Interstellar Flight (Mr. M & missedstations)

Dust. It coated the legs of his shipsuit, made newcomers cough, and clogged up any machinery that didn't have special filters all over its intakes. Habitats were supposed to be environmentally controlled, with public air filters and all that, but still the dust was ever-present. Taggart didn't much mind the lighter gravity on Ekkar's Jewel, but the dust, that was why he didn't much like coming here.

Still, Ekkar's Jewel was the biggest and most urbane port in this part of the galaxy, a boomtown moon basking in the wealth provided by the looming emerald gas giant Ekkar, which it orbited, a jumping-off point from the highly-developed Central Worlds to the somewhat sketchier Rim territories. Taggart conducted the majority of his business on the Rim, as his business was violence, and the Central Worlders were too civilized to do their dirty work with actual physical weapons. CWs usually fought with economics and social disapproval, weapons Rimmies weren't quite as vulnerable to, and the sort of combat that Taggart had little experience with or interest in. So this was the closest he'd been to the heart of human space in years. And he wouldn't even be here if it weren't for the prospect of a choice gig. But the dust was making him momentarily regret following up on it.

All the same, the gig held promise. Some CW was looking to hire a transport, guide, and protector for a period of time, and one of the fixers Taggart knew had volunteered his name and references. He was known for his good work, reliable work, some of it even able to be listed on his public record, and he certainly had been all over the Rimworlds. And, of course, he did have his own ship, the Fox's Tears, currently parked outside and linked via pressure tube, in part to minimize the dust contamination. And his fees for a primarily non-combat gig were quite reasonable. Admittedly, this would be the first time that particular fee schedule would be utilized, but all the same, it was one reason he was in the market. And it certainly did seem like the kind of thing he could do: take the client on a series of Long Jumps, going world to world as the client needed, and protecting the client's safety while on planet until the client found whatever it was he or she was looking for. For whatever reason, the CW had put him on the short list, and now Malachi Taggart was on his way to meet the client for their first face-to-face.

The map program he'd loaded into his HALO unit led him to the moderately priced hotel, it's holographic directional arrows superimposed upon his normal field of vision. He stripped the utilitarian black plastic wraparound off the back of his bald head before he entered, wanting to provide as professional an appearance as was possible, given he only really had military-olive shipsuits to wear, other than purely casual clothes which would be even more inappropriate. The device folded up, partially retracting the headband into the slightly thicker ends that sat at the temples, where the holo-projectors were. He'd break it out again when they were discussing actual business, to go over contracts and such, but he didn't want to seem reliant on the device. He really was worried about projecting the right appearance for this gig; he'd shaved and everything, even though the depilatory treatment he used monthly on his whole head (except for his eyebrows and eyelashes) had barely allowed enough stubble to grow to even be felt with his fingertips. Still, it had been shaved away.

The hotel was spiffy enough to have an enclosed walk-up entrance that gently blasted you with conditioned air on your way from the street to the lobby, clearing the dust off you as well as could be expected, so he entered the pleasantly dim interior of the hotel in a much more presentable fashion. He glanced around for his contact, his bright blue eyes alert, scanning the few people in the lobby while he idly scratched at the faint tracery of scars that decorated his pale brown head, just behind his left ear, a souvenir from a flash-frag grenade several years ago. He'd been given much more detail about the gig than the client, and even that wasn't particularly much. He just hoped the client would be on the lookout for an uncomfortable-looking mercenary.

Ilena Kostukova had been born to the space faring aristocracy, and it showed. She sat on a chair with her spine rigidly straight, as if she did not know the meaning of the word 'relax' and with her face arranged in a careful mask of non-interest. She was, of course, classically beautiful in the way her people liked to be. Even if she hadn't been born that way, she would have had surgery to make it so. An ancient goddess, lost in the emptiness of space, and lonely on a dust world? That was what her husband had liked to say about her. His silver tongue had charmed her, and she would have followed him to the edges of existence.

She had neither been born on Ekkar's Jewel, nor she had ever loved it. She had settled there to manage her own wealth: she did not believe in managers and go-betweens. Mineral extraction was prosperous business here, and she had accumulated enough so that she could probably start her own clan, should she have ever wished. Her money had made her existence comfortable, and she was so surprised at the public habitat. Such filth and misery! Her own private one was on the other side of the moon, with comfortable gardens and perfectly mimicking the green planet she had come from. Ilena had decided that it was best to leave her home for this job. It was, she thought, best to do things herself.

Her family had not been too disappointed when she married a trader. He took her name, and she gave him a veneer of respectability. Although she knew that before he had been little better than a pirate, she still loved him in some obtuse and arrogant way. Because she could, she would. It was her money, she could spend it on what she liked. If she had chosen to keep forty concubines no one would have blinked twice: one did not question her kind. Aristos, they were all insane. And on the frontier worlds, one could buy anything.

Ah, there was the man she had paid. She rose from her chair in a single smooth movement, keeping her hands folded at her front. 'Mr. Taggart?'

Her dark red hair was pulled into a severe knot at the back, and her green eyes were framed by a line of eyeliner – probably the permanent kind, she didn't look like the type to put on makeup every morning – and her lips were a slightly darker red that was natural. She was dressed as she always did for business. Flat soled boots of some smooth leather that went up to her knees, then loose dark grey pants tucked into those, and over that a floor-long grey gown that was slashed at the front and lined with dark red, but buttoned up from the waist to the top of her neck. The sleeves were long and loose, hiding the long metal bracers that she always wore around her forearms. And then, of course, over her slender hands she wore equally grey gloves. From that dull non-colour, the white skin of her face made an interesting contrast.

The outfit screamed money, especially since it was so obviously made from a material that dust did not stick to: while her boots showed traces that she had been in the street, nothing else about her did. There was a suitcase at her feet that she was not willing to part with, and behind her
chair stood a masked man provided by the hotel. She had dismissed her own bodyguards, but the hotel manager was far too horrified by the idea that a woman like her would be in a city like this all alone. She had spent a long time pointedly ignoring that man.

