Get Things Done

“Throw him in.”

He tried not to wince as Rost hit the deck. It was a heavy, meaty sound. One he had never gotten used to, even now.

The man rounded on him, eyes wide with spite and fury as he tugged against the manacles.

“You think you’re so high and mighty now?” Rost spat, struggling to get off his knees. “You’re scum. Always have been, ever since I skimmed you off the top of that greasy bar-”

Sarah put her fist the button, closing the airlock. She looked to him for guidance. Even now, especially now, he had to give the order.

A slight nod of his head and she set the airlock to purge.

He stood there and listened as Rost banged against the door. What was he using? His shoulder? His head? Had he managed to work his hands free? He didn’t know. Eventually it got quieter and slower as the little lights on the door shifted from green to yellow to red.

Then it stopped.

He waited another minute. Allowed himself to breath.

“Make sure he’s dead, then send the body out to drift,” he told the guards. His voice proved firm. Calm. Like none of this bothered him. When had he learned that?

Sarah fell in behind him as he turned back towards the hallway. Too many things to do, he couldn’t afford to waste anymore time on this.

“We’re done here.”

---

“The port is becoming a problem.” Director Isira didn’t look at him. He barely looked at her. Too many reports coming in on his screen. Maintenance requests, new trade regulations, Tai throwing meeting after meeting at him. Just getting this talk with both of their schedules had been a small miracle.

“The port always has its problems.” He finished typing up a response to an angry captain, sparing just enough time to look her in the eye. They were distant, faced towards the empty wall of his office. Glowing. No doubt she was talking to someone else even while she did this. “If you’re referring to the criminal elements, taming them has always been my highest priority.”

“And yet, your progress seems to have stalled in recent months.” He didn’t bother hiding his wince. The smugglers had been getting more unruly. Testing the limits to see what he would tolerate. He needed to pick when to act. Too soon he’d be just as constraining as Lisk. Too late and they’d be running wild. “I don’t believe they respect you.”

“I haven’t been doing this long enough for respect,” he snapped. Too quickly to stop himself.

Director Isira turned to face him. Her eyes were two pools. Pure white electronics.

“You haven’t been firm enough for respect.” Her voice never waved, never wavered. He still felt floored by it. This woman could by and sell him if she wanted. He’d have never been elected if she hadn’t approved. “What purpose does Rost Mora serve at your side?”

Sentimentality, but even that would run out. She said nothing and he could hear every word of the lecture. How every flippant act and blatant violation undermined his authority. How he would lose what little he had if he allowed it to continue.

“Politics is demanding. It will take everything from you if you aren’t careful.” Isira reached out. The tips of her fingers feather-light on his hand. “One must make sacrifices to keep it sated.”

His throat tightened.

Sacrifices.

One a long time coming.

“I’ll get it done.”

---

“Hey, buddy!” Rost let the door slam behind him. His filthy boots tracked dirt over the carpet. He walked straight up to the desk and grabbed a chair, flipping it around so he could lean his elbows on the back. If anyone else had done this, he’d have them thrown out the airlock. “Got a notice you want to see me. What, am I my father now? Mr. Mora, the Portmaster wishes to speak with-”

“Why are you skimming off our income, Rost.”

One blink and he could see the lie forming. So quickly and so naturally. He wasn’t even ashamed. It didn’t die until he threw the reports up on his screen, letting Rost get a good look. Then his face turned sour.

“You can see right there it isn’t that much.” He shrugged his shoulders. Flippant. “I don’t see why you had to call me up here just for that.”

“Why, Rost.” The words came out through his teeth, pressed so tight they might break.

“It’s just a couple side jobs,” he said, sounding for all the word like he had been caught taking a candy bar. “Just a few things I’m doing on my own. Look, it’s extra income! I’ll put back what I took, no one will be any wiser.”

“You can’t stick me with dirty money and act like everything’s alright.”

“Oh, like it was clean to begin with! Nothing we did in those three years was ‘clean’, but you’ve got a desk now and you want to pretend you’re the golden child?”

“The entire point was to make it clean!” His hand ached as he slammed it into the table, but he refused to flinch. “I am above board now. Okay? A government institution. And if you want to help me run this, you’ve got to stop acting like we’re still in that slum!”

