Halfbreed Ch 07

"Name?"

"Mike Koller." Mike said, perching himself over the countertop like a man looking for a mission. "-And who might you be, Lovely?"

The black haired Elf behind the bulletproof barrier did not so much as blink at him. She flipped through a few files on her three dimensional heads up display, the blue lighting illuminating her ageless features in a manner that highlighted her disinterest in him. Mike tapped his finger on the dark marble of the countertop, letting out a huff of air as a pair of Loupians with long ears and bushy tails were waved past the kiosk to his left. They were in customs, awaiting entry into the Starport.

The Immigration Officer's green eyes met his after staring at the screen for a long moment. "There seems to be a problem, Mr. Koller. Our records show that you landed here with your

Aenil

-class Freighter six days ago-"

"Yes!" Mike said, flashing a smile. "The

Halfbreed

. Hell of a ship."

"...and never left the planet." The Officer finished. Her face was blank. "What are you doing here?"

"I figured the paperwork was so fun the first time, I needed a second go around." Mike said, winking at her stoic appearance. The older Elf's expression remained stubbornly vacant.

"Explain to me why you are coming back through Customs again Mr. Koller, considering according to this, you never left."

Mike affected a scandalized expression, "Excuse me? I left the planet

three days

ago!"

"Our registry shows you never passed the orbital checkpoint, despite having lifted off from Charity City Starport." The Elf swept a few files across her HUD, clearly bored with the conversation. She wouldn't even look Mike in the eye. "...And now you arrive on a completely different ship. Captained by a Native, no less."

"I took a vacation to Votar." Mike replied in an easy tone, "Amazing place! Wouldn't recommend the sky-tour, though."

"Pardon me, Captain." Allynna said, stepping up to the counter and subtly jabbing Mike in the ribs with her elbow. "I believe that I can explain the situation in a more adequate manner."

Mike smarted at the jolt in his side. "Well by all means," He said, gesturing towards the customs agent. "Enlighten her."

Allynna met her fellow Elf's gaze, and the two shared a moment of wordless eye contact. "My name is Allynna of House Gwynn'Yn'Iolenna, daughter of Captain Nia, also of House Gwynn, and Vice-Admiral Artyr of House Cammyn, both descended from House Iolenna. I am a Mool'Gwaith; this ill-tempered human is my Captain."

The customs officer looked Allynna up and down. She seemed to see something she didn't like, because her expression flattened even further. "...License number?"

"MOL-K7RD6L." Allynna answered without missing a beat. The Officer punched a few buttons into her console. The light on her HUD shifted from blue to green. Her eyes scanned across a series of names and serial numbers. She selected one and zoomed in on it, a mugshot image of Allynna's unsmiling face popping up. The Customs Officer stared at it, then glanced at Allynna's braid.

"...And the Native?"

"Lashvara. Daughter of the Voaten." The Orc grumbled, hovering near the back of the trio. She had given specific instructions for the two to avoid mentioning their mission. "I am their guide."

The Officer spared a half-glance in Lashvara's direction before turning her eyes once more to Allynna.

"What is the purpose of your 'new' visit?"

"Returning from a brief furlough, retrieving the

Halfbreed

, stopping off to meet an old friend." Allynna answered. "My Captain believed that we required a 'break' from his business ventures, and thus asked me to arrange a short visit to the nearby moon. We left the

Halfbreed

at a local friend's private landing pad for the duration."

The Customs Officer's eyes hovered over Allynna's braid, but she said nothing. Allynna continued. "My Grand-Aunt is a Native Sociologist who was tasked with studying the Orcish culture after First Contact. She arranged for us a meeting with the local Chief, and-"

"Approved. Next." The Elf said, swiping across her HUD. The lights dimmed as she stared past Mike's head at the next approaching migrant. Mike let out a grunt and shuffled past.

Together the three hustled through the silver halls of the Elven Starport, drawing side-eyed looks from pilots, passengers and security all the while. It was unusual to see such a smattering of species together, and Lashvara hardly cut a humble figure in her form-fitting Elven body suit and flight jacket. As they moved Mike tugged at the band on his left wrist, feeling with his fingernail around the latch as he moved it in habitual circles.

"...You don't have a Grand-Aunt, do you?" Mike asked Allynna. The Elf turned her head back just slightly to look at him from the corner of one eye. Her expression didn't change.

"No." She said. "But neither did we take a vacation to Votar. My lie was simply more palatable than yours."

"An Elf making fraudulent claims! I didn't think you had it in you, Aly." Mike said, letting a note of pride fill his voice. Allynna scowled.

"Circumstances required me to adapt your blatant lie into one that would get us through customs." She answered in a haughty tone. "Blame your poor ability to think on your feet, rather than my sudden crossing of a 'line' I was never aware existed."

"Can you believe this, Lass?" Mike said gesturing in Aly's direction, but the Orc merely brushed past them both. Lashvara remained dead set on her goal, striding forward at the lead with nary a glance behind at those who followed her. Mike quickened his pace, wary of getting too far away from the Orc and her unseen leash.

