"The plan is that we locate the death squad's roving camp, infiltrate it to free the hostages and cause as much damage on the way out as we can," Hug'sh says, leaving out the specifics. "Here's what I know and what I need all of us to understand," he adds. "One, we came here with a very specific mission in mind, planned before we knew the whole scope of the problems here. Two, we're capable of rescuing the hostages, but that will provoke some response from the Imperium. Three, whatever else needs to happen to free this planet from the Imperium is beyond what we can accomplish with the available resources. I don't know exactly what we could get done if we threw caution to the wind, but I know it won't be enough. And I'm not a fan of heroic sacrifices. I have a family to come home to and a bigger war to win."

He looks from Angel to Vasa.

"It's all well and good that there are probably exploitable tensions between the regular garrison and the death squad, and it's all well and good that you have three thousand people willing to rise up when you call upon them. But right now, those don't get us a free Gricanne. We have a choice to make. Do we proceed with the hostage rescue or do we not?"

Front Toward Enemy retracts its sensors at long last, caught in the fugue of spiraling drones and rumbling, ever-moving disassemblers. "Time to put those ident packets to use. I'd rather walk in and be there than sneak through those vents and have to stay hidden the entire time. Plus you're right - both those plans are better than dodging mining lasers." FTE figures their Turai IDs would work inside as well as outside, and if they didn't, it was better to find out now. "Send to the other team, tell them we're making contact."

Vasa crosses his arms and stares back up at Hug'sh. "What we want to know is how do you plan on doing it. We've both got friends who've got loved ones with a beamer to their heads in that camp. Bashakra'i are long on promises so far, and a noble, a Wherren, and a couple of toughs don't seem like the type that are about to change that."

Hug'sh nods to that.

"Very well," he begins. "Our last was that you have had no luck tracing the roving camp yourselves. Unless this is no longer the case, finding the camp is our first challenge - and arguably the most difficult. We must expand our sight. Our prospector cover should give us enough freedom to move about the desert. We will visit likely sites and plant sconces there, to register any movement in the vicinity and alert us. We expect that to take a few days in all. Once the camp is located, we will move close with whatever skimmers we can procure and learn as much about their defenses as we can - sensors, scouts, patrol patterns. We expect their physical security to be light and focused more on containing the hostages than to defend against an attack they believe cannot find them. When we have spotted our points of entry and exfiltration, we will proceed on foot."

He nods first to Arketta and Zaef, then to Angel.

"And he will cover our approach. Now, the assault itself. We are skilled in staying out of sight and removing sentries. As we make our way in, we will be distributing a generous amount of explosives throughout the camp. The details of how we remove the guards for the hostages will depend on how they have arranged their camp, but rest assured that this is our specialty. Once we have freed them, we will pick our way to our exfiltration point. And when we have cleared the blast radius, we will set off the explosives and turn the entire camp alongside its denizens into a fireball." He snorts. "Should we be discovered at any point, the explosions start sooner - as does our covering fire. The hostages are our primary objective, but we will take as many of the bastards as we can on the way out. We will not hesitate. We will not negotiate. We will grant no quarter." The red-yellow in his fur flares up like a gust of fresh oxygen blown straight into a furnace. "I earned my name learning that lesson."

He takes a breath and the burst of anger fades from his colors.

"After that, we will transport the hostages away on the skimmers. If the camp even gets off a distress signal, we do not expect the responders to show up with enough speed or numbers to challenge our escape. They will only find flames and corpses." He casts his eye from Vasa to Maarh. "Once we have left the hot zone and are certain that nobody is pursuing us, we will bring the hostages to whatever safe location you designate for us, and thereafter lie low until we can depart the planet again. That is our plan so far. I hope this answers both your question on the 'how' and your concerns about whether or not to put some faith in us. Unless you would rather we make a grandiose introduction of our names and titles? I've been told they draw quite the impression but I don't believe they would sway your opinion of us."

There's the Captain I know.

Angel's acceptance of the plan is - per usual - largely one of his silence. He does however speak up slightly in defense of still figuring out the dynamics of the local situation.

"A pissed off Turai officer is less likely to go barreling off in response to an alarm that could get her men killed too."

You and I both know people with the right uniform who we're not exactly eager to take a bullet for.