'I am Ilena Kostukova,' she informed Taggart, holding out her hand in a way so that it was quite hard to tell whether she expected it to be kissed or shaken.

When she stood, he immediately started over. He plastered on a friendly smile, and made some quick evaluations of the woman's means. Bodyguard nearby, from the logo on the privacy mask an employee of the hotel; exquisite clothes, to the point where he didn't really have the experience or knowledge to rate exactly how pricey they were; and a cultured, almost regal bearing that came with the rich and powerful, most often those with hereditary influence. As soon as she said her name, he knew all of his suppositions were correct, and turned up a notch. He clamped as much control as he could to keep his expression and his step from faltering.

The Kostukova family was in charge of one of the primary corporate coalitions in the Central Worlds, possibly within the top twenty most profitable conglomerated concerns out there (after a certain point, it got hard to tell who owned what and where the money came from, so at the top levels it was a bit hazy). Most folks with an ear to the interstellar news would have heard about the more famous members of the family over the past few decades; the holo-star, the politicians, the old general who led the failed coup. It could have been coincidence that this woman bore the same name, but given her bearing and obvious wealth, he thought not. And that ramped the gig up to a whole different level.

"Ms. Kostukova, it is a pleasure." He gripped her hand as if to lift it, and sketched a short bow over it; as responses went, it was more than commercial, and less than ballroom-formal, but it at least acknowledged the difference in social status, which was about the limit of Taggart's experience in such matters. "Please, don't stand on my account." There were many chairs in this waiting area, suitable for conversations of their sort. Taggart ensured his potential client moved to sit again, and then found a seat nearby.

"If I may say, ma'am, it was intriguing to receive the offer. I usually work a different style of job," and indeed, he'd done so for Kostukova companies on several occasions, operating against rival concerns in different corporate hot-spots all around the Rim, "so I was pleased at the opportunity to broaden my business. However, I should note at this point that my ship is not generally a passenger vessel. My creature comforts are... shall we say, utilitarian. I'm happy to accommodate what cargo you would care to bring aboard, if that would ease your journey, but I feel it best to be up-front about the limits of my service." He spread his hands, in a gesture asking minor forgiveness. "I don't mean to spoil my chances, but your retainer buys you my honesty as well as my presence in port."

Knowing something about who his client was had made the severe limits of his facilities painfully clear in his mind; the Tears was clean and in excellent condition, but he was no decorator; the interior was somewhere between Spartan and industrial, and his spare cabin had devolved into mostly idle storage; he could move all of that into the actual cargo area, but there was no way he'd be able to, say, install carpet and artwork on short notice, not even with the retainer she'd already paid.

Ilena seated herself again and waved a waiter over. 'One cannot discuss business without a drink, hm?' For herself, she simply ordered water, and left it for Taggart to order for himself. It was all on her tab, so if he fancied the most expensive champagne on the dusty little moon he could happily have it.

If she was bothered about the interior decoration, she would have bought her own ship, and just paid someone to run it for her. But her concerns were different, and it would also be preferable that her family did not know that she was planning to traipse around inhabited space looking for a man they had judged to be thoroughly useless. No doubt her father would throw a fit and tell her just to find someone new to entertain her.

'I am only interested in your competence, Mr. Taggart. I have heard favourable reports of your record,' she rearranged the folds of her clothes as she spoke, looking at her mercenary a little curiously. She rarely met men like Taggart. Aristos did business mostly in plush drawing rooms and expensive restaurants. Mercenaries were never welcomed in those circles.

Her contacts her provided with almost the entirety of it. Of those who had responded to her call, he seemed entirely the most useful. A man with a military recorded tended to have a level of discipline lacking in most civilians, and the long record of work as a mercenary with so few dissatisfied clients... And of course, that he had his own ship. It meant that he would know it inside out, and that if it came to battle, he would know what to do.

'I also travel light.' She tapped her small suitcase with her foot. And really, if she wanted carpets and artworks, she would have redecorated his ship herself. But that would waste far too much time, for far too little gain. 'So long as your ship contains a bed, there will be no issue.'

Lacing her fingers on her lap, she continued, 'I have hired you because I seem to have misplaced my husband. I wish to follow the trade route of his ship to discover exactly what he was doing and where he disappeared.' Taggart probably knew this much already. She would not yet tell him that she suspected her husband had become involved in what was little too much for him, and that he had probably been kidnapped to get at her.

'I will also trust to your discretion: once we leave Ekkart's Jewel, you are to refer to me by my family name. I would prefer it if it did not become known that I have left.' She had already made arrangements to cover her little trip. Her contractors would think that she had gone to visit family, and her family that she had taken a holiday somewhere warm and not dusty and did not wish to be disturbed.

'As you can guess, money is of no object.'

Taggart ordered water, as well, but specified a twist of lemon, for flavor. He definitely needed to wash the dust out of his mouth.

He had the grace to look flattered when she spoke of his competence, and he nodded in approval at her lack of oppressive luggage; was she ready to go right now? That would be convenient, although he wasn't sure... ah, now this was the meat of it.

It was akin to a skip-trace job, tracking down an errant ship. He'd done one or two of those, armed backup for the investigator doing the actual tracing, but this time he would be pilot as well as bodyguard, and there was much less expectation of being shot at when they found their quarry. Or, actually, perhaps not. It all depended on why exactly Ms. Kostukova's husband had vanished. It was good that he had a ship that could handle that sort of thing. But again, that's probably what she was counting on.

"Ms. Kostukova, I will address you in any form you care have me use. If you want to be called Bandar the Gyroscopic Monkey, I'll simply say, 'yes, Bandar, ma'am!'" He sketched a salute, and smiled, hoping she'd react positively. He was going to be spending a fair amount of time on the Tears with her, so he hoped she had something of a sense of humor. Regardless, he pressed on. "As for money, my fees are laid out in my contract. I do not request any more than what we agree upon, plus expenses. However, it is gratifying to know that necessary expenses will be well within your budget."

