“Captain.” The pilot called over his shoulder, not bothering to turn in his seat.

“Antares, your plumage is looking lovely this evening,” Captain Clovehitch leaned in over his pilot’s chair, micro-managing their descent into the Sunless Citadel’s lower-city docks. “Any jobs rattle down from the pipelines?”

“Yes, actually.” Antares’ voice thrumming with sweet sound only Starlings could make, “for once.” The pilot reached a clawed talon over to a PDA and handed it off to his captain.

His large, round eye winked at the captain and his neck twitched slightly, the white streak of feathers that formed an eyebrow of sorts arching up around his head of blue feathers. “Looks like a simple one. Search and rescue, dead or alive.” The feathers around his beak perked upward, closest a Starling could muster to a smile. “With any luck, they’ll be dead and you can just drag ‘em back.”

Clovehitch gave Antares a dour look and patted him on the shoulder. “The very picture of optimism.”

The Nadir turned away from his pilot and pinched the mic on his lapel, “Number One, you read?”

“Yes, sir!” A chipper female voice called back. “Imogen, up, ready, and reading you clear.”

“Great. Going down to meet a Mr. X at,” Clovehitch peeped the PDA, “one fine establishment called The Jumpy Jester. It’s a bar in the Lower City.”

“We got ourselves a job, captain?”

“That’s right. Gonna see if it’s a half-decent one.”

“Looks it to my eye,” Antares coo’d under his breath, the small hairs around his beak bustling with a huff of air from his nostrils.

Clovehitch threw him a look over his shoulder and paced out of the bridge, wanting a modicum of privacy. “Get the band together, you take the Jingle Horse ‘round town and grab us the supplies we need. Be ready to meet up in an hour or two though, soon as I am done meeting with this Mr. X we’ll want to start on the case immediately.”

“I’ll make it happ’n cap’n. See you in a few hours.”

“Oh! And Imogen. Don’t let Ierx spend his allowance just yet. No dust, and no hookers. And no booze either.”

“He’ll be mighty pissed but I’ll make sure he’s sober and energetic for the job.”

“Get him a candy bar or three to calm him down.”

“Aye. Aye.”

Clovehitch let go of the mic between his fingers, silencing it. The sound of his boots clanking on the metal floors rung out in the corridors of his ship as he made his way to his cabin. It wasn’t a sound he got used to. Sounded like music to his ears each time. Few things brought him joy like the sound of his boots on the floor of the ship he owned.

The slightest hint of a smirk was beginning to tickle up the left side of his face, but it was quickly smeared away when he heard the sound of heels on metal, and then the Rho making them.

“Elander, I was just looking for you. You weren’t in your cabin.” The Rho woman stood, hands on hips, one lilac pale leg bare and sliding from the folds of her single-breasted dress.

Clovehitch peeled his eyes from her leg and brushed past her. “That’s Captain Clovehitch to you. What is it?” He carried on to his cabin.

“I have my rent for this month.”

“Could have left that at my door.” Clovehitch unstrapped the gunbelt from his pants, laying it across his bunk.

“I have other business to speak about with you.”

“That so?” Clovehitch said, irritating rising in his voice. Even so, he placed his hand over his shoulder, felt the small lithe and glossy texture of a credstick about the length of his finger, and slipped into his pant’s pocket.

“Oh, leaving your weapons? Going to be obeying the law for once?”

He unclipped a dagger from inside the breast of his long coat and tossed that alongside his gun. “Going to try plying your trade on me?”

“I have several high-paying, important clients lined up. Including some Rho dignitaries.”

“Great. Enjoy, Saori.” He shoved past her again, not looking her in the eye directly, but catching a glance of her grim expression.

“I’m not finished you brusque knife-ear.”

“Wow, very classy.” He carried on down the hall at a brisk pace, the corridor opening into a grated walkway that overlooked the hold. Down below the Tahjin, Imogen, and the Rousettus, Ierx, were getting ready for touchdown. Imogen climbed into their rugged, well-worn and rattly four-wheel Overland aptly christened ‘Jingle Horse’.

“Would you stop for a second, turn to look at me and discuss this matter like a normal person!”

Clovehitch wheel around on a boot, tucked his thumbs in his pant’s loops, strode back and loomed over her. The shadow from his wide-brimmed hat crept up her face and arched across her red-painted lips. The slight touches of makeup on her cheek and eyes glinted in the overhead lights. Exotic; incredibly alien. Features that, to Clovehitch, were just remote enough from Nadir to be enticingly engrossing.

“What’s there else to say? You’re gonna go down, strut about the Upper City, visit some of the clubs, hang off someone’s arm and then get--”

“Enough.” She put her hand up. “I was going to try to swing you some licenses so this ship can enter Rho space, get you a fresh pool of work. Never mind. I need a week at the Sunless Citadel. So long.”

