Steady Hands

Posted on Tue Jun 21st, 2016 @ 1:16am by

Mission: Mission 1 - Bridges
Location: Deep Space 7
Timeline: TBD
2405 words - 4.8 OF Standard Post Measure

Barton leaned carelessly against the side of a water purifier, his blazer looking like it had once been expensive hotel drapes, his cigar trailing dense smoke from where it was loosely poised in his hand.

The innards of space-stations like this where a maze of ducting, water pipes and wires. All of the niceties above deck gave way here, there was no sidings or carpet, the lighting was dim and the air stunk of stale water. Taben probably could have picked each howl, whine and rumble; telling you precisely which machine it came from and why. To Barton, it was simply a mess of noise, a constant whirr of happenings that signaled the space-station was set to it’s chores, what ever they may be.

His signature disinterested gaze worked it’s way up and down the man standing before him. He was finely dressed, though in a plain manner, and had a face that looked like it had seen to much. His features where hard, yet in a way that suggested they had once been forgiving, kind even, until time and experience had set them to stone. A mutual ‘friend’ had set up this meet; thinking Barton might be interested in a well trained Doctor looking for a quiet, out of the way ship to fly on for a spell. Doctors where hard to come by, and Barton was keen to have this one on Rosie, so much so he did not even blink at the price for setting this meeting up.



“Lot of fancy words in your qualifications Doctor.” He had to speak up, so his voice would carry over the sound of the working machines. “Things in there I’m not even certain as to what they mean. Now that’s got me to wondering, guy like you, resume like that; you’d have your pick of worlds. Could find a nice little planet, green summers, picturesque autumns. Set yourself up with a house and all the mod-cons, right place would even throw in a wife or two for stats like yours. So why’d you want to go hitch a ride on a bucket like mine? All I got is 5 empty rooms they tell me once was a sickbay. Three stretches in them now, the canvas kind. No bio-bed to speak of, not even a first-aid kit. Type of set-up tends to re-define a persons definition of rudimentary.”


The nostrils in the half-Betazoid's nose flared, both at the offensive smoke and in indignation at such a basic question. Mosley wasn't particularly worried about offending the dapper captain, who had already confirmed despite the novelty of having the hull of an ancient starship, the working conditions of his new job would be as bad, if not worse, than he imagined. Narrowing his dark eyes, the doctor leaned towards the human as he responded.

"Oh certainly, sir. I suppose I should've prefaced my resume with former terrorist currently under suspicion of narcotic trafficking seeks employment" Mosley spat out in an acidly condescending tone, "As if why I'm talking to you isn't blatantly obvio--"

Barton raised his hands to stop the man talking. “You misunderstood.” He said, giving his head a little shake. “What it is you’ve done, I don’t care, like to be you’d only lie to me on that account any how. Now while what you’re running from is no concern of mine, don’t mean I’m easy about it. You need to tell me that what ever it is you’re looking to leave behind, that part of your story that’s got us talking here in this dank little cozy, it aint going to be lurking in the shadows, riding in the wake of my ship, waiting for the opportune moment to slit our throats while we slumber. I’m giddy at the chance to have your steady hands onboard, that’ll be a first for me and I tell you there have been times... never mind.” He thought better of dwelling on the cost of not having a Doctor on call when certain trades went south, as some were in the habit of doing. “Point is, for your skills I’m willing take you and your demons both, so long as everything else wont follow along with you?”

This time the doctor simply nodded. That was a fair question this time. Mosley took a deep breath to compose himself and prepare an answer before raising a single finger. "Very well, Mr. Harkins, I'll address that simply enough. First I'll point out that if I was hiding from elements that wished me a premature cessation of vitality, a two hundred year old hull that likely can barely get out of it's own way isn't exactly the most logical place for me to go to ground," Mosley crisply replied as he raised a second finger, "Second I'll say the Federation is more interested in passively denying me a living more than actually harming me. They're a cliquish lot and while I was pardoned for my sordid past, they do tend to make things like acquiring a medical license to locally practice all but impossible. The same with any research or teaching positions."

He raised a third finger as he continued, his tone more soft as if he was picking his words with great care now, "Finally as for the Farian Planetary Authority, they won't exactly be coming after me. The Farians don't believe in extradition treaties and hardly control the whole of their planet much less being able to project any sort of power elsewhere to nab someone like me." Mosley concluded his lecture before opening the remaining fingers on both of his hands and spreading them in an almost placating gesture, "So while my employment options are limited, short of my going career criminal at any rate, I doubt very much I'll bring too much heat on your distinguished operation Mr. Harkins." He didn't mention the Syndicate, but that was for the best for all concerned parties, especially him.

Barton tilted his head from side to side, the bones in his neck making loud cracks as he did so. There was something about Mosley, something that told Barton to keep a close eye on him, at least in the beginning.

He was extremely well educated, which was always dangerous, and from what Barton could gather, had few other options. Desperation was certainly a second rate form of loyalty and he liked Mosley to be the type who would cross them all as soon as it suited him so.

That could change though, people could become friends, form allegiances, and a good doctor would certainly set them apart from the rabble. There was never a chance he was going to say no, it would be like turning down a winning lotto ticket, but he let the silence drift all the same.

“Distinguished operation, you’re just trying to butter me up. Payment is made after each haul - after costs it’s 20% to the ship, 10% to the kitty. Usually leaves 40 to 30% of the takings to be dived among the hands, which is more generous than most.” Barton meet those black, unsettling eyes. “What-ever oaths you pledged, if you harbor any inclinations toward any of those utterances of humanitarian pieces of crap still, leave it here on the station. This is no mission ship, I’ve not the how nor the means to give aid elsewhere. Your obligations are to my orders, my crew and my ship, in that order. We have an agreement?”

