Author's Note: I'm trying something new here. I'll explain at the end.
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Chapter 1
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Many space-faring vessels boasted an ultra-sleek design or a super-massive cargo capacity. The more expensive ships had flashy navigation interfaces and state-of-the-art low emission propulsion systems. But there were not many that could brag that they'd been lovingly pieced together by an assortment of junkyard scraps and gutted remains of various floating wreckages.
The Host was a piecemeal masterpiece, created from an extremely pared down carrier ship—only the storage space and the passenger cabins survived—and a secondhand hyperdrive engine painstakingly removed from an abandoned military skiff. She was fast, faster than she looked, but she could also hold about fifteen tons of cargo without even feeling it. The surprising speed she mustered made her a very effective freight jumper and she was easily able to shave off at least three days from the normal expected timeframe. The Host was gaining steady popularity among merchants and free trade businesses, and though her crew was small—numbering six in total—they were all somewhat happy with the work.
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A blue glow flooded the tiny room and reflected off of a young man's glasses as he poured over several open windows on his computer screen. His features were so sharp and spare that they moved entirely away from "boring" and breached mysterious, maybe even cold. The straight, pitch black hair across his forehead sometimes lent to this unfriendly image, but Kyoya didn't mind; it just discouraged most people from asking him useless questions.
"Kyoya…what do you think about the color red? It's rather regal, isn't it?" Most people. Kyoya felt an eyebrow twitch but he kept his silence. He knew, eventually, the point would come spilling out amidst the ridiculous chatter.
"I was reading—" and here Kyoya actually turned in his seat to give the captain of The Host behind him a hard stare, "—or rather, uh, I may have caught a program on the UB about power colors. Red is the color of confidence."
"Confidence has never been a weak point for you, Tamaki." As much as Kyoya wanted to laser in on the point, he was compelled to interject because he had an inkling as to where this was going.
"Of course not," the man chuckled behind him, "but I was thinking of the other members of our crew, and more importantly our clients. We all know we're good at what we do, but it's important for our clients to see that we ooze confidence."
"You've already wasted half of our spending money on those powder blue crew coveralls." Kyoya felt his mouth tightening into a firm line. If it were up to his captain, they would be dressed in 17th century costumes as they greeted clients and starve as a result. Kyoya would burn their humble ship to the ground before he ever let that happen. "We aren't changing them now, Tamaki. I did tell you to choose wisely before deciding."
"Yes, yes. I still think this color goes best with my complexion, but I thought maybe something more formal might be in order for the more official jobs. Maybe tuxedos—"
"No." Because he knew his face wasn't visible from where Tamaki hovered behind him, Kyoya allowed himself a small smile of amusement. The smile slipped into nothingness though when Tamaki slid into the seat next to him, a little moue of disappointment marring the blonde man's attractive visage as he peered at the screen in front of them. Even though Tamaki was the one man Kyoya trusted above all others, guarding his true emotions was too ingrained in his psyche to quit now. But Tamaki understood this.
"Ah well," the blonde man sighed, his disappointment seemingly forgotten as he smiled brilliantly. "We'll just have to save up for something even grander! Isn't it you who said that 'it's all about creating a profitable image'?"
"To be fair, I was talking about our customer service. Freight crews don't typically need uniforms."
"All the more reason to stand out," Tamaki stated cheerfully as he reached over to turn on a smaller monitor embedded in the metal paneling. Immediately, a vapid woman's voice filled the small space with flirty trilling and conspiratorially whispered celebrity gossip. Kyoya was definitely starting to regret giving in to his captain's entreaty to subscribe to the Universal Broadcasting Channels. It wasn't really useful to Kyoya, as any pertinent information that it provided could easily be found on the information super highway with his computer. But Tamaki was basking in the daily drama and gossip on the more…unrefined channels. The captain especially loved this particular program and its commentator with a decidedly earsplitting laugh.
"That woman's voice should be considered a weapon of torture," Kyoya bit out grumpily. He should be used to it by now, be he really couldn't stand listening to her no matter how attractive the packaging was.
"Renge? But she always delivers the best news!"
"Reporting which social debutante slept with who is not news. It's gossip-mongering."
"Oh, Mother-dear, you simply don't appreciate the glamour and glitz of high society. It makes our boring lives seem like dull, stained canvases in comparison, hmm?" With a wistful smile, Tamaki switched off the small monitor. More than likely he was recording it elsewhere on the ship. "So, what's on the agenda for today?"
Kyoya sighed at the nickname and the admonishment, but proceeded to type furiously on his keyboard, bringing up the necessary information on-screen. Three windows popped into existence, each paired with a picture and text. "There are three possible jobs lined up for us. Unfortunately, they are on different ends of this solar system, so we can only pick one of them."
"I see. Well, which one would you choose?"