He quirked up a brow. "That is assuming we are going through with the contract? The specifics of the job seem acceptable to me, I'm sure you have the necessary data for the trip, and I'm satisfied I can provide for you and any limited entourage you may wish to have aboard. If you're satisfied with my record, and with my presentation, all that might be left would be for you to inspect the ship before we formally begin the venture. I wouldn't ask you to sign the contract without seeing where you're going to be staying for a while."

She covered her smile with a hand. He was, in some odd and uncultured way, rather charming. There were few people who made jokes at her. Actually, the only one who did was her father. Most people were too scared of her bodyguards. She would have liked to take them, but they were simply too conspicuous. A member of the Kostukova family led to instant rumours and gossip. Alone, she would simply be another Aristo lady.

'You may call me Ilena,' she said lightly. If she was going to spend a long time with this man, it would irritate her to be always called 'Ms.'. She preferred at least some level of intimacy. The hotel bodyguard shifted behind her as if she had committed a horrific faux pas. This is exactly what irritated her about this particular piece of rock. It was so small, everyone knew who she was. She turned to glare at the masked man.

Turning back to Taggart, she said, 'I have no need for companions. I trust that you will be sufficient protection.' It wasn't exactly as if she needed a chaperone to go where she liked. Though, of course, this was a strange man and a strange ship. She would put her trust in his reputation, and in the knowledge that he could earn far more in working for her than robbing her.

'I would like to employ you. I have heard you served a cousin or two well with slightly... Dirtier... operations, and I think this should be far simpler.' She hoped, though she did know that her husband was not stupid enough to leave her. 'I know little about ships, but I should like to see it.'

She stood up again, clearly expecting Taggart to carry her suitcase and show her the way. And probably hold doors open for her as well.

"Very well, Ilena," he said standing with her. She did not make a move to grab her suitcase, and after a moment of realizing this, he bent to take it in hand. "Would you come this way, then, please?" He gestured toward the door, allowing her to move past him. The hotel bodyguard took a few steps to follow her; he was equivalent in size to the mercenary, and the gaze from behind the face-concealing mask came off as malevolent. Taggart wasn't spooked, though; he'd dealt with far worse in much harsher conditions. The bodyguard looked great, with the sculpted triangular body and all the rest of it, but muscles didn't do you much good if you didn't use them properly. And besides, they were on the same side, essentially. "Don't worry, chief," Taggart said with a smile, patting the broad chest. "I've got the baton. You're relieved." And he hurried to catch up to the striking woman before she reached the automatic doors.

Out on the street, he unfolded his HALO and put it on again, like sunglasses in reverse, so that he could pull up the map directions back to his docking arm with a few commands muttered under his breath. Vocalizing, even as a whisper, was faster than using the eye-scan cursor. He glanced a moment at Ms. -- at Ilena, and mused that she probably didn't have a need for a HALO, or if she did, she probably had the implants. Ocular nerve inducers to feed the visual information directly to her brain, same with the auditory nerves, probably had a thought discriminator wired through her cerebellum so all she had to do was think a command and it would be read by the computer. The surgery was all nanobots and CAD direction; simple enough, and quick, if you could afford the overhead on a proper neruo-tech professional, and that's something he'd never been able to manage. So he went with the basic model, just like everyone else, and beefed it up inside, where it counted.

As he led the way through the dusty streets of the habitat, noting how the locals who noticed them gave them a wider berth now than they had when he had been walking up alone, he offered Ilena his arm, as an old-fashioned gentleman would, and spoke to her in a low voice.

"As far as my previous work goes, one never wants a job to become... messy. But if it does, you simply have to make the best of it. I'm gratified that my efforts to turn lemons into lemonade haven't been ignored, but in a case such as this one, I'm hopeful we'll avoid entanglements in the first place. I'll give you my best advice on a given situation, ma'am, and of course if you wish to proceed into a dangerous situation anyway, I'll follow and protect you the best I can, but if things get messy, as I've said, then I will not hesitate to pull you out, whether or not you're ready to go. You're hiring me to fly you around, look after your safety, and not get in your way, and your safety will take precedence over everything else." He glanced at her and smiled a little. "I'm sure you're not accustomed to that sort of approach, but then again, I'd wager that you're not accustomed to any environment where that situation would even come up."

He chuckled a moment. "Which is my long-winded way of saying, I'll follow your lead wherever you want to go, but if events get out of control, my priority is keeping you safe, no matter your concerns of the moment. That seems the most professional way to go about it."

He took a moment to look around the busy streets. This was a hab in prosperity; lots of kids, growing up gangly and tall in the lower-than-standard gravity, lots of businesses, street vendors, boisterousness -- compared to so many places he'd been, it was full of activity, full of life, full of success. If only it weren't also full of dust, he'd be quite pleased to spend a little more time here.

The first thing she had done when she arrived on this silly rock was to improve her pulmonary system, so she had no need to breathe through filters. Secondly, she had work done on her eyes, to make them less vulnerable to damage by the dust and the wind. It was far more impressive to look unaffected by the weather, even when the winds rose and most people just chose to stay in. While she had no problems with biological surgery, there were few implants in her. The only reason that she had a discriminator was that it was implanted in her as a child, and how she found that she was simply too used to it to change. Her entire house had been wired to her mind, after all. Now it was only her bracers that she had control over.

Ilena pulled up a sleeve and briefly studied the ghostly readout on the grey metal. It ran from her wrist to her elbow, and was curiously slick, like it was not solid at all. Of course it was only keyed to her DNA and only to her thoughts. For her, only the cutting edge technology, and one had to be creative if one was as inclined against brain surgery as she was. Nothing with complex programming, thank you very much. She did not fancy dying of a computer virus like one of her many brothers.

