The Brig, SUN Gilgamesh

In Orbit Over Meridian III

This was the first time Malachi had been outside of his cell in three months. It hadn’t felt so long to him because he’d only been conscious for the last fifteen minutes. Before that, he remembered lying down in a cryo pod in a small, poorly lit room filled with other pods. He remembered the dark, and the cold, and the clutching fear in his chest as he slipped into sleep. They had thrown him into the brig many times over the years. Those were short term visits while his superior officers determined how to reprimand him for drunkenness, disorderly behavior, brawling- the list went on. The Gilgamesh was not a penitentiary ship, so it was not equipped for long term transport of convicts. The cryo pods kept unruly prisoners controlled, and removed the need to provide them with food, socialization and all the other things a person needs not to lose their damned minds in a tiny box.

“M-my eyes hurt,” he slurred. A marine had him under arm and was leading him down the ship’s winding corridors. Malachi stumbled along beside him, blinking excessively. Every inch of him burned as his body thawed. The cold dug into his bones, his muscles, even his corneas. He mumbled a series of curses as feeling slowly returned to his extremities.

The marine shoved him into a metal chair and stepped away. Malachi adjusted, glancing around the room. They were in a large room filled with separate tables all bolted to the floor. Lights hung from the low ceiling, burning too brightly for his liking.

Sitting across from him were two women he didn’t recognize, and standing just behind them was Vice Admiral Song Chung-Ho.

One of the women was short, barely five feet tall, and remarkably old. Malachi couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a genuinely old-looking person; anti-aging tech was widely available to anyone with a few digits to their name. But she had long, frizzy hair the color of a stormy sky and wrinkles deep as canyons. She had the dress and demeanor of a soldier.

The other was taller than him, possibly breaching six and a half feet. She was thin without a hint of frailty. He could tell she was augmented by the shape and blue-white coloration of her veins. His neurodeck detected what he was looking at and ran a scan on her. It came back with an approximate list of her cybernetics that made his eyes bulge. ‘She could fist fight a marine in power armor and come out on top.’

And unlike her uniformed companion, the tall woman was wearing a rather dashing pair of black slacks and a vest. She seemed to have noticed Malachi was observing her and raised a questioning brow in response. He felt his cheeks flush and quickly grinned.

“Who are you people supposed to be?”

“Your only way out of here. So I’d watch my manners, smart guy.” The tall woman showed her teeth in what could’ve been a smile or a snarl; maybe both. “This is Captain Corrigan, your new boss.”

The one called Captain Corrigan raised a hand to stop her subordinate. “Enough, Rem.” She looked back to Malachi with a discerning eye, examining him as closely as he had them. It was hard to tell what she was thinking, her face as stony as Olympus Mons. “Let’s see how this goes first before we make any promises. What’s your name?”

“Malachi.” He cocked his head. “I assume he already told you that,” he motioned with his chin toward the vice admiral. Song responded only with a disapproving click of his tongue.

“We heard you were in some trouble, Malachi. They’re shipping you off to Ganymede.”

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“Heard a rumor they were going to drop you into a dark hole and lose the key,” Rem chortled.

Malachi’s face contorted. They had dragged him out of his nice, cozy coffin to give him shit over this again? “I already told you bozos you’re not getting my mech. If you don’t have anything else then put me back on ice already. Tired of this.”

Artemis put her hands together on the table between them, patient as a tree. “We aren’t here from the military, Malachi. We aren’t here for your exoframe- we’re here for you.” She tapped her temple and then swiped a finger through open air. Following the gesture there was a ping in Malachi’s neurodeck as he received a new file.

A work release. Payment plans for all those fines that the lawyer had heaped onto his lap. Pages and pages of legal jargon about waiving risks, health benefits, union dues, retirement. “You offerin’ me a job, captain?” Malachi gave her a perplexed look.

She nodded. “I came to an agreement with Vice Admiral Song. You will be joining the crew of Vox Fortuna for the next five years. I’ll front the first five hundred thousand FSCs and you will work to pay off the remainder of your debt, no interest. I expect you to pay me back as well, in time.”

Malachi blinked, scoffing. “And why would you do that?” That was a hell of a lot of money to drop for a complete stranger’s benefit.

“I’ve been hired to do a job and I need the extra manpower. High risk. You’ll get a debrief packet once you’re on board. On top of that, you get a spot on my crew, a bay for your exoframe, and a bed to sleep in. You’ll need to pay all expenses for your own frame including repairs, ammunition replenishment and any upgrades you want to make. Contracts are divvied up based on participation with bonuses for going above and beyond. Any loot you find on the battlefield is yours to keep. How’s that sound?”

He paused, considering. It sounded good. Maybe too good to be true, considering what was originally supposed to happen to him. Why would fleet command go from trying to seize his property and throw him into jail to letting him off with a slap on the wrist? There was something else going on here that he couldn’t see. That made him nervous.

Malachi swallowed hard. He did not know Vice Admiral Song well. The man was Admiral Armeade’s direct subordinate, and had been for close to three decades. Friendship was probably too strong a word to describe their relationship, but…

“So I get to keep Bucephalus?”

Song shook his head. “It will remain in naval possession as collateral. Once you have paid off your debts it will be released to you.”

“We’re getting you a replacement,” Artemis added quickly.

“Hell no,” Malachi knew this was too good to be true. “You’re just goin’ to claim I broke some hidden clause in the contract n’ seize it. Even if it's bullshit you’ll hide behind an army of lawyers until I’m too broke to fight for what’s mine.” He was angry, now. His blood was running hotter than plasma.

Artemis reached a hand across the table and touched his arm. “The contract’s solid steel, Malachi. I looked it over myself.”

“I don’t know you.” Malachi bristled, though he did not pull away from her touch.

“I’ve done this hundreds of times. For decades, I’ve been trading prison contracts with a dozen different nations: Union, Thedes, North Star League. All of ‘em. I know what it looks like when someone’s trying to screw you, and this isn’t it.”

The other woman, Rem, leaned in now. “Just about the whole Fortuna crew came from a place like this. I met her in a Martian police interrogation room after I’d been busted for, uh…” She glanced over her shoulder at the vice admiral. “Never mind what. Point is, I thought I was done and dusted before Artemis came strolling in. She offered me the same second chance she’s giving you now, and if you aren’t a total moron, you’ll take it. Nobody deserves to languish behind bars. Nobody.”

Malachi sighed, turning his head toward the ceiling.

“Screw it. Let’s do it.”