Hug'sh grunts his assent. "That is true," he says. "We won't know what the soil will bear until we sow. Whatever other information we can find out - and allegiances we can shift - during our search for the camp could be of use to us during our raid. I will take any edge we can get."

"So," Vasa asks, having taken in Hug'sh's speech and Angel's contribution, "who's doing what? The Turai know who we are, they're not likely to pop 'round for a friendly chat."

Hug'sh looks to Arketta and Angel. "Perhaps a former Turai or a charming noble will have an easier time of getting into Samal Ihan's good graces," he says, then turns to Zaef. "Which leaves us free to explore the wastes, I guess."

He looks to Vasa.

"We will need a way to stay in touch without meeting physically," he says. "Even if the Turai didn't follow you here, we don't need them associating you with us. One known encounter, we might play off as your desperate attempt to recruit well-funded offworlders into your struggle. I don't want to imagine what they'll do if they pick up our true scent, though."

Both Vasa and Maarh flick their vox codes to the group. "Done," Maarh grunts. "They're only on every hour, but we can set time and procedures for meeting up if we need to."

Hug'sh nods as he fumbles his way through the haptics for adding their codes to his vox shortlist.

"Vox codes will do for now," he says. "We'll let you know if there are any urgent issues, but other than that, expect our next call when we are ready to move on the camp. In the meantime, we will leave you to your business and you may leave us to ours."

He looks over to Vasa.

"And when the hostages are safe, we will discuss Grinacanne's future in earnest."

Angel nods at Hug'sh's suggestion.

"I did ask Samal Ihan for a map of where she'd prefer me not stick my nose. That presents a potential avenue asking for a followup meeting. Either that, or filing a flight plan with her that's...mostly alright, but strays into a few places that," he nods to Vasa and Maarh, "you think might not set off alarms, but would be met with 'could you not?'."

"Probably wouldn't be too bright to advertise your intentions officially, sunshine," Vasa says. "You sure you've done this before?"

Angel looks at Vasa evenly.

"That you've mistaken faking an innocent mistake to look like a team player trying to keep his nose clean in order to score a few cheap points with a potential point of friction between the two groups you're trying to fight as 'advertising my intentions' might make me ask the same question of you...sunshine."

"But if its going to take getting into a pissing match with you to get things moving, I'm happy to indulge you."

Vasa steps up. "You Bashakra'i come here and get yourselves killed all the time, I just figured you might need some advice. I've been dodging Turai sweeps and death squads for years, what the fuck have you done?"

Angel looks at Hug'sh and shrugs.

"I tried big fella."

He sits back down, the casual manner not particularly affected - Angel's just Angel, and Angel is lazy until he needs not to be, and it also does a number on Vasa's bluster that Angel simply. doesn't. care.

"I'm not Bashakra'i. I'm Terran."

He lets that sink in for just a moment.

"My name is Angel Kesh. Some particularly creative types came up with "The Killing Wind" if that helps. Three years ago I got my introduction to the lovely little empire you all are fighting in a way that ended with with a dead Khiraba and a messed up knife. I was there for the liberation of Whiirr. Me and the rest of the 815 broke into the Repository of the Benevolent Spirits, kicked in the doors of the Halls of Tranquility and the Heavenly Purity itself, killed an Avatar of the Emperor and escaped through the Black Gate. Helped rediscover the Sheen and brought those charming little kill-bots back into the fold. Helped exfiltrate folks from several different Imperial-held worlds, have been a major stakeholder in an industrium under their nose some time now."

He motions to Hug'sh, Zaef and Arketta. "And these are my friends. Zaef Utari - Bloodwraith if you were an Arena fan, who is definitely better with a knife than I am. Arketta Quis - also known as Tarnisher of the Scarlet Banner, again if you're of a poetic mind, and the finest soldier I've ever charged headlong into the Black Gate with, and Hug'sh Walks-the-Fire. Whose story is long and complicated and full of nuance and tenderness that I don't think is required to finish making my point."

"General Walks-the-Fire, for the Free Wherren," Hug'sh adds. "I have been avoiding the topic as I would much prefer that we prove ourselves with deeds, not words. But knowing who we are now, I hope you can see yourself to putting some faith in us, despite all." He smiles. "You sent for help. We're here. Let's get this done."

