5. Terrorist

The egg-shaped craft stilled, the shonfra’s eyes meeting Hank’s squarely. Hank tensed, one hand sliding down to the holstered grapplegun at his hip. If the shonfra turned violent, he didn’t trust Jinn to protect him.

“Terrorist?” Remora scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Montgomery, please forgive my companion’s lack of manners. What an unconscionable accusation. McCoy, do apologize!”

The shonfra ignored Remora, instead speaking directly to Hank, tiny ears pinned against his head. His ship translated the high-pitched chitter. “I assure you, I am no longer affiliated with the Swampers. If I were, do you honestly think I would be in this hellhole looking for work?”

If he was willing to call them “Swampers” rather than insisting on calling them “Freedom Fighters” or whatever half-brained politically correct title they were using these days, he might be telling the truth. Still, he didn’t deny that he used to be a Swamper, and Swampers weren’t exactly known for their fair and honest dealings.

Hank shook his head. “I need a pilot I can trust, someone I can count on.” He turned a pointed gaze to Jinn. “Unless I can be certain that every member of my crew will follow orders and not abandon us to fulfill personal obligations, I can’t guarantee the success of any mission my crew embarks on.”

Jinn said nothing, though his eyes narrowed slightly. Remora gave Hank an annoyed look, but he ignored her. Bringing Jinn along had been her idea, not his. He saw no reason to make the Shinra’ere comfortable.

The shonfra’s craft landed on the counter. Montgomery bounded from the pilot’s chair, chattering. Behind him, his ship continued translation.

Primarily rodent-like in shape, the shonfra balanced on muscled hind legs, thickly webbed toes splaying with each hopping waddle-step. His four stubby front arms waved expressively as he spoke. His froggish skin was covered in a short pale blue fur. Bright red stripes ran from his eyes to his toes.

The most startling thing about Montgomery was the thick ridge of scars trailing down his back. Hank could see the contacts where his forewings and hindwings should be, but instead of the vividly-colored insectoid wings that should be there, Montgomery had only twisted stumps.

That explained the shonfra’s bizarre craft, then. Without his wings, Montgomery couldn’t fly. It also lent credibility to his assertion that he wasn’t a Swamper any more. A wingless shonfra was a liability.

“If I sign to a ship, I can assure you that my loyalty is absolute.”

Hank scoffed. The word of a Swamper? “No offense intended, Montgomery, but your people are better known for violence and betrayal than honor. I’d be a fool to trust my ship to you. I sympathize with the shonfra’s plight, but sabotaging civilian airships and blowing up colonies is not the way to free your people.” Hank shook his head, voice hard. “I had friends at Remus Seven.”

Startled, Remora spoke without thinking. “Remus Seven? I was told that was a thundranium mining explosion!”

Montgomery gave a mournful chitter. “I am ashamed of what my people have become. I am not the shonfra I was when I joined the Swampers.”

“But,” Montgomery said, straightening and waving all four forelegs at Hank, tail slapping the countertop for emphasis, “I am the best pilot you’re going to find, and a skilled cogsmith, besides.”

Hank pursed his lips, thinking. If Montgomery were telling the truth about being done with the Swampers, he could be a valuable asset. “Have you ever flown an HH?”

Montgomery cocked his head to the side, almond eyes widening. “You have an HH? A full ship, nest and Hawks all?”

Hank nodded.

“Impressive,” replied Montgomery, tail curling. “I am familiar with the nest and have flown both Hawk models. I prefer the maneuverability of the Sparhawk to the heavier Thrusthawks.”

Hank lifted an eyebrow. The shonfra sounded like he knew what he was talking about. “How do you reach the controls?” Hank asked.

Montgomery snorted, the sound more like a sneeze than a scoff. “You take me for an amateur? My pod plugs into a standard wheel configuration. I can manipulate the entire ship from the cabin seat in the craft without ever needing to touch the human-sized controls. In the event that the interface is incompatible with my pod, I have a cogwork suit I can use.”

Remora choked. Eyes gleaming, she leaned forward. “You have a cogwork suit?”

“A modified mining suit,” the shonfra said, preening.

“Where did you get one? I asked for one for my birthday last year, but I got a bracelet instead.” Hank suppressed a snort of disbelief at her glumness. That bracelet had probably been worth more than his ship.

“I got it from—” Montgomery paused, forearms nervously brushing across his whiskers. “Does it matter?”

Hank reached up and rubbed his chin, days-old stubble rough against his fingertips. “Not to me, it doesn’t. Six months. That’s how long the contract is for. No bombings, no rescue crusades, no changes of heart, no sabotage, no harboring fugitives or Swampers.” Hank paused. “Unless I ask you to, of course.”

Montgomery laughed, the bright chitters echoed by a flat mechanical “Ha ha ha,” from the ship. “We haven’t discussed the terms of my payment.”

“One hundred gold doubloons. Flat payment, at the end of the contract.”

Serena scoffed, “And just where did you get that kind of money? You still owe me ten doubloons from two years ago!”

“I’m missing the part where that’s any of your business, Serena.”

Serena stilled as Hank’s gaze met hers. He would not so easily forget that she had drugged him and attempted to turn him in for bounty money.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Montgomery. “It’s not money I want.”

All eyes in the room turned to the little shonfra. “Our people can never be free while our queens remain in human hands. You free a queen for me and I will fly your ship and follow your commands for the entirety of my contract. I swear it on the wings of my brothers.”