It was the space stations that allowed for humanity to expand so far, to observe and rest once lightspeed engines had been fully optimized. They were marvels, massive hunks of steel attached to various planets in orbit, armed with defense stations that kept asteroids and pirates at bay. Grandiose as some were, it often was a relief to finally make it to the destination. The space station's docking assistance sequence took hold, bringing Demagol and Zerimar's ship into port in a controlling manner. Massive steel panels shifted aside, revealing an opening that the ship was to be carried through. Motion detectors automatically closed the panels back up, initiating atmospheric stabilizers thereafter. While the vessel coasted its path toward the docking bay, Demagol and Zerimar went over their mission brief thus far.
"Where the hell are we again?" Asked Zerimar as he dropped the ship's speed so that it could safely touch down on their landing pad within the docking bay. "And who is our point of contact?"
"We're currently orbiting uhh.. Grezik. Medium-sized desert planet with a close metropolis." A ping clawed at the deepest recesses of Demagol's mind, which forced upon him a momentary pause until he forced his way past it. "Jeran Ulhan. Some sort of important guy for the local syndicate. Says that they'd be willing to put up big credit numbers if we do their job."
The sound of automated recordings echoed throughout the docking bay, which was remarkably busy. Even far out in the fringes of explored space there was enterprise. Explorers yearned to find semblances of other civilizations, trade goods, and potential for further growth. This often lead to tense relations between rivaling factions who were determined to expand their dominion. Grezik was no anomaly in this case.
"And what's the job? Are we supposed to be some sort of mercenary local muscle?" Zerimar was admittedly curious.
"It's one of your favorite types of missions, my friend."
"Oh- OH! So we're on a manhunt of sorts, no? What're the conditions?" Excitement was evident on the man's face.
"As far as I understand, yes, it's a manhunt. Capture. Alive." An audible chuckle resounded from Demagol as he finalized their docking sequence and dropped down the ramp for their ship. He stood up and powered their vessel down. "Let's get going. I'm tracking that our point of contact should be here to meet us on station- they didn't want to initiate negotiations planet side."
Almost childish with his giddiness, Zerimar was quick to accompany his partner as he murmured miniature plans to himself concerning the upcoming mission. The duo exited their spacecraft and made their way to the general reception area for the space station. Once there, they were met by a robotic, automated AI designed for navigation aid.
"Greetings Traveler, how may I assist you?" Rang the robot's voice.
"We need directions to Communal Hub, Sector B. We have someone we're meeting here." Demagol took the lead, considering Zerimar was still wrapped up in his little subconscious fantasy of potential schemes. Its response was impressively quick.
"Through corridor 1. Left. Right. Left. Pass through the market. Corridor 17 on the left will see you to your destination." The directions were listed off like a typewriter with no remedial pauses in between. "Would you like me to upload these to your local database?"
A dismissive handwave gesture was paired with Demagol's response, "No thank you, my memory suits me well enough these days." With Zerimar busy in his own head, Demagol wouldn't have to endure his belligerent quips for the next 10 to 15 minutes. "Let's go, Zerimar. I'm not sure how long our contact has been waiting."
They passed through the corridor and took the appropriate turns, Demagol sincerely thankful that he wasn't blowing smoke up anybody's ass when he said he could remember. Details to certain things in his head were murky, but he found that if he concentrated on the task at hand, he could stay afloat. Something was lingering in the depths of his conscious like a presence. A mark, a resonance that stayed just barely out of reach. Trapped in his thoughts, it was Zerimar who broke Demagol out of his subconscious trance.
"Don't like these markets, Demagol. Never know what these fuckin' people are up to, ya know?" The bustling center was filled with people from all measures of backgrounds, from commoners to wealthy, businessmen to soldiers and mercenaries. Shop stalls littered the place with both material payment and digital. For some, space was the perfect opportunity to make money. A man could find just about anything that he wanted in these places, but could also find everything that he didn't want as part of the bargain. Several holographic advertisements covered the walls and hung in the air, for goods, for transport, for people. "They're still selling bodies out here, huh? Fuckin' hell."
"Don't get it twisted, Zerimar. We sell our bodies too, just in a different way. Just keep your head on straight and watch your pockets. People like to lift from them in busy places like this." Demagol led the two of them past the market with scrutinizing eyes. Corridor 17 laid ahead and they passed through it.
"Here we are," Remarked Demagol as they entered the Communal Hub. A little quieter than their last location, but not by much. There were several bars, lounges, private rooms and rest areas throughout it. Locations like it were the main reason humans could keep on going. Sure, ones ship may be fueled up, but if the body and mind weren't in the proper condition, the journey could end in disaster.
"So how the fuck do we know we're meeting up with the right guy in the first place? Does he have a welcome sign held above his head or something? How are we gonna recognize him and make contact?" Zerimar rattled off the questions one after another and all Demagol could do was turn his head toward him and sigh.
"Calm your ass, man. These syndicate guys are pretty proud of themselves. They'll have a crest. Don't forget they're looking out for us too. Red crest with a sand dragon."
And like a specter, he appeared. Average male height. High faded black hair; well kept. Brown, almost black eyes. Professional looking, even. "Astral Phoenix and Comet Viper, a pleasure." The syndicate contact practically manifested out of thin air in front of them, hand extended for a greeting shake.
"Fuckin' Horzan balls! Where the fuck?!" Zerimar lurched back, caught by surprise. On the other hand, Demagol remained calm and took the man's hand in his, shaking it. "We're here to do business, Mr. Ulhan. Where are we conducting contract negotiations?"
"Follow me," The new man beckoned. "I've booked us time in a private room to discuss the finer points of this job. Don't want prying eyes, now do we?"
Forever?
Oh, my darling,
If only you could see what war has done to me.
Oh, my darling,
If only you could see what war has done to me.
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Cold Trails - by deific - 09-08-2020, 05:35 PM
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