Calculated Risk Ch. 1 - "Scrapes and Bruises"

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     Sagrá’s arms flew to his defense, “You ask too much from me, Cassius,” he pointed to the target of his words, Cassius Conlon, “Your services are not worth 20,000 credits."

Even seated in a cheap booth, Cassius Conlon was huge. When standing, he was around 6’ tall, but it was his bulk that drew the most attention. Conlon rested his rough face into his right hand as he instinctively stroked his maple-colored stubble. He sat back into the booth, shaking his shaggy hair out of his eyes, when he began speaking, “Sagrá,” he began calmly, almost comfortably, “have I ever not delivered?"

The vendor’s face flooded with too many emotions to count. His eyes squinted for a fraction of a second before retracting and widening; he also bit his lip before raising his voice, “Don't!” he realized his tone and retracted into a whisper, “Don’t even start-"

Conlon smiled and raised his hands before shrugging. His tone was respectful but almost patronizing, “It’s a fairly simple question. My crew has made eleven runs for your buyers. Now,” he sat forward, “have we ever not delivered?"

For around sixteen seconds, silence was the Captain’s only response. Finally the bartender nodded, “No."

Conlon smiled, “No,” he stretched his arms behind his head languidly, “Now, you’re transporting eighteen containers you don’t want inspected or filed or both,” he pointed at the vendor, “You know that’s what the Gridlock does. We’ve made eleven runs for you and delivered every time, so my only question is: what are you worried about?"

Sagrá began to speak when the Captain interrupted him, “Oh, hold on. I just want to clear up my position. I’m only charging 1,000 credits a container plus a 2,000 running fee. Now, you know that the Gridlock cannot be stopped without direct approval because its a military vessel flying under a military Captain, and anyone who can stop it knows me or owes me. Therefore, you’re flying eighteen containers with zero risk for 20,000 when you know that your payout will be much larger."

Letting loose a weighty sigh, Sagrá tried his best to persuade the hulking man, “M-my backer can’t afford for anything to go missing or for any tampering. You’re asking for a huge sum of money that could prove to be a most painful loss if you don’t deliver. You must understand; you only fly with all the money upfront, and this is,” he stressed the last word, “the largest payout we’ve ever hired you for. I’m sure you can understand our fears. Not to mention, what happens if you get hijacked?"

The Captain sat still, analyzing every statement. He smiled wryly, “Hijacked? Sagrá, I’ve got two, well… maybe four words for you," Victory shone on his broad face when he learned forward, “Jimmy Wynaut.” Sagrá attempted to speak when Conlon cut him off yet again with a held up finger and his gruff voice, “Kira Bridget. Now, you know these two. You know the cargo will be safe.

“Back to your question regarding the payout. The Gridlock crew has flown for more than thrice your payout for different buyers. We’ve never failed a transport, never lost cargo, and never not delivered. We’re payed what we’re worth, and your cargo is worth 20,000 to me and my crew. 20,000 credits for eighteen unmarked containers across three sectors," they sat motionless before Conlon started again, "Make up your mind soon, because we can dance around in circles all you like. I’d rather make a decision and get going; I do have places to be,” he concluded his logical rant by crashing his left arm on the table, more for effect than the audible boom his metal forearm gauntlet made as it struck the wood.

Nodding to himself, Sagrá sat otherwise still. Still deliberating with himself, he locked eyes with the Captain across from him. He loosed a weighty sigh, “Alright Cassius, I’ll bite."

Conlon nodded, “Great, so-"

“Hold up, Captain,” Sagrá held up a finger and gave a few seconds dramatic silence, “I’ll bite if you allow one of our guys to oversee the cargo to ensure the delivery. For all you care, he can sleep with the cargo"

For the first time, Conlon paused. It was clear to both parties he wanted this haul, so Sagrá decided to see how far he could push Conlon.

Conlon shook his head, “No deal. The Gridlock flies solo; we don’t let anybody on board we don’t know."

Sagrá’s lips twisted into a smile, “Come on, Captain. We’ll pay all 20,000 upfront, as per your requirements, so long as our guy, William Millard, flies with the cargo. He’ll just be there to ensure safe delivery of the cargo, not to interfere with anything on board. He’s a maintenance man, not a soldier or spy. We’ll send you all of his credentials if you accept."

The Captain made an effort not to show his temptation, resisting the urge to squint his eyes or bite his lip. He exhaled, knowing he had lost, “20,000, 4 days, no Millard."

“20,000, 4 days, Millard," Sagrá countered.

