The transport ship airlock finished its cycle while the assemblage of aspiring goons loitered with duffle bags slung over shoulders and bored looks masking varying stages of anxiety. Gases whooshed through tubes and vents, heavy metal doors slammed together and squealed as unlubricated areas dragged. When the massive doors finally opened, light poured in from the dock to frame a mustachioed blonde man in a black uniform with his hands behind his back.
Black-uniformed guards rushed up to them and began a hurried search. Patdowns, detector wands, straight-up opening and rifling bags. Knives, swords, drugs, were left alone. The new arrivals snarled and grumbled, but they’d been warned to expect it, and at least it went fast. Security moved from front to back haphazardly, searching some people twice and others not at all, and more than one of the fighters kicked themselves for not trying to smuggle their guns through.
“Welcome to Captain John Wayne Koganusan Station,” the man barked in a less than welcoming manner as his crew retreated behind him. Rommel recognized the clear signs of stick-up-ass syndrome. “I cannot by Anaconda Consolidated policy prevent you from boarding this station, but I can damn well make sure you know and obey my rules.”
At that point, every attention wandered, and nobody – including the man’s own fidgeting, nose-picking honor guard – heard his lengthy lecture about fighting, gunplay, and getting spaced. They’d each gotten their own instructions, anyway, which had included (from Feeney) “don’t piss off McMasters, just smile and nod until he finally shuts up, don’t bring a gun aboard, and get yourself to my hotel as soon as you can.” Or (from Angelica) “Ignore the lecture from station security. Sell your firearms before boarding the station if you can; otherwise write them off as a loss. Come singly or in pairs to the Lady Luck Casino without attracting undue attention.” The few who had gained employment with McMasters himself were told, “I will provide an edifying lecture on station security rules and procedures; you need not attend to it yourself, as it does not apply to you, but pay close attention to make sure the others do.”
Geronimo Rommel scratched his ass while he listened to the more-interesting drone of a ventilation fan with a bad bearing that kind of had an off-kilter on-again off-again rattle a little like a tiny drum solo. He hefted a duffle bag that barely concealed a stolen fire axe, wrapped in his underwear so that he figured nobody would investigate too closely. He was pretty sure that was a genius move, the most recent of several, and congratulated himself on it again as he walked as nonchalantly as a badass like him could with the group heading for the Ad Astra hotel. Three thousand credits, here he came.
Geronimo Rommel, meanwhile, grinned like an idiot and shuffled his way toward the casino through the galleria, glancing up at all the other fighters trying – and failing, ha! – to look inconspicuous as they moseyed out with him toward del Rio’s meeting point. He glanced over at that McMasters guy, who kinda fumed and tried to glare in every direction at once.
Finally, only two toughs remained standing in the port. A rough-looking woman with a shotgun openly displayed on her shoulder. Despite a natural disinclination to hard thinking, Rommel was carefully considering his position. He ran his hand over his head in a sheepish gesture, then on an impulse offered it to McMasters to shake. “Geronimo,” he rumbled, talking slowly as though unfamiliar with the shape of the word. “At your service. Only, I go by Fergus Capper, if you don’t mind. A guy like me can’t be too careful with his real name.”
McMasters hesitated before taking it, then pumped it with some enthusiasm. “Of course, of course, Mr ‘Capper’. I got your message, I merely forgot. Good to have another military man on the crew.” He stopped and stepped back to get a better look at them, his face reflecting conflicted thoughts. “Two’s enough,” he said aloud, and obviously didn’t believe it. “The cream of the crop, anyway. You must be Sinthia, then? Welcome, both of you. Let’s get you into uniform and on the roster.”
Rommel lay back on his bunk, the only bunk in one of the transport ship’s few private cabins. He counted his credits again and reminded himself that two thousand profit for doing nothing but staying on board a ship for a couple weeks without risking his hide or his guns, that was worth some cabin fever. Let those other three jerks take the risks, if they were so keen to get their fight on. That Sun Tzu guy said to fight if circumstances were favorable, and if they weren’t… well, all right, he didn’t explicitly say to sell your identity three times and run away if circumstances sucked, but Rommel felt that the old buzzard would have approved.
He just had a single moment of doubt, wondering what would happen when his old friend on the mining ship got wind he’d been in the area. Might have been friendly to say hi, maybe. But he had to grin at the idea of her stumbling on one of those chumps wearing his own illustrious name. He wondered which one it would be.
The docking clamps finally released with hull-shaking thumps. His smile broadened as he listened to the chatter of a handful of voices relieved at getting the hell off Station 35. They sounded tense. Unhappy. In need of some relaxation. They needed a good solid dose of Vitamin R, of which he, Geronimo Rommel, was the universe’s only source.