Malik had stowed his gear three days before take-off, and now they were down to the final half hour. Walking along the familiar metal halls, Malik heard his footsteps echo shortly and sharply back to him, and he found that for the first time in a long time, he was unsteady on his legs. The fear he felt was logical; he knew what the crew would be up against when they landed. They had very little idea. The advertisement he'd posted on the network had simply read:

"Group of nine needed, male or female. Must have combat experience. No military experience necessary. Experience in hot, wet climate very helpful. Background in law enforcement would be useful. Reply within two weeks for mission to Amala of undetermined length. Paying weekly, $25k American cash or Euros by your preference."

Twenty-seven replies had come in by the finishing date, and Malik had eliminated all but nine. He had also hand-selected the pilot, co-pilot, and two engineers. All the gear had been stowed for the trip, and now he sat in the dining hall, waiting for the nine mercenaries and the rest of the crew to file in for the debriefing. The dining hall was really more of a small room with a steel rectangular table welded into the wall, and a booth of seats that were equally pragmatic (and consequently uncomfortable) welded around it. There was a kitchenette on the other side of the small room, no more than two long paces away.

The cold blue light cast a contrasting glow across the warm room, illuminating all but the shadow that concealed the ceiling from a casual observer. Malik sat facing north, where a small doorway reminiscent of a 21st century submarine led to a very short hallway that led to the cockpit. Behind the head mercenary, another comparable doorway led to the cargo storage and crew bunks, with the engine room behind that. Somewhere to Malik's left, the main hull entryway remained open but guarded by a boarding guard.

After a moment, Malik stood up and walked to the kitchenette. On the counter was a small device about the size of a cup, with a small platform and a box about the size of Malik's fist hovering over the platform. He rummaged through the cabinets overhead until he found a black mug, and set it on the platform. A glow of four white lights circled around the base.

"Good evening," a pleasant feminine voice chimed as if it was standing next to Malik. "Please make a drink selection."

"Coffee. Make it an Irish coffee," Malik said, watching the device. He always thought adding voice recognition technology to a coffee maker had been a bit of a frivolous idea. People used to think it was odd when you seemingly talked to yourself on a mobile phone headset, but ever since they'd been doing that centuries before he was born, Malik had grown accustomed to it. Still, talking to your coffee maker always felt half a bubble off to Malik. He preferred to do things with his hands.

"Dispensing Irish coffee," the voice chimed again as the liquid poured into the mug.