“Right,” Vasa says, looking...well, “respectful” might not be in his personal vocabulary, but “duly impressed” seems to be, at least. “‘Bout First-damned time we got some proper backup. You want us to steer clear while you go make friendly with the ‘good’ Turai, you got it.”
Maarh seems more duly impressed, and his fur ruffles once more as he looks to Hug’sh. “And whatever you need from us, just message me directly.”
“Subtle,” Vasa says.

---

Ibash

There’s a small park plaza out in front of the luxury hotel Garrett, Swims-the-Black, Luis and Hale are staying in, shared with three other similarly high-class hotels that surround it. With skimmers, access roads aren’t really a thing, and so the park is simply fenced in on all sides by the hotels, producing a circular well with a well manicured green space at the bottom. It’s still nighttime, but between the city glow and the narrow view of the sky, no stars are visible above, simply an inky blackness. Off in the distance, the exhibition is winding down for the night, while Garrett and Swims-the-Black walk in a circle around the park, very conspicuously not doing anything in particular. It’s up to Luis to work the surveillance equipment pointed in their direction up above, and now keep Hale under control as the party drugs work their way through his system.

”What do you and your mate plan to do once all this is done?” Garrett asks.
”Haven’t thought much about it,” Swims says. ”I...I am not sure if we are at that point yet.”
”The point where you both enjoy spending time together doing something relaxing?” Garrett asks, raising an eyebrow at Swims. ”You have to do something, Swims-the-Black. Take some time, go visit the shipkid. Isn’t he at Stanford now or something?”
”Some fancy Narsai’i research place,” Swims-the-Black says. ”But visiting Narsai…”
”Okay, maybe not out in the wild on Narsai, but you can invite him to visit you at the village,” Garrett points out. ”Or visit Whiirr, or Boranai…”
Swims grunts. ”Perhaps. But...I don’t know.”
”Still not comfortable being close to her?” Garrett asks.
”Yes,” Swims replies. ”And I know that it’s not rational or necessary, but...I cannot help but feel this tightness in my chest when I think about being close with her. It’s...it is aggravating.”
”Yeah, I understand,” Garrett says, reaching up to pat his best friend on his shoulder. ”But you want to, yeah?”
”Very much so,” Swims replies with a ruffle of fur.
”Then if you need someone to kick you in the ass to do what you want to do, let me know,” Garrett replies.
Swims chuckles. ”If history is any lesson, then I won’t need to ask.”
Garrett smiles back. ”I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

(Luis Surveillance: 2d10 vs. 1d8 = 6 vs. 6)

Upstairs, Luis is very glad that most of his brain was scooped out and replaced with a cogitator, because if he had to run the surveillance equipment with his actual hands, the fact that Hale’s inhibitions are still turned very much off would make this very difficult.
Hale’s hands wrap around Luis’ chest from behind. “How much do you lift?”
“Enough,” Luis says. “Can you go sit and drink your water while they bring a detox kit?”

(Luis Talk vs. Hale Will: 2d8+1d6 vs. 2d8 = 7 vs. 6)

“Fine,” Hale pouts, and slides back onto the bed to suck down another glass of water. He’s sweating so hard his clothes look like he climbed out of the shower, and the red flush from the party drugs is showing even through his brown skin. “I’m so thirsty…”

The sconce stuck on the building’s exterior outside their window scans across the plaza, the feed in Luis’ mind as a third eye. Between keeping an eye on Hale, an eye on the door, and an eye on the plaza, Luis almost misses a phalanx of six, lead by Zaakon Quaj, walk out of the building opposite Garrett and Swims-the-Black and fan out into the plaza.

“Garrett, you’ve got six coming your way,” Luis says. “Quaj and company.”
“Copy,” Garrett says. Swims merely grunts into the link in response.

By the time Quaj reaches Garrett and Swims-the-Black, he appears to be all by himself. “You and your associate have made yourselves…”
“Interesting?” Garrett ventures.
“Obnoxious,” Quaj says. “Whatever you have done, it’s got three industria spinning up new lines in anticipation of business.”
“I think you know,” Garrett says. “And it’s four, Toa is just...a little slow.”
“Probably sleeping off his bender,” Quaj spits. “Mantas, then? Whatever part of the galaxy you’re from must be very far from here, because I have not heard of a large heist of Manta restricted parts by pirates.”
“Rule No. 1, blame somebody else,” Garrett says. “Good pirates get famous stealing something as hot as Turai restricted containers, great pirates make it look like the Bashakra’i did the job.”
“Hmph,” Quaj replies.
“So what does Voath’s tarantek want?” Garrett asks.
”And let’s not pretend you came here alone,” Swims-the-Black barks.
“You’ll have to translate for your beast,” Quaj says.
“He says that your friends should come out from behind the bushes they’re hiding behind,” Garrett says.
Quaj shrugs, and waves for his guards to stand up. Four of them do.
”All of them,” Swims growls, fur turning red.
That one doesn’t need translating. Quaj waves again, and two more stand up as all six walk into a phalanx behind Quaj.
“Six guards?” Garrett asks.
“You brought an Alef-ka,” Quaj points out.
”He should have brought more,” Swims sneers, orange replacing red.

