Chapter Text
*
Hoosier had tried to hijack his ship.
-
“If you want to live,” Chuckler said as he slid into the co-pilot’s seat. “You fucking send us into hyperspace.”
“Roger that,” Hoosier said, unperturbed by hostile fire that streaked past.
Chuckler grabbed the edge of the control unit, other arm lifted to brace against the cockpit that arched above their heads. “Any time now, buddy.”
Hoosier cut him a look, the red glow of tracer fire reflecting off the blond of his hair. He didn’t say anything and turned back to the spread of controls before him. A flick of a switch later and they were gone.
-
Hoosier knocked on the shell of the ship. “Surface damage,” he said.
Chuckler frowned as he studied the black streaks left behind by the dogfight. He reached up and palmed the closest one, sliding his hand across the length of it. Hoosier was right. Aside from the shallow indentations and the obvious discoloration, the Spitfire – name handpicked from the Annal of Ancient Civilizations – was likely structurally sound. Chuckler made a note to program a thorough scan.
“Shit, Hoos,” Chuckler said as he stepped from the ship. “I’m still reeling we actually got through that in one piece.”
“The firepower’s a new thing,” Hoosier agreed as he lit up a cigarette. He balanced the stem between his fingers, head tilted to one side as he regarded the Spitfire.
Even with the damage, the Spitfire cut an impressive figure in the small hanger. It was based on older design; the lines long and angular and nothing like the sleek ships and crafts that were more popular. They had bought it dirt cheap on a planet that sat on the outer regions, and had spent the better part of a year designing and implementing a flight and navigation system that was both the scourge and envy of the Intergalactic Dictatorship.
Hoosier passed his cigarette to Chuckler, who pressed it between his lips and took a long draw.
“We’ll have to buff those out,” Hoosier said after a moment. He scratched at a point on his chest, just below his collar. “Wouldn’t want the Professor to be all cranky that he can’t write odes to her beauty anymore.”
“Hey,” Chuckler said as he passed the cigarette back. “I thought chicks dug scars.”
Hoosier smirked. “Not this one.”
-
Their next job came from Yukay-Zed — a planet that didn’t answer to the Dictatorship, and which sat on of the eastern border of the Zed-FourTwo system.
“This isn’t half suspicious at all,” Hoosier said as he flicked through his portable messenger.
Chuckler glanced up from the bowels of the Spitfire, still working on one of the busted deflector shields. He wiped his forehead with the arch of his wrist before moving to swing a leg over the downward curve of the Spitfire’s side. Chuckler landed on the ramp with an audible thump that caused the mesh to vibrate beneath his boots; the residual feel snaking through his body before he steadied.
“You reckon it’s a trap or something?” Chuckler asked as he approached Hoosier, wiping his hands on a grease rag.
Chuckler glanced to the messenger Hoosier held. It sat suspended just above the flat of Hoosier’s palm; a prototype of the InfoVisors that Dictatorship pilots used, and old enough to pick up dead-air signals that newer comm-systems filtered out. Hoosier made a sound at the back of his throat before he disconnected, the screen flickering once before disappearing.
Chuckler leaned away, brows raised as he waited for Hoosier to make a decision.
If they were any other vehicle in the galaxy— if they were any other pair of smugglers, a trip to Yukay-Zed would have been no more a threat as it would have been otherwise. But with the Dictatorship upping the ante in regards to their capture, it paid to possess a critical eye in terms of missions. A payment that was too good to be believed was usually a tip off. No amount of illicit cargo was worth that much.
“She fixed?” Hoosier asked, turning his attention to the ship.
“Yeah.”
Chuckler shoved his hands in the pockets of his coveralls as he glanced to the Spitfire. They had managed to buff out the damage from earlier that week and painted over the marks left behind. Chuckler had added to the design, painting a blue circle that was inlaid with smaller red one on each side of the ship. He had lifted the idea from the Annals.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Hoosier nodded to the symbol. “But that’s there to make us more of a target, isn’t it?”
“I’ll remove it once we’re done with the mission,” Chuckler promised. “Think of it as a disguise.”
Hoosier gave him a look. “Unless you’ve managed to infuse a cloaking device with the paint, I wouldn’t stock much faith in your disguise.”
Chuckler shrugged and looked back up to the Spitfire. She was a beauty of a craft; his pride and joy. He didn’t plan to remove the symbol at all.
