Five days.
Five days of nothing.
Five days of scraping through the Guild's jobs board, looking for anything even remotely profitable, and nothing.
Five days closer to Stewart Pearce and his stupid glasses and his stupid gravcar and his stupid datapad and his stupid default. Five days less to earn an astronomical sum of money.
Fleer had even gone through and set up a spreadsheet to tell him what they'd have to earn every day to make the deadline. The answer wasn't pretty, and it got uglier every day that he spent floundering around looking for work.
He'd even tried some cold calling, but he knew that wasn't his strongest sales tactic, and people didn't really hire mercenary work from a call. It was all about the connections, and he just didn't have any anymore.
With scant hope, he pulled the jobs board open again. Clicked on all the filters again. Opened the near-empty list again-- wait, hold on.
The floodgates had opened, and a river of jobs was available.
With slowly building hope, he clicked through a few, setting them aside to sift through. The jobs weren't amazing, not nearly what they needed, but it was something.
He started juggling timelines in his head. If he split the team, he could send part of the crew on this job, the rest on that job, then in between that and a third job, they could fill in with guard work at this company. It wasn't enough to catch up to their debt, but they could be earning while Fleer worked on landing a big job, a whammy that would set them up to clear their debt and free them from Pearce.
The sudden rush of work was a wonderment to him, but he wasn't complaining. His crumbled heart began to hope again. There was work here, and he believed that if they could work, they could win.
He fired off a proposal to a client, and pulled up the next. This was a new and wonderful problem to have, having too many jobs to work! He sent off another proposal.
He was working on a third proposal when a message popped up. It notified him that his first proposal had been flagged. Hmm.
Whatever. There were lots of jobs here. He fired off the third proposal and started on a fourth.
Another message popped up. The second proposal had been flagged as well.
Fleer frowned. He shouldn't be getting flagged this much. He clicked in to see what was going on.
"Your proposal has been flagged," the message stated, "and will not be delivered to the client. Your proposal was flagged for the following requirements:
GUILD ASSOCIATION REQUIRED
Please only submit proposals that meet the client's guidelines. Repeated flagging may result in a temporary suspension of your account."
Puzzled, he moved back through the interface to check his company data.
Company Name: Riotfish, Inc. Class: E - Small Operations (Various) Guild Membership Status: Applied Guild Sponsor: UNSPONSORED
Yep, just like it had been for ages. Frowning, he went back to the jobs board. There were the jobs, there were his filters-- oh.
In the mass of filters he'd applied, he'd missed selecting "NO GUILD ASSOCIATION". He clicked it, and the sea of jobs evaporated, along with his mood.
With a grimace, he carefully deleted the fourth proposal. He didn't need a suspension. Not now.
He slammed a palm down on the desk, forcing out a sharp sigh. No work.
He checked all the open jobs boards with the correct filters applied. Nothing. And nothing. And a lot more nothing. Rearrange the search filters, and like magic, more nothing appeared.
No work, no money. No money, and in six weeks, Riotfish, Inc. would be no more. No more Riotfish, and the fig leaf of legal protection he had would evaporate.
After his debacle at his former employer, AtaVision Inc., he'd managed to sneak in a tiny, null-op contract with them through Riotfish. This kept them from exercising any kind of retribution against him. While it was not technically illegal to carry out retribution against someone you had an active contract with, it was considered poor form. Any self-respecting corporation paid excruciatingly close attention to form, in eye-watering detail.
But with no Riotfish, that contract would vanish, and AtaVision would be free to pursue him for back damages.
Unfortunately, "back damages" for a failed corporate assassin meant a lot more than just money and paperwork. They'd want to send a message. A warning for others. Fleer wouldn't get a warning-- he would be the warning.
And the crew. It was entirely possible that they'd enact retribution on the rest of the Riotfish as well. Something messy, colorful, shocking.
After all, he was the only Class A corporate assassin who'd ever walked off of an assignment and lived to tell about it.
They needed something, and they needed something now.
He scrubbed his hair as he tried to come up with some options.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
One option he idly considered in passing-- not for the first time-- was to fire everybody and hire real soldiers. Problem was, real soldiers wanted real money. And stability. And probably a bunch of perks that the Riotfish could in no way afford. So he had to stick with the crew he was stuck with.
Could he send the Riotfish out to do a little banditry? He shook his head. Besides being grossly immoral and incredibly dangerous, bandit work was, if anything, the only venture less profitable than mercenary work. He'd checked.
Spec work, maybe?
Fleer lifted his eyes and glanced at the spec jobs board. Speculative work-- those were jobs with no guarantee of payment, jobs that companies would farm out to know-nothings with big dreams and minimal experience. Only fools and the desperate went in for spec work.
Well, that was him, two for two. He clicked in.
All of these jobs were laughably bad. High-security break-ins, dicey extractions from fortified territory, front-line penetration teams for poorly-planned operations... the only thing they all had in common was that the money was in no way commensurate with the risk.
Desperate. Right. The Riotfish were bad enough screwups, he couldn't send them into these. Every one of these jobs was an absolute deathtrap.
He spun through the options, scanning the titles, when a name caught his eye. He clicked in.
Job Type: Acquisition of Person(s) Person(s) of Interest: Thaddeus Adler Nominal Value of Contract: 90,000 Credits
Fleer stared at the name. A strange sensation tugged at the corners of his mouth, forcing an expression onto his face that he hadn't felt in nearly a week. A small grin appeared.