"The one that pays the most money," Kyoya said without hesitation. "There's a merchant company that lost a fleet ship in the far reaches of the Helio spiral. The cargo is listed as "rare", which means that it's probably illegal, but there would be no danger to us if we simply deliver it back to them. It's a ten day journey and, coincidentally, we'll pass near the Lucifer quadrant on our way back. We can pay a visit to Ritsu Kasanoda."
"Ah," Tamaki mused, snapping his fingers, "to refuel and possibly score another job. And Mori would no doubt want to reconnect with his longtime friend." Tamaki leaned back in his chair to prop his boots up on the pristine console, which had Kyoya fighting to keep a passive face. "What about the other two jobs? What are their merits?"
"One is an escort for some minor aristocrat to La Rue 6. It pays enough to barely break even with our fueling costs. Also, as we know from experience, most of them are usually a handful with an ego complex." Kyoya glanced at his captain. There was not a man he knew with a higher opinion of himself than Tamaki Suou, but there was also not a man more trustworthy than the captain of The Host. Still, one giant ego was enough for their small ship.
"The last job is just a reconnaissance mission for the Allianced Military. It seems they've lost track of an important fugitive and they don't have the resources to properly search for her. She's a military scientist with stolen information. Clearance level Alpha 10."
Tamaki gave a low whistle. "That's rather high. And they only want information on her whereabouts?"
"Supposedly she's dangerous and has eluded them for months. Anything useful will yield 25,000 credits from the A.M."
"If there is any information to be had, you mean. If the military is resorting to mercenaries and freight jumpers to give them clues, then it must really be a lost cause." Tamaki tossed his hair back with a wry smile. "Besides, I only like chasing women who like to be caught. Anything else is a waste of these good looks."
Kyoya wanted to roll his eyes, but refrained. "So you agree the lost cargo job is the best one we have right now?"
"Definitely. Let them know we're coming. I'll reel the twins back in and take the helm from Mori."
"Don't worry about the twins. I'll get them." Already, Kyoya's fingers were flying on the keyboard, dredging up the proper contact radio frequencies, certifications, and financial information to seal the deal with their new clients. He was halfway into typing up a standard hail greeting when he noticed Tamaki hadn't moved from the seat beside him.
"What is it?" As flamboyant, loud, and obnoxious (at times) as his captain could be, he also had extremely insightful moments of clarity every once in a while. Kyoya had learned to watch for these moments.
"I don't know, Kyoya. Things are going well for us, right? We turned this scrap heap into a functioning vessel. We've built a successful freight business on basically my charm alone,"—and Kyoya's fingers twitched in irritation at Tamaki's exclusion of his impeccable accounting and frugal hoarding of all things monetary—"and our crew is better than I could have asked for, but I find myself wondering: what else is out there? Are we really living up to our potential?"
"Isn't it enough that we're being left alone, unmolested by the Allianced Military? I thought our agenda was the same in that respect." Unlike most conversations he had with Tamaki, he was unsure what the man was getting at this time.
"I can't put my finger on it. I've just got this feeling. Sort of like Hunny knows a cake is going to be delicious before he even tastes it. This little operation we have going here could be huge, we just need to take the opportunities that present themselves. We need to be bigger, better, unusual, stunning! We need to knock the standard-issue boots of our clients and impress them with the magnificence of our presence."
"It sounds more like you want a social club than a freight company." Kyoya gave up on deciphering what the captain may have been hinting at. He had almost finished his correspondence letter to Nova Mercantile Fleet, the leading supplier of fine goods and expensive imports in at least seven civilized solar systems.
"Oh, Kyoya! Don't be silly. I couldn't possibly fund a social club with our paltry earnings. But once we manage to double our revenue, who knows…" Tamaki stood, rubbing his chin in deep yet frivolous contemplation, barely watching where he was going as he exited the small room and leaving Kyoya to shake his head at Tamaki's mercurial moods. It was a common enough thing for Kyoya to sigh at Tamaki's grand entrances and dramatic exits, and go back to work once they were over.
Once he finished up his correspondence, he absently pressed a series of buttons on the console as he closed the various windows on the computer screen. He leaned down to the tiny embedded microphone and clicked it on. "Helter Skelter, this is Mother-dear. Do you copy?" Every time he was forced to use the call-tag the captain had assigned him, he couldn't help but sound a little angry. He was over it, but sounding angry was the only dignified way he could condone its continued use.
The crackle of static was all that came back to him at first. He hit the button again, and repeated the phrase. Finally, as he was pressing the transmitter button a third time, he heard, "Mother-dear, this is Helter Skelter. We copy." Then in the same tenor but with a much surlier attitude came, "Keep your pants on, Mommy, geez. It's not like we're going anywhere."
