No Leverage - Part 4

The cargo crates were opened after that, but not by Ragnar’s side. By theirs. One seal broken, then another, the contents checked with a scanner that chirped approval in a bright, cheerful tone that had no place in the moment. The pilot shifted beside him, restless now that the danger had become transaction again. The Orion lowered his weapon, finally, rolling one shoulder as if they had only been waiting for bad weather to pass.

Payment came through five minutes later, and Ragnar’s wrist unit chimed once. The amount was more than promised...for a timely exchange. That should have helped. He looked at the number, then closed the notification without comment. The actual latinum would be with the broker he used. He could pick it up. But it was enough...enough for a better room, for a bit. Enough for blockers...at least a couple of months, and of the good stuff too, not the ones cooked in someone’s room which could kill you. Enough for food that didn’t sit awkwardly in his stomach. Enough to keep moving for a while longer without taking the first job that showed its teeth. Practical things. Necessary things. The kind of things that kept a man alive and made philosophy a luxury. Still, something bitter sat at the back of his throat.

“Easy platinum,” the Orion said, smiling properly now as the transport sealed its hatch.

Ragnar glanced at him, then away. “Sure.”

The Orion laughed like that was agreement.

The transport lifted in a wash of dust and engine heat, rising slow at first, then banking hard toward the upper atmosphere. Ragnar watched until it became a dark mark against the glare, then nothing at all. Around him, the others were already moving, already talking, already counting what came next. The pilot muttered about better coolant for the warp core. The empty-eyed man spat into the dirt. Someone made a joke about the broker’s face, and one of the cold killers laughed.

Ragnar felt bile climb, but swallowed it down because there was nothing useful to do with it here. No one around him wanted regret. No one had paid for it. So he adjusted the rifle sling against his shoulder, turned away from the empty stretch of dirt where the broker had stood, and walked back toward the settlement with his share sitting heavy in his account.

Later, the bar in the settlement was loud enough to be useful.

Not good. Nothing on that strip was good. But the transport back to New Ferenginar wasn't until the next morning, and he wouldn't be able to get his funds until he was back there with his broker. The bar had low amber lighting, sticky tables and a music system that kept losing the bottom of the sound every few minutes, leaving voices exposed before the bass kicked back in. The air smelled of cheap liquor, old smoke and too many people of various species pretending they were not watching the door. Ragnar had chosen a seat with a wall at his back and a sightline to both exits, because habit was habit and stupidity was expensive.

There was a drink in front of him that claimed to be Earth whisky. It was not, but he drank it anyway.

The first mouthful burned enough to drag his attention into his body. That was something. The second made the room blur at the edges, not badly, not enough to dull him past use, just enough that the pressure of other people’s moods softened into something less sharp. He had taken a blocker before coming in, one of the last few in the case, and he hated that he had wasted it on a bar. Hated more that he had needed to.

The broker’s face kept coming back. Not the fear at first. Not even the plea. It was the moment after, when he had understood that nobody was going to move for him. That was the bit Ragnar could not drink around. The little collapse. The way a person looked when the universe narrowed to a single fact and left no room for denial.

He took another drink and looked down at his hands. They were steady, which annoyed him more than if they had shaken. Steady hands meant nothing. Cold killers had steady hands. Men with clean gloves and patient smiles had steady hands. Starfleet had taught him discipline and the quadrant had taught him the rest, and somewhere between the two he had become the sort of man who could hold a rifle on someone begging and not miss a breath.

Job’s a job. The words had tasted wrong when he said them. They tasted worse now.

Ragnar leaned back in the chair, eyes lifting to the movement near the door without really caring who came in. He had funds now. That was the stupid part. The job had done exactly what it was meant to do. Once he was back on New Ferenginar, he could buy blockers....Pay for a room with a lock worth the name, maybe eat properly and finally pay someone to patch the jacket cuff. Maybe even sleep without one hand close to a weapon, if he found somewhere good enough and drank enough to lie to himself about it.

He had bought himself time, but not leverage. That was the difference, and once he saw it, he could not unsee it. Alone, he was useful. Useful men got hired. Useful men got cornered. Useful men ended up standing in bad places with worse people, pretending choice was still involved because the alternative was admitting someone else had already spent it for them.

He did not need another job. He needed something different. A ship, maybe, though even the thought sat badly in his head. Ships came with captains, and captains came with orders, tempers, secrets and expectations. Crews came with noise. Too many people. Too much trust asked too quickly and not enough earned before someone started using the word like it meant anything. Still…it came with allies too. Regular work. It was something to consider. Maybe something cleaner than sending a twitchy information broker to a painful death, or worse.

Ragnar finished the drink and grimaced at the taste. Then he looked to the bar, lifted two fingers, and ordered another.