***
Timo Honold turned out to be far easier to pick out of a crowd. Still somewhat nonplussed by her encounter with Solinas, Jen caught up with the former Terran commando in one of the merc bars at the Lowmarket end of the strip. He was propping up the bar, studying his liquor with an attentiveness that spoke eloquently of a desire not to be disturbed, and as a result there was a small island of clear space around him. Taking the seat next to him, Jen signalled the barkeep and gestured to his glass. “I’ll have what he’s having, and he’ll have the same again,” she ordered.
Honold gave her a sidelong glance, his expression brightening as he took in her appearance. “You must be desperate,” he remarked, draining his glass.
“How d’you figure?”
“Nice-looking girl like you buying a loser like me a drink? Either you’re desperate or you’re Mother fuckin’ Teresa. And you don’t look too much like a nun.”
Jen snorted a laugh. “Sorry to disappoint you Honold, but I’m neither.” She held out a hand. “Jennifer Bronwen.”
“Oh, right.” Honold sat up a little. “I wasn’t expecting you till later. Pleased to meet you.”
“You too.”
The bartender set two glasses of rust-coloured liquor down in front of them, and the mercenary lifted his in a little salute as Jen thumbed the payment sensor. “To honour,” he offered cryptically.
Jen chuckled as she raised her own drink. Another test, but this one she knew the answer to. “To getting honour, and staying honour.”
Honold laughed in delight, clapping her on the back with his free hand. “Shit, you’re ex-forces too?”
“Not yours, leatherneck, sorry. Marauder Marines, but that one goes way back.”
“Yeah, before you lot took to your thieving pirate ways,” Honold grinned. “The old ones are the best, though. Classic.” He chugged half his drink. “So, this job’s back home?”
“Yep. Is that gonna be a problem for you?”
“Hell, no. I wouldn’t be here if it were.” He shrugged. “I can’t afford to be that delicate.”
“I hear that.” Jen took a swallow of her own drink and coughed, spitting the acrid liquid back into the glass. Honold pounded her on the back, laughing. “What… the fuck… are we drinking?” Jen wheezed as she tried to catch her breath.
“It’s Nomian rum.” Honold took another slug without so much as a wince. “Sort of, anyway,” he amended, jerking his head toward the back of the bar. “There’s a guy that runs a moonshine operation round the back, keeps this place stocked up with generic liquor.”
Jen coughed, picked up the glass and took a determined swallow, better prepared for the burn at the second attempt. It didn’t taste any better. “That looks nothing like Nomian rum, and tastes nothing like Nomian Rum. More like piss and vinegar.”
Honold shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never tried the real stuff. This job goes well, maybe I’ll treat myself to a bottle.”
“This job goes well, I’ll buy you one,” Jen offered, pushing her glass away. “Meantime, life’s too short to drink that shit.”
Honold took her abandoned glass and tipped the remains into his own drink. “Waste not, want not. And I accept that generous offer, Skipper, thanks.”
“So, you’re on board?” Jen arched an eyebrow at him. “Nothing else you need to know?”
Honold shook his head. “I got your measure, I think, and I always was a sucker for a pretty girl. You seem to have your shit together, and the less I know, the healthier for me in the long run. Least, that’s how it usually works out.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “How’s my interview technique holding up?”
“Pretty well,” Jen allowed. The merc was easy-going, and appeared to be level-headed and practical, just as his dossier had said. “Shan’Chael says you’re dependable, which is solid credit for me, and I hear the same thing on the vine, so I’m happy with you if you’re happy with me.”
“You got it. Looking forward to working with you, Skipper. Let me know when and where, and I’ll be there.”