In Coromaur's Debt - Part 6.

Fur fluffed and nerves on edge, Viper had managed to cut a path into an even heavily trafficked section of Coromaur's Outpost. Desperately he sought to calm himself, it wouldn't due to allow rash impulses to affect his behavior here. The merchants that did their business here were well known to deal in illicit goods and services, which meant caution could be the deciding factor between life and death. It also meant that anyone looking for black market goods and services would make this a must see spot, which was just about anyone who came to Coromaur's Outpost.

According to an old rumor that had circulated GhostNet, there was a vendor that operated a stall here known to deal in all manner of oddities and curiosities, going by the name Dallas. Considered by most to be antiques, psicraft shells were generally only sought after by collectors. The shells themselves were little more than projectiles that had been imprinted with a single use psionic power that required both a specialized firearm to use them and drew on the very life force of the user to power them. Because of this they fell out of use over the years, since they could render the user unconscious as easy as deliver an effective attack.

"This has to be the places," Viper groaned silently to himself. Before him set what looked like an alleyway or small corridor that had grown into an assorted collection of junk. To the naked eye it didn't even seem to adhere to any form of organization, even items on makeshift shelves followed no pattern or design. Setting amidst the collected chaos a slim young man with a strange yellow woven hat was perched atop a wooden beam with triangular legs at either end. Viper was willing to bet that that had to be Dallas, and the confusion was an easy security measure. Without him no one would manage to locate anything they sought.

As Viper approached the woven hat was pushed back and a warm pair of brown eyes looked up to greet him. "What can I do ya for," the youth said with a smile, a drawl clearly present in his accent. "Looking for anythin' particular, mutt? Er, sorry, don't get too many Lobain passin' through." Offering his hand he added, "name's Dallas."

"Well, Dallas," Viper returned the handshake and decided to get straight to business. "Maybe you can help me out." Gingerly he produced a small metal case and flicked it open to reveal a handful of thick blank cylinders. "Ever seen anything like this? See I am a collector, and always looking to pick up new additions. Just a curiosity really, wondered if you might have had any pass through your selection of merchandise." Viper tried his best to remain as nonchalant as he could, knowing that if Dallas did have any psicraft shells it could be beneficial if he wasn't aware of their value. Unfortunately, Dallas's face became a clear sign that it wasn't working.

"Mister, you must be a sore hand at cards, cause you can't bluff worth spit. You and me both know those are psicraft shells, and judging by the Mark VIII on your hip and the fact you came here looking for shells means you are user, not a collector. Now, for argument's sake, let's say I might still have some on hand from my last acquisition. Now, were that the case, and you were interested let's cut though the waste and just lay it all on the table." Dallas slapped an oil-cloth wrapped package on the table and fixed his eyes on Viper. "Hard coin only friend."

Reaching down, making sure he moved slow, Viper unwrapped the package. It's semi-sweet oily smell immediately his nose, and revealed four large cylinders. "Looks like a pair of concussions, maybe a mind dart, and what this other one here, a nova maybe?" Viper scratched at his muzzle, four was better than none and the nova alone would be a handy addition if he ever dared try to use it. Wishing Dallas had more on hand he looked up and immediately knew the merchant was aware he had him on the hook.

"Well, well now, looks like we got us a shopper over here!" Dallas cooed as her slapped at his knee. "I'd let the whole lot go for the low price of, let's say an even 800, now mind, that's cause your such a friendly and honest fellow. So what'll it be, friend, you a buyer or a walker?" Viper swallowed hard, that would cut dangerously into his remaining funds. But on the other hand, the additions to his arsenal might prove a valuable resource should he land into a tight spot. If the job went well, he could always find more work with Coromaur, right?

After a moment's hesitation, Viper produced the stack of coins and claimed the purchased package. So with Dallas counting a pile of fresh coin in his lap, Viper slipped back into the crowd to make for his jumper. Ghost-Face should be ready by now and he needed to be getting on with his job. Looking up with a satisfied grin, Dallas shook his head at the disappearing back of his recent patron. "Best of luck friend, something tells me your gonna need it."

In Coromaur's Debt - Part 5.