Saori took her turn being pouty, but Clovehitch caught her arm. “First off, you’d have us in the mud a week and you really expected to just walk away without me saying anything about that? Nice move trying to slip it in under the bit about the licenses.”

“They’re high paying, it’ll be worth it.”

“Enough to pay their wages for a week?” he hucked a thumb to Imogen and Ierx who were starting up the engine on the Jingle Horse.

“There is plenty of work for your crew in the Lower City. Don’t try starting a fight with me where there isn’t one, and unhand me.”

He did so, brushing himself off and shaking his head. “Don’t bother risking your job squeezing those passes. Rho space doesn’t have work for our kind what with Yayame out of business.”

“Fine. Have it your way.” Saori left, swooshing the fold of her dress along with her as she returned to her quarters. “And Captain Clovehitch, don’t let your personal feelings muddle your business decisions.” Her voice was mocking and pointed, mirth rising at the peaks of syllables.

Clovehitch rolled his eyes and bumbled down the winding staircase of crisscrossed metal to the Jingle Horse.

Imogen, smile wide and her small little tusks poking up from her bottom lips. “Slick-With-Oil coming?” she asked merrily.

“Nope, work in the engine room needs her attention.” Clovehitch unlatched the rear door and climbed in back. The Jingle Horse was cleaned not two days ago and was already musty with the smell of Ierx.

“Ierx, buddy, you wash today?” Clovehitch said with a curled nose.

The Rousettus went stiff and stood straight up. Lie incoming, Elander thought. He’d been with him long enough to know his tells. “Of course I done did, it is.”

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Imogen gave Clovehitch a knowing look. She turned back to the Rousettus, “C’mon Ixxy, don’t be gross.”

“When we get back from this job its bath time,” Clovehitch said.

The great, wide, furry beast clambered into the passenger seat next to Imogen. “Oh, c-c’mon Ellie.”

“Captain’s orders.”

Ierx turned his head forward and gave a sad, “aye-aye.”

Antares set the ship down in the dock, and the Jingle Horse rolled out with Imogen behind the wheel. They dropped their captain off at The Jumpy Jester. Looked like a cheap always-open, with neon red and blue lights, and a visually obnoxious Duskling in entertainer’s paint.

Elander entered, and before a waiter could seat him, Mr. X waived him over. He was a grubby looking Duskling, and aside from his small horns curling up over his coal-black hair, Elander noticed the awful purple tinge under his eyes. The Captain plunked the menu from the waiter’s hand and sat himself.

“Mr. X?” Elander said.

“Captain Clovehitch of the vessel Lovelace?”

“In the flesh,” he looked at the menu in his hands, “You paying?”

The Duskling sniffled, rubbing his pug nose on a napkin and gave an approving nod.

Elander briskly ordered a steak and shot of okowita to go along with it. “Search and rescue, eh? Who’s the target.”

“My daughter, captain.” From the pocket of his high collar jacket he drew a PDA. On-screen he flicked through a few photos. Normal, young-looking Duskling girl. Reddish-white skin and rosy cheeks. The pictures covered a few years, taking her from early education to upper, ending at a very grumpy looking image of her hiding her face partly.

“Age?”

“Fourteen. Her birthday is in a week.”

“Alright. This is the most recent image?” Elander took a hard look at her, trying to soak in the details of her face. She was in a school uniform, the patch looked local.

“Yes.”

“Gonna need other details too. Name. Last known.”

“By sharing her name I would be forfeiting my anonymity. I am willing, but I need to know again, hear it from you, that you will keep this interaction discreet.”

This guy has never bought a Runner. “Of course, sir. We’ll keep quiet as a nest of dead roupher. We always do, or we wouldn’t get jobs.”

“Alright then. Ayelet Sonrimor. I last saw her about three days ago. She returns home from the academy dorm for the weekends. She didn’t show this weekend.”

“So, last you saw her was last weekend?”

“No. No. Well yes, sorry.” He wrung his hands. “I spoke with her on comm this friday.”

“Alright. How did she sound?”

“Not good. Something off. She wouldn’t tell me. Now it’s Monday night and the school is reporting she hasn’t arrived for muster this morning. She was supposedly leaving academy when she called and was meant to be home within the hour.”

A waitress came by, unsmiling and tired, delivering the steak, okowita and water. Elander rolled his eyes at the green little lemonstalks on his meal, scraping them off the top of the steak with a knife and diving in. It was dry as a bone, gristle and well-done meat chafing under his blade.

“It’s that damn boyfriend. I know it. He’s convinced her to run off with him.”

Elander grounded the meat between his teeth. I wouldn’t buy this piece of shit for a tenth of the menu price. Good thing I’m not paying. He swirled his knife in his hand at Mr. Sonrimor for him to continue.

“I kept telling her to stay away, but you know how these things are. He’s a little vagrant, a criminal. I think he’s in with a local gang. I don’t even know how they met.”

