whichever amount you are able to get for it, and in return, I take your cargo off your hands and sell it myself. I should get the full two-point eight for it, so I will only lose two hundred thousand credits. If I don't make the delivery, the cargo is worthless, and I lose it all."

Bethany drummed her fingers on her chin. "Nothing illegal?"

Usaf laughed. "No, I believe they are parts for ancient automobile combustion engines. A museum piece, if I understand. Something about the reliance of a Robin, I don't know. Apparently, the Emperor himself will be viewing the exhibit."

"Ah, that explains the time limit."

The massive merchant nodded. "What do you say?"

"Tell you what," she said, sitting up a little straighter. "Throw in a few tons of Rigellian Rum at cost, and you have yourself a deal."

Usaf clapped his hands together in celebration. "I will make it five tons just as a thank you to my new favorite captain... Ah, Dimitri," his booming voice echoed around the office as the clerk entered with the bottle of wine and two glasses. "Your timing couldn't be better. Thank you!" He turned back to Bethany after pouring out the clear liquid from a bottle that probably cost more than her nav system, "To our mutual good fortune."

She raised the glass, smiled at the gesture, but more at the fact that she had almost doubled this haul's profits, and took a sip.

********

Stevo.13

It was hardly a roaring fire, but the heat it gave off was enough to fight back the bitter night cold of the beach. The groans of the wounded had faded over the course of the long hours of darkness as more and more men succumbed to the cold and their injuries. The deafening silence that pervaded the air, only partly punctuated by the lightest of breezes, was mercifully banished close to the fire by the crackling of the dried driftwood that Mac had been able to find from within the confines of their makeshift fort.

There wasn't a huge amount of it, and if their encirclement lasted for another night, they would have a problem or at least would need to mount some sort of sortie to find more. But by that time, they would have more pressing issues. Angel had stopped shivering; the color hadn't quite returned to her cheeks, but she was looking much more alert than she had been before the fire had been lit. Almark, on the other hand, had been in serious trouble. Stevo knew that crush injuries were at least as dangerous after the fact, if not more so, but none of the surviving members of Bravo Squad were anywhere near trained enough to do anything about it.

Assuming that the damage to the Lieutenant's legs was the full extent of her injuries after a crash of that severity sounded absurd even to him, though. From the brief look Mac had taken, there was already bruising around her abdomen, and her breathing was labored. Stevo was no expert, but that screamed internal bleeding to him. The fire may have warmed her up and raised her body temperature, and the tourniquets had stemmed the blood flow and delayed the release of those toxins from the crush to her major organs; but there was still a long list of potentially lethal ailments that could have been inflicted on her during the crash which could end her life at any moment. Adding to the soul-crushing sense of impotence of their situation was the fact that every moment spent staring out at the motionless dead of night, was another moment closer to the point where she lost her valiant fight for life. Yet, try as he might, he couldn't think of a single thing he could do. Even having radio comms would have been useless, not if the fate of Duck was anything to go by. Help wasn't coming, and they were surrounded by a vengeful enemy who must have lost thousands, maybe even tens of thousands, of their comrades to people just like him. Mercy was not something he expected to find in abundance when the time to fight finally came.

And without it, the chances of Emylee seeing another sunset were almost non-existent.

Mac, his armor being as intact as Stevo's own, had taken up watch on the opposite corner of the almost-square-shaped cover that surrounded their position, the shape dictated by three fallen columns on the North, East, and West sides. The south side remained almost entirely exposed, but a small mound of sand - presumably made up of material excavated to make the trenches - provided some measure of cover on this open flank. Mac was on the Northeast corner, peering out along the beach with his rotary cannon at the ready. Stevo was on the Southwest corner, by far the most dangerous position. Between them, they were able to see the approaches to the fort on all sides and, despite their hugely diminished numbers, could lay down an astonishing level of fire onto any advancing enemy, with Angel essentially held in reserve to back up whoever needed her.

