After Ben-Ari finishes his work on the ship, Wil spends another week on Fury. The small hacker has assured him that the identity change would propagate to the old log files of the Fury Space Control, so that the Reaper isn’t logged as landing while the Ghost is logged as leaving. Wil spends much of his time on the ship, running through its training mode, which he discovers isn’t limited to the flight controls. While engineering isn’t his strong suit, he’s been able to get the ship to at least train him on how to identify the more serious problems—even if he doesn’t possess the skill to fix them. He uses a little more of his dwindling cash to hire an engineer to come aboard and give the engineering space a once over, addressing any major issues. Luckily, the previous engineering team had done a pretty good job of keeping the engines shipshape.
Once he’s sure the ship is in as good a condition as possible, he ventures back into the shopping district and beyond. Ben-Ari has given him a rudimentary map, marked with places to avoid and places where he might find work—sorted by the kind of work he might be okay with, from mercenary work to smuggling to basic freight hauling. Wil isn’t sure which he’s comfortable with, but is pretty sure that the former is out; if nothing else, he’s not sure how good he’d be at that type of work without a crew.
Hiring a crew is also out. Wil doesn’t know the first thing about leading others, nor does he know who he could trust, or what races work best with others. Plus, based on what’s left in the ship’s accounts, he’s pretty sure the crew he could afford would kill him and sell the Ghost at the first opportunity.
He wanders into a bar that Ben-Ari flagged as having potential for work of the non-mercenary type. Sitting at the bar, he orders a drink—grum, which has become his new favorite beverage, if for no other reason than it’s ubiquitousness, and has reliable side effects. He knows he can get a buzz, and even shit-faced, but it works so like beer that he can manage it. Almost everything else on the menu is liquors from around the sector he has no idea about. One sip could lay him out, which wouldn’t be good.
Unfortunately, Ben-Ari’s map and notes aren’t tremendously helpful, or at least informative. The notation on this bar is simply the word ‘Xarrix.’ Whatever or whomever that is, Wil thinks. He flags down the barkeep, and leans forward. “Does ‘Xarrix’ mean anything to you? I’m looking for it, or him or her, or whatever.”
The barkeep looks at him blankly, then glances over Wil’s shoulder to the back of the bar, where several booths sit. All have a privacy screen activated, protecting their occupants from being seen or overheard. The barkeep points to the middle booth. Wil nods and takes a big gulp of grum, steeling his nerves, then gets up and makes his way to the back booths.
As he approaches, two giant aliens move in from the tables nearby. Wil has no idea what race they are. He’s never seen either before—but that’s not saying much, really.
“What do you want?” one asks.
Wil looks up. This particular alien is nearly eight feet tall, and is apparently made entirely of muscle.
“I’m looking for Xarrix.” The two just stare at him. “I was, uh told that, well, maybe he’d have work for me?” Wil is starting to rethink this whole idea, when the silent one lifts its wrist comm and whispers into it. There’s a reply, and the alien whispers some more, before he looks at his colleague and nods. They part and the talkative one points to the booth.
Stepping through the privacy field and into the booth, Wil sees that Xarrix is indeed a who, though of a race Wil can’t identify either--something vaguely reptilian.
“So you need work, huh?” The alien says, without preamble. “Tell me about your ship.”
Wil does his best to describe the Ghost, without revealing it’s a warship. He’s hoping this doesn’t come up. Instead, he emphasizes his desire to haul cargo and maybe, if needed, to smuggle it. Ten minutes later, he leaves the booth with his first paying gig as the owner of a spaceship. Not bad for a human, he thinks to himself, walking out into the street beyond.