CONNECT THE DOTS

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Will's breath misted as he made his way through the icy east side district. Becca and Remy were following closely behind, silently arguing with each other.

"What do I even say?" hissed Becca.

"Just say what we discussed," said Remy simply.

"I'm not a very good liar," huffed Becca.

"Well, I'm sure you will figure out something, princess," muttered Remy, which earned himself a smack.

"Quiet," Will hushed the two. He jogged the last few feet towards the pub and stood at the entrance. One hand on the door handle, Will listened to the cheers and jeers coming from the pub. For a moment, he stood uncertain, but soon steeled himself. He let out a breath and swung the door open.

Whoops and cheers greeted them as they stepped inside the pub. The door swung closed behind them as the trio stopped to take it all in. A circuit match was playing on one of the large screens bolted to the wall. The patrons cheered as they watched the mechs tear each other apart.

Will stepped past the boisterous crowd and made his way towards the bar, with Remy and Becca close behind. Upon reaching the counter, they settled onto the tall stools and took their seats.

The bald bartender was wiping down a glass. He had an impeccable curled grey mustache and neatly trimmed beard. He looked to be somewhere around his early fifties and looked quizzically at the trio seated before him.

He squinted at Becca, who had her hood over her head. "How old are you three? I don't serve milk here."

"We are looking for something stronger," said Remy, deepening his voice and flexing his field.

The bald bartender snorted. "At least you are past your awakening day. What will you be having?"

"Whiskey, neat," said Will.

"The same for me," said Remy.

The bartender turned to Becca, who shook her head. He fixed the drinks and served the two boys.

Will took a sip. It burned as it went down, and he fought to keep his face neutral. To hide his discomfort, Will jerked his head towards the crowd. "Is it always this busy?"

"Only during game night," said the bartender as he went back to wiping down the glasses.

"Hangar-19," Will nodded. "You don't have any pilots around here?"

"There are always a few," said the bartender, his eyes flicking between the three of them. "What did you have in mind?"

"We were looking to catch a flight," said Will. "Just wanted to see if anyone would have us."

The old bartender regarded him for a second before pointing towards the left, to one of the quieter sections of the pub. "Go and talk to him."

Will glanced at the man sitting alone at a table. He was slowly nursing a drink, staring at the match playing on the far wall.

"Does he have a name?" asked Will.

"I suggest you ask him yourself," the bartender said as he gestured towards the man. He made some quick hand signs, and the man nodded.

He waved them forward, and Will stepped off the high stool. They made their way towards the table, and the man gestured for them to sit. Will took the seat along with the others, a little surprised. Things were going a little more smoothly than he had imagined.

He looked at the man sitting in front of them. He had a black cloth mask covering his mouth and nose. There were laugh wrinkles around his eyes and a thin scar running down his left eye. The wrinkles should have made him look old, but he appeared fairly young. Will couldn't guess what his age was. When the pilot cleared his throat with a gruff, gravelly voice, Will placed him around thirty, but he still wasn't sure.

"I'm called Stringer," said the pilot. "You looking for me?"

"I'm Damian," said Will, "and this is Lars and Kes."

"Damian," Stringer repeated, and Will inwardly cringed. He spoke the first name that popped into his head, and it had to be his cousin.

"What can I do for you, Damian?"

Will went with their prearranged story. "We would like to arrange passage to Koldova."

"Koldova?" Stringer looked suspicious. "Why do you want to go there?"

"Does it matter?" asked Remy.

"You are asking me to fly over a military zone. They are a bit touchy these days. Endless checking. You can't get past the ports without being probed. I need to know you are on the up and up," said Stringer.

"We are from the Garland Foundation, an NGO based in the Tower. We were working with some refugee crisis centers in Koldova," said Will.

Stringer nodded. "So, just you three are flying. There is no cargo?"

"No," said Will.

Stringer looked satisfied. "Alright, that does make things easier. When do you want this done?"

"Two months from now," said Will.

Stringer frowned. "I'm not sure if I'll be available, but I'll let you know. If I can't make it, then I can suggest some other ships that are ready to go."

"That sounds great," said Will. "Now let's discuss pricing."

