#prospect au

“This wasn’t the deal,”

“I know, gem,” he replied tiredly.

Before she could say anything else, the music from Inumon's radio assaulted their ears. Inumon caught them talking, then switched through the channels until she found which one they were on.

The music finally stopped, followed by Mikken's voice.

“We stick to channel five,”

With shaky hands, Ezra picked up the tray again and they tried to work. But Kalei’s hands were shaky too, they destroyed the gem. A second later, Mikken stood behind her, nudging the weapon to Kalei's shoulder.

“This wasn’t the deal!” Kalei turned in frustration. She could feel Ezra behind her, trying to soothe her with his touch, “it’s been hours! That pile over there is enough to make you rich into the next lifetime!"

“You were late,” Inumon cut in.

Kalei shot her a look, “and we made up for it. Now you’re just being greedy.”

Mikken turned Ezra. “Get to work. You’ll stop when we’re satisfied.”

From above, Inumon pointed her thrower blade at Kalei.

Ezra tried to stay calm. They were outnumbered, everyone was armed except them. They were at a further disadvantage in the four-foot crater. He needed an exit plan, a way to put the odds in their favor.

“It’s alright Gem,” Ezra grabbed her hand, then looked at Mikken, “Due to the amount of work you’ve forced upon us, I must leverage our talents for a little more than the agreed-upon price. The work is toilsome. As you know from your comrade with the missing arm, it’s dangerous. We are tired, yet we push on.”

“It’s 15."

Kalei pointed to the hull, “half that, 15 would be fair. No. Not anymore. It’s 30, Inumon.”

A few of the Mercs looked at each other, laughing, all except Inumon who was dead serious.

“Fifteen.” The stoic woman repeated.

“The terms have changed. It’s Thirty.” Ezra asserted.

“Thirty or we’re not diggin' anymore.” Kalei added.

Inumon switched channels. A second later she and Mikken were in a private conversation as he walked up to meet her. It was brief and didn't seem to go in her favor.

“Keep digging. 30. No more.” Mikken confirmed.

“Much appreciated,” Ezra replied with a smile. But it didn’t reach his eyes.

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@artemiseamoon-updates

          "Hey, Cap?"           "Yeah, Ez?"           "What's with this manifest? We got a lot of perishable goods for a quick jaunt downworld,"           "So?"           "So, it seems odd," His dark eyes bore into yours, "Most drops we live on Bitz-Bars and faith. Also, you've loosened the weight regs some. Is there something I should know about?" You try hard not to smile. Ezra is the dictionary definition of Too Smart For  His Own Good.           "Now, Ezra, are you questioning your commanding officer?"  He straightens and squares his shoulders, puts on a serious face, but those big eyes dance with mischief.           "No, Ma'am, I would never be so presumptuous. I am curious about the nature of this job, however, and our crew mates seem equally tight lipped. I expect that of Big Pete, but Del will usually respond to my queries so he doesn't have to listen to me."           "You ever hear the phrase 'let the mystery be?'"           "Can't say as I have, Captain," says Ezra. He's crept up into your personal space, a hand on your hip, "Care to enlighten me?" You lay your hand on his chest and give him a little shove.           "It means do your job and get us buttoned up for drop," you say, "That list'll make sense once we're down world."           "Fine. But I get the distinct impression that you are hiding something from me."           "Live with it."

