As he skirted the fight cage and headed toward the bar, he remembered his first visit here. A cocky and arrogant newbie with a few good hauls to his credit, he’d been willing to do whatever grunt work was required to start climbing the ladder of notoriety. He still had the same skill set as back then, and a hell of a lot more experience, so in theory he should be able to make that climb a second time. But people here were used to him being at the top of the pecking order, and might assume that he would accept nothing less. He needed a gig to convince them it wasn’t true . . . or perhaps to convince himself.
A pair of whores brightened as he approached, one of them reaching out to touch his face, the other murmuring suggestive enticements. Though whoring was the last thing on his mind right now, such women were a valuable resource, replete with local gossip that could be bought for the right price. More than once these two in particular had provided information that gave him the edge over his rivals, and so he paused long enough to exchange a few pleasant words with them, and expressed his regret at having other business to attend to. A wise man kept his whores happy.
Approaching the bar, he saw there was a section with few people near one end; he took a seat there and waited for Pago to notice him. The bartender was busy mixing drinks for half a dozen other people, and appeared not to see him, but when those jobs were done he came over to where Ivar was sitting and put a glass of Callistan rum down in front of him.
“You remembered,” Ivar said.
“You’re hard man to forget.”
He took a deep drink of the rum. It burned his throat going down and filled his belly with welcome heat.
“Sorry about your ship,” Pago said.
Ivar shrugged. “Shit happens.”
“You have plans?”
“I figure I’ll look for gigs. Restore the bankroll. Then worry about the rest.”
“I’m sure for a man with your skills that won’t be a problem.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know of anyone looking to hire, would you?”
Pago snorted. “I’m a bartender, not a career counselor.”
Ivar took a medallion from his pocket and laid it on the counter. It was real metal, finely worked, with the image of a Terran animal rising up on its hind legs. Pago had a taste for unusual artifacts, and he gazed at it for a long moment before asking, “Does it have a story?”
“Rumor says it’s from an independent station in Salvation Node. Don’t know which one, sorry.”
Pago studied it for a few seconds more, then tucked it into his apron pocket. “You know Josef Kors?”
“I’ve met him.”
“Rumor has it he’s gathering a team for some bloodwork. Not your usual gig, but I’m guessing that you’re feeling pretty flexible right now.”
“You guessed correctly.”
“He’s over there.” A lower arm gestured toward one of the gaming tables. “Leaving soon, unless I miss my guess.”
“Thanks,” Ivar said, but Pago was already moving on to another customer. Ivar drained the last of his rum, put the glass down, and dug out a cash chit to tuck beneath it. Then he headed across the room to where Kors was sitting, with a pair of bruiser types he didn’t recognize. Newbies, most likely. They had that look about them: energy and arrogance without experience to temper it. I probably looked like that once, he mused. Strong and stupid.
Kors saw him approaching and stopped whatever conversation he was having. He pulled out a chair as Ivar reached the table and pushed it toward him. “Ivar! Heard you were alive. Congratulations.”
He straddled the chair. “I heard you were hiring.”
Kors chuckled. “Straight to the point, as always.”
“Anything else is a waste of both our time.” He looked over the newbies, taking stock of their potential. One was a Caliban, short in stature but impressive in musculature. He’d torn the sleeves of his jacket off, no doubt because his barrel-like biceps didn’t fit in them. His companion was Algonki, whose eerily long arms were folded across his chest as Ivar approached. Together, they looked more than capable of taking someone down, particularly if they coordinated their actions. Of course, that was the very kind of thing newbies were bad at.
Meanwhile Kors was studying him, no doubt weighing the pros and cons of hiring a legend to do less-than-legendary work. “The Oracle wants someone dead,” he said at last. “I pay you to help make that happen, and she adds you to her list of favorite people. Win-win.”
“Second part’s of no concern to me. What’s the offer?”
“Five hundred if we succeed. Medical costs covered regardless.”
He nodded toward the bruisers. “Is that what you’re paying them?”
“It is.”
Ivar was worth much more than the newbies, and they both knew it. But demanding more than an equal share would earn him their enmity before they even left the bar. He remembered what the Oracle had said about his being betrayed. No, he didn’t believe all her bullshit, but why tempt fate? “Good enough. Who’s the mark?”
“Young Sarkassan male, terramorph female. Lightly armed at best, no charge weapons or kinetics.”
What the fuck? That had to be Micah and Ru. It took him a moment to find his voice. “Do you have names?”
“No, but we know where they are, and we’ll be kept informed of their movements.”
“The hit will be on Hydra?”
“It will.”
“And the Oracle sees no problem with killing someone on the station?”
“They’re outsiders, so they’re fair game.” He shook his head. “Don’t know what the fuck they did to piss the Oracle off, but apparently it was major. She said to make sure neither of them leaves this station alive.” He waited. “So? You want in?”
Did he? If he agreed, he’d be helping to kill the people who had saved his ass on Shenshido. That was a level of ingratitude even he found hard to stomach. Not to mention, those two were trying to figure out what had happened there. Since that might involve a weapon designed to attack the scavs, Ivar had a vested interest in their success. Killing them now meant losing all their data.
Maybe that’s the point, he realized suddenly. What if the Oracle wanted Micah and Ru dead because they were getting close to discovering the truth? If so, that meant the Oracle was indeed involved, just as those two had suspected. His head spun with the implications of that.
“Ivar?”
“Sorry. Thinking.”
If he didn’t join the team, Kors and his bruisers would just go on their hunt without him, and Ivar would have no clue what they were doing. He didn’t have Micah and Ru’s innernet IDs, so he couldn’t net a message to them, and without Kors he would have had no way to know where they were. If he decided he wanted to help them, tough shit. He wouldn’t even be able to find them.