-
From afar, Yukay-Zed looked desolate. It was a giant red ball, streaked by the dust storms that swept across its surface. Nothing natural grew there: water had to be created and harvested for consumption, and clusters of oxygen towers had been established in key zones. It was out of the way and oppressive in its heat.
Hoosier reached up and flicked a switch that cut power to the auxiliary engine. Another switch firmed the underlying suspension of the ship, preparing the Spitfire for landing.
They landed at the designated meeting area with nothing but sand dunes stretching out in all directions. Heat flooded in as soon as Chuckler cracked open the hatch and spilled into the cabin.
“Holy hell,” Chuckler breathed.
“Suck it up, Lew,” Hoosier told him.
“Just because it reminds you of the miserable pit you call a home planet,” Chuckler said as he scrambled out, boots scuffing against the metal hatch.
There wasn’t any point in lowering the loading dock with no one there, and it paid to keep the sand out of the hardware. Chucker wasn’t interested in disemboweling the internal controls to clean the grit out. He had made that mistake the first time they had ventured to Yukay-Zed.
The mission was a simple transport of cargo, dimensions six foot tall by one foot wide. The briefing hadn’t offered much more than that, apart from the figure they would receive in return.
“This has to be a trap,” Chuckler said as he looked around.
There was no one there. No one to meet them at the allocated spot. Chuckler felt the heat of the sun bear down on his shoulders and sweat prickling at the nape of his neck. Hoosier stepped beside him, the crunch of sand announcing his presence.
“What you think, Hoos?”
Gunfire sliced through Hoosier’s response, and Chuckler swore, landing on his ass as he scrambled back, boots lacking traction on the superfine sand. A shot scorched the ground beside Chuckler’s hand and the residual heat blistered his skin.
Chuckler felt Hoosier grab his jersey as a figure crested a sand dune.
“Get in the ship!” the figure – a man – called.
He was adept to running on sand, no speed lost as he closed the distance to the Spitfire.
“The fuck are you?” Hoosier asked over the growing sound of gunfire. Chuckler – not for the first time – wondered how the hell Hoosier could keep his cool when they were being shot at. “And who the fuck you brought along?”
“Not a good time to talk,” the man said. He was dressed in the traditional garb of the planet, with a sand colored hood pulled up to obscure his features. Chuckler caught a flash of tanned skin as the Runner glanced back towards the sand dune he had crossed. He regarded them once more. “I’m your cargo.”
-
“There’s something wrong with you,” Chuckler told Hoosier the moment they had exited the planet’s gravitational pull. They escaped just in time. Chuckler had caught sight the Enforcer’s uniforms just as they closed the hatch, along with the black-silver gleam of their weapons.
Hoosier responded with an offer of a lit cigarette and a nod to the Runner collapsed on one of the side-seats, unslung from where it had been secured for landing. Chuckler took a long draw from the cigarette in an effort to shake off the lingering nerves. The length of his hand stung, he realized— the burn a steady pulse on his skin. It was too small to bother treating, and Chuckler wouldn’t mind the scar. It would be different against skin otherwise unmarked thanks to DeTone fluid.
“Who are you then?” Chuckler asked.
The man shrugged off his tunic hood with little flair. He was younger than Chuckler expected, likely no older than himself, with dark blue eyes on a tanned face that was exceptionally pleasing to look at. His cropped hair stuck to his temples with sweat, adding a boyish slant to his serious expression.
“Not our business to pick up Runners,” Hoosier added from the cockpit.
“I know,” the Runner said, “the payment would have covered the risk.”
“Barely,” Hoosier said.
“I need to get to the Daltor system,” the Runner said, undeterred by the reception.
“Lew—” Hoosier spoke with exaggerated patience. “Get your ass here.”
“Got it,” Chuckler said as he moved to take Hoosier’s place at the controls. There wasn’t much to do in terms of steering, now that they were clear of Yukay-Zed, but it wasn’t unlikely that a fleet of Enforcers would be on their tail. Chuckler wasn’t as adept at flying as Hoosier, but he could get them out of a tight spot.
“Kid,” Chuckler heard Hoosier start.
He glanced over his shoulder, at where Hoosier stood with one foot perched on the seat beside the Runner as he leaned forward and closed him in. “I told you before, we’re not in the business of Runners – funds or not. Furthermore, and in case you missed that, we’re not a taxi service.”