Rost laughed. Nothing happy about it, just a big, sneering smile on his face that made him want to slug the man.

“Yeah, out of the slum, now you’re the slumlord. You’re not looking legitimate, everyone knows who you talk to.” The smile got wider as Rost stood up to face him. His nails dug into the finish of his desk. “But fine. I’ll still to my own shit. And you can play with yours.”

Rost pushed over his chair before leaving, swaggering out of the room like nothing had happened. He watched the door slam. Stared at it until he could see something other than red. Then he called his secretary.

“Tai, take a note. Rost is banned from the premises barring appointment.”

---

“It’s so nice to meet with the new Portmaster in person.” Her name was Sil. She had another attached to her, of course. One that paid taxes and went to the market and waited in line at corner stores. But everyone who knew her called her Sil. “And so quickly too. Tholson would have had me waiting for months.”

“Well, Tholson had his difficulties connecting with people.” He smiled for her, wide and genuine. She could break him if she wanted. Physically if she was feeling bold. Right now Sarah was out there staring down three people even more chromed up than she was. Not a good match. “I’m hoping to be much more open with my clients. Especially those with such a wide hand in the market.”

“Yes, your assistant, Rost was it? He sent over your proposed changes.” He blinked, the only sign of surprise he allowed to slip through. He hadn’t sent any documentation to anyone. The policies still had to be written. “You’re the ambitious sort. I approve. I’m sure we’ll have a lot to do together.”

She set down a pad and slid it over to him. A document sat pre-loaded on the screen. One with his name on it. One he did not pen.

Most of it centered around his plans. Things he already intended to do. Laws to change, tariffs to reduce, processes to streamline.

Things that would make it easier to move parts and supplies through the port. All the better to support the war effort, keep ships moving. The things people elected him for.

But, buried between the sweeping declarations and rhetoric, he could see loopholes. Small ones on the surface. Inconsequential.

But a loose wording here or a vague interpretation there could fit a lot of money in the gaps.

Sil was powerful. The kind of power that went beyond money or guns. Losing her support was the equivalent of declaring war with his own territory. Nothing would get done if she wanted to be difficult.

And if her support was based on these promises….

So he looked up at her and smiled as they talked over the details. Mouth a thin line to keep in the bile rising in his throat.

He was going to kill Rost.

---

“Still not sure if this is a good idea.” He leaned on a railing and watched the ad play people mingle. Most of them he didn’t know. Some though were unmistakable. A few months ago they’d been competition and nothing more, civil only because he and Rost stayed out of the shadier side of the business. Now they were his backers, helping to convince the locals he’d make a better Portmaster than Tholson.

Something they mostly agreed with. If only because he promised to end certain tariffs.

“It’s a bit too late to back out, you’re ahead in the polls.” Rost slid up to him, drink in hand, something far fancier than he usually went for. But they still had plenty of money, why shouldn’t the man enjoy himself? “Tholson’s grandfathered in from the last regime, his ideas belong back before we had a new rush. You’ve lived down here with the rest of us and they know that.”

“They’re hoping I help them make money or get them off the ground, don’t sugarcoat it please.” He turned his eyes towards the stairs, guarded by Sarah (and how odd was it to think he had a personal guard). No one had tried to come up to the balcony. He knew he’d have to go back down eventually. “I still think we should have put you on the ticket.”

“Nah. I’m too sleezy. You’ve got that fresh faced earnestness about you.” Rost clapped him on the shoulder, looking out over the crowd. “I’m better in the background. Helping in my own way.”

Something about the phrase seemed off. Rost did plenty to help. With speeches, with keeping names straight, with knowing just who to talk to. Hell, he seemed to know everybody.

So yes, he did help in his own way. But why wouldn’t he look at him when he said it?

“Rost, what does that-"

His question was cut off, a woman downstairs calling his name. Shaish. She had a lot of capital wrapped up in metal transports, he’d have to talk to her.

“Don’t worry so much,” Rost said, pushing him towards the stairs. “Just go down there and do what you do.”

He let himself be lead on. Too much riding on this to back out now.

Rost likely didn’t mean anything by it.

---

“Here you are. Genuine Teralysk power converter!”

