| rdfs:comment
| - Lt. James Skinner growled at the non-sounds of electronic galactic commerce buzzing in his ears as he tried to eat dinner. Illium was one of the largest commercial hubs in the Terminus Systems, and hundreds of millions of transactions took place on any given day. For every transaction, whether it was the purchase of stock, goods, or people (entirely legal on Illium, provided the right paperwork is filled out), Skinner felt a tiny jolt beneath his skin. It wasn't painful, but it was annoying. "You're late, Roget," Skinner replied curtly. He motioned to the chair across from his. "Sit."
|
| abstract
| - Lt. James Skinner growled at the non-sounds of electronic galactic commerce buzzing in his ears as he tried to eat dinner. Illium was one of the largest commercial hubs in the Terminus Systems, and hundreds of millions of transactions took place on any given day. For every transaction, whether it was the purchase of stock, goods, or people (entirely legal on Illium, provided the right paperwork is filled out), Skinner felt a tiny jolt beneath his skin. It wasn't painful, but it was annoying. He'd arrived on the planet six days ago, on the pretense of going into rehab for a supposed drug problem, accompanied by his superior officer, Cmdr. Emmanuelle Sharon, who was supposed to be in rehab for an actual drinking problem. For the past few days, he'd kept himself sane by locking himself in his hotel room and hanging up special drapes that prevented electronic signals from reaching him. The commander might have found it odd, but if she did, she didn't say anything. Tonight, however, he actually did have to leave the comfort of his makeshift Faraday cage and venture out into the city of Nos Astra. He had business. A particularly long buzz disrupted his chain of thought. He turned and noticed a high-powered asari businesswoman arguing with someone on her omnitool two tables over. With an annoyed growl, he subtly pointed his hand in her direction and gave a minute twitch of his finger. A second later, her call was disconnected, and she stomped out, presumably to complain. Aye, that's right, laddie. Nice an' subtle, like I taught yeh. Skinner knew the voice was in his head, but his eyes still instinctively darted around the room. He ground his teeth. More than ten years earlier, he had been identified as a biotic, someone who could generate mass effect fields. Afraid for his well-being, his parents contacted an old friend of his father's, a seemingly genial Scottish scientist who was at the forefront of biotic research. James remembered that day very well. Skinner's reverie was interrupted by the arrival of a skinny man who somehow managed to look both nervous and cocky at the same time. He wore a cheap, rumpled suit that had obviously been at least a dozen times without being washed. His hair was greasy and strawberry-blonde, and came down to his shoulders. A moustache covered his upper lip, while a small goatee sprouted just under his lower lip, and several days' worth of stubble covered his cheeks and jawline. A pair of wrap-around sunglasses hid his eyes. As he approached Skinner's table, he flashed a toothy grin. "Jimmy! How's it hanging?" "You're late, Roget," Skinner replied curtly. He motioned to the chair across from his. "Sit." His dinner guest complied, but not happily. Armand Roget was rapidly approaching that point that all information brokers reached, where they'd become so good at gathering information about other people that they realized just how easy it would be for someone else to gather information about them. Roget was an excellent information, the best that Skinner could afford, but he was growing paranoid and jittery. "You got my payment?" he asked. Skinner pulled a worn enveloped from his jacket and slid it across the table. Getting paper money had been a bitch, but the electronic banking industry had been one of the first things to rouse Roget's paranoia. "Twenty-thousand, as agreed," Skinner said. Roget pulled out the faded dollar bills and took a deep whiff. "Mmm... there's nothing like the smell of real paper..." "I'll take your word for it. Now where is this 'juicy' information you promised?" Roget reached into his own coat and pulled out a manila envelope that looked like it would disintegrate if it were touched any more than it already had been. "Here you go," he said, as he handed it over.
|
![[RDF Data]](/fct/images/sw-rdf-blue.png)