“Local gang?”

“Yes. A chapter of the Anarchs.”

“The Duskling organization, right?”

“Organization of violent psychos that have my daughter!” Mr. Sonrimor said, his voice wavering and more fear-filled than angry.

“Could be.” Elander took his shot of okowita. Tasted like ship fuel, but did its job of clearing the steak’s disappointment from his palette and replacing it with a new type of disappointment. “You know this kid’s name?”

“Sakeri. I don’t know if that’s his primary or family name. That’s all I know.”

“Picture of him by chance?”

Mr. Sonrimor shook his head.

“So why didn’t you alert the authorities? You look like you come from money. Got enough to put Ms. Sonrimor through an academy. And you’re a Duskling, no reason the local police wouldn’t take this case.”

“I have my reasons. Scandal of any kind, in my line of work, is incredibly harmful to my career. This is a crucial time for EastFed. I do not need police looking into my personal life.”

“Can you get us access to her dorm in the academy?”

“I would prefer not to have to give the go-ahead for some runners looting my daughter’s dorm room.”

“Would you be willing to allow us to look at her room in your home?”

He became defensive suddenly, causing Elander to stop chewing the piece of meat he’d begun working on. “Why would you need to do that?”

“Information.”

“No I am sorry, I won’t allow you in my flat.”

“Resisting like this doesn’t make my job easier.”

The Duskling’s face was unflinchingly nerve-wracked.

Elander scrapped his chin, feeling a thin bristle he missed on his shave. Missing girl. Maybe dead. Gangers. Shifty businessman. Smells like money and trouble.

“Job listing said 242 Tengoes. That right?”

“Half now, half when I have my daughter.”

“Dead or alive?”

He looked horrified. “She is alive!”

“Alright. I’ll take this job. 250 Tengoes total, 125 now.”

His face soured further. Elander scratched his chin and tossed his napkin down on the table. “Clocks ticking Mister Sonrimor. It’s been seventy-two hours already. Every second you dilly dally the higher risk of her being hurt or worse.” The Captain steeled up his face.

“Okay, 125 now.” He pulled out a pair of credsticks, fiddled with them to transfer funds from one to the other, and handed one over. Clovehitch slipped it into his pocket right next to the one from Saori. “The rest when I see Ayelet.”

“See you soon, Mr. X. Thanks for the meal.” Elander stood up. “We’ll be in touch.”

“Wait!” Mr. Sonrimor stood as well, brushed his jacket down and fetched a small card from his pocket. A business card. EastFed Trading, with a contact number and Sonrimor’s full name.

“Whoa,” Elander averted his eyes, “I thought you wanted to keep your anonymity.”

“Captain I would prefer you contact me directly with any updates or questions, and for the handoff.” His eyes looked pathetic, the muddy brown-red ring of his iris and yellow sclera moist with the beginnings of tears. Clovehitch took the card off him.

“How can I get in touch with you?”

“You don’t. We get in touch with you.” He gestured with the card and turned away.

He left the Mr. X to pay the tab and walked back out. He pinched the mic on his lapel again, opening the closed crew channel. “All hands. We’ve got ourselves a decent job. Search and rescue. An upfront payment is jingling in my pocket right now. Got a few leads too. Imogen, Ierx, need you to pick me up when you’re done shopping. Antares, might put you in the field on this little run.”

“Aye aye, captain,” Antares replied with a hint of mulled excitement.

“Any special orders for me, Clovehitch?” Slick-With-Oil asked, her voice dull and deadpan as always.

“Not at the minute, Slick. Keep working on that engine. I don’t want power cutting out randomly on a jump like last time.”

“Work is wrapped up for now, need those parts Imogen is buying for me to continue.”

“You’ll get ‘em, null sweat,” Elander replied.

Slick only groaned in response and dropped from the channel.

“We’re just picking up the order of MREs we placed from the depot, we’ll wheel the Jingle Horse around and grab you in half an hour, cap’n.”

Clovehitch gave an affirmative and dropped as well. He lit himself a death stick, stuck it to the end of his opera-length holder, and began to puff. A thin trail of smoke had barely passed the wide brim of his hat before the misters for the Lower City began spraying.

Thin sheets of water rolled down from the rafters about 800 meters high, the rolling dome of nearly invisible metal supports in a criss-crossing web that made the Sunless Citadel’s ceiling. Clovehitch watched the twinkling droplets of water appear and disappear in the neon glows of advertisements on buildings, signs and street lights, until they found their home on the quickly dampening floor and public plant life. Clovehitch turned up his collar to the droplets, a shiver stroking down his spine and shoulders. The Lower City’s habitat temperature was lowering to 15 celsius for its night cycle.

A few death sticks worth of people watching later and Clovehitch was picked up in the Jingle Horse.