Foy & Harper
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Location: Prometheus (Newhope Docks)
The order came from Anisa; as such was as good as law. Harper officially signed on with her crew a very short time previously, and he was ever the dutiful officer. Rather, he used to be, once upon a time. Falling back into it wasn't a particularly difficult transition, and in fact gave a bit of comfort.
"Right away, ma'am." he responded in a neutral tone, moving from his position at the cargo bay door. This was his crew now. Working in this manner would give him a fair amount of time to brood in his own, private quarters, to plan his plans and get his affairs in order.
Even if it
did mean toting Foy's bags.
Meanwhile, Foy and Dorothy had just arrived. The Farradayan aristocrat smiled a polite but hollow smile. It was not the sudden joy at coming to a new home (he had a few of those already far from this place), but the words of Captain Crowe. It was highly presumptuous of her to assume that he was going to just
fall in line and accept some paltry position on board what appeared to be a barely funded bulk transport vessel. The only upside to the arrangement at the moment was that he had a place to store his belongings until he could trade up for more fitting accommodations. He recalled Anisa saying something about staying on Newhope for the next couple of days, which should give him ample time to associate with his dear, childhood friend Jahosafat for an evening of frivolity, then take his leave.
"Indubitably, madame!" answered Foy with some enthusiasm, sauntering up the loading ramp,
"Though I must confess a working unfamiliarity with this particular class of spacecraft, you understand." Harper felt it would be best to keep Foy's maddeningly dapper mannerisms from further irritating Anisa. There was no small amount of tension already among the crew as it stood. He decided to nip this in the bud. He stepped in front of the slim gentleman and directly intoned,
"I am familiar, Mr. Coiffeur. Just follow me." With that, he began heading back down to the storage dock, or very near to it where the Farradayan had deposited the last of his belongings, along with the present grav dolly. The latter item he activated, turning it around to load Foy's cases into the Prometheus. Harper noted the disheveled appearance of the man, ripped shirt and stained coat (though remarkably shiny shoes), even went so far as to give him a visual once-over, but said nothing. That was his business, and it probably galled him to no end.
Shaking his head, Foy did as instructed and fell into step behind the enigmatic pilot. His smile remained, taking on a more sarcastic bent.
"Quite. You remain ever the quandary, Lieutenant Harper." he retorted, straightening himself and walking with as much dignity as he could muster.
"Though it would be improper to call you "Lieutenant", now wouldn't it? I mean to say, you haven't actually resigned your commission, now have you? Yet you obviously have no intention of returning to service." Harper flashed a dangerous look back to the moustached gentleman, to see him shaking his head dismissively.
"Ah, let not the perils of anxiety disturb your supper later on, old boy. You've no impending dread from this dashingly handsome source. I simply find myself awash with curiosity about a man with position, rank; an Officer, given the affirmative to safely vacate, even be bought off (if such vulgar concepts as Money pique your interests). And yet here you are, cheerfully taking on the role of bush pilot to a crew that already has someone to steer their boat for them. Curious indeed..." The pilot presently known as Harper gave serious consideration to shooting the man as soon as they got behind closed doors.
As it turned out, there was no elevator, cargo or otherwise, to handle large cases of gear and personal effects. This meant that they could not load everything up and make it at a single trip. It also meant that the grav dolly would have to negotiate stairs. They were wide and plentiful, the stairways, and even though it was an inconvenience it was just a mild one. It took a few minutes longer than expected, especially with Foy insisting upon handling his Earth-That-Was replica barber's chair personally, but they got everything where it needed to go in relatively short order. With the exception of his wardrobe, Foy didn't bother cracking open or unpacking anything, resolute as he was that he would find better accommodations for himself later.
Foy wasted no time cleaning up and changing into fresh clothing. He kept the Oxfords that he procured that day, though they were sprayed out with something disinfecting prior to putting them back onto his feet. The soiled and torn clothing quickly found their way into a small washer in the Lounge. He could get the shirt repaired or replaced later on, but he refused to present a respectable tailor with dirty attire. He had a few minutes to wait as his clothes were processed by compact machines that he didn't fully trust, and so leaned against the counter in the kitchen area, honing his personal razor to a level of sharpness generally only described in neo-samurai publications. His six-guns, hat, and coat had found their way back in his quarters. After all, he was indoors, and a gentleman only packed heat if going out and about, if then.
