Finding Quentin proves simple.
I follow the sound of a hammer clanging. There he is, laid on the floor on his back, half underneath one of the many unknown machines around the area. I wait for him to finish, only observing as he works, though I can't see any of what he's doing. It sounds like he's having a rough time of it.
When he shimmies out from under the console, he glances up at me. "Couldn't have offered a hand?"
"I don't know what it is you're working on."
"A spectrum analyzer," he grunts, reaching for some tools on the floor. "Really fucking big one. Really fucking finnicky one. What do you want, Pursuer? I'm busy."
"I was hoping to ask you some questions."
"Not now. Go bother Louis. Some of us do our jobs."
"Will you at least tell me what you do here?"
"What's it look like? I fix things. Everything. They break it, I fix it."
"You sound like a useful person to have around."
He sits still for a moment, scratching his head with a wrench. "Y'know, that's awfully kind of you to say. Lord knows I don't get any damn recognition around here."
"I wasn't being kind. Only making an observation."
"Bah. Robots. Coulda fooled me."
"I'll leave you to it, Quentin. Though I do want to ask one more thing of you. If I find anything that requires fixing, would I be able to coerce you into helping me?"
"Coerce? Shit, unless you can fix something for me, I don't have a second to spare, kid."
"Oh? What needs repairs?"
"Wait, seriously?"
"It would assist my directive to have your help. If this is what it takes to get it, then yes. What needs repairs?"
"Well. Uh. It's outside of town," he grumbles, standing up. Putting on a pair of reading glasses and producing a hardware tablet from a nearby desk, he starts poking at its screen. "Just on the edge of the crater basin, there's a monitoring beacon that crapped out a few weeks ago. One of sixteen of our atmospheric pressure readers."
"I assumed it was a pressing issue to your survival."
"I'm the one who handles those. That's why I need someone to do this for me, so I can keep putting the fires out. Getting geared to go out there takes too long, then there's the time I'm away from base, and I'm just an old organic grouch–it's too much of a risk."
"Okay. Fix a beacon. I can do that."
He's sizing me up. "Yeah, you look capable. Just sent you the location. Here, take this electrical tape–you might need to do some rewiring. If you can get that done, I'll help you however I can."
I don't have pockets for the electrical tape. Guess I'm carrying it. "Thank you, Quentin. I'll see to it. I'm still hoping to have a longer conversation, but I see that you're busy, so I'll come back later. Do you know where Louis might be?"
"Yeah, yeah. We'll talk later, yeah. Logistics is over on yonder side of the Station. See that canopy, the tarp? It's just to the left of the front door, going out. If he's actually at his post for once, that's where you'll find him."
"Thanks. Until next time."
"Yup."
As I walk away, I again process. Blunt, to the point, abrasive, but not overly rude. My evaluation is that Quentin will be straightforward once I secure his assistance, and a helpful resource too.
I head over to the logistics area.
In the circular Station, it is a corner of its own, half boxed in by huge metal shipping crates. Some smaller supply cases have been cracked open with their contents spilling out here and there, a messy spread of preserved food and odd ends. There's a raised metal platform under the blue tarp, where I find Louis lounging in a reclining office chair biting into an apple and watching something on his tablet.
He chuckles as I approach. "Ohoho, Danny boy. The pipes were indeed calling. You should've seen that one coming."
"What are you watching?"
He yelps and nearly drops the tablet. "Oh, it's just you! Oh, thank god. If it was her I'd be… I don't even wanna think about what I'd be. Somewhere in the snow. Uh." He sets it aside and hastily stands up, fixing his hair and attempting a winning smile. It is charming, but I cannot be charmed. "So, what's up? What can I do for you, Pursuer?"
"I have some questions I'd like to ask you."
"Sure! Sure! Always–Always happy to comply with the–Yeah, let me get you–Get you a chair." He wheels one over and lets it roll toward me. It slowly bumps into my legs. I don't sit down. He stares at it for a few seconds. "And uh. Yeah. Sure thing. Ask away. I'm an open book. An open book with no warrants, I might add."
The alerts are left right and center. "Calm down, Louis. It's highly unlikely you're the person I'm hunting."
