EAT WITH THE STARS- AT SPINDELLI'S!
GIRLS, XENOS, ANDROGYNS, TACTILE HOLOS, CATAMITES- IF YOU WANT IT, WE'VE GOT IT AT VANDAGRASSIAN'S HOUSE OF XXX PLEASURE XXX
TERMINAL MECHS, INC: END OF THE LINE FOR THE ENEMY
SOPHISTICATES SMOKE COVINGTONS
CAPTAIN ODO'S SURPLUS CIRCUS: WEAPONS- MILITARY GRADE- ENERGY, KINETIC, PLASMA, LOW LOW PRICES
COGNO-TATTOOS: ART YOUR BRAIN!
She stood at the top of the ramp, framed by the circle of the
Virgilius' exit hatch, taking in the riot of bright neon garishness. Flashing holosigns and flickering flash-ads covered every inch of unused space across the vast hangar, assaulting the eyes and painting the milling crowds and rows of docked ships in alternating, lurid hues. Subliminal adverts zipped across the public NooSphere, forming a constant background buzz in the mind.
Traggert's neurolink was turned off. Her defenses were high-end Guild models, but even so only an idiot would open herself to the Sphere in a place like this- not unless she wanted to risk a mindvirus or corporate spyware monitoring her every thought and feeling.
WELCOME- TRAGGART, DAPHNE- TO DRAKE'S FOLLY, WHERE LUCKY SPACE BEGINS!A hovering greeter-drone blurted the message at her in a chipper sing-song as it scanned the
Virgilius' credentials.
TRAGGART, DAPHNE: PERHAPS YOU WOULD ENJOY A REFRESHING-She silenced the drone mid-advert with a flash of the Guild barcode on her wrist.
"Affiliation noted- Raynasa Farspace Trading Guild. Retainer rank. How may I be of assistance, miss?" asked the drone, singsong voice gone, optics switching from bright pink to a muted, businesslike blue.
"Take me to the Guildhall."
"Kindly follow me."
She sauntered down the ramp onto the crowded gangway, filled with travelers from every corner of known space, shuffling in all directions: humans, abmen, chimeras, bots and drones, xenos of every description. On either side of the gangway, small and midsized transports and freighters were busily unloading and loading, taking on fuel, water and food, powering engines up or shutting them down. The tradeship docked across from the
Virgilius was preparing to leave, its sallow-faced captain haggling with a Xacan dockhand over wages. The Xacan was waving its probisci angrily at the captain, and releasing rank, rage-signaling pheromones. The captain seemed unimpressed.
Traggart pushed past them, following the greeter-drone.
"What brings you to our Station, miss?" asked the greeter drone, it's courtesy routines activating.
Traggart didn't bother to answer. The drone didn't bother with any more questions. It lead her down vaulted corridors lined with seedy shops and eateries, through crooked byways noisy with the chugging of failing air-recyclers, across several auto-lifts and holodecks, many of them sparking disconcertingly. Everywhere was crowded with bustling tradesmen and travelers, every surface crawled with flashing advertisements.
Finally she emerged into the Central Chamber, and though she had been here many times before, she paused for a moment to admire the scale of it. A cavernous metal dome, filled with a makeshift city, windows and ads blazing in the shadowy ambiance. Drake's Folly had once been an Imperial Naval Fortress, this Chamber once home to hundreds of docked ships-of-the-line. Now it was home to the dregs of the galactic economy- every outcast, smuggler, freebooter, or pirate was safe to do business here, welcomed by megacorps free from the burdens of Imperial law or House regulations.
The drone turned to her, questioningly.
"Lead on," she said, and followed it into the twilight city.
-
"A drink?" asked Gideon Loveless, as she took one of the chairs in front of his desk. The office smelled mildly of spices and pipe-smoke; polished wooden book cases lined the walls, filled with cloth and leather editions, and embers smouldered in a fireplace of magnificent Umantine marble. Traggart smiled slightly. Even in a cesspit like Drake's Folly, Raynasa lived up to its reputation for taste.
"Yes, thank you," she said, and Loveless poured two glasses of Cassidonian Flyn, as rare as it was expensive. He sat behind his desk and pushed a glass across to her. He tipped his own in mock salute and took a sip.
"What's the job?" she asked, tasting her own drink. It burned deliciously. "Must be quite something for you to call me here in person. A simple retainer like me meeting with a Guild Factor- most unorthodox."
Gideon laughed, optical augments whirring slightly as they focused on her.
"Simple retainer indeed," he said, smirking. "The situation is this- an Imperial agent is causing problems for us. Prying into our assets and concerns that lie beyond His Majesty's jurisdiction."
Traggart frowned, "I'm no hitman."
Gideon nodded, ample jowls quivering, "We don't want you to kill him, dear. We want you to find him and turn him. Or, short of that, feed him shit to take back to his masters on Almata."
"That," Traggart replied, "I can do."
"I hope so, Daphne, I hope so. War is brewing in the Crescent. You know that, we all know that. The Guild would prefer it if the....factions currently vying for control of the Shoals did not become entangled on either side. We don't want proxy wars here."