"Alright, so," Viper muttered to himself as he stepped out of the flow of the bustling crowd. "Checklist," with the simple command a list was brought up and displayed in the corner of his vision. As he reviewed his rough agenda he tried to estimate both remaining time and funds left to him. "Ship's being refueled and they should have the regulator changed out in about an hour." Not able to help himself, Viper absent-mindedly began ticking things of with his fingers. "That leaves a good 3-4 hour margin to try and manage a visit to the cyberdoc's and to check on that lead on psicraft shells. Hmmm... "

Double-checking his bearings, Viper referenced the Outpost's layout again and tried to navigate his way back through the commotion of commerce. This was part of his visit he could do without, he hated the herd-like feel of so many others in such close proximity. Viper couldn't wait to get back to the safe solitary comfort of Ghost-Face.

Quickly Viper found himself irritated by the stressful business of navigating around so many strangers. One more innocent bump and he was sure he might snap. Distracted so he almost walked right past half-lit sign that hung over an open door way proclaiming it to be 'Doc Henson's', his destination. Glad to get out of the corridor Viper jumped at the chance and entered . No receptionist greeted the new arrival, and more shockingly, no sign of bodyguard was present. Stepping out from a sheet of plastic covered in traces of gore and old oil hung like a curtain came a tall and lean old man. Wiping his hands on his shirt he then turned to adjust a pair of glasses set atop his nose and began to study Viper.

Glasses, Viper halted, his mind reeling in shock as if he had just waltzed into some terrible joke. This guy was going to be handling his 'ware, and he didn't even have a simple pair of cyber-eyes if his vision had degraded enough to require glasses. No one he could think of ever having met had wore glasses, it was just absurd. How could he trust this guy much less consider his services anything at all serious or professional? Considering his pressingly short supply of time, Viper swallowed what little pride he had and decided not to try and seek out another cyberdoc. Besides, it wasn't like he was looking for prototype implants or anything exotic.

"Hey, old-timer, you Doc Henson?" Viper decided to forgo hiding his disdain, and go with his normal blunt approach. "I need to have some work done on this ol' arm of mine and I'm short on time. It's got some bugs and a slight mod, but hasn't seen routine maintenance in a good while." A hawk like gaze was still trained on Viper, he could almost feel himself being analyzed in such detail he was certain would of put scanners to shame. This had to be the doc, he'd of been willing to bet on it. "So you going to fetch the doc or ply your trade, I got pressing business. "

"Right," said the old man quietly to himself as he approached Viper, making sure to push his glasses back up his nose. As he gripped the cybernetic limb he spoke, mostly it seemed to himself. "This arm needs more than a quick mend. You have blown at least two motors and a few limit switches, at least." Looking up he brought the weight of his gaze right into Viper's eyes, like a disappointed grandfather it made a growing ember of shame ignite within Viper. "That is why you no-doubt get a whine and a tick every time you extend arm and judging by the hack job here this 'mod' you refer to can't keep that overly obvious pistol mount powered." Doc Henson's stare never wavered, "don't run your mouth boy if you don't know what's under the hood. There is more to skill than a few simple tricks stuffed up your sleeve, especially those that only work half the time." Doc motioned over to an old chair behind the curtain; "If you want this mess straightened out and done proper, then have a seat. It'll be 200 Regals hard coin, I don't take credits."

Swallowing what remained of his wounded pride, Viper took a moment to gulp, accepted the seat and offered up the coin. Doc Henson truly knew his trade, in a matter of minutes he had already replaced worn out components and was setting about to calibrate everything. By the time he was done not only was the limb mended but also moving smoother than Viper ever recalled it doing before. Once he got to the implanted weapon mount he couldn't hide a chuckle though. "Just who is responsible for this mess? And is this an old Viper sidearm?" Reluctantly, Viper acknowledged his own handiwork, not to mention the irony in it's choice. "It was all I had handy at the time," he cited as explanation.

Whistling Doc set himself to re-wiring the tangled nest, "See here's your problem." Tapping with his probe he pointed at some worn wires. "You keep shorting out the power feed from your arm's direct line. Let's see, if we rewire in this micro-gen unit, that should do you for awhile. Won't give you unlimited use, but if you manage to stop back in when you have more time I can maybe do more." Cleaning his hands on an old rag, Doc turned back around to give one last look over his handiwork. "You ever think about upgrading to a newer model?"