Will was about to make an offer when Remy nudged him. Will felt his slate vibrate, and he pulled it out. He had received a text from Remy.

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

'Don't look back. Someone we know is behind us.'

Will immediately felt the urge to look back but resisted. Another message arrived.

'Look through the reflection in the bar counter.'

Will turned his head and glanced at the mirrored wall behind the bar. His heart leaped when he saw Marvin from the printer shop. He was yelling loudly at the screen playing the arena match.

Will felt his stomach drop. He hoped Marvin would stay on the other side of the pub. He knew they were from the military camp. He had seen their faces clearly before, and their entire story would crumble if he recognized them.

Becca sank deeper into her chair, trying to hide. She too had her slate out, reading her messages.

"Something wrong?" asked Stringer, puzzled.

"No," said Will, adjusting his seat so that only his back would be visible to Marvin. "Why don't we get back to pricing?"

Will made a show of haggling. He didn't care how much his imaginary flight to Koldova would cost, but it would seem suspicious if he was so cavalier about the credits.

They arrived at a good number, and Stringer looked in a good mood. Will smiled. "We need to get a round to close the deal."

"I don't mind," Stringer's eyes crinkled.

"I'll get it," said Remy, and took their orders. He nodded towards Will and made for the bar, all the while keeping his eyes on the printer guy.

Will glanced at the mirror again. Marvin was still engrossed with the match. He'd better wrap this up fast before something goes wrong.

"So, Stringer," said Will. "Do you own your own plane, or are you leasing one?"

Stringer leaned back in his chair. "Managed to purchase my own bird about a month ago. Curtis JN-11. Good plane."

"I sense an exciting story there," said Will.

"Yeah," Stringer nodded and drained his drink. "I started off flying on the Tower's dime. Mostly gate transport. Made a good chunk of change from that. Bought my own plane after."

"Sounds like a cushy gig," said Will. "The returns must be great. Never having to worry about repairs and maintenance. All taken care of by Tower money."

"But there is something about being your own boss," said Stringer. "Now I fly when I want, where I want. Though, you are right about the maintenance. Costing me an arm and a leg. But, still ain't no price for freedom."

"Well, I'll drink to that," said Will as Remy brought in the drinks. The brunet plopped into his seat. "What are we talking about?"

Will waved towards Stringer. "Our pilot used to fly transport for the Tower."

"You don't say," said Remy. "Sounds like good money."

"It was," said Stringer. "Then funds started drying up with the embargo. It was when the company started urging us to do our own repairs that I decided to bail. If I'm going to fix their ships, I might as well own the damn thing."

Stringer reached out for the drink and took a long swig. "The printer shops are getting hit hard too. The Miltons used to rake in cash, but the government contracts are drying up."

"Wait, the Miltons?" Will remembered the shop that Marvin worked at. He glanced at the mirror but didn't spot him. "You mean the shop a little ways from the airstrip."

"Aye," Stringer nodded. "Most of their work is in government contracts. Used to get all my prints from there. Good shop. Miltons run a tight ship."

Will and Remy exchanged a glance. "Interesting. I guess the days of living off of Tower chow are over. It's a bad time to be in the transport business."

Stringer shook his head. "All flights are being scrutinized after the attack. It's done great damage to the business. Everything is going to get more expensive... it's a damn nightmare. All of this could have been avoided if the military did their damn job. Now they are proposing regulations."

Stringer snorted into his glass. Will chuckled. "They created the problem and now they offer solutions to screw you even more."

"That's right!" Stringer shook his head. "Goddamn jarheads!"

Remy nudged him, and Will's slate buzzed.

"Enough fluff. We don't have much time."

Will glanced at the mirror and spotted Marvin stumble towards the bathroom. He'd better wrap this up quick. Clearing his throat, he placed his glass back on the table.

"You know, we already had a pilot lined up for the flight," said Will. "Then awakening day happened, and he went missing. Haven't heard from him since."

Stringer sighed. "We lost many good people that day."

"Yeah," Will let out a breath. "Nice guy too. Flew a Hummingback. What was his name? Samus, Sarus, or something?"

"What did he look like?" asked Stringer.

