[b][i]Vegas Station[/i][/b]

Vegas Station was a floating dark spire of carbon-fibre and metal that constantly rotated in order to provide gravity through centrifugal force, taking power from the bright yellow sun in the distance. Small spacecraft flew to and from this structure, while Mr. Hut's large star dreadnought, [i]The Palace[/i], waited just outside, watching for any trouble. From their standpoint, the station didn't look much like Old Vegas, no neon lights, no constant noise, no hectic activity; then again, all space stations seem silent in the void of space.

Inside, however, was a constant whirl of riotous color, with a veritable rainbow of neon lights and racous music that made things sound like an eternal carnival, with bars, restaurants, casinos and hotels being advertised with all the subtelty of two asteroids hitting each other. While the outside foiled expectations, the interior exceeded them, and more. A perfect place to win fortunes, lose them, or talk business.

In the very core of the spire, Paradise 'Par' Rapids, accompanied by ([b]Edit:[/b] two bodyguards), would be talking with one 'Mr. Hut', a mildly fat, jolly-looking man with a small mustache, dressed in an elegant nanosilk costume patterned after a 1700s' admiral.

"It is good that the Guild wants to strengthen ties with Vegas Station," the station owner was now saying, "and indeed, we can always use more raw and exotic materials. While the station [i]can[/i] be self-sufficient if need be,"  a reminder that Mr. Hut can survive on his own, "sufficient is not the same as desired, nor is it the same as 'rich'. And I will stay that."

"But, little Par," a reminder of Par's place in the staion owner's scheme of things, "if you want to hire the people here for a strike on the Sphinx Domination's supply lines, you will not do so with my blessing, not even if you promise me half of their non-slave cargo. This is Vegas Station, not New Port Royal. Nor will I house a summit to reconcile the Guild and those eco-terrorist Garderners, or use my good graces to ally the Guild and the Society of Steel. Do you know why?" The reason was evident; the Sphinx were valued customers.

"Valued customers or not," spoke Par, "the Sphinx are building up their forces; all of them. They're buying more slaves for their factories, stepping up mining operations everywhere, and expanding in every direction at once."

"They're moving slow, yes, that's why no one's alarmed so far, but they're not stopping like in previous attempts at taking over; whenever they appear to halt, it's at a strategic area from which they can strike at multiple targets at once. This isn't paranoia," Par preempted that potential accusation, before bringing up a holographic map of the Sector. "It's what the patterns say."

"Be that as it may," Mr. Hut said, "the Sphinx have already presented me with their offer. A noble title and my own private planet; I'll have to give up my Virtual Intelligences and most of my advanced technology, but that can be filled in by slaves." 

A look of distaste from Par.

"Oh, don't be like that!" Mr. Hut was faux-jovial. "You can still make a counter-offer. I'm not as amenable to sacrificing my independence as the Sphinx think I am, after all, and in all probability, Emperor Alan doesn't seem to respect me that much. So, make a counter-offer, like, say, a promise of future preferment once you become the leader of the Guild of Free and Fair Trade?"

"I am willing to promise anything, and by anything, anything within the bounds of reason and morality, no matter how injurous to myself," was Par's reply. "Very well, preferment, as well as several more ships for your spaceborne forces." ([b]Edit:[/b] The reply from 'Mr Hut' was:)

"I also want the services of [i]Count Jericho[/i]; Charles, ([b]Edit:[/b] your friend), has hired him, right? I want him to seek out a traitor to my organization, Benjamin Tops. You'll want to give him this job; he's been trading brains-in-jars to the Sphinx..."