"Thanks, Doc, but you could say there's some sentimental attachment here. I must say your an artist of your craft." Rising Viper added, "Need to be on my way, and I'd like to apologize for before." With a nod the Doc waived him off as Viper turned to regard his mended arm while he walked back out the door.

In Coromaur's Debt - Part 4.

Viper awoke with start, a glow lamp dangling by a few wires flickered above his head, threatening to extinguish itself at any moment. "That last shell must of takin' more out of me than I thought." Half-standing he stretched as best he could, remembering for once to keep his head ducked. The last thing he needed right now was a concussion to add to his throbbing head. Sniffing, he reminded himself that a quick clean up might be in order.

Reaching for a hand-held nozzle he pressed the button to activate what served him as his on-board hygiene facilities, only to be reminded that it too was in desperate need of repair. "Guess it can wait," he mumbled as he reached for a fresh shirt. His little jumper had weathered through it's fair share, and like Viper both were in desperate need of an overhaul. Perhaps this job would be a change in luck, maybe he could find his way into good graces with Coromaur and manage steady work for a change.

Grumbling Viper's stomach protested it's lack of attention, demanding his focus. Now, with fresh coin in hand it seemed odd to be able to just simply go buy himself a meal. Not only that, but the realization that once he had had his fill that he could also repeat the process soon was entirely comforting. "Alright," he told his hungry belly, "I'll see to you and then we'll get to work." Wouldn't do to waste too much time, not when Coromaur had been so gracious and forgiving. Five minutes or not, they had done a serious number on the pub, not to mention it's clientele. To still have his fur intact was a blessing from the all the tribes.

From the docks the pub was a short walk, and the only place in the whole of the outpost he already knew how to get to. Grunting, Viper stepped out of Ghost-Face's makeshift hatch and mimed entering a security code on it's exterior panel, one he knew had never really worked. But nobody else would know that, and assumed security is better than nothing. Not that anyone would see much worth in his small little scrap-pile jumper.

The outposts' pub was just like he remembered it, same smells and all. Viper couldn't imagine how the got rid of all the blood and scorch marks, but somehow they had. New bartender though, shame what had happened to the previous one too. He had probably screamed more than anyone Viper had ever seen before, even in his time in the penal colonies. For the life of him though he couldn't recall who it was who had actually killed the poor portly guy.

Shrugging, Viper found an empty seat and ordered himself a bowl of hot nutra-noodles, determined to both put it out of mind as well as appease his gut's grip on him. Wolfishly he caved to his hunger and devoured the generous portion he had requested.  Wagering himself satisfied enough to wrest dominion away from his appetite Viper placed an oblong plastic rectangle on the table and waved his hand over it. The little mini-comm's holo-vid display sprang to life, awaiting his commands. Mindful of eavesdroppers Viper called up his optical overlay to ensure his business remained for his own.  Repeatedly he reviewed the data Coromaur had supplied him, and repeatedly all he could determine was this had to be just like he had said; nothing more than a courier run. Undoubtedly it was illegal or stolen goods, but something that small couldn't hold any weapon or dangerous item he could think of. It'd have to be some curiosity or valuable knick-knack, Coromaur seemed the type to collect unusual trinkets and the like.

According to the information, Viper had to rendezvous with a transport vessel about 10 hours out and present them with documentation Coromaur had provided that validated him as the next courier and deliver the cargo to a designated location. Before he could do that he needed to refuel and get a new deuterium regulator. If he hurried he could might be able to manage it with some time to spare, there were a few personal things he needed to see to if possible. For one his cyberarm was in bad shape, it's dull tetrasteel frame had seen better days and was in sore need of maintenance.  It had proven a useful replacement for his mangled original arm, but he hadn't been able to afford it's upkeep in a long while. And if he wasn't mistaken, he recalled a rumor about a vendor on Coromaur's Outpost that was known to deal in psicraft shells. His supply for his Mark VIII was dwindling and anytime he could locate some of the increasingly rare ammo became a priority.