Rost gave his spiel as he handed the engineer her request. The woman was trying to play it cool, but the relief showed in every motion she made. Without that part, they would have been stuck in port for another month waiting on a replacement. That kind of downtime could bankrupt a crew.

Just like that ice hauler that’d been broken down last week.

He left the actual sale to Rost, leaning back across his desk. There would be more today. Some just as desperate, some just looking to avoid tariffs. Between the 30% market tax and all the supply shortages as supplies were diverted towards the frontier, his clients had quickly turned from collectors and shifty types to desperate lifers trying to keep their ships flying.

Sad. Especially since it was all so unnecessary.

Maybe one in fifty parts they’d found were actually illegal. And only a fraction of those would be worth more than a misdemeanor. All of it were things that could be found on an open market, just too expensive for the average crew to get on a moment’s notice. At least at this port.

He watched Rost close the deal, wondering if there were a better way to handle this.

---

“Come one, come on, it’s one fifty at least. Look, it’s all shiny and everything.”

Rost held up the part he’d fished out of his bag. He had to admit, it did look shiny. Baska though did not seem impressed, crossing his arms. They were even bigger than Rost’s. What did they feed people on this station?

“You think a polish adds any value? I do that myself for everything I find.” The scrapper sucked at his teeth, tilting his head this way and that as if he could get a better look at the thing. Admittedly, he was trying the same. Rost never showed him the scores he found. Didn’t want prying eyes. “Alright, fine, you saved me some work. One twenty. Final offer”

Rost’s grin split his whole face as he set the piece of scrap on the table. He leaned in to look, finally getting a glance at the serial number.

“He’s shorting you by a factor of ten.” The words came out before he could catch them. Rost and Baska stared at him, both wide-eyed. Rost recovered first, snatching the item off the table.

“Ten you say.” Rost motioned for him to continue as Baska reared up. He looked ready to call the guards. The sketchy looking ones that hung around the bars.

“That’s a Jensen tri-bolt actuary,” he said, hoping he remembered that model correctly. “Rare in this part of space, they were active further towards the Shogunate. And that specific configuration was discontinued when they decided to standardize their luxury grav-bikes to use replaceable parts. It’s only useful in a few old models, the kind collectors like.”  Baska’s expression tightened further, almost panicked. “It’d be worth nothing to you if you didn’t already have a buyer. They’ll give you a hundred times that at least.”

For a moment, all three were silent. Rost held the actuary to his chest like his own child. Baska flicked his eyes between the both of them and the door where his guards were stationed. All he could hear was his heart pounding in his chest.

“Twelve-hundred,” Baska said. “Final offer.”

Rost placed the scrap back on the table, grinning ear to ear.

“Deal.”

---

One bottle of cheap, synthesized rum amounted to all of his last paycheck. The last of the last sitting in a dirty glass.

He stared at it, fingers circling the filthy rim. How long had he been staring? The bartender must be getting nervous, must be wondering if he was going to do a runner. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to drink it. Not yet.

Not before a heavy, scarred hand slapped some credits on the table.

“Put this one on me, Jet,” a voice said. Not much older than him, greasy as the bar, but built like a duster. People didn’t get those sorts of muscles in the void, not without putting in some serious work. “Hey.”

“What do you want,” he asked the man, pulling the drink to his lips. Apparently he wasn’t paying for it anymore, Jet took this man’s credits as easy as anyone else’s. Now it just tasted like crap instead of pathetic. Honestly, crap was worse. “I’m trying to enjoy my night.”

“Don’t look like you’re enjoying it that much,” the man said, sliding into the seat next to him. He tapped the bar and Jet slid over a drink. Didn’t even have to ask. “And it’s not too often we get Pavelex boys in here.”

“Ex-Pavelex,” he growled, lips still stuck to the glass. He slammed it down, wishing he were strong enough to break it. Cheap plexiglass, practically indestructible. He should have taken off the jacket. Should have burned it. But it was the only thing they let him keep. “Kicked me off the ship this morning. Now what do you want?”

“I’m thinking we both want the same thing,” he said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. Though he wanted nothing more than to punch the man for getting oil on his jacket, he was just drunk enough and the man’s smile just earnest enough to listen. “Rost. I’m looking for a couple extra hands. And you look like the kind of guy who can get things done….”