Pulling the sleeve down again she watched Taggart dismiss the guard and then followed the mercenary out of the door. She took his arm as she listened to him talk, and walked perfectly in step with him. Unlike Taggart, she was perfectly used to being given a wide berth. It was only natural for people to not want to step into an aristo's way. They had made their wealth by being at the frontier of space exploration, and until civilisation arrived after them they had ruled their planets like despots. Ilena had that long and vile history to thank. Even though her money was made by legitimate business, she had that air. It was a family thing.

'I understand,' Ilena said. It was not that she had never been in physical danger: it was the possibility of physical danger and being guarded by only one person that concerned her. She hoped he was as good as his reputation.

'Am I to call you Taggart, or is there another name you may prefer?' she asked eventually.

Ilena would not miss this moon particularly much. Her feet had been starting to itch... She remembered when this habitat was just a few domes hastily thrown up to protect the first settlers from the weather. She was fond enough of it then, but all cities ended up looking the same at the end. It was desperation and the edge of civilisation that was far more interesting.

"You can call me Taggart if you wish. My given name is Malachi, and friends can call me Mal, but if you feel that's too familiar, you can call me Taggart, or Mr. Taggart, or Captain, when we're onboard the Tears. If you address me in public and need to exert some authority or threat, I used to be a Lieutenant in the Confederacy Service, and still reflexively acknowledge that old rank, but I'd prefer if you didn't it for everyday use."

They were entering the spaceport now, one of the oldest domes in the hab, which also housed the terraforming engines. Ekkar's Jewel had an atmosphere of sorts, and weather, but it wasn't anything humans could breathe. The atmosphere processors were working on that, and had made great progress. Still, the pressure domes were necessary, and it would still be a long time before a ship could park out on the tarmacadam and the passengers could just walk into town.

"We're right down this way," he indicated with a nod and a gesture with the suitcase. After the customs offices and tariff stations, it was all plexiglass-ceilinged walkways and tunnel-like pressure connections to ship hatches. They ambled down the concourse, with Taggart pointing out different ships with interesting configurations or histories, if he knew them, and generally making small talk. As he approached his berth, he could see the telltales on the interior pressure hatch shining; the Tears was fueled and it's life support was charged, and his provisions had been delivered. Indeed, as the hatch acknowledged his handprint and slid aside, there were two cardboard delivery crates stacked to the side of the port-end airlock.

"Here we are: fresh food! Let me see you aboard, get you a little situated, then I'll come back and load these in." He closed and locked the hatch behind them, then led the way through the flexible-walled tunnel-like corridor, which smelled strongly of the chemicals that made up the air outside, up to the Tears herself.

Main computer, Dexis 343 category 7 light cargo vessel, serial number 433-382-220-458-534-345, designated Fox's Tears.

ACCESS REQUEST: General Layout and Deck Plans.

GRAPHICS MODE: Disabled. Text descriptive mode engaged.

The Tears is similar to other ships of its classification. The vessel has a single central pressure deck with pseudogravity plating, in order to minimize the necessary life support requirements. The primary cargo deck is kept unpressurized and is not commonly accessed during flight; specific sections of engineering access can be made livable for short periods for repair and maintenance in the field.

Atmospheric flight is effected by after-market modified Sendrian Model 446K grav turbines, and realspace propulsion is provided by the standard twin Dexis-19 radiant ion engines, although bursts of greater speed can be provided by employing an additional Dexis-2 hydrogen thruster which has been installed on the ventral spine. Shift-space capabilities are rated above standard for the class; shift-speed has not been altered, but the possible range of each shift-transit has been increased.

Shipboard weapons include ***CLASSIFIED***

Shipboard defenses include ***CLASSIFIED***

Internal compartments are separated by pressure bulkheads in case of breach. In the following description, each of the separate chambers can be isolated and pressurized separately. Computer interface is shielded from external monitoring of equivalent sophistication, but full wireless interface is available within the vessel.

Primary operative control is effected from the cockpit; physical controls are combined with HALO-effected displays and informational sensor readings to allow the pilot to handle all necessary functions, with possible voice-control with the main computer. There are two flight-duty stations at the rear of the cockpit for additional crew or passengers, but only the pilot is absolutely necessary.

Immediately aft of the cockpit is the common area. A long central table occupies the middle of the chamber, although it can be recessed into the floor if necessary. Folding seats and storage lockers line the walls, and smaller tables can be extruded between wall seats for various purposes. The aft wall of the common area is split around the rear access hatch. To the port is the head, with standard facilities for both pseudogravity and weightless use, shower with both sonic and water options, etc. To the starboard is the galley, with food storage and preparation facilities of whatever sorts the ship owners see fit to equip. The vessel has close to 100% water reclamation and can safely process protein and nutrients through the life support systems, as is typical of long-range multipurpose vessels of this type.

To the port and starboard are the crew cabins. Each is a rectangular chamber with a hatch in the middle of the long side connecting to the common area, and two fold-out bunks at each fore and aft end. In the case of the Tears, the port cabin has been claimed by the captain, and the starboard cabin has been designated the passenger cabin, though very few passengers have ever resided there.

Aft of the common area, through the rear access hatch, is the gangway. It connects the airlock to the common area, and it allows access to the two rear storage compartments.

The starboard rear storage compartment has been designated the tool room, and it contains all the equipment and many of the parts necessary to overhaul and repair the ship. Mechanical skill varies, but the central computer contains detailed repair instructions for every component system, and the tool room has been carefully stocked to ensure that all but the most rare and expensive components can be fixed or replaced in the field.

The port rear storage compartment has been designated the armory, and it contains all the weaponry and ammunition and maintenance equipment necessary to maintain an effective lifestyle as an interstellar mercenary.