          Ezra makes you think of when you were just as green as him and full of questions. For a time you were crew on a rust-bucket called The Polly Jean. To say The Polly Jean was a piece of shit would be a gross understatement and an insult to actual shit. You look back at your time aboard her and internally shudder. She would never have been allowed to fly in Central space.  The Polly Jean was captained by a sallow, long-faced man named Virgil, who differed from other captains you'd worked under in that he would say more to you than "shut up, Greenhorn," when you came to him with questions. You'd come to him with concerns like Ezra's. A cargo manifest that just seemed weird, a job much lower paying that what you'd been doing.           "Pay ain't everything," he'd said, "You gotta mix it up some. You'll never get a decent crew to stick if all you give them is gritty suit-work. People gotta get some sunshine and fresh air on occasion without worrying about getting poisoned or eaten by the local fauna." Virgil poked you in the chest, a hard, bony finger pressed into your sternum. He did that to everybody. It was his way of emphasizing a point. "This is good advice I'm giving you, kiddo. If you ever get your own ship you'll thank me." And when you dropped, the world you landed on was all snow-capped mountains and clear lakes so cold that swimming in them felt like being cut. You sometimes wonder if Virgil's still kicking about the black somewhere, but you doubt it. He was old when you were his juniormost and the Polly Jean was like the ship of Theseus, repairs over top of repairs held together with shoddy welds, patch sealant and the constant muttered prayer of C'mon babygirl, be good for me, while Virgil piloted her through atmo. You'd like to imagine he bought some little plot of land on a quiet planet, maybe by one of those frigid, crystalline lakes, you'd like to imagine a future like that for yourself, it could happen, the right convergence of timing and luck, the right pull at the right time and you could sell The Egret and find some calm, untouched patch of land on a decent world, not some barely habitable dustball out in the fringe. And maybe not alone, maybe Ezra with you--           You've got to stop this. Letting your thoughts drift like this on a drop, even a gentle one like this could get you killed. Virgil, Kevva bless him, is probably a smear of bone-ash in whatever crater The Polly Jean left when it finally fell out of the sky.           Trines are foolishly easy to harvest and plentiful, not the kind of pull you're likely to get shot over, but you and Big Pete keep the rails close at hand just in case.  Summer on Ursula's world is brief but kind, the long stretch of beach is dotted with drop-ships and pods, some are harvesters like you, some are luxury cruisers, drop-yachts with party tents, music that leaks up the beach to where you are. Ursula's world is a middling thing, profit enough from the pearls to get you to the next drop, but not so much that someone is likely to kill you for it. This is the kind of world where fringelings and rich folk might rub elbows for a minute, might forget caste and station.           Trines themselves are trivalve molluscs. Ursula's world is the kind of planet affectionately termed a "dumb Terra", life a-plenty but nothing to rival the biodiversity of Old Terra before the Last Extinction. There are some large, deep ocean predators, but that’s where the higher forms stalled out. Land-life is limited to fractal-trees and the few critters that hang out in the littoral zone where land and sea touch. Trines spray a dark, inky substance as self defense. Vibrations scare them. Stomp on the wet sand as the wave recedes and you see the ink trails and thats where you dig.           "The pearls are in the big ones, right?" asks Ezra.           "Just grab what you can," says Del, "We'll do the grading and shucking later."           "If the pearls are in the hand-sized ones, why we bothering with the little ones?"           "The little ones taste better," says Del.           "That is your opinion, Del," says Big Pete.           "Pete's crazy," says Del, "Any trine longer than a hand-width tastes like dead-hooker flavored rubber bands."           "And how, exactly, do you know what a dead hooker tastes like, Del?" says Ezra, "You got some weird proclivities we should know about?"           "Fuck you, Greenhorn," says Del.           "The big trines are best slow roasted," says Big Pete, "Don't let this kip tell you different. Good for you. Puts hair on your ass."           "Just what everyone needs," says Del, "A hairy ass."           "It's good to have goals, Del," says Big Pete. Ezra laughs and Del just shakes his head.

          The four of you drag buckets of trines up the beach to camp, pack damp sand around them to keep them cool.           "Now what?" Says Ezra.           "How bout a game of ships and kings?" Says Del, "They play that on your backwater homeworld or do I have to teach you?"           "Mmmm," says Ezra, "Didn't realize there was such culture in Central's sewer systems. Now you're inviting me to the game, but as a gesture of good will I will forfeit my right to chose colors." Del's already setting up the board, placing the neutral fleets.           "We flip for the colors. Like civilized men."