The stropping ceased as soon as he caught sight of the pilot, Harper, again, which prompted him to remember something important.
"I say, Mr. Harper; a word please, if you would? Harper had almost decided to exit the Lounge as soon as he saw Foy, but thought better of it. Foy
wanted something from him. This might be good. Harper said nothing, but stopped, turning to face him.
"Capital, sir! I have certain recollections of the Captain mentioning that, if a communicative fellow such as myself felt the necessity to engage in a ranged conversation, we were to do so through you. What makes you so irreplaceable, and why can I not simply issue a message along with my room's cortex terminal?" Harper sighed, and responded flatly.
"I can remove traces of your entry point and ongoing footprints in the Cortex in advance if you know where you're going and in real time if you don't. We're supposed to be keeping zero profile in case they're watching the Cortex." Foy smiled genuinely.
My my, but you are full of surprises for a turncoat pilot, now aren't you? No matter. I must discuss the family business in Farraday; arrangements, securing funds, and so forth. I hesitate to call upon live communications as a simple burst message is sufficient. I even have it prepared." "Yeah. This way." said Harper, beckoning Foy to himself and exiting the room.
The unlikely pair found themselves in Foy's quarters after retrieving some equipment from Harper's bunk. Standard datajack cords spanned the short distance from the terminal to Harper's, which was in turn attached to a Black Box terminal.
"Ok, Mr. Coiffeur... I'm in now. The entry point is obscured, and I have access to your comm service." He scanned the terminal's screen, checking numbers with a surprised look on his face.
"Ah, Foy? That ident you wanted me to contact has left you a message already. Very recently." "Hesitate not, Pilot. Let us hear what the old man has to say." "This could be personal." reminded Harper, not really wanting to know anything about the man right then.
"That, my good sir, is a chance that warrants pursuit. Why, possibilities might place us at going into unfamiliar territory in the Cortex, and who shall pull our collective bacons from the fire if you prove too far starboard to cover our tracks, hmm? Besides, if something amiss or important is gleaned from said communication, I shall simply bribe you. Wouldn't that be lovely?" Harper sighed again. He really didn't want to be there just then. Nonetheless, it was his responsibility until they hit open Black. Probably even then.
"Fine. Turn on your terminal, I'll bring it up." They were greeted by the image of an obvious representative of Farradayan Business Aristocracy:
Unquestionably Meritorious Greetings and Salutations, Mr. Coiffeur! I am so dearly hoping that this finds you in good spirits, or at all really in the current political and socioeconomic climes we find ourselves mired within. I've not the barest mention as to how this may have occurred, but there are concerns of pressure from Londinium. Our receivers in the Core have been leaned upon by the Powers That Be concerning reasons unknown to us, and we wish to maintain such plausible deniability. Moreover, questions most furtive have been placed surreptitiously concerning any operations in certain sectors, some of which you have been contracted for employment within. We do not believe that anything is adamantly established as of yet, and endeavor to maintain this state of ignorance until such time as unwanted eyes are elsewhere.
The bottom line, dear boy, is that your family and the Board have initiated certain business protocols to ensure continued financial success and for your protection. You have previously been under said protocols and, I assume, understand the full breadth of what it entails. The standard Per Diem has been transferred into your personal accounts, plus the expected balance from your last contract; use it wisely as deposited funds cannot be repeated with assured regularity. Otherwise, you are restricted from family finances.
The best we can do is as follows: Monies, personals, and equipment must be shipped as hard stock. Designate a receiving site. Shipping does take time, but it shall be couriered to the postmaster as possible to do so. Further, you can still purchase Moustachery supplies wherever they are sold at total cost discount. Continue the family's ancient profession with this advantage. Take contracts as they arise. Stay the course, dearest sir! This shall all go away the instant we find out who we must pay off, or in the event that the "heat", as it were, abates.
We shall be in touch.