The airlock is the only real access to the pressure deck; emergency exit can be gained, but at the sacrifice of hull integrity. The armored pressure door to the ship is on the forward bulkhead of the compartment, and from this chamber, there is a hatch to a ladder to port that goes down to a ventral hatch (with access to the cargo deck), a hatch to a ladder to starboard that goes up to a dorsal hatch, and a door to the aft which opens onto the primary access ramp that folds down from the rear of the vessel. Vacc suits and other survival equipment are kept in lockers recessed into the walls here.

FILE ENDS.

'Malachi, then,' Ilena said lightly. Calling the man by the surname was a little too formal for her taste, and she never used nicknames for anyone. Using Lieutenant would indeed be useful for intimidation: military men always commanded a certain respect, especially ones that seemed to have finished their tours of duty relatively unscathed.

Ilena was asked no questions at all by the officialdom of Ekkar's Jewel. She or her representatives passed through often enough, and she was certainly the richest woman on that particular rock. By the standards of inhabited space, she definitely inhabited the upper one percent, but amongst that she was still on the lower scale. Once her father or maybe an aunt or two popped their clogs she would be in the top hundred. But it wasn't that men like Taggart knew the complicated rankings of her kind. It was mostly an insular thing.

She kept hold of Taggart's arm as they walked, like some picture of centuries past, with her ancient manners and bearing. She studied the ship without apprehension: the reports that she had been handed were right, and hence the ship was no surprise at all. Small, and probably lacking in privacy, but she could live there. It was going to be quite something to have to cut her suite of ten rooms to one. She supposed she would have to adjust. It would be interesting at least.

'Can you cook?' she asked, glancing at the supplies.

She quite looked forward to travelling again, so she was smiling just a little. Sure, it would not be one of her family's state ships, but it would be nice to see some new worlds. She could even go shopping elsewhere! She had always liked how different planets ended up with completely different fashions. Naturally, she had arranged that her money was already untraceable: her predilection for spending it was not going to prevent her from travelling incognito.

“I can cook a little. I’m happy to give you my best efforts, but if you’d care to try your hand, you’re welcome to. If all else fails, I usually keep a large stock of FMPs for my regular consumption.” He noted her momentary confusion. “Full Meal Packs. Basically a military ration, a single balanced meal in a compact, easy-to-carry package. Tasty enough, if you can cope with the prepackaged consistency, but fresh food is always better.”

She didn’t sniff with disdain on the way up the access ramp, nor through the gangway, and while she looked around somewhat stone-faced in the common area, she didn’t complain, which was good. The commons table was up, but that was all; everything else was recessed into the walls and floor, as usual. Taggart carefully laid the suitcase on the table and looked up at the ceiling, which he didn’t actually need to do, but he found it a useful reference point in his own mind.

“Access computer,” he said in a clear, businesslike tone.

“Yes, Captain,” replied the androgynous computer voice, out of seemingly nowhere.

“Recognize our guest, designated Ilena.” He didn’t give her last name to the computer, not that he didn’t trust his data systems or protection, but just for the simple expedience that data could not be extracted that wasn’t inserted in the first place. “Request necessary biometrics from her personal gear. Please provide full guest access and protections, allow interface with any of her personal gear as necessary, and answer any questions she might have. Also, give me a seat here, then unlock the cargo truck locker and warm it up.”

The floor at the head of the table began to rise, unfolding into a comfortable ship chair that could swivel and slide back from the table, but would remain stable in the face of any turbulence. Turning to face his client, he sketched a bow and held the seat to the side for her to take. “Please, rest a moment. I’ll bring up the provisions, and then I want to check the passenger cabin one last time before I show you around there, just to be sure it’s prepped properly. You can ask the Tears anything you like, verbally or via datalink. I’ll just be a few moments.”

On his way out to the airlock, to grab the handtruck to wrangle the delivery crates, he accessed his HALO and put in a request for take-off clearance. His course was out-system, not in the path of the shuttles between the hab and Ekkar, so it shouldn’t take long for the computer to grant clearance. He wasn’t 100% certain Ilena would approve of his ship, but if she did, he had a suspicion she’d want to leave immediately. He did believe in planning ahead, after all.

It had never occurred to Ilena before that cooking was something that she may potentially be able to do. She had been vaguely interested in the subject once or twice, but other more important things always came up. He had given her permission to break his kitchen, right? She would have to try some cooking, and it would probably end up being inedible.

'Thank you. When you are done, shall we sign the formal contract?' She sat down, crossed her legs, and rolled her sleeves up to watch as her bracers meshed with the ship's programming. She double checked the data they gave her and noted Taggart's request for departure clearance with some pleasure. A competent man who did not need to be told what to do. She seemed to have made a good choice.

As she waited, she skimmed all the data that was available to her. Her bracers were her favourite piece of technology: pretty enough to look decorative, unreadable from any distance, and responding seamlessly to her thoughts. She turned up her right wrist and touched the bracer with three fingertips: it seamlessly folded into the shape of a fan. She spread it out in front of her face. It was far easier to read this way.

He wheeled the provisions in and parked the hand truck in front of the galley, glancing at Ilena’s data usage display up in the corner of his field of vision. She was still engrossed in checking over his ship’s systems and capabilities, data processing, and library, he left her to it. He was sure she’d be pleased to find his extensive music and movie library; he’d worked hard at amassing as comprehensive a collection as he could manage out here, and it was reasonably impressive even by Central World standards.

He ducked into the starboard cabin and checked around. All four of the fold-down bunks had clean linen, the drawers and storage closets were clear and clean, the washbasin and personal facilities were scrubbed pretty and sanitized, and all privacy systems were functional. It wasn’t much, just a narrow, long-ish room, but it worked, and at least the portholes gave an excellent view.