“You move cargo around,” the Runner said, “the only difference between that and this is that I’m not packaged and I’m telling you where to go now as opposed to in the briefing.”
“I don’t care,” Hoosier told him. “We’re going to drop you off at the nearest Allied sys—“
“Hoos,” Chuckler interrupted, “we can take him to Daltor.”
There was a pause. “No,” Hoosier said, “we can not.”
Chuckler looked over and caught Hoosier’s flat stare. Chuckler knew that Hoosier was close to losing his impressive cool. He didn’t necessarily tense when aggravated and, right then, Hoosier’s body was deceptively relaxed, lit cigarette still dangling between his fingers.
“C’mon,” Chuckler said, “he’s paying triple, half upfront—“
“Think long term here,” Hoosier said, “we don’t need any more reasons for Enforcers to be on our ass. Taking advantage of loopholes is one thing—“
“The only repercussion is that we’ll be bumped up on the most wanted list. We’re doing illegal shit anyway. And even if,” Chuckler continued, raising his voice to override Hoosier. “You don’t want to be aligned with any particular group of people, the fact is we’ve been on the side of the Allies since they established, and you pretend we aren’t.”
Hoosier remained silent and Chuckler stared resolutely forward until he heard Hoosier swear and stalk off, disappearing into the belly of the ship.
“Yeah,” Chuckler said after a brief silence. “You owe me.”
“Oh,” the Runner said, “and the overthrow of the Dictatorship not enough?”
“Overthrow the Dictatorship first and then we’ll see.”
-
Hoosier was still in a foul mood at dinner, only sticking around long enough to eat and throw both him and the Runner dirty looks before leaving.
“Shit,” the Runner said – Chuckler had since learned that his name was Will, but Runner seemed to suit him better – “is he always like that?”
“He’s pedantic.” Chuckler said, and grinned when Runner raised his brows. “He’s annoyed that he programmed everything to receive a six foot tall box, when you’re 5’6” at best. What’s at Daltor then?”
Runner’s expression smoothed and he reached for a piece of hard bread. “You’ll see when we get there,” was the eventual answer.
Chuckler frowned. It had been like this the entire time. Whether personal questions or more vague ones, up to and including space weather (“how about that meteor shower, huh?”), the Runner wasn’t interested in answering. Chuckler stared at Runner’s profile, his previous attractiveness spoiled by his obtrusive nature.
Hoosier probably had a point in dumping on the closest Allied colony.
-
“So,” Chuckler started. He dragged the ‘o’. “I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve been using the boosters. We got enough fuel for that?”
Hoosier rolled his shoulders. “I want to get rid of the guy.”
“What are you talking about? He’s friendly. Conversational. Open. Honest.” Chuckler paused after each alleged trait. “What more could you ask for in terms of illegal cargo?”
“Funny,” Hoosier said as he fiddled with the navigation unit, as if the coordinates had reset itself in the minute he had last checked. “No idea why I stick around.”
“Because you like my face.”
Hoosier flashed him a look. “You heard the news this morning?”
“News?—“
“Basilone’s dead,” Hoosier told him. He punctuated his words with a stab of a button, transferring power to another engine. “Assassinated they say.”
Chuckler’s stomach dropped to his boots. “Are you serious?”
“No, I made it up to fuck with you,” Hoosier said, “if we turn up onto Daltor—” he continued, abandoning the controls to round onto Chuckler, crowding in enough for Chuckler to smell the soap he used that morning. “To an ambush. To a company of Enforcers or anything remotely resembling that—I’m telling them you took me hostage.”
Chuckler couldn’t help his laughter, short and loud in the enclosed space. “You’re shitting me,” he said. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure I’m the one that started off the model citizen here. You were wanted way before I was.”
“And you trust me to tell the truth when we’re caught, right?”
Chuckler lifted his hands placatingly and grinned. “We won’t get caught.”
Hoosier shook his head and turned away.
-
The trip to Daltor took four days. Jump-speed would have gotten them there quicker, but would have used up twice the fuel, even if Hoosier disabled the boosters. Plus the long way ‘round wouldn’t hurt, Chuckler had explained to Runner – and then to Hoosier in private – considering the circumstances.