          "Hey boss," says Big Pete, "Let's go get some firewood while these two kips fight their fake-ass war--"           "You're just jealous because you don't understand the game--" says Del.           "Oh, I understand ships and kings," says Big Pete, "I just think it's boring. Like watching paint dry."           "--the fuck? Kevva's teeth--"           "Sit down, you asshole," says Ezra, flapping a hand at you and Big Pete, "Ignore the cries of these plebeians and make your move."           "C'mon, boss,--" says Big Pete. His hand rests lightly on your forearm, and your neck hairs prickle up. Big Pete does not like to be touched, nor does he tend to touch people.           "Petey-bird could beat both of you dipshits at ships and kings in an Ephrate minute," you call back to camp, and  Big Pete chuckles at Ezra's muttered curses. You let Big Pete lead you into the trees. You point to your ear-piece and draw a finger across your throat. Even on a world as gentle as this you wear your mic-rigs, even loose slung around your neck so you can hear a transmission. Your mute your mic and so does Big Pete. The two of you gather dry wood for a beat, you need it to roast the trines later, to get the fire going.           "Can I speak freely?"           "Kevva, you really need to ask?" And Big Pete looks genuinely worried and that unsettles you. They don't call him Big Pete as a joke. There is precious little this wall of a man is nervous about.           "Del's been actin weird," says Big Pete.           "How do you mean?"           "You know he plays ships and kings through the drop-net,"           "Yeah, so?"           "So he's been weird about it lately," says Big Pete, "He'll usually let me watch--"           "Thought you hated ships and kings,"           "I do," says Big Pete, "But beating Del at it would be a unique kind of joy. He ain't playing against his usual bunch. Lyta H. Emory. Those guys." You draw in a breath. People tend to underestimate Big Pete because of his size. He looks like a large dumb bruiser and lets people think that's exactly what he is. He says little and sees a lot.           "He's been playing someone called DawnsPlunderer..."           "So?"           "So you don't know latin?" Big Pete grins at you, a rare one that touches his eyes.           "Kevva. Of course I don't know latin. I grew up on Sogo station. You think we had Terran root language studies?"           "I don't know latin either, boss, but I can search the net and DawnsPlunderer is the translation of 'Eoraptor', you know, Marko's new ride."           "Hell. You're sure?"           "Del never agreed with you cutting Marko loose."           "And you say he's been acting shady," You reach for Big Pete and touch his arm like he did to you earlier, "I cut Marko loose for a good reason. You know what happened between him and the stationmaster's girl. You really think Del is okay with that?"           "Shit, boss, I don't know. I don't even know for sure it's Marko Del's playin ships and kings with. I do know that Del's been off since you brought Ezra aboard. High strung. Antsy. You don't see it. You've been distracted lately." He's right and you know it.           "By Ezra," Pete's eyes flick to the side. He doesn't have to say it. "You think I'm losing my edge."           "I think you're in love, Captain, and love makes people stupid."           "Fuck." You gnaw at your lower lip. "What should I do?"           "I don't want to speak above my station--"           "I'm not asking as your commanding officer, Pete, I'm asking as your friend."           "I don't know," says Big Pete.           "You think I should cut Ezra loose? If he's a liability--"           "I like Ezra," says Big Pete, "I think you and him are good together. I like seeing you happy. I don't want to see you get hurt. You need to keep your eyes open, boss, that's all."           "We both keep our eyes open, clear?"           "Clear," says Big Pete.           "We should probably actually gather some firewood. Before they get suspicious." Big Pete huffs.           "They're probably so wrapped up in that dumb game that time's lost all meaning for them." You reach for your mic-rig to unmute it, and pause.           "Thanks for telling me. Thanks for having my back."           "I've always got your back, boss."

          Sure enough, Ezra and Del are too embroiled in their game of ships and kings to even look up when you and Big Pete start piling up dry wood. They look a bit like angry cats facing off over the pentagonal board, each with a nest of captured pieces.           "Alright, fellas, it's time to start shucking these bad boys if we want to eat before we lose the light."           "I've almost got the little rat-bastard," says Del.           "Oh, in twenty moves or is it thirty?"           "I can see into the future, Greenhorn," says Del, "I can see your whole superficially clever strategy collapse under its own weight."           "Make your move if you're so certain." Del uses his cruiser to take out one of Ezra's point defense stations.           "Roll for collateral damage," says Ezra and Del gives him a dark look, as if he would forget that very basic bit of game mechanics. Del rolls the dice.           "Fuck! Shit! Fuck!"           "I take it you pissed off one of the neutral fleets?"           "Go fuck yourself, Pete," says Del "You talk an awful lot of bullshit for someone who won't even play."           "Oi!" You say, "Get to a stopping point. It's time to work. Or did you soft bellies forget what that is?"           "Okay okay," says Del, "Nobody touch this board! I got him right where I want him--"           "Keep telling yourself that--"           "You best get moving or I'll upend the table," says Big Pete. "You'll never find all those little pieces. Not in all this sand."           "Fucker," says Del. Ezra just narrows his eyes.