“Ilena, everything in here looks decent enough. Let me show you around your cabin. This space will be entirely yours for the length of our contract, so you can store your items as you wish…” He proceeded to demonstrate how to fold down the bunks, how to open and resecure all the storage and personal facilities, all the basics. “I’m afraid the ship only has the one shower in the head, out here, but I will guarantee your privacy any time you wish it. I can always retreat to the cockpit, after all.” He smiled, shrugging.

“As for contracts, I’m sure your AI has had a chance to look over the wording. Pretty standard: daily fee for services and transport, a bonus percentage for dangerous service, if we run into trouble…” Most of his work involved an outright expectation of dangerous service, so it was strange to have to specifically mention it. “…provisions for expenses, etc. Fairly cut and dried, as the saying goes. We just settle on the appropriate amounts, and let the computers stamp and file, and we can be off.”

There was a burble of correlating data between his systems and hers; Taggart had merely specified the amounts and percentages already listed in his standard offerings; he was happy to proceed with just that, as opposed to raising his rates just because of the identity of his client, so he didn’t expect much negotiation, if money was really no object.

Well, the view was good. She had always been fond of stars. Small room, as she had assumed, and the amount of luggage had took this into account. She could unpack later, when they were off. This small space would probably be her home for at least a month. Not a bad ship by any measure, and she would not be bored. He had a better entertainments library than she did! Her explorations of the ship's data had reassured her.

'This is sufficient. Thank you Malachi.' Courtesy had almost been bred into her, but showing too much enthusiasm was a little crass. She almost wanted to skip: it would be so lovely to leave, disappear for a bit. Not be known everywhere she went, and not be bothered with business concerns. Her little self set quest was as much escapism as wanting to find her husband.

As for the contract, she examined the readout that her fan gave her only briefly, then confirmed. It was the same as she had given the first time she had contacted her fixer, and there was no need to change any details on her part. If she wanted to pay him extra, she could always give him a bonus at the end. She would see how things would go.

'Excellent! Now that is done...' Ilena smiled widely at Taggart. 'Have you got clearance to leave yet?'

Her happiness was rather childlike. She had not been anywhere without a complement of armed protection in so long. Last time was when she disappeared for a few weeks to get married, and then her family had been so furious at her leaving her bodyguards behind. Ilena had thought her father would be more upset about the husband...

The Tears lifted away from the moon, rising out of the thin atmosphere, hazy with dust, and nosed out toward the deep black. They had to clear the major gravity wells before the shift drive would work properly for a Long Jump, so it was a bit of a cruise out past Ekkar’s orbital planes.

Taggart sat in the pilot’s chair, his hand on the stick, although at this point, the computer was doing most of the flying. His HALO projected the vast majority of the relevant read-outs into his field of vision, and kept up an audio telemetry of the appropriate data softly into his ears; if he weren’t wearing it, he could still fly, but with only the bare minimum controls. He was keenly aware of Ilena’s presence at one of the duty stations behind him, but there was nothing for her to do, so the station was dark; he was just very serious about not looking foolish in front of his new employer.

As the grav readout slowly ticked down to the safe jump reading, he relaxed in the seat, and then swiveled around to grin at his guest. “No matter how often I do that, I still enjoy the view. It’s a few minutes yet till jump distance, and then there’s nothing much to see. We’ll be at the first stop come tomorrow afternoon, so, plenty of time to enjoy the dubious attractions of jump space, if you’re so inclined.”

He unbuckled himself and moved back toward the commons. “If you want to watch out the window a while, feel free. Can I make you anything, ma’am? I was thinking a sandwich, since we’ve got fresh bread; I’ll be happy to make you one as well.”

Now that they were working formally together, he decided to be friendly and mostly-casual. Too much formality was likely to drive them both crazy over their shipboard time together, and he wasn’t sure he would be able to maintain that level of artificial kow-towing for very long, anyway. But he certainly wasn’t going to imposed too much familiarity on her, either. He hoped he was setting an acceptable tone, but he was willing to be corrected.

Ilena followed him to the cockpit and folded herself into the copilot's chair to watch. She told her fan to show her the readouts, more out of curiosity than anything else. She knew little about flying ships – always paying other people to do it for her, but it was always interesting to watch. Of course, it would have been routine surgery to simply implant the knowledge, but she simply preferred not to work that way. Knowledge only had value through the method and effort taken to gain it.

'It looks so much more beautiful from up here,' she murmured, looking at Ekkar's Jewel. She always thought that planets looked more wonderful from above, where it was harder to see the humanity. She wished that she was born at the beginning of the era of space exploration, when every planet was virgin territory. It was pure romanticism: she could still choose to join a new colony, but always chose not to.

'Sounds good. I haven't eaten since breakfast.' Though admittedly, she hadn't eaten a sandwich since she was a girl. The best cooks in the galaxy had been employed by her family a little too often.

From her travels Ilena knew that jump space had no attractions at all... So she followed him to the kitchen and leant against the wall to watch him work. For the first time, she was feeling like she was wearing a bit too many clothes and she began to take pull off her gloves slowly. Formal dress was a little pointless on a ship this size.

'So, was this the biggest ship you could afford, or did you consider other things when you bought it?'

Once she followed him into the commons, and leaned against the wall near the corner where the galley was, Taggart paused in his unloading of the delivery crates and tapped a panel near her, unfolding a seat from the wall. He smiled at her as he gestured for her to sit, then he returned to putting things away as he sought out his materials; it was standard rule in small ships, you secured things as soon as you could, in case something went wrong.

"There's a danger of getting more gear than you need. I'm a one-man contract outfit, usually, and I found that my own ship increased my flexibility, but I didn't want something too large for me to keep up myself. I work well with others, but there's nobody I've wanted to team up with permanently, so anything too big is just too much ship."

He finally found the bread, a tub of realistic butter, and the Ekkar-local cheese-like substance; that would be perfectly workable. He snapped a grill-surface onto the heating element and started it warming up while he buttered a slice of bread.

