Chapter Text
The steaming water jet died in seconds, turnings into a pitiful drip. With a weary sigh, Scipio shook the remaining drops out of the shower head and stepped over to the intercom. “Ratchet, we’ve lost water pressure again.”
“Oh no!” An energetic female voice came from the overhead speaker, clipping with static. “I’ll tell Winter to check it right away, Captain.”
He reached for a towel. “Remind her to be gentler on the main pipe.” If she cracked it again, they’d be forced to rummage for scraps, and their supplies were already running low. “Or else I’d have to cut down her rations.”
“Oh, she wouldn’t like that!” Ratchet’s giggle echoed sharply from the speaker. “Do you need anything else, Captain?”
Scipio checked his reflection in the mirror. Five days in the wastelands of Dead Zone Thirteen took their toll, and he needed a shave. “Can you fetch me a water jug from the kitchen?”
“Sure thing!”
He leaned over the sink, scowling at himself. “You really messed up this time, champ, letting a bunch of Freeroamers grab that cargo.” There was little he could’ve done, though, considering the raiders outnumbered them ten-to-one and used speedrunners. The Amos couldn’t possibly catch up to their armored bikes. “You need to get your act together. If you lose that payment, you’re screwed—nobody will hire a team that can’t even afford replacement parts.”
The Ark’s credit agencies had already flagged his account as high risk. Every potential client checked those registries before funding an expedition. He’d gotten lucky when an old acquaintance offered a gig without asking too many questions, but if he blew that chance, the team would be deep in the red. They’d have to scavenge for who knows how long, hope for another opportunity to repay their debts, and pray that nobody got killed first.
“Captain!” Ratchet’s voice came through the door. “I’ve got your water.”
“Great, come in.”
The door opened, and a Nikke with neck-length, copper-pink hair stood at the entrance holding a ceramic jug, clad in an orange jacket and green tactical uniform. She flashed a grin, orange eyes squinting, and strode inside. “Winter is already working on the pipes.” Standing half a head shorter, she handed him the water without spilling a drop. “Your stubble looks fine, though.”
He ran his fingers over it, feeling the scrape. “Thanks, Kaylee, but I need to make a business call, and this won’t do.”
She shrugged. “If you say so. I’ll go set up the comms room. Afterward, can I show you my new drone?”
“I don’t know. We’ll probably have to—”
“Come on, Teicho.” She leaned forward, arms behind her back, grinning adorably. “It’ll be fun.”
It was hard to disappoint that face. “Maybe, depending on how the call goes.”
“Yay! I can’t wait.” Kaylee clapped her hands and left the shower skipping.
Scipio exhaled another sigh. On a normal day, he wouldn’t mind the company, but at the moment the impending call occupied his mind. His reflection returned a frown as he started shaving. Three years of freelancing on the surface, and they were still living payment to payment, gig to gig. It almost made him long for the Surface Reclamation War. At least back then you knew exactly who were your enemies. In the dead zones, Rapture factions were just as dangerous as human raiders and bands of Irregulars. The latter were the worst—he preferred to face fifty Freeroamers over just one of those mind-shifted Nikkes.
After he looked like a civilized 27-year-old man again, Scipio left the showers and crossed the cramped dormitories, heading to the command section at the front. He just reached for the connecting door when a sultry voice called from behind.
“Darling.”
A tall, lithe Nikke sauntered toward him with a glass of merlot in hand, her long, silky black hair draping down a scarlet satin gown. Her crimson eyes remained locked on him as her soft lips curled into a crooked smirk. “What’s the hurry?”
“I need to give a mission report to our fixer.”
“Must you?” She swirled her drink, took a small sip, and exhaled a sigh. The fruity aroma merged with the sweet fragrance of her perfume. “I say, let him wait.”
“I don’t want him to call first. It’ll make us look… dodgy.”
“Assumptions, assumptions. If he doesn’t, we’ll have time to grab his stupid item.” She leaned closer until her lips hovered by his ear. “Or do you think I’m not good enough?”
A pleasant shiver trailed down Scipio’s spine. “I don’t doubt your abilities, Skye,” he said, meeting her veiled gaze with a smile, “but our client needs to trust us. Trust is the difference between getting hired once and ten times.”
