I made my way out of my ship and into the winding circular halls of the inner ship.

The walls themselves were smooth sheets of metal, set within a set of spaced flexible membranes that were held circular with rings to give the shape of a tube. The membranes, while not visible, meant that if a sheet had a defect, or the ship had been punctured, the membranes would keep the gases inside. A set of magnetic catwalks let me traverse the tubes like flat ground, both above and below me, although hand holds along the walls and floor were recessed into the metal so we could get around without our shoes if we wanted to.

As it was, walking in zero gravity was… abnormal for some. For me, it was fine, like walking anywhere else, but for some people, it was apparently quite terrible. Some people had problems with their sense of balance, they often vomited or were sick when they entered. Those that came and weren’t either like me, and rather adapted to it, or experienced it continuously for long enough they got used to the sensation.

Along the walls were directions to junctions with ship maps, though mostly they were just clear of detritus, leaving only Spartan metal.

I was walking to the bridge, which was relatively close to the hangars, was centered between port and starboard and about a quarter of the ship’s length forward from the rear engines. It was a quick five-minute walk through tube after tube of boring metal walls.

MC had apparently gone off to do something after his rather moderate gripe.

I had been walking through the corridors for a few minutes when I walked past a member of staff, a mercenary but not a merc mercenary. I did things like bounty hunting or recovery. The squat man was walking from engineering down the portside main catwalk in front of me and was very obviously a member of the Gulls crew.

We both made our best impression of two ships in the dark and walked past one another. There were quite a few fighting mercenaries, but the crew of the Gull was thrice our number. The Gull had just shy of 400 people on board at maximum capacity, each doing their jobs, manning turrets, checking sensors, and piloting the ship, while the captain and quartermaster did their jobs.

MC was the captain and had a room just off the bridge for communications, he monitored each of us that were away on missions and did it with an insane level of dexterity. And the enigmatic quarter master did their duty, performing the obscure mathematics of keeping everything running, reading updates of everything and performing the calculus of predicting the future of what we would need.

I honestly didn’t think I could do either of their jobs, not even with training. The things I could do were turn effort into credits, which would, in turn, bring back money to man the Gull, which in turn gave us a place to put our feet up. By sending us out for contracted work, they kept everything running while we ran around; both of us worked our asses off, but we never saw eye to eye.

They got to sit around here, manning the ship. We ran around and got into tough spots to make money. If the ship was ever in danger, they would be the ones to save it, but it never did, the last war was over three decades ago, and the Gull was simply not worth it. Oh sure, a drunk idiot thinking they were pirates was a thing that happened, but it was generally not a thing that resulted in anything more than a fired missile and a scrap run to sift through the rubble for goodies.

Pirates avoided the inner system for a reason, they were simply outmatched.

I got on the main corridors, and made my way over to the bridge, up the stairs as the indicator showed and sent a quick call to MC over the radio to ask permission to enter the bridge.

The formality was quickly heeded, and the door clicked open and inward to the bridge. The bridge crew was minimal, most off duty, they sat staring off into their displays that gave nothing, listening to some radio to pass the time. The Helmsman sat doing nothing, rigidly sitting in his seat like he had the most deadly stick shoved up his ass ever conceived. Not acknowledging anything.

I nodded at the tall humanoid man, unable to meet his freaky and intense four multifaceted eyes as I walked in front of him, and the door shut behind me.

I made my way over to the side room before knocking on the door.

It clicked open, and I walked into the dim room.

Bank upon bank of radios covered the wall, giving off the only light other than the doorway.

“Come on in, Bandit,” MC called out, his resonant voice not constrained over the radio rolled out clearly.

“Well, MC, how is this going to go down,” I asked as I entered.

The first thing I saw was his silhouette, my eyes were not accustomed to the low light I could only see his absence.

Mission Control was large, his long trunk floating in low gravity, his tentacles moving between the buttons and dials of the room while anchoring himself in the space.

Once out of the glare of the fluorescent lights, I could see his reflective eyes, dozens of them speckling his body.

He was a squid, eyes lining his body to give him 360-degree vision, his tentacles reached out from either end of his body like the branches and roots of a tree.

Below him, held in one tentacle, was a microphone, trailing over to the banks of radios.

He would stay here in this box listening to us. Watching over us.

He was a good boss, as far as my bosses have been concerned, no matter that he was not a humanoid like most of us. Many of the more specialized people humanity had made could do the job of many others, case in point, one MC vs a dozen well-trained radio operators.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

The Quartermaster was also non-humanoid and did the job of some twenty staff, but he was a Clerk, so that was part of the package.

Most of us were less different on the outside than MC, small changes to our insides were more common, though more often than not, it was our minds that were different. Each of us once upon a time had performed a task, with a variety of different things. That had led to most people grouping up based on professions because they were the most alike. Farmers farmed, but were you farming grains? If so, what cereals? What about Fruit? And so we had been programmed from birth to perform that one task. Most of us looked similar to one another, slightly different but mostly the same, there was just no reason to have more significant changes. But less than forty percent were distinct like MC, non-humanoids with incredibly enhanced abilities.

A group of Farmers, who prided themselves on farming, being outdone by one person as large as a tractor doing the job of thirty men could have that effect.

Navigators and Astro paths and their strange minds that continuously plotted tiny parts of space let us predict things decades out, including the operation of the stellar relays centred around Gabriel. Clerks were enigmatic and had hideously long lives, toiling away for decades at a time. The Chroniclers were four-armed, and nearly ten feet with brilliant green carapaces, they were able to live in a vacuum, and they remembered everything they ever saw and everything their ancestors saw too.