"With the Tears, I can be hired solo, or as part of a team, and I can pick up some extra by providing troop transport, or mission insertion, et cetera, et cetera. Given the kind of work I do, too large also means too visible. So size wasn't the issue; performance was."

He put a slice of buttered bread on the grill, shook some powder onto it from the spice cabinet, and layered on some cheese slices, followed by a few shakes from a different container. He let that sit while he turned back to Ilena, buttering up another slice of bread.

"The strength of this whole ship line, every series, is that they're so easy to upgrade. You take a look at any two Dexis vessels out there, and even if their serial numbers are consecutive, they'll be unique as a retinal print. So when I was looking for a vessel, my demands were something I could fly and keep up myself, and something I could modify to suit my particular needs. I bought the Tears used, and she was already in reasonable shape, but it took rather more work to get her to her current status."

The cheese was melting, and the grill was sizzling, so he dropped the other piece of bread on the pile, butter side up, then used a spatula he snagged from the magnetic strip on the galley wall to flip the concoction over. The bread that had been grilled was now golden brown and crunchy, and Taggart sighed with satisfaction.

"Oh, excellent. This side came out perfect." He leaned on the counter's edge, waiting for the other side to brown as he continued, grinning ruefully. "I probably could have retired on the amount I've sunk into upgrades on the Tears, and all the specialized equipment, both for the ship and for myself. But she's now one of the best ships in this particular business, and I've got more employable years to go before I have to hang up my gear belt, so if I'm smart, I can make double that amount, just in contract wages, not counting any resale value of the equipment I won't need anymore. Besides, my investments need more time to really mature."

He unlimbered a plastic plate from the rattle-proof storage cubby, and flipped the finished sandwich onto it, setting the whole thing on the counter. Taking a knife from the magnetic strip, he made two expert diagonal cuts and spread the four triangular pieces apart a bit. "Simple ingredients, judicious application of heat and time – it's chemistry and physics, but the end result is much tastier than when I was in school." He fished in the crate and pulled out a reasonable facimile of an apple, which he gave a cursory wash in the galley vacuum sink. After wiping the knife off on a kitchen towel, he sliced and cored the apple with quick, efficient, precise moves, and slid the slices onto the edge of the plate, barely nudged against the sandwich, which was now cool enough to eat.

He brought the plate over to Ilena and tapped the wall again, extruding what looked like a chess board built into a tabletop from the wall on the far side of her. He put the plate on the little table and bowed. "Your meal, milady!" he grinned, then turned back to the cooler to grab a drinking bulb of chilled water for her. Even though the pressure deck had full pseudogravity (currently set on Ekkar's Jewel standard, for her comfort), Taggart habitually kept his fluids in closed containers, just in case gravity flickered, an old reflex. He then went back to the galley area to start the process for another sandwich for himself. "So how about yourself? If you don't mind me observing, I would have thought your family would have kept you closer to the Central Worlds, kept you away from the edge of the frontier. May I ask what brought you so far out on the Rim?"

His speech was most certainly educational. It was often difficult for Ilena to imagine how those poorer than herself lived. If she had ever considered that it was the great majority of the galaxy that lived that way, she would most certainly be embarrassed: but she had never felt the need to think that way. It was fascinating how slowly he made money. She turned over millions in a year, and her investments were often more like gambling than long term. Of course she had a diversified portfolio... Her children, when she had them, would be capable to spend centuries living on just the income from Ekkar's Jewel.

Her perfectly fitted gloves took a little time to remove. She left them on the table, stretching out her hands. How curious it was to feel the flow of air across them as she moved her fingers. Her nails were short, and looked as if they were painted a dark red, though in fact they grew that way. She had made the necessary modifications to always look well groomed. Those were the sorts of tasks that bored her utterly.

She considered before replying to his question. 'To be entirely honest, my family does not care much what our relatives do, so long as they do not embarrass the Kostukova name. We only really come together for revenge.' She smiled lightly. 'Not that I have been involved in that line of family business very much.' Though no doubt Taggart had heard of the mysterious accidents that happened to their opponents, and perhaps been employed in one or two.

'When I told my father that I wanted my own business, he gave me a part of my inheritance and told me to come back if I ran out. I haven't seen him in years!' She was seventeen then, bored out of her skull with repetitive parties and the same old courtiers, and now could laugh at her own idiocy. 'He sent me Hayan orchids -' most ridiculously expensive flowers in the known universe '- when I made my first billion.'

She took the plate and examined the sandwich as if it was a foreign object, then nibbled lightly on an edge. Surprisingly good, but she would have to take him to some of the more expensive restaurants when they got to their destination.

'I think I enjoyed making my own money too much, with no one being able to tell me how I spent it. I guess I just kept going. The biggest profits are in the frontier worlds, in the newer colonies, but many -' she meant many Aristos '- think that the risks are far too high. I like taking them.'

He paused in the grilling when she mentioned her first billion and blinked at her. But he nodded when she admitted she liked taking risks. "The profession I'm in, risk is part of the job. Most of the time, everything I do is risky, so I have to spend more time trying to actively find ways to be careful! But I do know what you're talking about there, though. Risk is what make the reward sweeter."

He flipped his sandwich and just looked at her again. "First billion. Wow. When I left the Service, I had just under two thousand in savings and could carry everything I owned. If I got best possible resale out of everything I have now, my net worth might be..." he paused and thought, calculating, "... maybe a million? Give or take about point two." He shook his head and fished another apple out of the crate. "I keep getting dumbfounded about how true that old adage is: it takes money to make money." He sighed as he cut and cored his apple. "But I suppose someone's got to make it. Wouldn't be much of a human nature if someone didn't." His tone changed as a thought occurred to him, and he smiled at her. "Heh. I'll bet my entire retirement plan won't be as much as your starting capital. Still..." he shrugged, "I don't need much. There are advantages to not having expensive tastes, every so often."

