Jaisen Folyn and Atticus Riordan, the crew of the Passive Swindler, raised their heads from their bunks as they heard the hatch at the end of their cell block creak open.

“Chow?” Folyn asked.

"It can't be, it's too soon," Riordan said as he sat up. He ran a hand through his mop of brown hair, a hint of gray at the temples. Riordan listened carefully and thought he could hear four or five pairs of boots on the rough plasticrete. "It could be legal, though," Riordan added as he dropped off the top bunk and landed lightly on his slipper-ed feet.

“Why would they be coming back so soon? They were just here yesterday. Maybe we made bail?” Folyn said.

“Bail?” Riordan scoffed. “We were looking at 25 years. I don’t think bail is a possibility.”

“Frek! I told you this job was FUBAR from the start! I don’t know why I listen to you!”

“You practically begged me to take this job,” Riordan retorted.

The footsteps drew closer, echoing ominously through the empty cell block. Instead of the force fields used to detain prisoners in more affluent systems, in this backwater, the cells were made of thick plasticrete and steel bars – obsolete, but still effective. They waited by their bunks, trying not to look expectant. The approaching party consisted of four guards in standard tan Department of Corrections jumpsuits and two smartly dressed Fleet officers in black uniforms, the color of Combat Forces Command. Riordan stepped up to the bars, his face barely concealing anger.

“Commodore Koenig, congratulations on the promotion. Come to gloat?” Riordan asked.

The Commodore handed his ornate headgear and gloves to his assistant, a Leftenant Commander, and approached the bars.

“Leftenant Atticus Galileo Riordan. Seven cycles of honorable service. Discharged after a court-martial for failure to obey a direct order, destruction of government property, endangering the lives of crew members, and gross negligence in the line of duty… among a host of other charges. I’m not here to gloat, nor am I surprised to find you in a cell, yellow suits you,” he finished, waving a hand at Riordan’s bright yellow prison jumpsuit.

Folyn looked from Riordan to the Commodore and back. Despite the Commodore's finer features and close-cropped gray hair, the resemblance was unmistakable. Folyn plopped down on his bunk with a groan, cradling his head in his hands.

The two men stared at each other for several long moments. The Leftenant Commander instructed the guards to wait at the end of the corridor. Riordan watched the guards retreat.

“So, how’s Mom?” He asked, sarcastically.

“Disappointed,” the older man replied.

“Glad I’m living up to expectations,” Riordan said, leaning against the bars. “Why are you here?”

Commodore Koenig pondered for a moment. “Private schools, tutors, a greased application packet to the flight officer’s academy, and you turned out nothing more than a common smuggler and thief.”

“What can I say, Subject genes? Blame Mom,” Riordan replied, thumping his chest.

“Oh, I do, but not for your crimes. You inherited her stubbornness and independence, but also her potential.”

“Potential for what?” Riordan scoffed. “Piloting troop transports or cargo barges for my entire career only to retire as a Leftenant with a 50% benefit? Then I was supposed to spend the rest of my life at a desk in some mega-corp building, punching in the same key sequence until my sedentary lifestyle and poor eating habits caught up with me. I’m a Subject, Dad. I ain't got potential,” Riordan said dismissively.

“Prison seemed like a viable alternative?”

“No, living my own life, writing my own destiny, seemed like a viable alternative,” Riordan retorted. “But I guess three hots and a cot and all the crap holo-vids I can consume is still better than an office cubicle.” He paced back and forth, letting the awkward silence stretch.

Commodore Koenig sighed. “Your trial starts next week. You will be convicted. Your precious ship will be scrapped, and you will spend the next 25 years in a cell very similar to this one. Is that what you really want? Just say so, and I’ll leave you to it.”

“What I want is irrelevant. I wanted to be important. I wanted to be someone who made a difference,” he leaned close to the bars and lowered his voice. “I didn’t want to spend my life supporting a government that unjustly pre-determined my fate by branding me as ‘Less Than’.”

“Son,” Commodore Koenig started to say.

“I’m condemned because one of my ancestors, from a hundred years ago, stood up against injustice and fought a losing war against the FRS.” Riordan interrupted.

“You have to think outside the box sometimes, Atticus. Play the game while gaming the system!”

“Dad, look at me! I’m in a jail cell in the armpit of the far side of the Greater Galactic Cluster. I don’t even remember what the box looks like anymore!” Riordan exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air.

“If I may,” Folyn tried to interrupt.

“Shut up!” Both men yelled at him.

Commodore Koenig thought for a moment. “I’m not here to help you. I know you like doing things your own way. I’m here to ask for your help.” Commodore Koenig let the last statement sink in for a moment.

“You need my help?” Riordan laughed. “You have a fleet at your command, staff, subordinates, and thousands of specialized troops of all types. Why would you need my help?” Riordan asked, skeptical.

Commodore Koenig looked to the end of the hall. “I need someone with your particular… skill set. Someone I can trust, implicitly,” He lowered his voice. “A simple exchange. In and out.”

Riordan and Folyn shared a look. Simple was a four-letter word on the Passive Swindler. Nothing was ever simple.