(Luis Surveillance: 2d10+1d8 vs. 2d10 = 4 vs.

The knock on the door almost doesn’t penetrate Luis’ sensorium, but Hale does. “Heeey! Hey, there’s someone at the door!” Hale shouts.
“Offline here for a moment. Watch yourselves,” Luis says, and stands back from the desk. He takes a moment to survey the room, thankful again he doesn’t have to run the surveillance gear with controls scattered across the table, and goes to the door. “With any luck, this is the detox for you,” he says to Hale.

The door slides open to reveal an older woman in a simple uniform. “Your delivery, sir,” she says with a bow, offering a sealed foil bag to him.

“Thank you,” Luis says, accepting the bag. The door slides shut again, giving Luis a chance to rip open the bag, which just contains a simple syringe and a printed sheet of instructions on white plastic. Clean the shoulder, remove the cap, insert the needle all the way, and the autoinjector does the rest. An automatic instinct of paranoia or diligence leads him to take a quick double-check over it, but the product matches a quick Cortex search, and the instructions check out.

“All right, Hale, you’re up,” Luis says. He gets ready, just in case now is when Hale decides to not want to hang around.
“Fine,” Hale says. The drugs have gone from making him amourous to tired, and honestly looking a little green around the gills.
Luis steps through the instructions, cleaning Hale’s sleeve and wiping it down before lining up the needle and letting the auto-injector go to work.
“Ok, let that cook, I’ve got to get back on monitoring,” Luis says.

(Garrett Notice: 2d10 vs. 2d8 = 7 vs. 5)

“So, what do you want to talk about?” Garrett asks. “You already know about our business plans. I’m sure Voath has already told you what we told her.”
Quaj nods. “Of course, but basic business negotiations lectures taught me to never take the opening offer of an opponent at face value.”

The back of Garrett’s neck feels itchy. Quaj is awfully confident for a guy standing in front of a pirate and his Alef-ka sidekick. He taps Swims-the-Black’s foot behind him, and he takes the opportunity to scan for threats.

“I want to know how you’re going to fuck us,” Quaj says.
“Now, that’s not polite to say -” Garrett starts.
“You are a pirate,” Quaj says, his tone darkening. “You literally make your living double-crossing people for your own profit. Do not lecture me on appropriate behavior.”
“Fair,” Garrett says.

(Swims-the-Black Notice: 2d10 vs. 1d10 = 10 vs.

Swims scans the windows above the meeting place. Most of them are dark or have their blinds drawn, but there’s a few that are open. One of them, in particular, has the window open, blinds spread apart, and is just far enough around the circle for it to have a perfect field of fire on the meeting. As Swims gives it the side eye, he even catches a bit of a shimmer on the blinds. His hand hidden behind Garrett’s back and his own bulk, he slides through a haptic to send a group message to the team. Probable sniper, quarter around to the right

Leaving Hale to slouch back on the bed, Luis pulls the surveillance feeds back up in his virtual vision. “I’m back online, I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Well, the plan isn’t to fuck Voath, if that’s what you care about,” Garrett says. “You’re carrying a lot of dead weight here, and no one will miss them. And I hear that you’ve got an uppity partner that could stand to be put in her place?”

(Garrett Talk: 2d10+1d6 vs. 3d8 = 9 vs.