The screen remained blank for several seconds, during which time Foy cleared his throat and readjusted his very fine tie. The expression on his face said enough to Harper, even if he did not fully comprehend the meaning of the Coiffeur business protocols, a sentiment echoed by Foy himself as he stated with quieter voice,
"I am adrift in the winds, Mr. Harper." Quickly, he cleared his throat and continued in bolder tone,
"I would have preferred the opportunity to reacquire my full arsenal, set aside a portion of money for proper expenses, but this... I had hoped to get my affairs in order first. Damn and bebother that Board of Directors! ...I suppose I haven't need to send my message after all." Harper said nothing, eyeing the man over in the quiet of his private quarters.
"It cannot be helped now. I am removed from the bulk of my fortune, yes; however it is always thusly as occasion calls me into the 'Verse for matters clandestine. I am a gentleman of training and experience, and shall have to ...adjust... to circumstances on the interim." He had been in worse situations, without doubt. Foy still possessed more advantages than most in similar predicament. But it did mean one thing, and it was a big one.
"I shall have to accept Captain Crowe's offer... Dear heavens, I'm part of a Dragonfly crew." Meanwhile, Harper was packing up his electronics. He still said nothing, but his face slowly formed into an unsettling grin.
A short time later, after taking a moment to let his situation sink in, Foy found himself looking for Anisa. Seeing as the Captain's quarters and the Bridge were right next to each other, it seemed the logical place to start. He checked the bridge first, followed by her private rooms. An inquisitive look here, a quiet knock there. When at last he located the grim, authoritative woman, he approached her with respectful and genteel charm.
"Madame? Oh sorry, courtesy dictates that a Lady of your position in this fine and worthy vessel be referred to by the rightful title of Captain, does it not? My apologies. Captain Crowe, I have come to call upon you concerning a matter of business, if you would indulge me. Anisa turned around and eyed Foy for a moment. Could this man say anything in under five words? She seriously doubted it. Crossing her arms she tapped the tip of her boot a few times.
"Do I have a choice?" she said in a bit of a huff. She knew she did, she could send him straight back out of her room and tell him she would speak to him later but then that would mean starting the hello's all over again and even though she was not old, she would probably die of age before he finished. In her mind she might as well get it over with.
"What is it?" Foy cleared his throat and clasped is hands in front of himself.
"To begin, I wish to extend my fondest appreciation for the preferential room assignment, plus the additional space to continue my more mundane but artistic work. Those would have been fixed points in contract negotiation, you see." "Yeah, I don't negotiate. Not with crew I don't know. Maybe one day if you earn your place," she said in a curt voice. She had given him a place to take care of his business but it wasn't out of generosity. It was better to assign him a place than to have him set up somewhere in the way.
He was on a roll that day, letting the excess verbage flow from him.
In truth, I have come to accept your offer. I recently find a certain willingness to travel the Black in a Bulk Transport Vessel, doing clandestine work under the command of a firm but fair lady of experience. Points established, I would petition another request? "What the gorham damn is it?" Foy nodded toward the Cargo area,
"Captain Quinn was a man of considerable faults. One of them was not taste in small arms. I am unable to dip into my private armory, and so, with the most grandiose of humble intonations, request permission to plunder through his sundries. He has a sniper rifle; charming piece of vintage craftsmanship that is compatible with modern systems called a "91/30", that would round out my usefulness to the crew, and a few incidentals for my own amusement." Anisa quirked a brow. She had gone through the items from the crew of the Retribution and taken what she needed already. She really hadn't had much of an interest in Quinns shit other than his personal stuff in case there was something she might be able to use later. As far as his weapons went she had just planned to toss them into the general storage in case they needed them later. Thinking for a moment she made a decision.
"Go for it, no use to me." was all she said before turning on her heels and going back to stowing her gear and setting up her room. If it got him out of her room and to where she didn't have to hear his ramblings, that was perfectly fine.
Foy moved his hand as if to tip the hat he was not wearing at the moment, and backed out of Anisa's immediate area.
"Heartfelt gratitude, my Captain." The sound of new Oxfords tapping along the ship's flooring could be heard retreating out and down to Cargo.
Locating and claiming the weapon took all of a minute, and most of that time was simply walking over to it. He slung the classic, powerful rifle over his shoulder, and procured any ammunition that was present from among The Late Captain Quinn's belongings. One item
did give him pause that had zero connection to weapons whatsoever; Quinn owned an earpiece communication device. From the looks of it, the item was not an Alliance issued thing. This was personal. And now, it was his. He did very clearly mention that he was also going to get a few incidentals for his own amusement. And a personal comm device would be very amusing indeed.