“What do I get out of it?”

“All charges dropped. We’ll arrange to pay restitution to the injured party, and once the job is done, a full exoneration for this offense,” Commodore Koenig replied.

“Hmm,” Riordan said, considering the offer. He continued to pace. “I’ll need my ship.”

“Of course.”

Folyn loudly cleared his throat.

“Fully supplied and equipped for the mission and my partner. I fly the ship, he does the tech work.”

“I can do that.”

“It needs to be a full pardon for all crimes, past and present.” Riordan hastily added. “For both of us.”

A look of consternation passed over the Commodore’s face. He briefly conferred in hushed tones with his associate, pausing only to shoot his son a glare. The aide tapped in the air on the holocon display projected directly onto his retinas. Commodore Koenig returned to the cell bars.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“I’ll need to make a few calls to confirm everything, but that should be within the realm of possibility. Are you on board, Folyn?” The Commodore asked him.

Folyn stood out of respect. “Absolutely, Sir! Commodore Koenig, Sir!”

“Good. It shouldn’t be more than a few hours, and then I can brief you both on the mission parameters in full.” Commodore Koenig glanced around the empty cell block. “Speak of this to no one.” Commodore Koenig offered Riordan his hand. Riordan grabbed it, pulling his old man into a full embrace through the bars.

“You have to agree to one stipulation, after this is all over, your mother would appreciate a visit to include a fancy dinner. Non-negotiable, understand?”

Riordan smiled. “Only if we can go to that fancy restaurant you hate so much. The one with the violin guy.”

“We’ll see,” Commodore Koenig replied.

They said their goodbyes and exited the cell block with the guards in tow. Folyn waited until the hatch was closed.

“What. The. Frek!” He exclaimed.

“I know, right?” Riordan agreed. “I wonder what the details are.”

“Your father is the Commodore of Third Fleet!?”

“Drugs, a bribe?” Riordan wondered aloud. He jumped up onto the top bunk. “Naw, the old man is too straight for that,” he continued to muse. “This isn’t coming from him. This is above his pay grade. A Fleet Commodore can’t pardon civilians.”

The next few hours passed slowly. They ate the compressed nutrition bars the guards delivered at mealtime. Eventually, guards came to release them from their cell and escorted them to a spartan conference room a few levels above the cell block. Their personal effects and clothes were on the table in heavy vacuum-sealed vinyl packs, including Folyn’s tool belt and Riordan’s ancient slug thrower. They dressed quickly. Once finished, the guards returned with trays of real food, presumably from the staff’s cafeteria. They tore into the trays with a vengeance. One could only eat so many fruit-flavored nutrition bars. As they were finishing their first meal as free men in weeks, the conference room door hissed open.

“Gentlemen,” Commodore Koenig greeted them before taking a seat.

“Sir,” Folyn returned the greeting, rising to his feet. Riordan remained seated, grunting past a huge bite of yolk-soaked toast in his mouth.

“You’ve met Leftenant Commander Griffor,” Commodore Koenig said.

Riordan stood, wiping his greasy hands on his pant legs and offering a hand. The Leftenant Commander ignored the offer and handed Riordan one of the tablets he carried. He handed the other one to Folyn. Leftenant Commander Griffor remained standing.

“This meeting never happened.” Leftenant Commander Griffor started. “Those are your mission packets. Memorize as much as you can. Once this brief is concluded, they’ll self-wipe.” He tapped on his tablet. “Six days ago, a vessel traveling under a merchant ident visited a small research outpost on a moon around Chevros Prime.” The screens changed to a view of the Chevros system.

“It was a scheduled supply drop. Standard SOP. A few hours later, as the ship, the Zarkazian, was preparing to depart, the crew attacked and overwhelmed the outpost's small security force and kidnapped one of the scientists.” The face of a pretty young woman in her mid-twenties appeared on the screen. Her lack of a temple tattoo marked her as a Citizen.

“What was the nature of the outpost's research?” Folyn asked, ever the tech geek.

“Medical, pharmacological. They research an extensive array of projects which the nature of is completely irrelevant to this mission. The scientist wasn’t even that important to their work. It was a favored assignment.”

Riordan digested this last bit of information. Favored assignments were meant to pad the resume of people related to those in positions of power. “Then why was she kidnapped?” he asked, raising his hand.

Leftenant Commander Griffor sighed. “She was kidnapped because of who she is. If I may continue.” He tapped on his tablet screen. “Her abductors killed eleven guards and severely wounded a twelfth. They left him alive to deliver the ransom demand. 15 million credits, in well-used, untraceable chips.”

Riordan raised his hand again.

“Boy,” the Commodore warned.

Riordan grinned and sheepishly lowered his hand. Folyn released a slow whistle. Leftenant Commander Griffor glared at Riordan as if daring him to interrupt again.

“We want you and your associate to make the exchange. Once you have custody of the target, you will rendezvous with an FRS destroyer at these coordinates. Don’t bother memorizing them,” he said, handing Riordan a data chip on a beaded chain. “That contains the coordinates to the exchange and rendezvous locations.”