"Are you two almost done out there? We've got a job lined up for us in Helio. We need you two inside and in the engine room as soon as possible. Tamaki's going to pilot."
"Did you hear that, Hikaru? Mother wants us in as soon as possible. As if we're out here just shooting the breeze because we want to." There was a pause, as the slightly less hostile sounding voice of the two cut into the static. "Calm down, Kaoru, it's okay. He doesn't understand the complicated intricacies and potentially disastrous consequences of a malfunctioning hyper drive engine. He probably thinks we just go bang with a wrench and the problem is solved."
"I pay you two so I don't have to think about the engine at all." He was past letting the twin's goading comments get to him. The only person who could successfully draw an emotion out of him was Tamaki, and that was only when the captain really tried. "So, are you done or what?"
"Give us five minutes, Mother. Over, and out." The line went dead, and Kyoya switched off the local transmitter radio. He did a mental checklist of all that would need to be done before their departure: inventory of rations with Hunny, fuel check and ship diagnostics with the twins before they used the hyper drive again, munitions check with Mori, and navigation and chart-plotting with Tamaki. He trusted each one of them with their individual tasks, but he always felt better when he knew without a doubt it was all taken care of. It was his job on The Host after all, to make sure things ran smoothly.
Kyoya rose from his seat, turned off the monitor, and left the quiet solitude of the room to join the others on deck.
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Eight people stood against the dull metal wall of the Starport mess hall, but Sergeant Rickshaw was willing to bet his next two paychecks that there'd been ten, originally.
"Dawkins!"
A mousy looking man in a military-issue uniform rushed forward from his left, clipboard in hand. "Yeah, Sarge?"
"I only see eight here. Michaels said there were ten."
Dawkins squinted down at the clipboard, gnawing on a much abused lip as he contemplated the report in front of him. "That's what it says, Sarge. Ten. They were escorted all the way down here with a security detail. Olsen took up the rear. There's no way any of them got away—" Dawkins was cut off as he was yanked sideways by a finger under his collar.
"Dawkins?" Rickshaw said pleasantly.
"Yes?" eeped the much smaller man. His face was mere inches away from the Sergeant's.
"There are only eight here now. Somebody screwed up. And if it's no one's fault, then it's everyone's fault. Got it?"
Dawkins nodded vigorously with movement limited by the fingers twisted in his collar. "Yeah…got it. I'll start the search right now." He was promptly let go and Rickshaw watched as the man fumbled with the clipboard to keep it from falling.
"Uh," Dawkins said as he looked around at the soldiers surrounding him. "Calvin, Judo and…" he squinted at the kid with the upturned nose, "…Rogers? Come on, let's do this quickly."
As the men marched out of the room, Sergeant Rickshaw turned his gaze back to the gathering of people before him. Three scruffy migrant workers (miners, from the looks of their fingernails), a flabby middle-aged man, a little girl, a teenaged boy, and one very ugly woman. Rickshaw winced as he took a closer look at the woman. Shapely enough, but her features were just a little too rough to be considered handsome. Not that he was anything to look at himself, really, but he couldn't even imagine kissing those thin, brightly rouged lips without wanting to gag.
He turned his attention to the boy beside her. Now here was exactly the opposite situation. The boy's skin was smooth and creamy; the sort that, on a woman, made you think of nothing else but touching her. On him, it just added to his delicate appearance. The short, wispy, gently curling hair and the cupid's bow mouth gave him a fae-like quality. The thick, boxy glasses and baggy clothing that swallowed his small frame didn't detract from clean lines of his face or the graceful-looking fingers that peeked out from beneath his sleeves. He was going to grow up to be a very pretty man one day. Rickshaw cleared his throat and shifted feet uncomfortably. Next order of business.
"So, you all claim you didn't know the vessel you hitched a ride on was stolen. Is that correct?" All eight people either nodded or murmured in agreement. "And not one of you knows Ralph Trinidad, known felon, escape convict, murderer, and thief?" They all shook their heads.
Rickshaw sighed. "I might be willing to believe that, but I need you to be straight with me. Who are the two missing now?" He eyed each of them until one of the miners raised a hesitant hand. "You, speak."
The man's accent sounded strongly of the southern Argo quadrant. "There was two other women, I think. Can't be sure 'cause they ne'er come out of their room, but their hands, coming out their cloaks…I ne'er seen a man with hands like that."
"Anyone else?" Rickshaw's question was met with silence. He put a hand to his chin in thought while his other hand reached down to touch his comm-link. "Dawkins?"
"Sarge?" came the crystal clear voice of his Corporal on the other end.
"We're looking for two women." He looked at the miner in askance as he lifted his finger. "Young, I'm assuming?" The man nodded and Rickshaw pressed back down on the comm button. "Young women, Dawkins. I don't have any more information on them, but just in case, check every civilian's papers and any female officers you don't recognize."