"Excellent!" he said aloud, alone in Cargo.
"Or at least tolerable. Perhaps I'll do the good Captain a token of goodwill and organize the remaining firearms into a moderately respectable armory, but for now... I know a certain Gentleman from Farraday that needs to set up his new Foy-er! Huzzah!" A little unnecessarily dramatic, but it did serve to outline his plans for the next hours: Getting his little barbershop into place and opening for business.
Harper had returned to his quarters for the purpose of replacing his electronics. It was a small matter, but he had to suppress a touch of mirth from his face as he exited Foy's room. What he had just witnessed appeared to put the arrogant dandy on similar footing with himself. Not totally, granted. The man had a support network with money and influence, but in that briefest of moments they were both equal in their isolation and standing. It was glorious.
A short few steps away from his room found him on the Bridge, where he quietly checked the status of all exterior portals, including the shuttle hatch and cargo. Just as Anisa had ordered, everything looked locked down. Short of a Port Authority Override (which he could probably hardwire against if they were desperate), those doors were indeed locked down.
He had noticed a certain smell wafting through the ship, cutting through background scents of thermosetting polymers and cut machine parts common to new vessels or those recently worked on. To him, it was like coming home. But the odor that threatened to overpower this was interesting enough to pique his attention. It was, in a word,
food. Harper had considered walking around the ship, taking a head count and seeing if anyone else needed to send or check for messages. Considering the siren's song of edibles, it was a reasonable enough assumption that others would be found in the Lounge/Galley area soon enough. Harper made his way aft, taking in more of the admirable vessel on his way.
When Harper reached the Galley, the source of the enamoring smell, he noticed the man preparing it. He had not had the opportunity for an exploratory conversation with Atticus as of yet. He was part of the crew, now. It stood to reason that they have some sort of rapport. Judging by the Preacher's highly styled facial hair, he assumed that the an already had some sort of rapport with Foy.
Neutrally, Harper spoke up,
"Do you need some help, Shepherd?" Atticus looked up to Harper as he heard him speak and shrugged.
"Not really much to do since it is just a snack but hey, idle hands are the devil's workshop," he chuckled before pointing over to a small stack of protein sandwich's. They had been heated and toasted, nothing bit. A slight burn to a few of them let others know that the kitchen was not the Preachers forte.
"Can set those out as well as the fruit I managed to scrounge up. Guess you could use the voice of God and let people know there are edibles," he added as he pointed over to one of the coms for the ship.
Harper looked quizzically at the Preacher, for a moment unsure what he meant by "Voice of God" and wondering exactly what kind of man he was accepting food from. Then his eyes followed the line of his finger to the ship's PA wall unit. He gave a nod of understanding and stepped over to it, then thumbed on the control general announcement.
"Attention crew, this is Harper speaking. Light refreshments are available in the Galley, courtesy of Shepherd Pearson. Repeat, light refreshments are available in the Galley, courtesy of Shepherd Pearson. That is all." His background with the Fleet was apparent in that moment, but the message got passed along readily enough.
It was at that moment that he had a change of heart concerning waiting around for the rest of the crew. If they needed him to get on the Cortex anonymously, they had an open means of communication around the ship to page him. Not to deny himself any minor luxury, Harper grabbed a toasted protein sandwich from the stack, palmed a piece of fruit, and waved curtly at Atticus while headed toward the aft exit of the Lounge.
Through that aperture and down a short corridor lay the engine room, a place he had been meaning to inspect personally. Taking the ship out into the Black for a little bit and gunning the engines was a good start, as he did earlier that day, but the Engineer in him wanted to give Prometheus's beating heart a thorough look-over. They had a few hours left to go before the rest of the crew departed; he had overheard talk of a place in town where they could blow off some steam. He was never personally asked along and he wasn't sure whether he wanted to go someplace so public. Harper decided that he'd make a decision closer to time. For right now, the man was content to spend the next couple of hours inspecting the hardware that kept the new ship aloft.
