The Dancing Scorpion was a dive. Not just any dive, the bar was a sore blight in a piss-poor town on the worst shit-stain of a planet in the universe, Delsea 4, and Troy Wooten called it home. He was the only human in the bar, and probably the only human on the planet. The gin was watered down, and the place stunk of Algash tobacco smoke, but it was the only place a man like Troy could be left alone for any stretch of time. However short it may be.
"I'll have what he's having," Troy heard a female voice say to his left. The human was slouched over the bar, propping his head up with his left arm. His back was facing the lady, and he had no intention of turning around. The bartender, a Gorrian male looked like a cross between a squid, a gorilla, and a child's worst nightmare. He poured a glass of Beefeater's Gin, straight from Earth; London, to be exact, into a glass as filthy as anything else in the bar.
"Ahem," the woman said. Troy raised the glass to his lips and sipped the room temperature spirits. He ignored the woman.
"Troy Wooten?" the woman pressed on. He removed the glass from his lips and set it on the stained bar. He finally turned to his left to see who was asking for him. It was a Furvoid; human-like creatures which possessed many earth-animal traits. Some looked like lions, others, like wolves; skunks, bears, mice, otters, dogs, cats, and a whole range of creatures were of the Furvoid race. This one in particular was a white tigress, and she was a looker at that. Her fiery, long auburn hair reached down to her shoulders. Straight and smooth, like the gin he was drinking. Deep, blue eyes and full, dark eyelashes stared at the mostly drunk man. She wore a revealing one piece outfit, dark red. It revealed enough of her body to make Troy take not she was not afraid to flaunt what she had in such a disreputable establishment. Even in an inebriated state, he knew a girl dressed like that would be armed and not afraid to use her weapons.
"Who wants to know?" he asked, scratching stubble from going three days without shaving. His chin was stern, his hair kept fairly short and dark as his mood, and with eyes to match.
"The name's Riley. Ember Riley. I'm here to offer you a job, steady work if you want it."
"Well, Riley, Ember Riley, I've got enough work right here," he said sipping his gin.
"Not from what I've gathered about you."
"Oh, and what's that?" he asked.
"You've been stuck on this rock for the last month and a half. Soldier like you finds little to battle other than a hangover in this fine establishment."
"My soldiering days are over, and if you know anything about me, you know I'm not the right guy for any job you've got."
"The incident on Mytar 6? Sources tell me there was more to that incident than what was in the official report, though they didn't elaborate."
"If you paid to get that information, you got ripped off," he said bitterly. He downed the rest of the gin, put his fingers to his lips and whistled at the bartender to bring him another round.
"Can we talk somewhere a little more...private?" she asked.
"I don't know what you're trying to accomplish lady, but leave me out of it."
"There's a Mark VII plasma pistol aimed at your hip right now. I squeeze the trigger, and you die a slow, painful death. No one would even bat an eye in this establishment. Or, we could talk."
Ember threw money on the bar to pay for both tabs.
"Walk with me," she said.
"I'm walking," he replied. They continued down the dirt road until they left the small town of Galak. After walking for fifteen minutes, he saw a ship poorly hidden near a grove of trees. It wasn't much of a ship. A Furvoid Pulse Skiff with the name
Shield Maiden
. She was dark gray, had a spearhead shaped fuselage and four rear mounted engines in a two-by-two arrangement.
"This is my ship,
Shield Maiden
. I captain her. I'm looking to add you to my crew."
"I don't fly ships, I don't fix them. What do you need me for?"
"I don't need a pilot, I do the flying myself. Got an engineer, a doctor, and an archaeologist on board as well," Ember said.
"So what do you need me for?" he prodded again.
"Security."
"I see. So, hire a gun-hand with no future because he's got nothing to lose."
"The kind of business we're in, isn't exactly illegal, but it attracts the illegal types. We end up hauling a lot of precious valuables. I don't like spending three months on a dig, haul up four million credits worth of artifacts, only to see it all stolen at gunpoint."
"I assume this is from experience," Troy said.
"More often than I'd like to admit. I need someone who knows his way around weapons, and isn't squeamish about using them."
"Seems like you were getting on just fine without me," he said, looking at the gun still aimed at his kidney.
"I know my way around a weapon just fine, but sometimes, you need a little help."
"So, you want me to play babysitter while your crew digs up artifacts to sell?"
"Something like that."
"And the pay?"
"We're four right now. With five, we split the profits twenty-percent a piece. You get free room and board, and...fringe benefits."
"Fringe benefits?"
"Did I neglect to mention my crew is all-female? Well, shuttling from planet to planet, digging up in the dust, being miles from civilization...my crew have needs that food and water alone don't satisfy, if you get my meaning."
"I see. So you want me to be your bodyguard and your man-whore," he said.
"Something like that."
"And if I refuse?"
"I shoot you and leave you to rot on this planet so the gralen vultures tear the flesh off your bones."
"Hmm, so I've got a choice between twenty percent of your profits, all the food and fucking I want, or else die."
"Something like that."