Stevo's eyes scanned the darkness, but they were close to useless, even with the lowlight amplification function of his helmet. His keenest sense was his hearing, and with some clever settings activated on his GUI, he was largely able to filter out the crackling noise of the fire to focus his attention on listening for any movement. The problem was that there was a lot of movement from pretty much every direction. Even men wearing the almost comically inferior armor the rebels seemed to be using would be hard-pressed to move around silently in a trench. There was the rustling of sand, there was heavy breathing, there were the little knocks of weapons being handled, and voices seemed to carry the furthest, but there were precious few of those, which seemed odd in itself. Above it all, that dull, bass, ephemeral groan from the countless wounded who hadn't succumbed to their wounds floated around the battlefield.

All things considered, Stevo would much prefer to have been sitting on a beach in Hawaii.

The hours ticked by, the digital chronometer on his HUD counting down every single minute as each dragged interminably into the next. Waiting for something would always make the clock tick more slowly, but waiting for something as terrifying as the prospect of one's own death was like its own form of torture. He found himself wishing they would just get on with it or maybe even attack himself; the death of him and his Squad was practically pre-ordained at this point, the only question left to ask was the manner in which he would meet it. Huddled down in his bunker, beating off one stampeding assault after another over open ground - because that is what they would have to do if they wanted to breach the cover of their fort, at least until they called in the artillery strikes - or in his happy place: hunting. Stalking through the trenches in whichever direction he saw fit until one lucky bastard landed the shot that would kill him; either way, he would be taking as many of them with him as he could. He was a Marine, he was a warrior, and when the chips were down, that was about as good an end as he could ask for. Meeting his enemy on the battlefield, weapon in hand.

There was, of course, only one problem with that plan, and she was propped up against the western column with mangled legs and probable internal bleeding.

"How are you doing, ladies?" He called over his shoulder in a whisper, only barely loud enough for them to hear.

"Oh, not so bad," Angel smiled back, "a night on the beach under the stars. It's like being on vacation."

"Neighbors are a bit noisy, though," Emylee added her own quip, "and the room service is shit. Don't get me started on the flight here or that landing."

"I could go get someone from management if you like," Stevo chuckled. "Drag them up here and make them answer for their shoddy service."

"Nah, fuck 'em. Let 'em come to us. I can write them a strongly worded letter later." Emylee winked at him, again astounding him with her resilience against what must have been overwhelming pain. "If you see someone wandering around with a cocktail, though, send 'em my way."

Stevo and Angel both snorted out a laugh. It felt good. The dark humor did nothing to ease the weight on his mind, but it did seem to make it a little more manageable. "Well, give it an hour or so, and if I haven't seen anyone, I'll go hunt down that cocktail for you myself."

Almark giggled again, but Angel didn't. She knew what that meant and had been following the subtext of the conversation in the way that only a seasoned and situationally aware Marine could. She held his gaze, her face a mask of mixed emotions, ranging from supportive but grim determination right through to terrified pleading. His eyes shifted to Mac, who was, in turn, looking back at him over his shoulder from his position of cover.

Both of them were fighters, and neither one of them - like him - would have stopped their progress through the trenches if it hadn't been for the rescue of Emylee. Even if the Lieutenant was perfectly willing to charge the enemy in one last stand, she was physically unable to, so charging off to fight would mean leaving her to die. It would be leaving a man behind, and that, as a Marine, was something he simply couldn't stomach doing. It was grating enough that there were thousands of unrecoverable dead marines on the beach as it was, and not being able to bring home the fallen members of his squad was like an icy cold grip squeezing on his heart, but to leave one alive... that was unconscionable.

The fear in Angel's eyes was not a fear of death nor the fear of pain. It was the fear of having to walk away and leave Emylee to her fate. It was the fear of having to live with that decision - and the guilt that came with it - for the rest of her life. Be that decades or mere minutes.

Almark, of course, was completely oblivious to all of this, she just thought that they were having a joke to make light of the situation and make her feel better. He glanced back over to Mac again; Mac held his eyes, cast a look at the injured pilot, then back to his sergeant... and softly shook his head. He wouldn't leave her to die, and Stevo wouldn't order him to.

Stevo offered a soft nod back, then flicked his eyes to Angel. "Screw it," he said, forcing a smile onto his face for Almark's benefit. "We're on vacation. Sand, sea, and hopefully some sun soon. They're gonna have to get security to kick us out. 'Cause WE AINT LEAVING!" he yelled the last part out into the darkness.