"Gah…" He slumps forward, head in his hands. "I hope so. Second you showed up, I've been thinking there was something I forgot to take care of before I came here. There… aren't any more warrants out for me, are there?"
"I wouldn't know. Are you willing to give me your full legal name, system and planet of origin, and your Federal Human Identity Numerical Designation?"
"Uhhh. No?"
"Then there's nothing I can do for you there."
"And nothing you can do to me either!"
"Correct. Unless you just so happen to be…" I check the data one more time. Female, 172 centimeters. Chestnut hair, green eyes, freckles, white skin. "Have you undergone any major surgeries recently?"
"No?"
"Then you're not who I'm looking for."
"I hope you're right about that."
"Keep going like this and maybe you'll convince me that you are someone I should be hunting."
"No! Nope! I'm done! I will no longer implicate myself. I uh. So, do you like movies?"
"I've already discussed things with Zoya, so I'm hoping you can corroborate what she said."
"Whatever Zoya said, it's the truth. We're here to get some weather data and scram. Pick up proof of Cipher's viability as a tellurium mine, sell the star sector location to some fat cat minelords, then retire in luxury. Nothing illegal about it."
"Except pilfering supplies and materials from abandoned terraforming company property."
"Well… It wasn't me. I–I didn't–" He scoffs. "They did what? I had no idea! Honest. Those scoundrels! If I'd known, I certainly would have reported this felonious behavior immediately."
I point a finger.
He looks behind him at the wrecked hunk of robotic machinery, clearly salvaged. "Uhhh. How did that get there? I'm just holding it for a friend."
Note for the record. This source is unreliable.
Still, he might divulge something in his addled state that the others wouldn't. It occurs to me that I may have just accidentally misled him about my directive. I find that likely to work in my favor, so I decide to let him continue thinking it. But it needs some decoration to really lock it down.
First, a lie. "I have evidence implicating your direct involvement."
"Shit. It was Quentin's idea."
Second, a relief. "I don't intend to hold you responsible."
"You–You don't?"
Third, a coax. "Not if you can be honest with me, Louis. If you hide anything, I can't help you. But if you're willing to talk, and talk without deception, I can make sure your record stays clean."
"Sold. I'm sold. You want to know anything? Everything? I'm your guy. If I can answer it, I will. I'll snitch. I'll snitch so fast. Just please don't rat me out. I've spent enough time in the system to know I need to stay out of it. And I'm trying so hard to be better. Even took this job in the middle of bumfuck nowhere thinking the labor and isolation would be good for me."
"Okay. You have my word. Do I have yours?"
"Yes. You have my word, Pursuer."
By the books. Incredible that humanity's law enforcement divisions so thoroughly codified human psychology and the ways to exploit it. A little lying and pretending to be helpful goes a long way to securing their cooperation.
Now I just need to isolate the fact I manipulated him. "I wouldn't mention this to the others. If they know about our arrangement, they may try to turn on you."
"You kidding? I've seen the way that old crank wields that monkey wrench of his. I have nightmares where he's beating me to death with it. Not a word to anyone. I assure you."
Done. "Then talk to me. This operation of yours, is prospecting its true purpose?"
"Yes," he says simply. "It is."
"You're not lying to me are you?" I'll know if you are."
Another lie from me.
"I'm telling the truth. We're really above board on this one. The only possible illegal activity…" He changes his tune at the stare I'm giving him. "The only very illegal activity we're doing is salvaging the wrecks. But what else are we supposed to do, you know? You could sneeze wrong and blow out the support beams around here. The cold makes everything so damn brittle."
I gesture around us, behind him. "Are the wrecks where you get all these supplies?"
"Some of it. The raw materials for sure. But food and stuff? We have an arrangement with one or two small-time wandering traders in the local cluster. Sometimes they prefer salvage over credits, which is pretty nice. Back to the stone age barter system–in space! They come every half year or so. Earth Standard Time, that is."
"Half a year? You three are isolated here for that long?"
"Yeah. Part of the gig. Can't be too loud about it or other prospectors might crash our party. Quieter, the better. And, well, yeah, we're in the boonies as far as star systems go. This whole sector is a fringe deadzone of the galaxy. Hardly anyone comes out this way. We are very very very far out on the frontier."