"The talk was over the slate," said Will. "Though the Hummingback was of the TH-5 model. Modded too, had aerial recon attachments."

"A research vessel?" Stringer frowned. "I'm not familiar with anyone with that arrangement. But if you are keen on finding him, I suggest you attend the memorial service for the pilots based here."

"There is a service?"

"It's private," said Stringer. "This is just for the pilots. Their families funded it. Here," he grabbed his slate and scrolled through it.

Will felt his pulse quicken. He glanced at Remy, who gave a small nod. The news about the attack had been heavily suppressed in the tower. The number of dead too was downplayed. If Stringer was about to give them what they think they did, that information would be valuable.

Will waited with bated breath when there was a clatter of chairs from behind him. Marvin came stumbling forward and peered at the three of them through half-lidded eyes.

"You three," said Marvin, slurring his words.

Will's heart leapt to his throat when Marvin pointed at Becca, who was sinking deeper into her chair. "I know you. You... you."

Will's fist clenched, wanting nothing more than to knock out the drunk. He was so close to getting some good intel, and he was interrupted. Will grabbed the armrest, trying to control himself. If they started a fight, that would draw unwanted attention, and that was the last thing they needed right now.

"You are wasted, bud," said Remy. "Why don't you cool off in the drunk tank?"

Marvin got angry and pointed at Remy. "I'm not drunk! You're drunk! Come on, we're taking this outside!"

Will clicked his tongue and glanced at Remy. "Why are you calling him drunk? He's fine."

The unexpected support had Marvin smiling. "Yeah, you tell him, friend!"

Will nodded. "In fact, he should have another drink." He offered his glass to the delighted Marvin, who downed it in one shot.

Marvin patted Will on the shoulder and slurred, "You're a good guy, you are."

Completely oblivious to everything around him, Marvin stumbled off the crowded section of the pub and joined the other match watchers.

Stringer chuckled. "You handled that pretty well."

He tapped on his slate, and Will got a ping. He just received a brochure and a list of the deceased pilots. Will gripped his slate tightly. Finally, some answers.

"Thank you, Stringer," said Will. "We will pay our respects at the service."

Will stood up and shook the pilot's hand. "We better get going before more drunks come to assault us."

Stringer chuckled. "Alright."

Bidding goodbye, Will and the rest walked away from the table. A few paces later, they were out of the pub, back into the icy east side streets.

"Did you get it?" asked Remy urgently.

Will grabbed his slate and sent the brochure to Remy and Becca, who devoured its contents.

"There is a problem," said Remy.

"What is it?" asked Will. Remy looked around and dragged him towards a secluded side alley.

"There are over a thousand pilots on this list."

"Oh my God," gasped Becca. "How many..."

"Let's not focus on that," Remy breathed out. "We need to narrow this down somehow."

"How many of them fly Hummingbacks?" asked Will.

"Well, I wouldn't know the exact model but," said Remy as he typed away on his slate. "If we limit to those who are under government contracts related to research and development... alright, it is down to 300."

"It's still not enough," muttered Will. "We need to narrow this down even further."

Remy stared off into the distance. "Is there a way to raid the airstrip?"

"Are you insane?" Becca hissed.

Remy smiled and shrugged. "They would have the flight logs."

"No!" said Becca. "Will, stop this idiot."

Will fell silent and considered the chain-linked fence and guard towers of the airstrip. "Yeah, I think this one is a little too risky."

Remy scratched his arm. "So, what else can we do?"

"No system is perfect," Will muttered. "There has to be some place that is vulnerable. Information security is only as strong as its weakest link."

"So what's the weakness?" asked Becca.

An idea started slowly forming, and Will looked pensive. "Didn't Stringer say that the Miltons get government contracts? What are the odds that our Hummingback got their parts printed?"

"The recon attachments," said Remy. "Yes, there is a good chance, not to mention all those years of repair and maintenance. They are bound to leave a trace."

Will tucked his gloved hands into his pockets as he looked at Remy and Becca. His breath misted in the chilly air. "So, are we in agreement?"

Remy and Becca glanced at each other before nodding.

Will breathed out. "Let's go raid that shop."