Gone & Missing

[Toaster]

The dockmaster reclined back into his chair, comfortably sipping at a cup of freshly brewed coffee. Enjoying the energizing flavors, he let out a contented sigh and glanced at the screens before him. They showed the usual traffic flowing through Aomori’s docks and mooring fixtures. Transports and freighters hauling goods from the Sigmas to Kusari and back, GMG squadrons returning from their patrols of the surrounding cloud, a few civilian ships settling down for a brief stopover on their journeys to who knew where.

One registry entry, however, caught the dockmaster’s attention as it flashed up on the displays. A ship he had sent on its way just a day earlier and whose pilot he hoped never to deal with again.


* * *


Before the Inspiration had even properly settled down on the hangar’s deck, Beige clambered down the still extending access ladder, dropping to the ground and hurrying towards the dockmaster’s office. His usually good spirits were strained as different ideas of what Olivia had gotten herself into hurled around his mind.

The door to the office slid open before him and he dashed through. The man behind the desk jumped at the sudden intrusion, nearly spilling a cup of hot coffee over his desk and pants.

“You again!” The dockmaster called in surprise.

“Me again,” Beige confirmed and came to a stop at the table, standing above the man. “I need more info.”

The dockmaster hesitated, then put his cup down on the desk and leaned forward, glaring up at Beige.

“About your mercenary friend?”

Beige nodded.

“I’m sorry, mister, but I told you everything.”

The mercenary exhaled exasperatedly and leaned forward in turn, resting his hands on the desktop.

“What you told me was bullshit,” he declared, an angry growl entering his usually jolly tone. “The convoy wasn’t headed for the Hawaii.”

The dockmaster stared at him, confused. Then he glanced down at his screens and began tapping away at them, bringing up a number of manifests and reports.

“It says right here,” he replied, reading from the displays, “that the transport was filled with luxury foods and headed for the Orbital liner in Sigma-19.”

Beige rolled his eyes in irritation.

“I was just there, man. No freelance transport arrived or was scheduled to arrive.”

The dockmaster looked back up at the mercenary and gave an apologetic shrug.

“I’m sorry, but I told you what the manifests told me.”

“Did no one actually check the transport?” Beige asked.

The dockmaster shook his head.

“It was just passing through, linking up with its escorts.”

“So it could’ve been carrying anything anywhere,” Beige realized. This was not good. A falsified manifest meant that it was most likely a smuggling operation, and those usually brought on some sort of trouble for anyone involved.

“I suppose so,” the man at the desk agreed. For a minute or two, there was silence between them, Beige thinking the newly acquired information over, the dockmaster nervously glancing back and forth between the apparently faked reports on his screens and the mercenary before him.

Finally, Beige broke the silence.

“What was the captain’s name?”

“What?” The dockmaster stammered.

“The transport,” Beige repeated. “What was its captain’s name.”

The dockmaster glanced down at the screens once more, scanning them for the information.

“Leon Rosary.”

Beige dropped another handful of credit chits on the table, spun around in a flourish of billowing trenchcoat, and hastily exited the office.

---

Olivia Sable
On hiatus