"You're out of margarita mix," said Max Vasser.
Thirty seconds later, West and Max were crowded around the library computer terminal in the Rocinanté's small living cabin, located in the nose of the ship immediately aft of the control cabin. The actinic blue glare from the computer bathed their intent faces and half the small room in a spectral glow. West's long-time companion, a cantankerous tribble named Gromit, skwunched his way across the top of the terminal looking for crumbs of food, ignored for the moment by the two humans.
Max was at the computer's controls. She flipped through the New Canada System job ads looking for anything that even remotely seemed like something the *Rocinanté* could do, but wasn't having much luck, and as the minutes ticked on, was becoming increasingly anxious.
West saw another stern lecture coming his way, so he leaned back on the Queen-sized bed on which he was sitting and just waited for it.
Finally, Max sat back from the terminal and threw up her hands. "There's nothing to do in this backwater system!"
"Like I tried to tell you," said West.
"Great Bird of the Galaxy, why did I ever move here?"
"Because this is where Starfleet assigned you as part of Banshee Squadron," said West matter-of-factly. "Me, on the other hand--" he dramatically folding his hands behind his head and smiled "--I like the peace and quiet."
Max scowled. "You would." She returned to the terminal, determined to find something for the Rocinanté to do, some income to support their floundering enterprise. Glowing patterns from the screen played across her face in a rapid succession of light and dark as the pages flashed by.
"Hey, what about this?"
West craned his neck to see what was on the screen. "Romulan Ale is illegal, sweetheart."
"Didn't think a little technicality like that would bother you. Hmm... What about this one?"
"That's on the other side of the Briar Patch."
"Okay, what about this? A bio-shipment of glommers to Polon II."
Gromit emitted an indignant squawk.
"I don't think that would be in our best interest."
Max flipped past a dozen more pages. She came to a new section. The dark gleam in her eyes suddenly burned hotter. "This is interesting..."
West levered himself up on an elbow and peered around Max at what was on the screen.
"No. Absolutely not."
"Why not?" asked Max.
"No bounties," replied West. "I am not a bounty hunter," he declared resolutely.
"We need the money."
"Not that badly."
Max swiveled her chair away from the computer terminal to face the bed. She folded her arms across her chest and said, "You sure about that?" To her eye, West's customary self-assurance was on the verge of wavering, so she decided to press the advantage while she had the chance. She pointed to one particular entry on the display. "Take a look at this one. It's an easy mark, there's plenty of data on the guy, and there's a huge bounty offered. The guy calls himself the Snark! How tough can he be? Ten-thousand Federation credits for one afternoon's work, and we'll be ridding the sector of one more criminal."
West sniffed in distaste. "If his bounty is 10,000 credits, he's probably tougher than he sounds," he said, but leaned forward to read the details of the contract anyway. His face grew ever more displeased as his eyes traveled down the page. "You should forget about this one," he said.
"Why?"
"Just trust me."
Max wasn't buying it. "You're gonna have to be a little more forthcoming, West."
"I've heard of the Snark. He's no pushover," he said.
"Neither am I," replied Max.
"No... You're not..." West paused thoughtfully a moment. He saw that Max wasn't bending so he tried a different approach. "Look, Max, I've gotten to know you well enough to know that you've got a deep-seated sense of right and wrong and a passionate need to dispense justice. It's what made you such a force for good with the Banshees, but it's also what drove you out of Starfleet when you found out about the corruption surrounding Section 31. But now you work on a freighter with a shady character like me and you're dying for some action! To deliver the bootprint of justice to the buttocks of evil! To stick a thumb in the eye of every criminal this side of the Briar Patch!"
West's enthusiastic delivery was contagious, for Gromit started squeaking with excitement from his perch atop the computer terminal, and even Max felt the stirrings of righteous fury deep within her breast. But it wasn't enough to squelch the disappointment she felt at West's disapproval of her plan.
"I get the picture, West," she said, her feelings showing.
West felt a pang of sympathy for the fiery woman who had become his business partner, his friend, and maybe something more (though he wasn't prepared to admit that possibility to himself just yet.) Still, she was definitely a special part of his life. He stood from the bed and stepped over to her. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he pulled her up to a standing position in front of him and gently kissed her on the forehead. Max closed her eyes and leaned into him.
"I feel the same way as you do," he said. "Believe me. But bounty-hunting is no kind of life." He released her shoulders and stepped towards the aft hatch leading back out to the cargo holds. "Tomorrow we'll head this bucket out to Tosnoqua and see what we can stir up at the outposts there. I promise. They've always been good to us in the past, I'm sure they'll come through for us again."
With that, the hatch slid shut behind him leaving Max alone with her troubled thoughts.
She desperately wanted to believe in West, in his noble ideals and lofty principles. Underneath his carefully crafted façade of carefree and irresponsible buffoonery, he was a good man with a heart of gold. He was her business partner, her friend, and maybe even something more, but she wasn't sure if they could afford his methods any longer. They needed credits, and they needed them now!
Against her will -- or was it? -- she felt her eyes being drawn once again towards the glowing characters on the library computer screen that still displayed the police record and the 10,000 credit bounty for the criminal known as the Snark.