          Soon you are all seated in the cool sand, armed with trine-knives, a double sided tool, one end being a bladed hook, the other a wide rounded blade for levering the meat from the shells.           "Remember," says Del, "Don't shuck anything smaller than your hand is wide. Those go in this bucket here. You find pearls they go in this tub." There's a shallow plastic tub filled with a chemical cocktail that helps harden the pearls and preserve their luster. The leftovers from those go in the chum-bucket--"           "They sure as hell do not," says Big Pete. "Strip those big boys out and put em right here." Big Pete rattles a bucket half full of seawater. He has a pile of broad leaves the size of a station viewing port cut and sitting beside him.           "Rinse the sand off em, brine em a little, then wrap them up like a present and cook them in the coals. That is some fine dining."           "You are out of your fucking mind," says Del.           "What're we gonna do with the little ones?"           "Steam them open," says Del, "Manifest says we dropped with two pounds of butter, from actual cows."           "That true, Cap?" Real butter from real cows is absurdly pricey in this part of the Great Arm.           "Get shucking and you'll find out."

          "Son of a bitch," mutters Ezra, tucking a finger into his mouth. Shucking trines is tricky if you've never done it. Slide the hooked end through the narrow bit where the shells meet, scrape and pull and then the rest will relax open. Real easy to stab yourself in the finger when the hook slides through.           "Build us a fire, Ez," you say, "We gotta roast this whole mess. Best to get the coals going now. 'Round front so we can look at the ocean."           "Kid can't shuck for shit," says Big Pete.           "Trines're finicky," says Del, "The man can cut a carom blister without hardly thinking about it, but can't handle a trine-hook to save his life. Funny how that works, huh?"           "Yeah," says Big Pete. You look for tension, you look for any sign that Del is off somehow. Del just seems like Del. A bit prickly but he always is. You find yourself wondering if Big Pete is reading too much into things. The three of you sit, sort and shuck in silence. The tray of pearls is about what you expected. Most of them are irregular ovoids, all of them are varying shades of pink ranging from something the color of a cat's nose to absolute screaming fuchsia. A few of them are faceted, the little bit of grit they formed around caught close enough the where the three shells come together in a point to give them rounded, natural facets. Those dozen or so faceted pearls are going to make this drop profitable. Big Pete starts piling his spoils, shucked trines that look a little too much like boogers for your liking, into leaves and wrapping them into neat packets. The advantage of steaming trines in the shell is that they look significantly less like snot when they are fully cooked.           By the time the three of you are done shucking and grading, Ezra's got a good fire built. Del digs a narrow trench around the fire pours sea water into it to firm up the sides, dumps the small trines into the trench.           "Now what?" Says Ezra.           "We let them steam open." Pete lays his leaf-wrapped packets in the coals, prodding them with a long stick until they are positioned to his liking.

          Later the four of you sit close around a battered pan full of melted butter and a heap of steamed trines piled on a big leaf.           "Don't fill up on these little ones too much," says Big Pete, "Gotta save room for the main event." Del rolls his eyes. The shells have opened like three-petalled flowers. Ezra looks at you uncertainly.           "Here," you say, "Like this." You peel two of the three shells away from the little knot of muscle inside, dip the remaining shell into the butter and strip it with your teeth. The taste is salty, sweet and a hint musky at the same time. Like the ocean. Like sex.           "Oh Kevva that's good," says Ezra.           Later you all try some of Big Pete's roasted trines, mostly to be polite.           "I don't know how you can eat these," says Del, "I've been chewing this for a good sixteenth."           "I like the taste," says Ezra, "The texture leaves something to be desired."           "What do you think, boss?"           "I've had worse things in my mouth." Del snorts and Ezra swats his arm. If there is tension here other than the usual push-pull between crew members you don't see it. The two of them seem at ease. Maybe Big Pete is seeing things that aren't there. Maybe.           You all sit around the dying fire for a beat, gorged on buttered trines, passing a bottle of hooch. Something Petey picked up at the last station and now shares. Strong stuff. Enough to loose tongues and hearts. Big Pete produces a guitar. Not a real one, one with strings and pickups and a built in amplifier, packs flat, but the sound is still sweet when he plays and for a time the four of you sit passing the bottle and trading songs. There's a song in Vayok about a luckless pirate with a leaky suit trying to fix a balky airlock before he passes out, each attempt getting more desperate. Pete sings and Del translates the lyrics in the thickest, most ham-fisted Vayok accent you've ever heard. You've seen this act before, but Ezra hasn't and buy the second verse he is red faced and howling, leans bonelessly against you. Even with a belly full of trines and hooch you are still trying to suss out the tension in Del. And you just can't see it.  He just seems like Del as usual.           "That is the worst Vayok accent I have ever heard in my life--"           "You know Vayok only from holofilms, young man," says Del, "You do not speak Vayok, Vayok speaks you!"           "You ever try that bit with a Vayok girl?" asks Big Pete.           "Are you insane? I like my testicles right where they are thank you," says Del. You shake your head and Ezra presses Pete's guitar into your hands.           "You've got to know some songs, Cap,"           "I can't play for shit, and all of you know it except for this kip,"           "Yeah, but we've all heard you sing," says Ezra, "The dropper's not that big. Sing something you want to, and not just whatever you've got stuck in your head while you're running the checklist."           "I hate you, you fucking menace," you say and Ez just smiles, a self assured smirk that will probably land him in the brig again sooner rather than later. You hand the guitar back to Pete. Ezra has put you on the spot, and now Big Pete and Del are looking at you expectantly. Fine.           "I don't know the chords or any of that shit--"           "S'okay boss, you get it started and I'll catch up." You close your eyes and center yourself, your mom and her mom sang these words, some long forgotten time where your people lived down a well, planted crops, when sailing meant traveling over water and not throwing yourself out into the black in a pressurized can.           "'By lonely prison walls           I heard a young girl calling           Michael they are taking you away           For you stole Trevelyan's corn           So our child might see the morn           Now the prison ships lay waiting in the bay...'"