Daltor’s political position would have not gone unnoticed by the Dictatorship – a declared neutral, but obviously not if anyone looked – and the route to the planet would have been monitored.
“Here,” Runner said as they approached.
Against the backdrop of space, Daltor was a bright blue ball studded with green and streaked with white. It looked like the old planet Earth, which had eroded away several millennia ago; buried beneath slabs of concrete and machinery before it had been swallowed by its system’s sun.
Hoosier caught Chuckler’s gaze pointedly when Runner hip-nudged Hoosier from the cockpit. Runner brought up the telecommunications board and tapped in a security code. The neutral blue light in the corner of the device turned a sharp green and Runner flicked a grin to Chuckler. “Unless you guys were keen on being gunned down.”
“That how you greet all your tourists?” Hoosier said.
“I guarantee that none of the visitors we get are tourists, Smith.”
“Lew might like you,” Hoosier said, “but I would not think twice into stuffing you in the only escape pod we have, and abandoning it in the outer regions. Just give me one reason.”
This had been the last four days.
Chuckler shuffled Runner from the cockpit, leaving him and Hoosier to glare at each other as he made adjustments for landing. The last time he had visited Daltor had been before it had turned into an Allied base, and he had fond memories of the beachscapes there. The sunburn he could live without.
A shudder went through the Spitfire when Chuckler made ground contact. “Alright, kids, we’re here,” he announced as he powered down the engines. “I hope you packed your swimsuits, because it doesn’t look like there’s anywhere to buy any.”
Somewhere behind him, Hoosier told Chuckler to fuck off. “I’m stayin’ on the ship,” Hoosier continued, louder.
Chuckler stood and took the time to stretch before he said, “C’mon, Hoos. I know you’re cranky because we ran out of cigarettes. Let’s go get some more, yeah?”
-
“I don’t know how you can put up with that,” Runner said to Chuckler as they collected his gear. There wasn’t much, just a stack of official looking documents which Runner had hidden, folded beneath his clothes.
Chuckler flicked him a look. “He’s loyal, trustworthy and a damn good pilot,” he said, “and he’s been those things for the last two years, even when the Government went to shit and we were stuck number three in the top five wanted list. So, yeah,” Chuckler said as he grabbed an extra bag for supplies. “Yeah, I put up with the times he’s cranky because I forced him into a situation he doesn’t want to be in, and that he’s only tolerating for me.”
Runner looked away, but for once he didn’t push.
Hoosier met them at the hatch, arms loosely folded as he leaned back against the wall.
“Ready whenever you are,” Chuckler called out.
Hoosier opened the hatch and climbed out. A bit of residual dust from Yukay-Zed billowed from the release of tension and floated in and out of the warm light that streamed through the opening.
Chuckler handed Hoosier the two spare bags and hauled himself out of the ship after him, leaving enough space for Runner to climb out as he marveled at the feel of the sun on his skin. He tilted his head back and let it burn on his face.
“You guys sure damn pick the best planet to raise a coup from,” Chuckler commented as Runner pulled the hatch shut after him.
They had landed at the border of a jungle, where the thick trees gave way to knee high vegetation and grass. In the middle distance, there was a cluster of squat, cement-grey buildings, partially bordered with a tall gate.
Runner pointed. “That’s where we go,” he said before heading off.
“Friendly. Conversational. Open,” Hoosier said as he fell in step beside Chuckler, voice low. “Honest.”
“I know you’re all sad at having your best friend go away for a while, but we can always come visit once I’ve met his parents. Anyway,” Chuckler continued after making sure they were out of earshot. “We’re getting the rest of our payment, we’re getting restocked and we’re getting rid of him. You should be happy right now. Smiling, even. Smiling?”
“I’ll consider it once we’re gone with the rest of our payment and without him.” Hoosier ran his fingers through his hair. Without a cigarette, it was as if he had no idea what to do with his hands.
The heat of the sun on Chuckler’s skin was edging into painful when they reached the base. Chuckler welcomed the cool air and made a beeline for the water dispenser, taking back an extra glass for Hoosier.
“Leckie,” Runner called out. Chuckler watched over the rim of his glass as Runner disappeared into a room offside.
He started to check out their surroundings – nondescript and bare, save for the necessities – when Runner returned with another man. The man greeted them with a crooked smile and an extended hand. Chuckler liked him immediately, but Hoosier would accuse him of taking to everybody like some kind of puppy, so it probably didn’t count for much.
