Yaram winced as the whisky passed down his throat.

  At least it was what this place had called ‘whisky’. Yaram had found that naming standards for alcohol across the galaxy were inconsistent, what this place had called a whisky he’d had a few light years away as a scotch, then another as a brandy. This cramped and busy bar his employer had chosen was at the end of a long line of misinterpreted whispers about how certain words should taste. But when it came down to it, it was drink, and it was alright, so he gave it a pass.

  He gave the man across from him a hard stare, not for any reason but for show, really. He found he got more work when he hammed up the ‘gruff experienced bounty hunter’ look. It wasn’t hard, but it required a little attention.

  “So, how much you payin’?” He asked, his accent lingering on the vowels.

  Across from him, the pirate smiled. He was wearing a hood, which would’ve given him some anonymity as a buyer, but the mismatched armour plating under his cloak, the gun slung over his back that looked far too big to be practical, and the almost eye-watering smell, gave his profession away from a mile off.

  “50k, Standard. Double if she lives.” His newest business partner replied. He spoke through a battered vocal unit, contrasting Yaram’s thick accent with a distorted lack of one.

  Yaram tilted his head, not purposefully, but he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t interested after hearing that kind of a fee.

  “Standard? You must really want this bitch dead… Why choose only me then?” He chose his words carefully; pirates usually appreciated a more aggressive approach to things, words included.

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  “We haven’t, this is an open contract. You, are being offered d-d-d-double.” The pirate clarified; his augmented voice stuttered the ‘d’ for a few seconds. The unit implanted in his neck was an old model, obviously it had never been repaired. Yaram doubted he even knew how

  “Why?” He asked bluntly.

  “The open contract is a n-net, we cast it wide but it’s… not precise. You, my friend, are a spear. A-A-A-Accurate, efficient, and if you take good care of it, a tool you can use again.”

  Remarkably well said, considering where he came from.

  Yaram couldn’t help but respect the way pirates did things; they were completely ruthless, comfortably numerous, and surprisingly cunning. They had their shortcomings; hubris, infighting, a lack of intelligence in areas that didn’t involve certain levels of needless violence, but when it came to that violence there was rarely a group that rivalled them.

  However, alarms had started ringing in his head already. Pirates didn’t usually waste money on outsourcing murder and kidnapping, they actually quite liked doing it themselves, so spending this much on what was just an escaped slave felt mighty off. 50,000 Standard was more than Yaram made in half a decade, not even considering the price for capturing her alive. Plus, their tactic of ‘casting a net’ was far more expensive than the tactics they usually used, again fairly out of character for them.

  He should take the job. A simple bag and drop contract that, alongside the rest of his wealth, would set him up for life? He’d be an idiot not to take it. But something was making him hesitate. A gut feeling, the one that had been cultivated over decades working as he did, a feeling that had gotten him out of as many shitshows as it had gotten him into them. But a hundred grand in Standard… He would have to try to spend all of that before he kicked it.

  He stood up, grabbing his glass casually. He poured the rest of it into the pirate’s drink, resulting in a blackened toothy grin from the man in the process. He didn’t look back as he made for the door.

  Fuck a gut feeling, this will be easy.