"Best get to work," Viper remarked to the empty air. With a gesture he pulled up a public layout of the Outpost. "Highlight cybernetic maintenance,  ship repair, and reference local merchants known to deal in antique weapons or psicraft shells." Mentally he tried to memorize rough directions to the marked sites as his overlaid vision cut in and out. The curse of cheap implants he noted and prepared to get to work.

In Coromaur's Debt - Part 3.

Conscious gradually crawled it's way back to the luckless Lobain only to provide him with a puzzling situation. He was setting in a non-descript steel chair, his hands and feet completely immobile, bound tightly with plasteel bands. As his vision cleared he tried to make sense of his surrounding, but the only thing in the room he now occupied was the chair, himself, and a mounted vid-screen on the wall. Was he even still on the outpost, or had he been turned over to an A.D.U. transport? At least he was alive, by the tribes, that alone was a blessing. Especially considering the penalties he had witnessed in some systems for being engaged in a bar fight.

Chirping the vid-screen came to life, displaying the face of Gideon Coromaur. Pale, with no distinguishable sign of age Coromaur's visage was unknown to his captive. But his regal posture and prismatic gaze froze the Lobain in place as he began to speak. "Greetings, my young friend. Jonathan is the name is it not?" With only the subtlest pause, Coromaur continued his eloquent  monologue. "It appears you now find yourself at my mercy. That was quite the rampage you took part in back there, you managed to shut my pub down for an entire 5 minutes. As a man of business I must now seek means to recoup that lost revenue, and as a perfectly sensible fellow, I am sure you can agree."

Seizing the opportunity, the Lobain jumped at the chance to interrupt. "Whoa, pal, first off; nobody calls me Jonathan. I don't know how you managed to root up my name, but folk's call me Viper. Secondly, I didn't start that fight, those other two did. So why aren't they in here playing chatty-cathy with you instead?" Viper was sure he was dangling on a hook here, but he didn't have to like it. If this might lead to him getting out of trouble, he was going to take it, there was no way he was going back to a outer rim penal colony. 

The faintest half grin started to form on Coromaur's face before being brushed aside to return his mask-like features. "Well, Viper," he spat the word with a just enough contempt to still seem the hospitable host. "You would do well to give those two a wide-berth should you ever cross paths again. While you managed to shut down my pub for a mere five minutes, those two have managed to not only shut it down for days. Once, they even managed to shut the entire outpost down for a week for repairs. They happen to be regulars here, but I digress. My revenue has been disrupted, and that must be rectified. I cannot allow a single moments loss in profits or quickly the whole machine will fall apart."

"You however, are here enjoying this pleasant conversation, because I have an idea as to how we may square your debt and be mutually beneficial. Believe me, I always find a way to balance the books, so if there aren't any further interruptions, I would like to proceed with my offer. I do have a schedule to keep, there are pressing and delicate transaction I must see to, this outpost won't run itself you know. That is, of course, if you don't mind?" Coromaur paused, strategically to maintain his image of the hospitable host. Viper nodded, trying to ingratiate himself as best he could.

"Uh, sure thing, but what do you need the likes of me for? I mean, I doubt you have a Bioid toyslave or Type II replicant you need me to deliver or something. It's your place though, right? So, shoot, I'm all ears."

A singular image replaced Coromaur's face on the screen; a rotating black box. "This unremarkable package measures 3 inches by 6 inches by 1 inch, and bears no distinguishing characteristics save that of a single jack port. I have arranged for you to intercept it's transportation in order to re-route it to a subsidiary of mine. A simple courier job, nothing dangerous, and you will be provided with all the appropriate documentation. In exchange I offer to excuse your debt to me for lost revenue and compensate you to the sum of, shall we say, a thousand Regals. Or do you prefer New Republic credits?"

Unable to hide the hunger in his eyes, Viper did his best to seem above such simple jobs. "Well, I suppose I could take something on for you, to repay your generous hospitality. But, I couldn't possibly take anything on for less than 1200, plus operating expenses that might arise. And I would need that in hard coin, don't insult us both by even offering credits. Neither one of us want our finances public record for anybody to query whenever they got curious."

