Refilled coffee-cup in hand, Everest lit up the console and resolved to drag a well-paying contract out of the universe by sheer force of will.

The holo-desk he’d had outfitted was equipped with plenty of bells and whistles that were distinctly out of place on a [i]characterful[/i] vessel like [i]the Dullahan[/i]. Some captains ruled from the cockpit, and others on the frontline of conflict: he ruled from this, his command centre. Here he organised, planned, communicated, prospected. Yes, its installation might’ve meant that he had to skimp a little on armament repairs (the mid-deck turrets were more than a little cumbersome), but he had evaluated his priorities, and was convinced that good organisation at the top was the key to sustainable success. It was difficult to relay information in the vacuum of space, and if [i]the Dullahan[/i] edged out competitors in that regard, they would win races before their rivals even knew they’d started.

Freelance listing, union halls, private security brokers — all the routes one might exhaust to find off-record work.
So far, he’d found plenty of leads. None of them were any good.

It’d be easy enough to score a profusion of lucrative jobs in a few months time, with plenty of heliodollars already in-pocket and a reputation to boot: but as of today the crew of [i]the Dullahan[/i] were as good as nameless, aside from Gravel, perhaps, though even his name carried diminished weight in these waning years. If Everest wanted to carve out a place in the stars for himself et al, he’d need to do a damn-sight better than [i]satellite scrap retrieval[/i]. He sipped at his Mercurian gold roast and winced through the listing. Some Amalthean maintenance conglomerate was offering 400 measly helios in exchange for the requisition of six errant solar panels that had been knocked loose from a weather satellite, scattered among asteroids and potentially contaminated by irradiated materials (though the latter detail was barely forewarned). A wholly uninspiring task at first, second and third glance: such a dangerous and yet mundane undertaking that it offended Everest’s adventurous heart, and offered nowhere near enough monetary incentive to tempt reconciliation. Now and then, he had found himself lingering on these kinds of listings; not because they were remotely worth his time, but because he found himself imagining what kind of poor soul would take up the offer. This particular job had all the markings of backwater busy-work tailor-made for the desperate and destitute, with no measure taken to protect its prospective hirelings. Among the unsettling terms and conditions were clarifications such as [i]’the contractor is responsible for any fuel used during the expedition’[/i], and [i]’Unipex Corporation is not liable for any micro-meteor abrasion or complications related to irradiated materials incurred during this expedition’[/i]. These kind of high-risk, low-reward contracts were blasted out across the cosmos loudly and indiscriminately: Jovian corps knew if they dangled a few credits out, some poor fool would get them their loot. And if they didn’t? Nothing of importance lost: after all, payments were made [i]upon completion[/i]. Of course, corporations like [i]Unipex[/i] assuredly had the means to retrieve the panels on their own; but it was more cost effective to outsource the work with no up-front payment. It beggared belief how many rust-bitten vessels were lost to the heavens during these low-end requisition operations, and how many penniless sailors were lost with them, chasing a last resort; often to pay off debts they owed to the very same entities who contracted them. This was the cruel law of Jovian Blocspace; civilisation existed within a vicious cycle of debt wherein there was only ever one winner: he who carried the plumpest purse. Everest, though, had seen only half of the picture, and while the concepts of poverty, disparity and desperation were not unknown to him, their extremes most certainly were, and, as such, the intrepidly desolate were closer to a mythical fascination to him than something true and real that he empathised with. Even on his ship there were those who had clawed to escape the very darkest corners of society, and he lacked a nuanced understanding of their plight. And so, briefly, his mind painted a romanticised picture of some daring, haggard rain-dog who would snap up this contract, and on he scrolled.

Any mogul worth their salt would agree that once a venture crests its first great wave, its current will push it forward — but first glory is not so easy to happen upon. And so, even if it meant sorting through hundreds of duds, Everest would find a wave worth cresting. Or, perhaps it would find him.

With such a notion in mind, Everest ventured to the ends of his inbox, wherein two final messages awaited.

The first was from an old friend at Tarleton Industries; Mihal Dontelles, one of the less intolerable individuals that Everest had found himself regularly in the company of throughout his time on Europa. A charming fellow who worked in Tarleton’s Human Resources department, and one of the few who hadn’t ostracised him after his unceremonious expulsion from the company.

[indent]’Hey Eve,
Hope all is well. It’s been a while since you messaged. Figured you were laser focused on something? Anyway, thought you’d want to see this. Could be nothing, but it’s spiked this week and the system flagged it. Stay safe out there.
-MD
[indent]’FWD:
____________________
‘Notification of activity: recent employee.
EVEREST MACLAINE was queried 51 times in the last 48 hours by anonymous terminals.
If you believe this was unauthorized, contact your corporate liaison.’’[/indent][/indent]

Everest barely emoted. He’d concoct a polite response later. The queries were probably nothing, but it was kind of Mihal to notify him. Regardless of the message’s importance, his attention had already been seduced away by the final message on the console: encrypted and anonymous.

[indent]“Captain,
I understand you are currently available for contract work. Your vessel is equipped with a boring drill. Am I correct? If so, I would be very interested in meeting you on behalf of my client.
I cannot say much more without certainty that this line is secure, but in the interest of facilitating good business, I would like to offer you and your crew an evening of complimentary hospitality at the Grand Florentine Hotel & Casino on Europa.
If you are to find yourselves there in the coming week, I believe we might find an opportunity to discuss my proposal in further detail.
Regards,
Lennon.”[/indent]

Everest inhaled deeply through his nose, rapping his fingers against the edge of his desk as he digested the message. A conflicting feeling befell him: distrust in his gut, but excitement just about everywhere else. Out of everything so far, this felt like a wave worth cresting Something to run by Gravel, indeed, but [i]surely[/i] worth further investigation?

He reread the message two or three times before a crunchy drawl snapped him out of his focus.

“Everest,” a voice that sounded like two rocks grinding together fizzled through the radio comms. “You there?”

“Copy, anything to report?”

"Got a line on a job,” Gravel continued, his caustic tone further deep-fried by the poor connection of his comms. “Looks like we’ll be moving bodies off this rock: a dozen, maybe more if word spreads. Goons from some failing gangster. They don't want to hang around when the corps come to clean house.”

“Goons?” Everest echoed, skeptical. Letting thugs on the ship in those sort of numbers could be a recipe for disaster. And the last thing that—

“Pay’s up front,” said Gravel.

“Right,” said Everest, quelled somewhat by the certainty of a payday. “Excellent.”

“But keep your head on a swivel,” the consigliere warned. “Harrow’s a slippery bastard, and this whole setup reeks too easy. Easy means traps. Or idiots. Sometimes both. Mo'll brief proper when he's back aboard."

“Noted. Good work, Voith. I’ll speak to Montalban.”

Truth be told, whether or not this was a good idea wasn’t really within Everest’s jurisdiction. A gut feeling, while sometimes a good indicator to follow, was nothing when compared to good old experience. Besides, it sounded like the deal was as good as brokered on Gravel’s end, so to Everest it seemed like a good time to start preparing rather than wildly speculating.

Everest spun his chair around and took to his feet. It was time to find Ringworm. If there was anyone aboard who could merc-proof the vessel for a dozen unruly passengers, it was the XO.