Quaj grunts. “That we do.”
“Well, think of us as your opportunity to cut sling load and lighten your cruise,” Garrett says with a smile. “Masters know that every so often you gotta dump some dead weight out the airlock.” The smile takes on an edge. “Of course, if anyone gets any bright ideas, we have an insurance policy. One that gets you and everyone else strapped to the grids until your neurons sizzle.”
“Naturally,” Quaj says. He pauses. “I will want to see proof you can follow through.”
“Container’s in deep storage, it doesn’t show up until the lines are ready,” Garrett replies. “You don’t want this being around Gateways, it’s a little hot.”
“Plans, then,” Quaj says. “We need the plans in hand.”
Garrett thinks for a moment. “That, I can do. I’ll need to make arrangements for secure transmission.”
“End of business tomorrow,” Quaj said. His tone indicated it wasn’t negotiable.
“Give me an address,” Garrett says. “Hopefully we’ll have a decision by then?”
“We shall see,” Quaj replies.

Tuning the surveillance systems in, Luis finds the possible sniper has made a possible mistake - they’ve left their carapace’s vox access open where he can get to their networks. He starts with their communications link. “This has been nice and friendly so far. To keep it that way, turn off your stealth and back away from that window."

(Luis Intimidate: 2d8 vs. 1d8 = 7 vs. 6)

There's a click as the vox channel closes. Luis can see Quaj turn his head reflexively, just long enough to give away that he's getting a surprise.
"Do we have a problem?" Garrett asks, his grin sharper than Swims-the-Black's even taking into account the Wherren's dental advantage.

(Garrett Intimidate: 3d10 vs. 3d8 = 9 vs.

"No, we do not," Quaj replies. He waves his hand, and Luis sees the window close. "You're smarter than your average pirate, whoever you are. Most wouldn't have spotted them, and more would have shot first."
"We're here to make a whole lot of money, starting off shooting people isn't the best way to do that," Garrett says. "But rest assured that we can settle things...less amicably if it comes to that."
"Hmph," Quaj says.
Garrett turns around and starts walking back to the door leading back to their hotel, having established who's running the show at this meeting. "Send me the vox address for the plans, and next time, no surprises."

“It looks like that one cleared out, the window’s closed,” Luis confirms over the team comms. “Can’t say there’s not others, but I’m keeping an eye out. Quaj looks angry enough to stab you with his eyes, though.”
“Good,” Garrett says. “We want him ready to kill us while Voath loves us.” The doors slide open in front of Garrett and Swims. “The more they’re at each other’s throats, the less they’ll be interested in cutting ours.”

“You are out of your First-damned mind,” Brinai shouts. Garrett had thankfully had the foresight to turn on the security protocols on their business-grade hotel suite, and so it’s only Garrett, Swims-the-Black, Hale (who is in the shower to keep cool and clean as the detox “cleans” him out), and Luis (who is making sure that Hale doesn’t fall or drown himself in the shower cubicle) that hear her. “You are asking me to take an already unstable situation and splash reactant all over it. No, Garrett. Absolutely not.”
“The Throne are our best chance to actually get this cabal taken down,” Garrett argues.
“So will a bunch of beamer shots,” Brinai argues back. “You’ve already started to get them wound up, it shouldn’t take much more to have them shooting at each other in the streets.”
“Yes, where a lot of innocent people will get shot up too,” Garrett points out. “If we get this done clean, it’ll make it that much easier for our agents to operate more freely.”
“Not if the First-damned Throne are running around!” Brinai replies. “Bello, Paul, what do you say?”
“I say it sounds like another Garrett Davis special,” Paul replies.
Bello pauses, then sighs. “I see what Garrett is talking about. You want to open a line.”
“He wants to what?” Brinai cries.
“The Throne on Hedion, they cared far more about keeping order and peace than busting Haralin Arakuna,” Garrett says. “And from what I’ve gathered, they actually take their job as secret police and internal security seriously - and if Perus and his team on Hedion are any indication, there might be an opening for us, given how Thrax’s response to any wavering or disloyalty tends to involve death quads and firing lines. I want to start a dialog with the Throne, throw them something that shows we’re not the bad guys.”
“But we are the bad guys to them,” Paul points out. “Since, you know, we’re trying to overthrow the Emperor.”
“That’s going to make things interesting, yes,” Garrett says. “But I think it’s worth a try. Bello, what do you think? You’ve been awfully quiet.”