In a theatrical gesture Coromaur clapped his hands together, emphasizing his agreement. "Done. I must warn you though, this cargo, while innocuous, comes with a single caveat that must not be broken. Under no circumstances is the item to be analyzed, examined, tampered with or inspected in any way. It must arrive to my associates untouched and intact. If anything were to happen to it, well let us say I have other retainers that I can call in to trace you down. Ones that would make your previous acquaintances pale in comparison."

The haunting memory of the Pathenian's sneer and the Altain's glare sprang back to the forefront of Viper's mind. If there was anyone who could eclipse them, he did not want to meet them. Gulping he lowered his head and nodded agreement. "Good, pleasure doing business with you my new young associate. The information will be provided you shortly, in the mean time, prepare yourself. This task must be completed with the utmost urgency."

Something about how Coromaur said 'newest young associate' bothered Viper. Somehow it ruffled his fur, hopefully this would be just an easy courier run. As the plasteel restraints fell off him, he wasn't quite sure what he was getting himself into. But he desperately needed those funds, and a debt is a debt.

In Coromaur's Debt - Part 2.

Casually Coromaur reached within a tailored silk vest, a garment whose value alone potentially eclipsed his outpost, and withdrew a stylized mini-comm. Calling up the security feeds he studied the scene now taking place inside the pub. The damage alone was impressive, but nothing that could cause him any major setbacks. He did keep an ample stockpile of bar stools for just such events, and freight-loaders were easily promoted into bartenders. By the look of things he would need both, his patrons though were another matter. Those without sense enough to have escaped the carnage had discovered the meaning of collateral damage. The bulk of the dead could be dealt with easily enough, their ships and possessions easily liquidated, and the few wounded he could see tended to for a compassionate reputation. One that no doubt he could leverage into new ventures and opportunities for later use. At least the holo-panel out front still functioned proclaiming the place a pub.

Circling each other a trio of grim figures dominated the center of the room, each one awaiting some trigger to ignite further conflict. A graceful, well-toned Pathenian stood tall and aloof, his ears pricked up full over his head. Gripped tightly by elongated fingers was a ceremonially etched flare blade, it's edges a crimson glow like a magnesium flare. By his side, keeping pace with him swayed a curvaceous Altain of the Krynean tribes, her jaw set firm. She kept a Gauss rifle trained with a steady aim that betrayed a professional and intimate familiarity with the weapon.

Set across from the vicious pair was set a stoic figure, a solitary Lobain, lean and dirty. His canine ears were back and an obvious cyberarm held an antique large-bore breach loading heavy pistol aimed at the pair of assailants. It's barrel covered in a unusual series of archaic runes.  "I meant no disrespect," the weary wolf barked, tension clear in his tone. He had to find some way out of this stalemate. "All I did was offer the lady a drink!"

"How dare you insult our intelligence and worth with such a pitiful debacle," purred the Pathenian. "You may have offered to purchase her a drink, but you slighted her slighted her by choosing an unfitting beverage!" With a snarl the Altain snapped, "You offered slag! Let me kill him." Removing the safety her agitation became clear enough to be felt, like a rising temperature from a sudden blaze as her hue shifted to deeper ember-orange. "Some fruity pink number no doubt that fizzes." She spat as her eyes narrowed, already her trigger finger a hair from firing. With a roar she declared, "I only drink Vernian Brew!"

Seeing the rapid escalation, Coromaur decided to apply his own brand of delicate and calming touch to the situation. Pressing the appropriate command sequence hidden mounts in the ceiling deployed turret mounted cannons that immediately trained on the three combatants. Immediately he recalled what the very same cannons had done to a rioting mob of Purgist Party members when they attempted to halt a group of Type II's trying to flee Praxis VIII. Marked by his own unmistakable grin of satisfaction, Coromaur activated his hidden features and watched as to his surprise all threw remained standing after the initial blast. A quick order issued had a full security detail charging into the pub only moments after a second barrage violently shook the pub.