He grinned and flipped his finished sandwich off the grill, just as the computer chimed. "Ah, that's the shift notice. The course is laid in, do you want to watch transition, or should I just tell the Tears to go ahead?" Watching the starlight suddenly flare and streak into beams was interesting to some people, before the smoky grayness of shiftspace settled in. He had enjoyed it the first few dozen times he'd seen it, himself.

Well, at least they had something in common, even if her idea of risk did not extend to explosions and gunfire. She was more into watching prices rise and fall, and into careful negotiations and then the thrill when a good deal is made. Usually she left the room when things got messy. She employed people like Taggart to do those things for her. Though, in her luggage, she had, for once, packed a gun, just in case.

She nibbled at her sandwich as he spoke. 'I started with five million of my father's money. It was luck, really. Ekkar was just discovered, mining operations were just beginning, and I sent most of it here. I did not expect to make so much so fast... I am fond of it as a place where I began, it is why I tend to live on the Jewel rather than elsewhere. I do have property in most inhabited worlds.' It wasn't really a question of expensive tastes. It was just that was her day to day life, and flying on something like the Fox's Tears was akin to slumming it. It shocked her a little to think of his initial poverty. She made a million a week, and he would make that much with a lifetime? What a strange thought.

'Oh, go ahead.' She had seen it too, on many bigger and more comfortable ships. Maybe when she was done with this, she should buy herself a ship and learn to fly it. Travelling on her own would be interesting.

"Access computer."

"Yes, Captain?"

"Go ahead and initiate Long Jump, please, as prepared."

"Yes, Captain."

There was a slight jolt at the transition, and then the hum of the ion engines died away, replaced by the back-of-the-head vibration of the shift drive. It wasn't painful, it was even relaxing to some who got used to it, but it was a completely different type of propulsion.

"And that's it for just under a Standard Day," he said, taking a large bite from his sandwich and a pull off his own drinking bulb. When it was polite to speak again, he leaned against the counter, holding his plate in front of him, keeping a friendly but respectful distance between himself and the client; they'd only been underway for just short of an hour, it wouldn't do to become too familiar too soon; he didn't want to freak her out.

"So, your husband must like taking risks too, if he's running a trading vessel personally. Some of those ports on the itinerary you showed me can get pretty dicey in areas. They're usually safe enough," he was quick to reassure her, "but trouble can befall the unwary. What did his family think of it?"

He wished he'd had an opportunity to do some research; he knew her family name, but he hadn't had a chance to run a check on the local news services to find out what he could about her; it was a flaw, but one he didn't mind living with, because she was right here to ask questions of.

'Like me, he prefers to conduct business in person... He has been trading on the same route for almost twenty years... I know nothing about his family, I never bothered to find out.' She blushed a little at her admission. She was too interested in the sex and his charming words. 'We have been married for seven years now, and I think that if he was simply intending to leave me, this would be a ridiculously wasteful way of doing so...' The thought had crossed her mind, but she knew her husband too well for that.

Ilena considered for a while before continuing. 'I know that not all his trade contracts were entirely legitimate. I suppose I should have been upfront about that, but my intention is only to follow his trade route. I doubt I will need to do more research past the port authorities. I need to verify where, exactly, his ship disappeared.' Massive ships like the Lanterna did not suddenly vanish. If it had been destroyed, someone would have found the pieces by now and reported it.

She finished her sandwich and started on the apple, waiting for Taggart's reaction. She supposed that he would not be too pleased, and would have preferred to know that piece of information in advance.

Overall, she should really have kept closer tabs on her husband. With the idiocy that only love could create, Ilena had forgotten the potential embarrassment an errant husband could possibly create for her, if not her family. If she'd only known the details of his business better! But it was too late now. She had imagined that he would be as gallant and charming in business as in his personal life, and that was simply not true.

Taggart just nodded as she spoke, alternating between bites of sandwich and munching on apple slices. Shady dealings were nothing new to him; one way or another, that was generally how things were done on the Rim, so he was still in reasonably familiar territory. "I see, I see. Yes, that would make sense: locate where his ship disappeared and start from there. If we have to backtrack, we have no problems with that; we go where the clues lead us." He shook his head a bit, shaking himself out of that line of thought and smiling at her. "I'm sorry, I've just never been involved in an actual investigation before. Unless you count recon, which is similar, only less talking to people and more nightvision sensors."

"It's a little bit exciting for me, actually, because it's possibly the closest I'll get to some of my favorite films." The archaic term was still used occasionally, but he meant it more directly, too; a lot of his favorites were actually survivors from the ancient era of 2D projection technology. "I hope your resolution is a bit more prosaic, and not nearly so dramatic, however. That stuff is great to watch, but hell to live through." Certainly, that was his experience with war movies.

A thought then occurred to him and he tilted his head. "Only... I thought you would know more about his family. Isn't there usually some negotiation, mergers of business interests, all that sort of thing, between families of your class?" He flushed a little and bowed his head briefly, "or have I been watching too many cheap holodramas?"

Ilena laughed openly for the first time. 'You have watched too many cheap holodramas! No one marries outside my family, although we can marry in whoever we like.' She took a sip of water, still giggling a little. She had seen such dramas and generally had found them a good joke. 'Our wealth is too significant to divide, and if someone wants to marry outside, father formally disowns them. Whoever joins our family brings their wealth to us.'

And that was the deep secret behind the Kostukova family's success. Insane ultimatums had fared them well since Sergei Kostukov took one of the first outgoing ships from Earth and colonised the first planet that was deemed habitable. It was legendary. He turned the place into his own private kingdom and founded a dynasty. Salt, as that planet was nicknamed, was still officially their stronghold.

'My husband... All he owned was his ship, and he had many contacts. He was one of my contractors at first. Stupid man invited me for a drink...' She looked at the ceiling as she reminisced. 'He called me 'boss lady'. I was so surprised that I ended up agreeing and ended up in the cheapest bar on the Jewel.'