There’s another pause. “I think it’s worth a shot,” Bello says.
“I cannot believe this,” Brinai says.
“The Throne have always been the best informed of anyone in the Imperium, and Garrett’s report from Hedion indicated that some of their agents, at least, will put the good of the people ahead of protecting the Emperor’s stooges,” Bello says. “If we are going to tear down the Emperor, we will need the help of those holding him up eventually.” He pauses. “But you do know that they will be trying to capture you while they accept your help, yes?”
“I’d be insulted if they didn’t,” Garrett says.
“Then what I would want to know is if everyone there is accepting of that risk,” Bello says. “Sorry, Garrett, but your enthusiasm can get the better of you.”
”I saw the Throne in action,” Swims-the-Black says. ”They are ruthless and thorough, but they all had their eyes open to how things really were out there, not what the Emperor said it was. I think it’s worth a try.”
“It’s an added risk,” Luis says. “On the other hand, just like it’ll constrain our operations, it’ll constrain the operations of the cartel - they’ll have to be worried about hiding what they’ve got going on instead of just tracking us. It’s got a lot of potential to blow up, but maybe we can keep that explosion pointed in the right direction.”
There’s a bit of silence. “Hale?” Bello asks.
“Sure, whatever,” Hale gasped, then gulped as he tried to keep his stomach from dry heaving again.
“Hale had a bad encounter with some strong party drugs and is detoxing,” Garrett adds.
All three Bashakra’i on the other end suck in a breath through their teeth. “I remember making that mistake,” Paul says.
“Wish him well for us, Garrett,” Bello says.

“Will do,” Garrett says. “So, we’re all on board here, mostly. The vox address?”
“Fine,” Brinai grouses, and a moment later Garrett gets a ping from Bello.
“Good luck,” Bello says.
“You’re gonna fucking need it,” Paul adds.

Grinacanne

It’s a tough balance to strike when you first meet up with what the spook would call a “potential contact”, Angel finds, especially when that contact doesn’t know she’s about to be contacted. He’s got his rifle, compacted down to backpack size but ready to pop out at a moment’s notice, but that might be too aggressive. He could go more or less unarmed save a knife tucked into his clothes, but that probably fails to communicate that this particular noble has been around the galaxy enough times to never go anywhere not somewhat strapped. That leaves his pistol - the sleek chrome Imperial-made handgun still eats .45 ACP (thank you, lazy industrium designers), looks like a hybrid between a 1911, a USP SOCOM, and a Transformer, and sits ever so nicely at his hip. The holster hovers just below his waistband like it was made to go there, which it literally was, down to the custom-placed loops in his pants keeping the holster within quick reach without jangling or restricting his leg like a drop holster would. Tangesa really does think of everything.

Arketta walks in, pantaki attached to the hip of her pants by the built-in magnetic hardpoints in her Turai skinsuit underneath, and a new addition - a Turai shortsword at her other side.
“What’s the plan?” Arketta asks. “Just wander around until we spot her, or something a bit more direct?”

“She’s going to find us.” Angel grins. “There’s no way she doesn’t have us flagged. We file a flight plan that’s just on the right side of pushing it, we make some engine noise, pack at a stately and leisure-like pace that suggests I’m far too rich to be in a hurry…” That bit, conveniently, being true, “...and we hope the expression she has one when she jogs out to the tarmac is concerned rather than annoyed.”
“And if it’s some other Turai that shows up to shout at us?” Arketta asks.

“Then I make some grumbling noises about ‘productive working relationships’, we do what they say, and I’ll kick up a fuss some other way. That, or we wander around until we find her, taking in the sights of this *delightful* little mining town.”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” Arketta says. “Well, do you...have a flight plan ready? I just pretend to be a shipmaster.”

Angel chuckled and nodded. “We do have one. Worked it out with our...new friends. It should be enough - doesn’t go near anything that should be an exclusion zone, but if you’re the type of person who doesn’t want to pick through the wreckage of a downed craft because some asshole got into pot-shot range of some rebels...or equally isn’t interested in ‘Did he or did he not get a sensor read’?, it should do the trick.” Angel idly waved his hand. “And it’s filed.”
“Then let’s go annoy the local Turai,” Arketta says with a smile.

Angel’s plan works - almost a little too well. Waiting at their skimmer the next block over is Samal Ihan and the rest of her patrol trin. One of them has a gatecrasher plugged into their skimmer, presumably in the process of locking Angel and Arketta out of it. “Mr. Jonmai, I thought we had an understanding,” Ihan says. “You stay to the safe parts of the map, out of trouble, and we never need to speak again. You have not kept to you part of the bargain, and so I must break mine.”