Shaken and disoriented all three remained standing as the wave of peace-keepers poured in to detain them. A whirl of motion, the Pathenian moved like an acrobatic dancer, dropping nearly half a dozen unlucky foes before he himself was overran by sheer numbers. His Altain companion proved her deadly and accurate aim, as well as capable claws as she felled no less than close to eight misfortune individuals before herself being the victim of overwhelming numbers.

Oddly the Lobain himself proved to be his own worst enemy. As several security officers rushed him he fired his archaic side-arm. In a blinding ball of white energy five attackers vanished, vaporized by a sudden explosion of psionic power. The cost of which, however had managed to drain some measure of vitality from it's weapon's wielder, knocking him out cold.

An readable mask instantly found it's way onto Coromaur's face as satisfaction secretly fluttered about inside him. "I want this pub back up and operation within 5 minutes," he ordered with an unquestionable resolve. It would be done, he was sure. His orders always were. "Restrain and detain this one," his masterfully crafted boot prodded at the unconscious Lobain at his feet. "He has business with me." Among the commotion several members of the security detail gulped fully aware at the statements hidden implications.

In Coromaur's Debt - Part 1.

Gideon Coromaur glided across the dull gray-paneled walkways of his outpost, his light footsteps barely betraying him with a whispered clink. Long unbound hair of silver hung loose draping his back like a cape that drifted ever so slightly on the simulated breezes the scrubbers produced. A gentle hum of machinery and subtle business played about him like his own personal symphony.  And yet, as capricious as the autumn breeze his mind was elsewhere, lost in recollection of bygone days and older times.

It had been, what, a good 20 years since the New Republic had begin it's shattering and fall from former glory. And now, after all this time, he had found a measure of peace. Coromaur, hidden away within his outpost, could breath easy. For in this conflicted political climate, and out here in an isolated section of the rim, he could get away with anything. It had taken time of course, time to cultivate and invest himself, but the end result had become Coromaur's outpost. A central hub for several system's commerce and transportation needs. And one that held no law, none but Coromaur's himself.

Prismatic eyes flashed from violet to iridescent silver as his memory returned to what had spurred this trip down memory lane. The package. A single package, unworthy of scrutiny or curiosity, hand delivered by one Coromaur's more trusted delivery specialists. It's contents held well paid for data on a new device, currently in transit, that could potentially blow an even bigger hole in the New Republic's already damaged reputation.

Every political faction there was would be after this, like sharks after wounded prey. That would guarantee both the items value and undoubtedly it's risk in obtaining. Gideon would have to move, and move fast. There would be no time to organize any of his regulars, and in a situation like this it would prove wise to have a disposable asset available. Perhaps someone in his debt, someone he could bend to his will.

As if on cue a steel bar stool sailed through the air out of a local pub to come to a violent end of it's journey against the wall before Coromaur. With a sly grin and light chuckle Gideon mused aloud to himself. "Ah, here is a volunteer now." Already meticulous plans began their weaving within the Machiavellian mind of Gideon Coromaur.

Primer - Kor-Teh.

Kor-Teh

Since time immemorial the Vel-Teh have been a race of wandering explorers, with an insatiable curiosity, and driven by an inquisitive mind. However, long ago a small off shoot developed that decided to follow a different path. Instead they chose to isolate themselves away to brood and contemplate over the nature of themselves and their unique symbiotic relationship.

Over time reflection led to impatience. Left to dwell in thought and study on their symbiont the small group of Vel-Teh grew arrogant and callous. They set themselves to the task of bending their symbionts to their will, forcing them to accelerate their transformations. The faster they changed, the more aggressive they became, and the more strained the techno-organic symbiont.

No longer in balance, their bodies became rapidly decaying compositions of pale unhealthy flesh and crude roughly formed cybernetics. Seeing only weakness in flesh, these errant Vel-Teh gave themselves completely over, becoming heretics now known as the Kor-Teh. Forever distancing themselves from all former ties to the race from which they came.

In solitude the Kor-Teh became gripped with violence and hatred. Discovering their enhanced rate of cybernetic adaptations were unstable, only one possible solution existed to the Kor-Teh. They would seek out their wayward former relations, and take from them all they had amassed. Once dominant, they would have all the technology and knowledge they could ever need to keep their bodies in full repair. Not to mention erasing those who had wasted their birthright.