"Humanitarian pieces of crap, what a modest proposal," Mosley quipped before quirking a frown. After costs was always a dangerous phrase, especially when by Harkins' own admission the ship was under-equipped. Especially when his math left roughly a third of the ship's income unaccounted for. The doctor was always a pragmatist but had never encountered such disdain for humanitarianism either. To say nothing of that slight little power trip at the end. He'd have to actively think of the last time heard the word "my" used so many times in a single sentence.

"But very well, Mr. Harkins, I'll accept your quaint deal." Mosley replied with an air of indifference. It would be nice to get back into space again, even if on a pair of crutches. He didn't sense any outright deception from the errant captain, even if he apparently had a wide narcissistic streak. If it came too overbearing or he didn't much care for the distribution of wealth after the vague costs, he'd move on easily enough. "When was the ship leaving?"

“Just inside a fortnight.” Barton decided it best to keep the details as vague as he could for now. Until his doubts about Mosley had either be assuaged or confirmed, he’d be careful to keep his wits about him, and perhaps a finely tuned eye toward his behavior. “You’re welcome to move your kit aboard now if you please, start getting aquatinted with the ship and crew. I’ll take you aboard now if it suits you well enough? Give you a tour?”

"As suits you, Mr. Harkins, it may give me time to take care of a few things of my own. But regardless a tour would be very nice," Mosley curtly replied as he felt into step with the captain. He could sense the captain was holding back. To say nothing of his rampant suspicion. Oddly enough that just made him briefly smile as the two walked in more awkward than companionable silence.

Barton moved beside Mosley, making to walk in the lead. It seemed less abrasive and suspicious than walking behind the man and he wanted to make a show of being perfectly calm about the new Doctor, even if he presently felt anything but. He paused a moment, so he stood shoulder to shoulder with the man. Barton was noticeably taller, but he was so lanky and gaunt, which gave Mosley the more imposing posture of the too.

“One last thing Doctor.” He said a little too quietly. “So long as I’ve no gripes with you, then your safe on my ship and will find yourself under the protection of all who serve aboard. But if I ever find out you’re trying to cross me, there are no words can be said will stop me venting your carcass into space.”

Mosley simply tilted his head for a moment as he regarded Harkins with an almost analytical gaze, letting the silence hang in the air. "Well your candor is admirable, Mr. Harkins, if perhaps ill advised." Mosley softly replied, "I suspect you'll find our thoughts on the matter quite similar and that it possibly cuts both ways. I'm certain we both hope it doesn't come to that."

Barton let a devilish smile coil on his lips. There seemed no guilt in the man and his onyx eyes never twitched an inch as he was threatened with being spaced. If the Doctor had something to hide, or was attempting some act of deluding them all, surely such a prospect would have made him at least a tiny bit nervous. His concerns somewhat assuage, Barton allowed himself to relax, but only slightly. It would take time to convince him this hybrid was not out to sink them all.

“I’m not so sure, a good plank walking does wonders for crew moral, and obedience.” Barton’s tone was the mischievous sort, the kind that implied at a joke, yet carried enough weight to let you know there was more truth to it than one would have liked.
“As for anyone crossing you, don’t fret too much on that score Doctor, when I set my sights on duping a foe, I tend to pick targets a little more alluring than washed-up rich men avoiding petty charges. If my plan was to sell you out, I’d have done it already. In truth, your simply worth more to me on my crew then the few bars of Latinum your head would fetch. Of course, I considered it thoroughly before coming here. If anyone else on the ship crosses you, then their fate will be served just as swiftly and coldly. This way then.” He said, pointing down the direction of a long access corridor lined with piping and tubes, it looked like something from an Aircraft Carrier, or a pre-warp space-station. “Let’s get you to your knew home, via a service duct none the less!”

"I would submit that random plank walkings are among the leading causes of mutiny, but I digress," Mosley said almost whimsically and actually allowing himself a tight-lipped smile, looking amused for the first time. "However, Mr. Harkins, it seems we can both sleep soundly tonight secure in the knowledge that we won't be crossing one another because neither one of us are particularly worth crossing at the moment." Not exactly trust, but perhaps a start. He let that particular implication hang in the air unspoken.

As the two made their way down the cramped corridor, Mosley made it a point to duck a few times to avoid hitting the overhead piping. "I had forgotten how small these old Constitution class ships were." Mosley remarked as he recalled his time as an intern aboard the Republic. The old starship had make remarkable practice for engineering cadets, and would be doctors fixing the minor injuries caused by the infamous exploding consoles of the late 22nd century. "At least we won't be crammed in here like sardines, I take. How little do we have to work with?"

"Honestly, I doubt you'll be impressed at the state of things." Barton offered dryly. The ship was a shambles, pieces of shambles really. "But we'll get a few good jobs under our belts, and she'll be a home soon enough."

Already Barton's mind was cast not so much at was this ship was, but what it could yet be. A refuge, a place of immunity, a cozy little spot away from the UFP and all of their laws and directives. This ship was more than a home, it was freedom.

Mosley didn't say a word in response to that, offering a mental shrug. He wondered if the captain was trying to convince him of that, or himself. Likely both.


::OFF::

Barton Harking
Captain
SS Mary Rose

Jefferson Lee Mosley
Head Doctor
SS Mary Rose