“That fuel reg system still givin you grief?” Hax grits her teeth. Elbow deep in the ‘Folly’s guts and now she has Darra to deal with. Seems like every time she clips in to the Station needing repairs he’s here. She rips a section of worn tubing from it’s clips, plastic so brittle it crumbles in her gloved hands, drops of gunked coolant falling on her upturned face, cold rill on her brow running into her hairline instead of her eye, thank goodness for small favors.
“She’ll get me where I need to be-“
“I got a XT-6,” says Darra, “”Should be back compatible if I’m not mistaken-“
“And what would this lovely bit of equipment cost me?”
“No cost at all,” says Darra, “A gesture of goodwill between two friends.” Fucking Darra. He seems to turn up when things are going wrong, offering a friendly face to talk to while wheedling drinks or creds or consumables. Saw through his bullshit years ago, except some part of Hax always forgives him, at least a little. Enough to shove herself from under the ‘Folly’s exposed workings, the dolly’s wheels squealing over the deck plating, enough to give him the benefit of eye contact.
“There’s a trick,”
“No tricks,” says Darra, and places a greasy parcel in her hands, “Heard you were havin some difficulties and just happened to have to parts on hand. You’d do the same for me.” That little scruffy smirk crawls it’s way up his face, but doesn’t touch his eyes at all.
“I appreciate it, Darr. Let’s see if it’s actually back compatible. Hold the light. This is gonna take two hands.” And suddenly it’s like old times, him holding the light and giving unsolicited advice while she ignores it, a familiar groove they once ran in, junior-most crew on the Eidolon given the shit jobs, but that was the price, wasn’t it? Cargo swing from Station to Luna, wild nights in Imbrium’s entertainment district, fixing whatever is going wrong and listening to Darra yack, only this time he is quiet. Darra is never quiet.
Hax unfolds the greasy paper from around the pre-compressor. Unicorn, the message reads. Hax closes her eyes. Unicorn. A term from the old days whispered behind hands, every rock hopper’s dream.
“Prime the autoseal and hand it to me.” Hax dips her finger in the puddled coolant and writes 1650 LST, make it look good. She takes the autoseal, and pushes the bit of greasy paper into his waiting hand. “Throw that away for me, would you?”
“Sure thing,” says Darra, “Got somewhere else I need to be soon. Fly true, yeah?”
“Always.”