Thread: 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.