"Why Gideon?" I asked.
"Because we're heroes!" He bolstered with a hearty laugh at my expense.
I failed to comprehend. It wasn't until later that night, while we were still in cortex range, that I looked up and discovered that the name of the ship was from an ancient religious warrior of Earth That Was. It still made no sense - they were mercenaries... or we were mercenaries... or I would be a mercenary soon... In either case I never found the idea of killing for hire terribly heroic nor religious. But since this certainly wasn't my first time aboard a ship, I decided to let it go knowing that I would eventually find out.
Regardless, Gideon was a concerning vessel, first and foremost for its suffocating cramped interior. Even the cargo bay could barely fit a vehicle. The most impressive spaces were probably the bridge and the engine room... speed and command of it; the two greatest commodities of a merc. You might have the powerful want to say weaponry... sorry, I just let out some boarder-speak there. It must be wearing on me... Anyway, you may want to say it's weaponry but there are two factors that come into play. One: the weapon is only useful if you can draw it fast enough. And two: anything can be a weapon. This ship, for example, has no weapons according to Alliance law since ship-mounted weapons are quite illegal if not licensed. It does, however, have four very efficient mining lasers. There are restrictions, of course. The lasers can only point down. Any fore, aft, or broad side lasers would be classified as weapons, but a simple flick of the strategic wrist can make these just as dangerous. We could punch a hole through four-inch-think hull in just under five seconds with these lasers, which is why I imagine they thought I'd be a useful deckhand.
Like I said before, this isn't my first fist day. I had just finished touring on a legitimate mining ship this month and spent quite a long spell in the laser control room. It didn't quite appeal to me though. Moreover, while merc life isn't very heroic or religious, it is highly lucrative and the taste of hazard pay was too irresistible. Even as a lowly deckhand, simply being in the company of those whose job is to make enemies and kick ass pays me more money than when I was as a miner. I could have trained to become a laser technician or a mineral analyst, but training licenses take time and money. Time I had, but I gambled the money away in a bad deal my first week in the boarder planets. Here all you need is sharp wit, a steady eye, and a sheer will to survive that's strong enough to overpower the will of the person on the other side of your barrel. I didn't know if I had any of those things, but at least I could find out for free or maybe even get paid to. In the mean time my parents - back in safe little Osiris - are looking forward to hearing about my internship on deep space mining operations...
"Out of the way you gorram meat sack!" Borret growled as he side swiped me with his duffle bag... which I'm pretty sure was filled with guns and not clothes. From the hard floor looking up at him, Borret seemed more comfortable with me. "The cap'n assign you your first toilet yet?"
"Heh, not yet but..." I don't think he heard me because...
"Haha." Again, a laugh at my expense as he lurched down the corridor.
Strangely enough, Borret was the one who brought me onboard. After I told him my story he was amused and joked that I was perfectly qualified to mop floors and scrub toilet seats. At least I'm assuming it's a joke considering the work I did as a miner. He had a good point to see the captain though since we were just clearing moorings.
I scurried between the brutish men unnoticed. The most contact I had was when I bumped into... actually I can't remember his name. All I can remember is how he wears an Alliance uniform coat. He equates it to Reavers wearing the skin of humans as a trophy. It's disturbing. They're all disturbing. The men on this ship make fantastic amounts of money and yet I see no luxuries. Best I can tell they spend all of it on weapons, ammo, and ways to accelerate mortality. They're not in it for the money. They're in it for the satisfaction of making someone very bloody... or very dead. That was the difference between them and me, at least for now...
The movement was electric here on the bridge. It was everything I had dreamed of while trying to escape boredom on Osiris. And at the center of it was Captain Charles Winston. He was an uncommon element amidst the rust gutted bulkheads and oil smeared plating. The animals around him were violence-driven ogres who would pleasure themselves at first glimpse of any symbol remotely female. And here he was executing a machine of meat-head cogs.
"That's not your job, Rodin." Winston's voice was as straight as his marksmanship the day I met him. A dreadlocked man stepped back from the dismembered bulkhead without even a glint of resentment at the captain's cool cutting command... I spoke too soon. Rodin was different too. He had not said a word since the day we were introduced but I could tell he was different.
I continued to be drawn in by Winston with his flat gray long coat and leather gloves. With his head compacted into his spine and his back knit up tight, I debated whether he was tethered to the floor by his jowls or being strung up by his shoulders. Either way there was an immovability about this man who would otherwise appear to topple over in a light summer breeze. I imagined that it was winter and the freeze of space that kept him stiff. Now was my chance to speak to him. I prepared myself and waited for a space between his orders.
"Morgan, I want that bulkhead up and that console back in order before we cross Hera. Rigs, get on the line with Belmore for some more cells. The last gig left us zilch on our lasers."
"You got it."
"Cale, what's ETA?"
"'bout twenty hours."
"Good. Rodin, see to the engines. Vern..." Winston's coat flailed out as he spun his tethered body. "Where's Vern?" With a heavy exhale he crossed the bridge to the rear airlock. We made eye contact, instantly volts ran through my body... "Omar, mops are on the bottom deck."... And he was gone. I guess it wasn't a joke...
-- Omar Habul, Winter 2517