Angel is quietly pleased that his ability to annoy officers appears to still be finely honed. “Samal Ihan, this is unexpected.” It wasn’t, but that was to polite fiction he was sticking to. Nodding his head in acknowledgement, he seems entirely unannoyed by this turn of events.

“My apologies. I did intend to keep my word - I prefer a good working relationship with the local Turai, rather than an antagonistic one. I suspect...you and I might have differing notions of what the ‘safe part’ of a map is?”

He holds his hands out in apology. “I’ll admit I was being a little ambitious. Let me make it up to you, in exchange for a...properly annotated map with your working definition of safe?”

(Angel Talk: 2d8+1d6 vs. 2d8 = 4 vs. 4)

“Then I would stick to the map I provided for you, Mr. Jonmai,” Ihan says. “But you already knew that when you filed your flight plan. You want my attention, Mr. Jonmai, you have it. Unless there is a reason you pulled this little stunt beyond trying to annoy the local Turai, I would return to your hotel. You’re grounded for today.”

“Of course there is another reason beyond annoying you,” Angel says. “I’m poorly served by annoying you in a professional capacity, and if I wanted your attention specifically...well, we aren’t children, I don’t need to tug at your hair or call you names to let you know.” Angel’s tone was level - not arrogant, but not not arrogant. “I built that flight plan carefully. It flirts with your restrictions, but doesn’t go far past that. It would annoy you.” He paused for a moment. “But you aren’t the only representative of Imperial military authority on this planet, are you Samal? I had hoped they would be the ones to come and lecture me - partially because that would mean they were stupid, and stupid is often easier to work with. Regrettably they - and you - are proving disappointing in that regard. As I said before, I’m here to get the lay of the land. And this has been useful for that, if not what I was hoping for.”

He smiled, genuinely. “But you do have my apologies for taking up your time. Let me make it up to you - pick a restaurant in town and I’ll make sure you and your troops get a proper meal on the house.”
“That’s not necessary, Mr. Jonmai,” Ihan says. “But let me give you some advice - you don’t want to meet the other Turai on this planet. They’re not here to lock your skimmer down and give you a warning.”
Angel shakes his head. “No, they aren’t. Though that’s one of the reasons I’d like to meet them. It’s been my experience that they are rarely a...stabilizing influence on the situation. But there are genres. The thugs looking for an excuse to hurt someone - the kind of men you’d try to shuffle out of your command as quickly as possible before they did something that would haunt your conscience. The true believers. The odd consummate professional dead-eyed killer. But as distasteful as they are, they are an important factor for the business climate here. It tells me things like...how likely it is the local government is going to wake up to find their throats slit one night because they asked the wrong question.” He shrugged. “As I said, this has been informative. If disappointing. I do mean that though about dinner. The offer stands.” He turns to his compatriots, making a quick circle with his finger. “Shut it down. Poor day for flying.”

Samal Ihan steps up to Angel. “What are you really doing here, Mr. Jonmai?”
The man smiles evenly. “I am inviting you to ask me to help you. Also offering you a free meal.”
“I don’t see how you could help us,” Ihan says. “We don’t need another rich noble coming in here and throwing money around, and you don’t want to get in bed with the other Turai here, believe me.”
“Who said anything about throwing money around?” Angel steps past her, setting a hand on her shoulder for a moment. “This is obviously a shit show. I’m offering a hand. Take it if you want. If not...enjoy a free dinner while the planet burns.”

(Angel Persuade: 2d8+1d6 (Tycoon)+1d6 (WD) vs. 1d8 = 6+5 vs. 7)

Ihan pauses, then shakes Angel’s hand off her shoulder. “I don’t take bribes, Mr. Jonmai. But if you want to talk...we can do so somewhere else.” She looks back to the other two members of her trin. “Half hour. My trin and I will meet you in the conference room of the hotel.”
Angel smiles gently. “It’s charming that you think dinner constitutes a bribe. You may be the first soldiers I’ve ever met resolute in the face of free food. Wonders never cease. Half an hour it is.”
“Some Turai still believe that the law applies to them as much as anyone else,” Ihan says. “We are supposed to be the last bulwark against chaos and dissolution. We cannot do that if we do as we please.” She nods to Angel. “As you were, Mr. Jonmai.”
“A noble sentiment. But sometimes bulwarks need reinforcing. See you in thirty Samal.”