Conlon gritted his teeth as he turned around and waved at the figure near the door. The man wasn't quite as tall as Conlon, though they had their fair share of height contests growing up. His piecey, sandy-blonde hair fell to around his neck, with his bangs brushed back. He had thick facial hair that hugged his face. His slacks were a light khaki, and his shirt was bright white. The outline of his nanomesh armor was visible through his shirt. He wore a heavy satchel-bag slung diagonally over his person, testing in his left hip.

He strutted up to the two. He speech was quick and smooth albeit with a high resonance, “What’s the deal?"

With a quick glance at the vendor, Conlon leaned into the man's vicinity, “We fly eighteen containers across 3 sectors over four days for 20,000 credits. However, there’s a catch."

He smiled as he clapped his friend on the back, “I’d be disappointed if there wasn’t.

“We take a new member onboard for the duration of the transport. He’s apparently maintenance, not military."

The man's grimace was hard to miss, “I don’t buy it for a second. Cassius, you know we can’t take anybody new onboard. You know the security risks of carrying unknown cargo with a tail, and you know that the crew won’t take these risks too well."

“Joseph, it’s four days for 20,000 credits."

“Captain, I realize that, but I don’t believe having an unknown member on board will do anything but hinder us."

“I understand your apprehension, but we could really use this haul. If we can convince Jimmy, we'll be fine. This is a good payout, and if it entails tagging along with a tail, I can live with it.”

The other man began to muster another argument when Cassius, forcing a smile, turned back to the vendor and reignited the conversation, “So, when do we fly?”

The vendor leaned forward, enthralled with his response, “Loading is in eight hours. I’ll send you the location along with our Mr. Millard’s credentials and records. Now,” he clapped his hands loudly, “we are familiar with your crew. Is there anybody new on board? Your previous crew consisted of yourself," he gestured to the man to the Captain's right, "your first mate McKinley, Ms. Arrios, Dr. Francis, Ms. Mason, Officer Bridget, and the Wynaut brothers, of course. Anyone new?"

Conlon sat back again; sitting still did not come easy to him, and he loosed a weighted sigh, “Nope, the crew is the same, but with a greater number of scrapes and bruises. And we have a new tag-along named William Millard," he spoke the name sarcastically, stressing the vowels.

“Yes,” Sagrá rose to his feet with a grunt, “I suppose you do,” he reached out quickly for Conlon’s hand, “I’ll see you in eight hours?"

Conlon lifted his head to meet the vendor’s eyes and extended his own hand, swallowing Sagrá’s in his, and gave a firm shake. Conlon surprised the vendor, however, by using the handshake to pull himself to his feet, almost pulling the man over. As he stood to his fullest, overshadowing the small man, he whispered, “If your Millard isn’t maintenance, I’ll shoot him out of an airlock myself. So, you’d better send us some convincing records."

The vendor nodded to himself, still smiling, “I’ll take you at your word, Captain. See you soon,” he turned around and walked towards the door opposite the two. McKinley glared at his childhood friend, “I’ll get Hailey looking into Millard. We’ll see if any information changes between now and his arrival."

Conlon smiled, “Thanks Joseph. Get the ship ready,” he glanced to his right, “I’ve got a tail to cut off."

Joseph frowned, “Millard?"

“No,” he shook his head, “The guy near the door has been seated there since we came in. Now, notice his table."

He smirked, “No food or drink."

“Exactly. Head back to the Gridlock, and I’ll make sure he won’t follow anybody out of here."

McKinley nodded and exhaled show lowly, seemingly swallowing a statement. He turned and began walking to the front door, followed by Conlon.

At this point, the man seated by the door glanced up and got his first full view of the Captain. The 6’ man was very bulky, his muscles rippling against his black military slacks and shirt. If somebody didn’t know him. they’d probably think he was genetically bred, not naturally birthed. He wore a dark brown overcoat, buttoned from mid-chest downwards to his waist where it opened and spread downwards, ending near his mid-shin. He had long, shaggy brown hair, albeit a lighter brown than his coat, and very orderly stubble which was noticeable, but thin. His eyes were forest green, easily suiting his look.

The Captain walked up to the table by the door, McKinley had already exited, and sat in the chair he pulled out. As he sat, the chair squealed under his weight, but the crack sounded much louder as he slammed his left arm on the table, easily rallying the man’s attention. His left arm was coated by a metal gauntlet forged from the hull of an old ship presumably, as it showed significant battering and burns. The biggest giveaway was the letter on it. The gauntlet had a huge letter, “G” on it.

Conlon gave a throaty cough and smiled, “You waiting for someone?"

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