Phyraelon Deadstar. Jocasta was sckeptial that such a person even existed. It was common enough for urban ledgends to be bandied about to give weight and meanance to the actions of other men. Still if there were half a million credits to be had, she supposed she didn't mind who she was allegedly working for.

"Alright, I think I can probably keep my eyes open for this Vol, and if I happen to see him, make sure he has an appropriate accident."

Bohemond cleared his throat, casting a look between the two bounty hunters.

"It should not be subtle, my employer requires that his displeasure be obvious," the agent explained. Jocasta reached out and wrapped a fist on Dirks armor, the blow ringing musically from the augmented steel.

"Well you have come to the right place," Jocasta snickered.

_____

"It makes a girl whistful for the radioactive wastelands," Jocasta observed as the Dragonfly coasted in towards the Prime Spire of Tarsus. The land beyond the spire was dull, brown, and apparently lifeless. In fact a single celled algae grew over nearly every exposed surface, rendering it slimy and slick. The wealth of Tarsus, such as it was, was in mineral seams and geothermal vents which extended far below the surface of the spires. As these seams were empied out they were converted into part of the spire, spreading below the surface like the mycellia of great fungus.

"Why can't you ever take me anywhere nice?" she complained.

"I took you to a resort paradise and, according to you, you single handledly shot your way out of it," Dirk replied. Jocasta shrugged demonstratively.

"Well, I didn't even get a chance to wear a bathing suit," she complained.