“Bob Leckie,” he said as they shook hands.
“Lew,” Chuckler said, keeping it simple. The name sounded familiar. “Have we met?”
Hoosier gave Chuckler a look as Leckie said, “No, I don’t think so.”
“Leckie writes for the Report,” Runner explained.
“Holy shit,” Chuckler said, the name of the dead-air station and the initials B.L clicking. “You’re the Professor? The guy who composes love songs to the Spitfire?”
“I don’t know about being a professor, but otherwise, yes,” Leckie said after a pause. “That would be me.”
-
Leckie insisted they stay the night, it being the least they could do.
“Payment and a pack of smokes would’ve been enough,” Hoosier said.
Leckie gave Hoosier an appraising look.
Chuckler waved a hand toward Hoosier. “He’s cranky because he hasn’t had a smoke for a day and half.”
“He’s cranky because that’s how he comes,” Runner amended. He ignored the look Hoosier gave him and flicked through some documents.
Leckie shuffled a pack of cigarettes from his trouser pocket and offered it to Hoosier, tipping the box toward him so that he could pull one out. Hoosier snagged the entire packet and pocketed it instead.
“For dealing with him,” Hoosier said with a nod toward Runner.
“What did you do?” Leckie asked Runner, who shrugged.
Chuckler gestured to Leckie, hands and fingers spread as if it encompassed the last four days. “The entire trip.”
“C’mon,” Leckie said with another crooked grin, as if he found the situation funnier than it was. “Let’s get you guys a shower and some food.”
-
The accommodation was Spartan, but adequate, and bigger than it all looked on the outside. Most of the base was located underground, with routes to smaller ships some clicks outside of the base parameter.
Runner branched off at the first underground corridor. “I’ll catch up,” he said as he lifted his file. “Gotta report to the Captain.”
Leckie nodded and gestured them on.
“Topside is meant to look abandoned,” Leckie said over his shoulder as they walked past a near steady stream of men and women, some in uniform and others not. There were more than a few looks thrown their way, most curious and a couple hostile. “Enforcers are doing planetary sweeps more often now and we’re right on top of the list.”
Leckie took them to a large office; cheery, despite the lack of windows.
“Gibs, These guys need some ID,” Leckie said to the awkward looking man behind the desk.
“Right,” Gibs said as he fumbled around for some forms and a clipboard, setting two of them up before sliding them on the counter. “You’ll need to fill these in.”
Chuckler glanced at the sort of questions the forms were asking. He looked to Hoosier who stood with his hands in his pockets and then back to Leckie.
Chuckler said, “We don’t put things down on paper,” at the same time Hoosier said, “Screw that bureaucratic bullshit.”
Gibs launched into something about protocol, stuttering to a stop when Leckie lifted his hands. “It’s fine,” he said.
“What’s fine?” Runner asked as he entered the room.
“Everything’s fine,” Chuckler said before anybody else could speak up. “We were just about to leave.”
By his elbow, the slightest bit of tension unraveled from Hoosier’s body. “’bout goddamn time.”
Runner stepped from the doorway as they headed out.
“Hold on,” Leckie said.
Hoosier didn’t stop and barged through the crowd while Chuckler angled back towards Leckie in question.
Leckie opened his mouth and then changed his mind. “Thanks,” he said instead. Leckie shifted his weight at the door, the movement allowing Chuckler a glimpse of Runner who stood at the desk and grinned down to the man who sat behind it, wide and gleeful.
“No worries,” Chuckler said, “just shoot the rest of the funds through and we’ll call it even.”
-
Hoosier had the Spitfire ready to go by the time Chuckler reached it. Chuckler glanced back to the unassuming set of buildings before he hauled himself through the hatch and latched it shut after him. They hadn’t even managed to secure any supplies and would need to make a pit stop.
“Hey,” Chuckler said as he came up behind Hoosier at the cockpit. He palmed the sharp angle of the control seat.
“Ready?” Hoosier said. He spoke around a lit cigarette and slanted a glare up to Chuckler when he stole it and took a long draw.
“C’mon,” Chuckler said with a grin as he moved to secure himself in the co-pilot’s seat for take-off, straps tight against his shoulders. “Get us off this goddamn rock.”