          Later, the coals are low, slow shifting embers, you and Ezra pass the last of Big Pete's bottle back and forth. Del and Big Pete struck out down the beach towards the party tents and the thumping music that leaks out of them.           "You sure you don't want to go with?"           "I've got no interest in all that noise," says Ezra, "Seems like a good way to wake up with your pockets turned out." You laugh.           "Awfully cynical for someone who's barely been out in the black."           "Learned from the best--hey look, the waves!" He points out over the starlit strip of beach and the waves break crested in shimmering blue, glowing foam spat across dark wet sand. You stand and shuck out of your clothes and start running for the surf.           "C'mon Ez,"           "What if someone sees?"           "Who gives a shit?" The water curling around your calves churns electric blue. Ezra strips down and runs towards you, only to get distracted by the way the sand lights up beneath his feet.           "What in Kevva's backroom?" You smile, watching him puzzle it out for himself. Ezra stomps his feet and the wet sand lights up blue.           "It's algae," you say, swirling the water around yourself in luminous curtains, "What? Are you scared, Greenhorn?" And with that Ezra pelts into the surf, silly in the way men running naked always are, less so when he wraps himself around you and kisses you hard enough to make you whimper, cradles you against him, all hot mouth and seeking hands until a big waves tumbles the both of you into the sand. He lurches up, spluttering, hauling you up, an arm hooked around your waist, pulls you flush against him.           "You knew that would happen."           "I didn't make you get in the water," you say. The waves suck at your ankles, swirls of bioluminescent blue trailing in and out with the tide, "As for the wave? Maybe that was Kevva testing your resolve."           "Hmmph," Ezra says, his breath warm against your sea-chilled lips, his eyes shining with starlight, "If she is testing me, than I am surely failing."           "Ezra?" He nuzzles his nose against yours, his arms vined around you, his hands splayed warm over your skin, and when his lips find yours they taste like salt, breaks away and then nips at your throat where your pulse beats hard and fast and you shiver, arch into him and you feel him hard against your thigh. You step away from him and take his hands, leading him out past the breaking surf.           "Captain?"           "It'll be easier out here," you say, press your lips to the shell of his ear, "Trust me."

          The water is warmer than the air, the breeze blowing over it raises gooseflesh on your exposed skin, but the places where your bodies press together burn hot, Ezra's hands gripping as he slides inside you, smooth roll of his hips with the rhythm  of the waves. He cradles you against him one hand on your hip to guide your movements, the other splayed warm between your shoulder blades, and this gentle ocean holds you both, making you buoyant, glowing algae flaring with your movements, sparkling on your skins like a mirror for the stars. You come with a strangled cry, swallowed by the low roar of the surf, and Ezra follows, head thrown back, cords of his neck painted in star shine, blooming hot inside you. You cling to each other, panting, you feel his chest heaving against yours, and the wind blows cold over the water. Ezra kisses your forehead, soft touch of his lips that never fails to undo you, to make your heart squeeze and stutter inside.           "Lets go get warm," says Ezra.