"Understood, Sarge."
"Well," Rickshaw said to the group as he rocked back on his heels. "Looks like you all are just victims of circumstance here. The Allianced Military deeply apologizes for any future inconveniences your detainment may cause." Straight from the Officer Protocol Handbook.
"Wait," the smooth-faced boy interrupted with a frown marring his finely sculpted brow. "We're still going to be detained?"
"Of course. I plan to do things properly and interrogate you all individually."
"But we aren't guilty." For a moment it looked as though the boy had more to say, but the woman beside him quickly touched a hand to his shoulder to quiet him. The boy's mother? How the hell did that happen?
"Be that as it may, kid, we need to make sure. You'll all be made comfortable until the time comes, and then we'll send you along on the next cruiser that passes through." He could tell the boy was unhappy about this, but he wisely kept his mouth shut.
"Dawk—oh, right. Stevens! Escort our guests to sector 27 and wait for my arrival. I think I'm going to have a bite to eat first."
Stevens, a thickly-muscled fellow, left the circle of soldiers to direct the line of civilians to follow behind him, single file. Automatically, two other soldiers took up positions to the left and behind the line. The shuffle of feet was heard until the solider in back closed the door behind them. Rickshaw plopped down onto one of the benches attached to the mess hall table, tugging off his gloves. He didn't bother looking behind him. "Who's left?" Three men responded with their last names, and Rickshaw ordered one of them to bring him dinner from the kitchen. The food on this Starport was better than the last one he was stationed at, but not by much. Still, life was a series of small victories.
He chewed thoughtfully on the overcooked, unidentifiable meat-like substance as he read through the report Michaels had given him on the stolen cruiser and began formulating the questions for his interrogation. Ten passengers on the stolen cruiser, and the brief stories Michaels had received from them all appeared legit at first glance. The miners were looking for work in the Lucifer quadrant. There were always scores of labor companies there hiring men to work in the sweltering conditions of Ignis or some other mining planet. The middle-aged man and his young daughter had been planning to stay on until Chronos, and then they were going to hop onto another cruiser to meet the girl's mother in Sanitas. Apparently, she was sick and unable to leave the rest home there. Tragic.
Rickshaw frowned at the next few lines of the report. What's this? Two cloaked men were listed as passengers, but other than that, there was no summary or explanation of their presence. In fact—Rickshaw peered closer—the writing here was shaky and nearly unreadable here, almost as if Michaels had been in a panic as he wrote. This was a complete breach in protocol. Did Michaels even search these two for weapons? He hadn't even given a description of the two. There was nothing listed that a search had ever occurred, and the report ominously skipped on to the woman and the teenaged boy. Something was seriously wrong here…
Rickshaw's attention snapped to the door as a soldier burst into the room.
"Sir! Two of the detainees…they're missing." It was Stevens, and his neanderthal forehead was covered in sweat.
"You've got to be joking. Not fifteen minutes has gone by since you took them out of here." The sergeant was already standing and pulling on his gloves, frowning. This was definitely going to reflect badly on him.
"I don't know what happened, sir. We were taking the short cut across the cargo bay to sector 27, and there was some kind of accident. Crates started falling everywhere. We held everyone back until the crew could get it under control, but when we did a headcount, there were only six of them this time."
"Unbelievable." They had begun swiftly walking towards the hallway, Stevens falling back behind the sergeant as he ranted. "They're a bunch of civilians. How the hell did you people pass basic training?" Rickshaw stopped suddenly, and narrowly avoided being plowed over by the giant ox of a man behind him. "Which two are missing?"
"The boy and the woman, sir."
Rickshaw immediately looked down at his report and flipped a few pages until he got to Michaels' summary. Male, approximately sixteen, slight build; acquainted with woman, approximately thirty-eight, medium build; traveling to Degero in the Lucifer quadrant. Purpose: to find—
There was no more written. Michaels' reports were usually meticulous and thorough. That he and five other armed soldiers had been unable to gather information from four of eight civilians was madness. He glanced up at the scrawled incomplete description of the two cloaked figures. It was almost as if Michaels' mind had seized up when he thought of them. Impossible....yet, he suspected the same thing may have happened with the boy and the woman.
He looked up to find Stevens staring at him in bewilderment.
"Stevens, find Dawkins, Michaels, and the rest of the men. We've got a situation." Rickshaw watched the big man scurry away. Just his luck that transferring to a new Starport was hurting his career more than helping it. Yes, he needed to get to the bottom of this, or it was definitely going to reflect badly on him.
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End Notes: You may have noticed that this has a vaguely Firefly-esque feel to it. That's on purpose. :) Because of this, I've adjusted the character's personalities slightly to fit the setting. The plot, however, will only resemble some aspects of Firefly. Let me know what you think!