“How tedious.” Skye laid one pristine arm over his shoulder, filling the air with her scent. “Shall I accompany you?”
Her warm touch triggered a jolt of arousal, which he tried to ignore. “It’s okay, I can handle him by myself.” Actually, his old acquaintance loathed Nikkes, an issue he preferred not to mention.
“Fine, darling, but don’t take too long.” She rubbed his ear, then slowly brushed a slender finger down his neck. “I’d like to talk some more before I sober up.”
Thankfully, Scipio’s blood had cooled off again when he reached the comms room. Its walls contained old screens and consoles from the war, but they mostly used the holographic projector at the center—when it worked. A pulsing green light at its base signaled it was fully charged. He took a deep breath and pressed the call button.
The projector emitted a series of electronic sounds as it began synchronizing. Random patterns and colors appeared above its base until, after a few seconds, the translucent shape of a young man wearing a dark-gray Central Government uniform appeared. Slim and clean-shaven, with a cigarette dangling from his thin lips, he gazed at Scipio with sleep-deprived eyes.
“Ah, finally,” he said in a weary, almost bored voice. “Did you get the cargo?”
“There’s a slight complication. A gang of Freeroamers got to it first.”
“Freeroamers?” the man said with disdain. He stubbed out his cigarette in an unseen ashtray. “Honestly, I expected better of you.”
“It’s not over, Sterling—we’re tracking them right now.”
His acquaintance let out a prolonged sigh. “Scipio, I did you a favor when I recommended you to my clients. They expect the cargo to be delivered to Point 7Z6 in exactly”—he glanced at a sophisticated wristwatch—“eight hours and four minutes. Do you understand that?”
“Absolutely, but because of the unforeseen development, we need…” To cover a considerable distance, recon the raider camp, wait for the right moment, steal the cargo, and escape in one piece. “Eight more hours.”
“Eight…” Sterling pinched his nose. “My clients are not patient people, Scipio.”
“I apologize for the inconvenience, but it’s the best offer you’ll get.”
Sterling released an agonized sigh. “Fine, I’ll have to deduct thirty percent from your pay.”
“Twenty,” Scipio said quickly, suppressing a mix of anger and dismay. That sum would leave them just above water.
“Twenty five, and I’m being generous.” Sterling lit another cigarette, the blue smoke drifting outside the holographic display. “Oh, and remember—do not, under any circumstances, open the cargo.”
“Yeah, I got it last time.”
“Then tell it to your dolls. What did you call them again?”
“The Belters, because we’re operating far beyond the outer rim.”
“How amusing.” Sterling’s eyes shifted to the door behind Scipio. A Nikke in blue tactical gear marched into the comms room, her golden-blond hair pulled back into a high bun, and her field boots echoing on the steel floor. “Is that one your secretary?”
“She is Veritas,” Scipio said, “my squad leader.”
“How inspiring.” Sterling’s gaze lingered on her chest. “A mass-produced model?”
“I was, before the Surface Reclamation War,” Veritas replied in a dry tone, her green eyes narrowing.
“She was promoted due to exemplary battle performance.”
“Two war relics, then.” Sterling flicked aside his second cigarette. “Try not to disappoint me.”
The call ended. Scipio exhaled in relief, letting his shoulders sink.
“I apologize, Captain,” Veritas said as she stood beside him, hands squared behind her back. Her voice turned softer. “I merely wished to support you during the call.”
“It’s not your fault. I should’ve told you Sterling is an anti-Nikke bastard.”
Her expression soured. “Even so, you’d be right to reprimand me—”
“Enough, Jean.” He shook his head. Her strict discipline was a boon in battle, but they were essentially mercenaries, not an army unit. “Say, why are you still in uniform?”
“I was reviewing the Freeroamers’ route.” She held up a tablet device. “I’ve marked the most likely location of their camp. It’s about two hours from our position.”
He inspected the map on the screen, and a wide grin spread across his face. “Well done, my dear.”
“Thank you, Captain.” She gave him a brief smile. “What’s our next move?”
“Right now, I want you to take a proper break. We’ll convene in roughly ninety minutes.” That should give him enough time to please both Skye and Kaylee. “Then we’ll figure out how to snatch that cargo right from under the raiders’ nose.”