"The isolation must have some psychological impacts on you three."
"Yeah, big time. It's like standing on the edge of the Milky Way and knowing there's nobody to reel you back in if you fall off the edge. Like being the only living person in the universe, sometimes. The mind goes through phases, you know? Sometimes it's brilliant and amazing to be so alone. But then you start to think about the bars back home, or the pretty girls and the closeness of another person, or the way it feels to actually have warm feet for once…"
"I can't relate." I lift my needle tipped leg.
"I don't know if you have a sense of humor but that is hilarious."
"I don't. How do you three deal with sharing the space with each other? Are there many conflicts?"
"Quentin and I are generally at odds–We just fundamentally do not mesh as personalities, but it's a mutual respect for Zoya that keeps us from fighting the way we used to. We've settled in. Honestly, sometimes the three of us actively avoid each other. There've been times where none of us traded a single word for like, a month or more. It's just… natural, you know? Everyone gets in their heads sometimes. Especially in a place like this."
"Good to know." I let the silence hang. I pinned him for an obnoxious slacker but he's very eloquent with his words. "Tell me about your criminal record."
"Skeletons, come hither from the closet," he groans. "No use sweetening it. I was a pirate."
"Interesting. Go on."
"Me and some buddies, we had a ship, we had guns, and we wanted what other people had. So we drank ourselves stupid and attacked a merchant vessel one night, robbed them blind and stranded them for dead, and the rush of it all just… clicked. Felt right. Felt like getting even. We had a well-lived run of it too. Took three years for the Federation to corner us. Did my time in Orchid Pen. Got rehabilitated. Learned some honest skills. Now here I am."
"That couldn't have been easy. How long ago was this?"
"We've been here for the better part of five years now."
"It sounds like you traded one high risk position for another."
"Not… Not exactly. I mean sure, in a way, but this is so much less intense. The risk here is like a creeping dread rather than an 'oh shit I'm getting shot at right the fuck now' kinda danger."
"Hm. Sounds relaxing." The upload from Zenith has been completed, so I have the area map as well as the locations of a nearby wreck and the beacon Quentin mentioned. "Tell me one more thing, and then we'll be done for now. What is it you think I'm doing here, Louis?"
"I–I don't know! Spent my whole life avoiding the law, especially its enforcers! Maybe you're making sure nobody's scavving–that is, scavenging–the junk outside! I don't know! Aren't you Pursuers sworn to uphold the law, or whatever? If someone's doing illegal activities, aren't you programmed to shut it down? Make arrests? So on? So forth?"
"Maybe that's the case for most. I don't seem to have any such inclination. My only directive is to enforce the fugitive's execution, nothing else."
"Nothing else," he repeats, staring at me. "So you don't care if we break the law."
"I don't care if you break the law. It's of no consequence to me. In fact, I plan to inspect this wreckage myself and 'commandeer' anything I may need."
When I say that he goes quiet, lost in thought.
"I'm off to pillage and plunder, savvy?"
"You don't–No space pirate says 'savvy'–"
"Avast, me heartie. Look. I already have two peg legs."
"I thought you said you don't have a sense of humor."
"I lied. Just like I lied about having evidence on you."
"Ahhh, ye scallywag! I should've known to never trust a cop…"
"No honor among thieves, is there?" Walking toward the airlock, I say over my shoulder, "I'm setting sail, matey."
"Well, uh, hey! Hey, I know! As a friend–I mean, as a member of me pirate crew, lassie, I can offer ye a–Yeah, I'm not doing the voice. Anyway, while you're out there poking around, you might find something valuable in the wreckage or the bunkers. Tech, parts, or supplies; just about anything you find has some use to us, so I'll trade you. I have plenty–plenty–of extra parts and pieces for Zenith that you could use as another Martial Variant Frame. I'm sure we could work something out. Yeah? Win-win, right?"
"Works for me. Avast."
"Avast!"
I step into the airlock and wait for the door to open.
Things are going well so far, in my book.
It's time to find this Zenith person.