The non-humanoids were often either thought of as monsters or looked up to as a kind of idol. On the worlds we had inherited by accident, competency was often the trait of a leader, and the competence of the non-humanoids made them great leaders.

Often, they were even looked up to for long enough that there would even be a kind of attractiveness shift. Some people would try to look like them, some moons or stellar bodies had a kind of non-humanoid attractiveness kink. I found the Chroniclers attractive, but I think that was a me thing.

I had never seen someone else like MC, and I probably wouldn’t see another, each had likely had a specific task once upon a time, they were rare.

“Good to see you, Bandit, I have approximately 14 minutes before the next check-in, the client can be reached on channel 37, over there,” he told me, pointing past me to a bank of radio equipment with a noodle appendage.

“Thanks, let’s hope he bends a bit because otherwise, it’s a no,” I told him, turning around to walk over.

“I still can’t understand your reaction, but I suppose your distaste is not uncommon.” He told me.

“I can tell you in a bit, it’s business time,” I told him as I found channel 37.

As it turned out, the channel in question was a large box with dials and indicators, it was a bit case for longer-range communication. It was far larger than my pocket-sized one that could do basic stuff, but otherwise, it was normal equipment. What caught my attention was the number of things attached to the box, hooked up, were a number of plates and circuits and an old battery.

It took up twice the original space as the original and looked like it had been cobbled together with spare parts. It looked like it was an electrical hazard.

I trusted MC, but even so, I plugged my headset in tentatively. Luckily it didn’t electrocute me.

I turned on the channel and pinged. The line picked up immediately.

“Hello.” The mystery man on the other end said.

He had a kind of clear, smooth basso voice with a posh Phelian accent, a nobles accent. That was to be expected, considering he was some kind of rich big wig, but it was still strange. I had kind of assumed someone else would be talking for him.

“Hello, I am Bandit of the Phelian Gulls.”

“It is good to meet your acquaintance, Bandit, I am the Collector. May I presume you are the mercenary I paid to retrieve my artifact?” he asked.

“Indeed, I have the artifact on me.” I told him before asking, “It’s my understanding you want an additional artifact retrieved.”

“Ah… Straight to the point, I see. I suppose time is money and all of that. Indeed, I want you to bring the data chit you retrieved to the Throne, it is a part of a greater whole, as it were.” He said.

“I see. And this would be a rush job, correct? I’ve been told you have been asking for speed, what else would this job entail.” I asked, I was looking to test him, I wanted to have a few buzzwords to rack up the costs.

“Indeed, I am looking for a speedy and discreet carrier. Your job would be to bring the chit with you, down to a corresponding artifact on the Throne, retrieve it, and bring it back to me.” He said.

It’s like he’s asking to be price gouged, what a dufus.

“My starting price just to go onto the throne and retrieve the artifact is 20 million. But for a rush job and for secrecy, that would be an 80% increase.” I started, “However. The Throne is outside of my range, which means that part of that price is in transportation fees. I understand that you are a person of means, if you have a method of transportation, I would be willing to cut the total down to a 40% increase.” I told him.

It was a massive upsell, but if even half of that was accepted, it would be-

“Deal, transportation is no issue, I already have a ship heading over there, it is on its way inward towards Raphael. As for secrecy, a few million is a small price to pay for it, you have already come in contact with those that stole the chit from me previously, it’s a hot item, and every new artifact is. Your job, in addition to getting the artifact, will need to include keeping others in the dark, you never know if someone’s a spy after all.”

40% would be 8 million credits. I would get 8 million credits for keeping my mouth shut.

“I can do that,” I said, not letting the tremble of my lip at the thought of that much cash give me away. “I will need half of my pay upfront. I need to rearm because I used a lot of ammunition for your prior job, but if I’m going to land on the Throne, I’m going to require refuelling to get back out of orbit. Coupled with the secrecy, with the half up front, that would be 14 million credits before I get on your ship.” I told him.

Get the money, think of the money, Bandit, eyes on the prize. I don’t care if he’s way too willing to be parted from his cash, even if it’s suspicious.

“That would be a lot all at once, but to get you onboard as soon as possible, I’m willing.” He said, “I will forward it to the Gull immediately. My ship is docked on Pier twelve, when can I expect you to arrive?”

I blinked, running a calculation on how long it would take to acquire what I was looking for. If I got onto the station, got my stuff ready and brought it back. I could refuel in the hangar, I just had to call for it. Then I could sleep on the ship, add in an hour for food…

“4 hours tops,” I told him.

“Excellent, hangar 14 will be available for landing for four hours over at berth 134,” he said, almost offhandedly.

14? That’s a big ship, bigger than the Gull. A ship with 14 landing bays on merchant’s vessel would be huge.

“Understandable, I’ll be there. Bandit out.” I told him before switching off the radio and unplugging my headset.

I turned to MC before asking, “Did that go too well?”

“Quite possibly,” he said, flexing his tentacles, “I’ll get the documents ready; can I assume you want your ship refuelled?” he asked.

“Yes, I’ll need my ship refuelled. I need to do a bunch of stuff, too, though… Could you have the forms sent to my bay so I can sign them when I leave?” I asked.

“I can indeed, or you could just sign them now,” he said, pointing at a desk just behind him. “Getting a document ready just meant I needed to sign them. Come on, it will only take a moment.”

Ugg.

Paperwork.