Shannon Trevor
One Thousand Club
John Haverson leaned back into his seat as he scanned the crowd, looking for a face that matched up with the various dossiers he had perused over the previous weeks. It was early evening but the Dark Star Lounge had a healthy crowd, more than enough for John and his companion to blend in with.
The private booth they were seated at had been chosen specifically for the meet. They had met Belmore’s man outside the bar and followed him to the spot. He had insisted that the booth had been thoroughly swept for bugs and other recording devices. Of course, once the man had left, John let Othic perform his own check. Only then was the former Colonel satisfied the booth was secure.
Conversation between John and the former Marine was at a premium. Othic seemed to be either lost in his own thoughts or anxious to see who, if anyone, turned up. He was the only member of John's team that had no dossier. After meeting John on the Citadel and hearing about the expedition, he had volunteered himself and John had readily accepted. Belmore had not been happy about including someone who had not been vetted by his superiors but there was no argument to be had, John insisted Othic came or he walked. Belmore quickly relented.
Quiet and dutiful, Myn Othic had been a Marine when he and John had first met, assigned to work with the Colonel as part of a covert intelligence squaf. Working closely together in John's last two years of his career, the two had struck up a friendship. Most importantly to John, Othic had been loyal at a time when more than a few colleagues had deserted him. Othic was stout with broad shoulders and muscled arms. His dark blonde hair was showing the first signs of receding at the front. He wore a few days worth of a trimmed beard that didn't quite hide the long scar that ran parallel to his left jawline.
John took a sip of his drink and just about stopped himself from grimacing. He hadn’t caught the name of the beverage and only knew it was an Selenian concoction that tasted vaguely of cinnamon. He’d have preferred a whiskey but the drink was only for appearance purposes, an illusion that they were here for pleasure rather than business.
He took another sip of his drink, masked another grimace and wondered how he had got here. Five months of retirement hadn’t been able to kill the career soldier in him. He still possessed the easy confidence of a man comfortable in a position of power. He held his shoulders high and his posture was always straight. His muscular frame suggested someone used to a life of high-intensity physical activity and the deeply tanned face and arms reflected a lifetime spent under a sun rather than behind an office desk. Hell, he still dressed as if were Alliance. His short sleeved fatigue top and camo pants were military issue, both pressed perfectly and worn tight to his body. His combat boots were polished to a perfect sheen and the stainless steel Rolex clasped to his left wrist glinted with every move of his arm.
After twenty five years of service, John had decided to take a new path. After a month, he knew a life of leisure was not for him, even with the generous retirement allowance a Colonel received. He had been set to take a high paying job with a private military contractor before Belmore had contacted him with stories about big money investors and a trip to Old Earth.
John had laughed Belmore off as a quack but he couldn’t laugh off the large sum of credits soon deposited into his account. Within two months the expedition had its own ship and a respective crew. The invisible investors had been remarkably hands-off. Any communication was solely through Belmore and he seemed content to allow John to make his own recruiting decisions.
And he had. Now it was just a matter of seeing who actually followed through. The former Colonel glanced at his Rolex and waited for the next member of his team to join them.
The private booth they were seated at had been chosen specifically for the meet. They had met Belmore’s man outside the bar and followed him to the spot. He had insisted that the booth had been thoroughly swept for bugs and other recording devices. Of course, once the man had left, John let Othic perform his own check. Only then was the former Colonel satisfied the booth was secure.
Conversation between John and the former Marine was at a premium. Othic seemed to be either lost in his own thoughts or anxious to see who, if anyone, turned up. He was the only member of John's team that had no dossier. After meeting John on the Citadel and hearing about the expedition, he had volunteered himself and John had readily accepted. Belmore had not been happy about including someone who had not been vetted by his superiors but there was no argument to be had, John insisted Othic came or he walked. Belmore quickly relented.
Quiet and dutiful, Myn Othic had been a Marine when he and John had first met, assigned to work with the Colonel as part of a covert intelligence squaf. Working closely together in John's last two years of his career, the two had struck up a friendship. Most importantly to John, Othic had been loyal at a time when more than a few colleagues had deserted him. Othic was stout with broad shoulders and muscled arms. His dark blonde hair was showing the first signs of receding at the front. He wore a few days worth of a trimmed beard that didn't quite hide the long scar that ran parallel to his left jawline.
John took a sip of his drink and just about stopped himself from grimacing. He hadn’t caught the name of the beverage and only knew it was an Selenian concoction that tasted vaguely of cinnamon. He’d have preferred a whiskey but the drink was only for appearance purposes, an illusion that they were here for pleasure rather than business.
He took another sip of his drink, masked another grimace and wondered how he had got here. Five months of retirement hadn’t been able to kill the career soldier in him. He still possessed the easy confidence of a man comfortable in a position of power. He held his shoulders high and his posture was always straight. His muscular frame suggested someone used to a life of high-intensity physical activity and the deeply tanned face and arms reflected a lifetime spent under a sun rather than behind an office desk. Hell, he still dressed as if were Alliance. His short sleeved fatigue top and camo pants were military issue, both pressed perfectly and worn tight to his body. His combat boots were polished to a perfect sheen and the stainless steel Rolex clasped to his left wrist glinted with every move of his arm.
After twenty five years of service, John had decided to take a new path. After a month, he knew a life of leisure was not for him, even with the generous retirement allowance a Colonel received. He had been set to take a high paying job with a private military contractor before Belmore had contacted him with stories about big money investors and a trip to Old Earth.
John had laughed Belmore off as a quack but he couldn’t laugh off the large sum of credits soon deposited into his account. Within two months the expedition had its own ship and a respective crew. The invisible investors had been remarkably hands-off. Any communication was solely through Belmore and he seemed content to allow John to make his own recruiting decisions.
And he had. Now it was just a matter of seeing who actually followed through. The former Colonel glanced at his Rolex and waited for the next member of his team to join them.