He scanned the dense block of text outlining the particulars. His grin slowly grew.
He didn't know him, but he knew of him. And, importantly, he knew a project that Adler had worked on some years ago.
For once, his background as a corporate assassin was going to be a benefit rather than an albatross around his neck.
And the best part? He wouldn't even have to involve the crew.
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The next morning, Fleer and Oliver sat in the war room discussing the job.
Fleer flung a photo from his portable datapad onto the projector table. A young, trim, and extremely clean-cut businessman grinned saucily up at them from the table, with the legend "Thaddeus Adler". He had golden curly hair, blue eyes, and sharp dimples.
"That's our man. I walk away with him, and there's a fat 90,000 credit finder's fee."
He flicked his fingers again. A building blueprint slid onto the projector table.
"He works for Matters, Inc. and spends most of his time in their HQ. They're located in the Hayworth building, deep in Corper territory. Floor 18. Here's his office," Fleer said, straightening the blueprint and pointing at a corner of the building.
He flicked again, and the operation summary glided onto the table. Oliver spent a few minutes poring over the document.
"This looks tricky. I'm not sure how we can extract an executive from his office building in the middle of the day," Oliver said.
"I'll be discreet," replied Fleer. "I'll make an appointment, go in and talk to him, see if I can't persuade him to come with me quietly."
"You'll be discreet? David, are you thinking of doing this by yourself?"
"This is a one-man operation. I don't need the rest of you there."
Oliver winced a little.
"David, I know we haven't... performed to expectations lately, but this man's a C-level executive. If you upset him, he's not just going to ask you to leave."
"I know what I'm doing, Oliver. This mission is straightforward, and it will give us a solid start on what we owe."
"That's another point of concern I have-- why so much? Where is all this money coming from? He's not difficult to find. I'm sure he's made some people angry, but 90,000 credits angry?"
"Who knows? A salty ex-wife? Some political shenanigans? Who cares? It's 90,000 credits, Oliver!"
"That's a very, very salty ex-wife, or there are some heavy hitters in the mix."
"Well, he's high profile for one thing," Fleer replied. "That's going to boost the fee. For another thing, the contract strongly stipulates that he's not to be harmed in any way. Coddled, almost. My guess is hostage. Maybe for ransom, maybe to force some kind of deal with Matters, Inc. No telling, but we'll need to handle him gently. That's why I want to be able to extract him quietly and easily."
Oliver frowned.
"Forthrightly, this contract raises a number of red flags for me. I wish I knew who had it out, and what they wanted him for."
"The payment's already in an anonymized escrow account. I checked that first. Everything's legit. Here's the holdings validation and key." More documents slid onto the table. "Here's the approval form for the contract. Just sign off and I'll be ready to go."
Oliver pored over the documents, slowly shaking his head. Fleer sat impatiently, arms crossed, tapping his foot.
"David, I just can't approve this. The risk to you is too great."
"I wasn't asking for your approval. Just sign it."
Oliver drew himself to his full height, lifting his head out of the glow of the projection table and into dimness.
"The organizing documents and bylaws of Riotfish," he boomed, "clearly state that every mission must be approved and accepted by both the owner and the lead strategist in order for Riotfish, as an organization, to work it. Both of us, David. Or are you making yourself the lead strategist now?"
"No, no, nothing like that. I'm sorry, Oliver, I didn't mean it that way, I'm sorry. We just really need this job. I can do this, I promise you."
Oliver calmed a little.
"Look," Fleer continued, "if it helps, everybody can come along for backup. Here, there's a parking garage across the street, perfect staging area. Most likely you guys will be bored for an hour or two, and then we'll all go home."
"Perhaps. But what are you going to do? How are you going to acquire him?"
"I have some leverage. From the old days."
"Anything you feel like sharing?"
"Not really; it's just old corporate projects. Stuff he was involved in."
"Wait, you're going to blackmail him into his own kidnapping? What kinds of projects were these?"
Fleer reflected for a moment, withdrawing.
"Bad ones." He paused, his voice growing more distant. "The kinds of projects that make you question yourself. Question your whole career and everything you've ever done. The kinds of projects you don't want anybody else finding out about, ever."
Oliver gave him a moment to come back to himself before responding.
"Right, well, let's, uh, establish a plan in case we need to come in and extract you. The eighteenth floor is going to be difficult to infiltrate."
"Look, I appreciate that you want to be thorough, but it's an office building, not a fortress. They might have a couple lightly armed security on staff, but I wouldn't bet on it. I'll be fine. And the fee could put us back on track. I mean, this would be a huge chunk out of our debt!"
Oliver settled back with a worried frown, fists still on the table.
"Oliver, please." Fleer reached across the table, laying his hand on Oliver's giant brown fist. "I can make this happen. We don't have anything else right now."
Oliver looked at Fleer, then at the contract glowing on the table.
Reluctantly, he leaned forward and signed it with his private key. Fleer heaved a sigh of relief.
"Thank you, Oliver. Trust me, this is going to be cake. If it makes you feel better, I'll even bring a panic button with me. If things go sideways, I'll call in the cavalry. Deal?"
"Agreed," Oliver replied. But the worried expression never left his face.