Christopher Nuttall - Barbarians at the Gates

“Don’t worry about us,” Uzi told him. “You just make sure that you and your companions don’t blow your covers. Discovery here could mean death.”

The shuttle flew down to the settlement, its passage barely troubling the hot air surrounding it. Roman watched through the shuttle’s sensors as it flew over the settlement and turned to land, coming down on a patch of ground on which someone must have used a fusion flame to bake it as hard as rock. The settlement looked rather like a shantytown to him, with hundreds of prefabricated shelters and apartments scattered around without rhyme or reason. There were no wooden shelters, due to the fact that Hobson’s Choice had no forests, but there were a number of buildings constructed from stone. He guessed there had to be a quarry somewhere nearby.

“Just remember,” Uzi said as the shuttle came in to land, “you’re not Federation Navy officers and you’re definitely not Marines. You’re mercenaries from the Free Ship Wildflower sampling the booze and other entertainments here. Even if someone recognizes the Wildflower , they won’t say anything. They’ll just assume that the bastards lost a fight and their ship was taken as a prize. Don’t fuck up and you’ll be fine.”

The shuttle’s hatch cracked open, allowing a wave of hot air to come streaming into the compartment, bringing with it a sandy smell mingled with something unpleasantly human. Roman scowled, resisting the urge to cough as the dry air invaded his lungs, and followed Uzi out into the open air. The sunlight beat down from high above, a mocking reminder that the planet had no ozone layer to protect visitors from the star’s rays. Roman and his crew had been treated to prevent skin cancer—it was a fairly simple genetic modification—but he didn’t want to think about what might happen to anyone who hadn’t been treated. If there were children on the planet…he pushed the thought aside. There couldn’t be children on the planet.

Elf caught his arm as they started to walk towards the settlement in the distance. “Slouch,” she ordered firmly.

Roman nodded and tried to take the Academy out of his walk. It didn’t work very well, but she seemed satisfied. Or perhaps she was hiding her opinion, even though she’d called him crazy in private. A captain shouldn’t risk himself on a landing party in hostile territory.

The settlement had been marked in the files, but it had no name. Up close, it was a sandy mass of small makeshift buildings, prefabricated dumpsters and small shacks. Roman heard the music of a dozen bars, while there was a large market set up in the center of the settlement. He almost stopped dead as he took in the mass of humans and aliens plying the market, buying or selling as the fancy took them. They didn’t seem to care that—officially—aliens were second-class citizens everywhere in the Federation. Here, the scum of the galaxy coexisted in an uneasy peace. He saw men holding guns and swaggering around, sometimes followed by older—beaten—men and women who were clearly slaves. Elf put a hand on his arm as a half-naked girl—with all of her teeth knocked out—walked past, following a tall man with a cruel glint in his eye.

He shuddered inwardly, wondering how anyone could manage to remain indifferent in the face of such suffering. Now that he knew to look, he saw hundreds of slaves, mainly young and female. One of the dumpsters had been turned into a brothel, with girls outside waving to customers and inviting them to come inside for some fun and games. The youngest he saw couldn’t be older than twelve, perhaps younger. Or perhaps she’d been engineered to meet a particular demand…no, that wasn’t possible. Hobson’s Choice didn’t have the medical tools to engineer a person’s body for a given specification.

His nose twitched as the wind caught a smell of cooking meat and blew it his way. Someone was cooking a dinner for a pirate crew and showing off the loot they’d taken from their victims. He almost stopped dead as he saw the people following them, nine girls and five boys, their hands manacled in front of them. They had to be captives and, judging by their state, not ones worth ransoming. He saw their fate in the eyes of the people watching them, studying the captives as a farmer would study a cow or a horse, and shivered. The Federation Navy needed to stomp on the pirates, hard. Perhaps, after the war, the corrupt governors would be deposed and Hobson’s Choice could be invaded and crushed.

“This way,” Uzi said. He led them towards a small bar. There was no music coming from inside, thankfully. “I suggest that we all have a drink here before you go back to the ship.”

Roman said nothing as they found a table and ordered drinks. The bar seemed to be marginally civilized, although the waitress was topless and had the tired expression of a person who had seen too much too young. The scars covering her breasts and arms made Roman look away in a hurry. He studied the drink she placed in front of him, but decided not to try it. A pint glass of foaming green liquid didn’t look particularly appetizing.

“May I join you?” a new voice asked.

Roman looked up to see a man who was blatantly out of place, wearing a black business suit and tie even in the heat. He was a man who didn’t want to remain unnoticed, he realized. He wanted the planet’s inhabitants to know who he was, and why.

“You’re off the Wildflower , are you not? A free company ship?”

“That we are,” Uzi said in a bored tone. He’d warned them that there might be a “chance” meeting with a recruiter and, if so, they were to keep their mouths shut. Roman was happy to obey.

“My unit just worked out our last contract,” Uzi continued. “And who might you be?”

“I am Devon,” the man said. “My employers have a particular interest in hiring men of the free companies.”

He reminded Roman of the man who’d tried to sell him a used aircar. There was something greasy about him. But there was an odd sort of contempt behind the man’s smile that didn’t add up; what was this man doing here?

“And we happen to be in need of a new contract,” Uzi said. He pulled out a chair for Devon and waved to the waitress. “Another beer for my new friend here, love!”

Devon settled himself down with the grace and poise of a visiting aristocrat slumming it among the common herd. Roman was privately surprised that the man had lasted so long on such a lawless planet, but perhaps he had the money—or connections—to keep him alive. If he was willing to make an approach to a ship no one had seen before, at least as a mercenary ship, he was clearly rolling in cash.

Or perhaps he was an idiot. There was no way to know.

“Thank you, my friend,” Devon said with a rather sardonic smile. “I’ll get right to the point. What do you have to offer my employers?”

Uzi pretended to consider it. “I would be more interested in knowing what you can pay us. There are plenty of possible employers out there looking to hire combat veterans. My crew and I were on Paradise, and several of us were on Romulus during the civil war. We’re not exactly desperate for cash, you know.”

There was, just for a second, a brief flash of anger on Devon’s face.

“Nor are my employers,” he said evenly. “They are prepared to offer very competitive rates to any starship crews or groundpounders that are prepared to sign up with them. They will even throw in a limited budget for repairs and spare parts, or even training if you feel it necessary. And there may be other incentives, should you perform well.”

“I see,” Uzi said. “And who might we be fighting?”

Roman saw his expression alter, slightly. It was a good offer, perhaps too good.