Riordan put the chain over his head, carefully tucking the chip into his shirt. “I assume once I input the coordinates into my navcomp, the chip self-wipes?”

“Yes.”

“Who is this lady, and why is she worth fifteen million credits?” Folyn asked.

“That lady is Remalyn Arianna Tagmeyer, the youngest daughter of the Grand Chancellor’s sister.”

Riordan and Folyn exchanged a glance.

“Additional information you may appreciate, gentlemen.” This time, the image of a man appeared on their screen. He had longish dark hair, peppered with gray, a roguish smile, and several days' worth of salt and pepper beard. It looked like a booking image. “This is Roger Syddel, known pirate, thief, smuggler, and slaver. He regularly conducts business in the unaffiliated territories and recently has started working the edges of the Occupied Territories. That is until his latest venture into the FRS core systems. He’s had multiple encounters with various law enforcement agencies and federal ships resulting in numerous casualties. We advise using extreme caution when dealing with this man. Do not deviate from the script. Deliver the ransom, collect the target, and leave.”

“What information do you have on the ship, the Zarkazian?” Folyn asked.

Leftenant Commander Griffor tapped on his screen. Schematics and specs scrolled across their tablets. The Zarkazian was a Corvette-sized transport vessel retrofitted with enhanced propulsion and illegal weapons. It was faster and better armed than the Passive Swindler by far. The duo took a few moments to go over the information.

“We’ve been in lock-up for weeks. Why didn’t you come to us a few days ago?” Riordan asked.

“We needed time to prepare the ransom and coordinate the pardons we offered you,” the Commodore replied.

Riordan leaned back in his chair. “We weren’t your first choice,” Riordan declared.

The Commodore and Leftenant Commander Griffor shared a look. “The Grand Chancellor wanted to send a team of highly trained special operations commandos to orchestrate the exchange to ensure a smooth transaction. Others,” the Commodore glanced at the Leftenant Commander, “wanted to turn the exchange into a kill/capture mission to eliminate Syddel and his pirate crew. Cooler heads prevailed. This needs to be handled with care and precision by a disinterested third party. I recommended you. You have the skills and the reputation. Despite your current setback, you have a higher-than-normal rate of mission success. If you take a job, it gets done. Period. Most of the time,” he added with a wry smile.

“Interesting, I thought the government didn’t negotiate with criminals and terrorists.”

“We don’t, which is where you come in. If a disinterested third party wants to pay a ransom, that’s up to them, but they will receive no support, endorsement, or encouragement from the government to do so,” Commodore Koenig said, drumming his fingers on the tabletop.

“I hope you’re not missing out on the ‘Deniability’ factor,” Jaisen stage-whispered in Riordan’s direction.

“Fully aware. Expendability, too,” Riordan added with a knowing nod. No longer needed, he pushed his tablet toward Leftenant Commander Griffor. “Let me get this straight. You want us to meet with a dangerous criminal mastermind in a desolate, ungoverned, region of space. Then, you want us to hand this man fifteen million credits? You fully trust that he will then hand over the target, unharmed, and allow us to leave, unmolested? If we can do all this, and survive, we get a clean slate, a full wipe?”

“Yes, it’s pretty simple as jobs go,” Leftenant  Commander Griffor said.

“There’s that word again,” Folyn said under his breath. “What's to stop us from taking the money?” he finished in a more conversational tone.

“Honor. You’re thieves and smugglers, yes, but you have honor. I have been closely following your exploits. As far as I can tell, you’ve never committed an act of actual piracy as defined by law. Most of your grifts target corporations, wealthy concerns or individuals. You never smuggle slaves. On one occasion, you even ran a quarantine blockade, in the wrong direction, to deliver an experimental vaccine to the afflicted on Prana III.”

“It was just the formula and several hundred doses for care workers, they did the real work,” Riordan said. ”We weren’t in any danger. We were vaccinated, and the samples were held in a level three containment unit.”

“The untested, unregulated, unauthorized experimental vaccine?” Leftenant  Commander Griffor asked.

“The short of it is, if you take the job, it gets done. If you say you’ll do something, you do it. For scoundrels, you have an inflated sense of integrity, and that’s what we are relying on,” Commodore Koenig finished.

“What if you don’t keep up your end? What assurances do we have?” Folyn asked.

“You have my assurances and my word. Plus, I already have your pardons in my possession. When you return with the target, all that remains to be done is signing and filing,” Commodore Koenig answered.

“Contingencies?” Folyn asked.

“Deal with them as you see fit. The use of deadly force is authorized. Priority is the safety and well-being of the target,” Leftenant Commander Griffor answered.

“Backup,” Riordan inquired.

“You’re on your own until you rendezvous with the FRS destroyer. We can’t have any government associations connecting this OP to us,” Leftenant Commander Griffor finished.

“Remember, the target is the priority, not the money, and not your ship. We aren’t anticipating anything other than a smooth exchange. Syddel needs the funding. We’ve been hitting his operations rather hard lately in the Outer Territories. Questions, concerns, comments?” Commodore Koenig asked.