Writer’s Note: Drifters: Part Two was published originally in Jump Point 5.2. You can read Part One here.
Maybe a Starliner . . .
Mags rolled onto her side and pieced together a scenario: pick up a new Starliner, deck it out real nice and make passenger runs from hotspot to hotspot, but — and this was the important thing — not open it up to every sucker that can pay the ticket. Keep it exclusive. Choice clientele who would keep it classy. Make it be the party experience of the universe.
Although . . . the more she thought about it. Partying every day sounded like it’d get kinda exhausting after a couple months.
She’d been at this for hours. Ever since they’d identified the eriesium from the lockbox, the potential payout kept overtaking their conversations. Everything was a joke now: the terrible food packs, the shitty condition of the Harlequin, all of it. Because now they could see a way out. Hard to think that hours before, they were arguing about whether to put a bullet in Mags.
They were right though. It was hard not to get excited. The strange, rare element wasn’t just a ‘nice payout’ kind of score. This was life-changing.
She couldn’t believe it herself. From a youth spent picking tourist pockets on nameless stations and breaking into cargo haulers to sleep among the pallets and crates, to growing up bouncing from hustle after hustle, scrape after scrape. All that was about to end. She was actually about to be able to take a breath and relax . . .
But not yet. She still needed to line up a buyer. Someone who could pay them what this beautiful lump of ore was worth. An amount that would wash away all the betrayal, murder and despair the crew had waded through to get to this point.
She flicked the safety off her pistol with her thumb while gripping the knife with her other hand and carefully opened the hatch to her sleeping berth. The door hissed slowly as it slid. Mags looked out. The hall was empty.
Mags gave it another second to be sure. Underneath the persistent hum of the power plant, she could hear the intermittent banging of the engine echo down the hall, but still nothing else. Trin wasn’t waiting with a shotgun.
She put the knife back in its hiding place, pulled on her boots and thudded down onto the floor. Still no ambush. Mags finally relaxed, confident in the knowledge that Trin wasn’t that patient. She safetied the pistol, tucked it in her waistband and pulled on a heavy sweater to hide it from sight.
The bridge of the Harlequin was quiet. Ozzy was up there alone, casually flying the massive ship through the seemingly endless void. He glanced over as Mags stepped onto the bridge. She couldn’t read what was behind that look. Maybe nothing. She had yet to really get a bead on the guy. Outside of his obvious loyalty to his sister, Trin, he seemed to speak the bare minimum. Even when they picked him up from Quarterdeck, he said nothing. After spending five years in that hellhole, he just walked onto the Harlequin and sat down.
“Anything exciting?” she asked.
“Nope,” he replied and cracked open a can of Smoltz.
“Need to take a break?”
“Nope.” Ozzy took a long swig from the beer and settled back.
A few moments of silence passed.
“Okay, cool. Give a shout if you do.” Mags moved over to one of the side terminals and slumped into the seat.
It was time to get to work.