They stepped out into the late-afternoon air, the red hue of the dying sunlight painting the sky a phosphorescent ruby. The air was hotter here than on Votar, the gleaming spires of Elven architecture seeming to swelter in the damp, almost tropical air.

The thoroughfare that led from the Starport was wide, paved with ivory-colored permacrete blocks, cut so precisely that it all seemed to be one, seamless piece. Like all things of Elven design, the boulevard was opulent and clean, almost unnaturally so.

Tall, silver guard rails of intricate carbon-fiber latticework stretched upwards into the facsimile of a forest's canopy above the pedestrian's heads, shading one's eyes from the sun while also shielding it from its heady glare. The canopy was framed to look like the twinkling light of leaf cover.

A gentle wind ruffled Mike's jacket, and he looked to the horizon.The thoroughfare had been placed in an ideal position to maximize the cross breezes that weaved between the city's numerous silver spires. It was almost unnerving how geometrically perfect the entire city looked, from its longest road to its smallest angle.

What few high rises there were in the young Colony's capital city were of atypical design, more like organic art pieces than towering superstructures. That same, lattice-like edifice of carbon fiber spread across their surfaces like an artist's watermark. It looked so similar to Mike's own home city that he took a reflexive inhale to scent out the stench of hyperdrive fuel lingering in the air.

Reaching the end of the large walkway, Mike, Aly and Lass came to a central hub that served as a crossroads between streets for the Elves. At the center of the roundabout was a meticulously cultivated Pavilion of Harmony, a staple of Elven architecture. At the locus of this was a well maintained garden, with plants native to the Elven Core Worlds transplanted into the central gazebo.

Spindle-tall, wide-leafed Wrynnas Trees, Yellow-finned Ferns and blooming, multicolored

Anngangeas

with long, protuberant stamens and puffy flowers that grew like vines across its whole stem perforated the atmosphere. The very air smelled of immortal fragrance, of aromatic perfumes and sweet rainwater.

Small nooks and natural seating dotted the landscape, creating the fascinating illusion of nature, despite the conscious design that had gone into the Pavilion itself. And at the very center of it all: a single, massive Elder Tree from one of the numerous tiers of Heruen's Tears itself, the ancient, shattered homeworld of the Elves. Its bark was pale, nearly albino in color, with hard, knotted boles the size of a fist dotting its length, and a thick trunk twice the size of a man. Its fluorescent blue leaves were a marvel to see, all but shimmering in the late afternoon light. Lashvara stopped for a moment to gaze in awe at the spectacle before her.

"...Say what you will about your people Elf, but by the Three do you have an eye for beauty." She murmured. The Orc let out a longing sigh. "As long as I live, I will never grow tired of these places."

Mike stuck his hands into his jacket pockets, his eyes focused on the path ahead of him. He was tired of the implausibly perfect scenery already. Places like this only reminded him of unpleasant memories and desperate escapes. The few times he had found himself in a plaza like this one, he was either getting kicked out of it, or hiding from the authorities. If anything, the heavy, artificial tree cover made him nervous and fidgety. He said nothing as he brushed past her towards the winding path that led to the

Opal Eye

.

As they entered the Financial District, Mike noticed a change. It was small, minute to the untrained eye, but he knew what a difference such a change could make. The road was a little less bright here, the individual stones of the walkway somewhat more visible as single pieces of a greater whole. The light from the tall lanterns dotting the thoroughfare were dimmer than they'd been earlier.

Mike knew that they had entered the Alien-dominated section of the city. He began to make slow gestures with his hand, the liquid metal at his wrist rolling across his knuckles like a nervous tic.

"Fignet's place is just ahead." He said.

"Nervous, Smuggler?" Lashvara asked. Mike turned back to look at her, watching her face form a raucous grin when he did.

"You'd have to be stupid not to be." He said, shrugging. "This might be an Elven planet, but there are still more than enough dark corners to get lost in."

"Trust an earthworm to know its habitat." She replied, smirking.

Mike and Aly approached the

Opal Eye

for the second time in a week, watching with a sort of detached indifference as a crowd of aliens lined the entrance of the bustling bar. A four-legged, Centaurian bouncer stood outside, screening guests.

The creature was an eight foot tall blue-skinned behemoth, with a long whip-thin tail with a barb on the end and thick, feathery plumage on his neck the color of purple midnight.As he worked his eye stalks were always moving, the bulbous globes drifting like colorful, feathery Cilia where his eyebrows should be. He tapped at a data screen with one of his three-fingered hands, the inch long, brackish claw clicking against the glass. Mike avoided the line and walked up directly to him.

The Alien's eye stalks swiveled to face him, a snarl flaring on his too-wide mouth. "S'aback of the line!" He boomed.

Mike shook his head, pointing towards the VIP door next to the normal one. "We're here to see Fignet."

"S'you and alla them too!" The Centaur said, gesturing with a dismissive wave of his claw at the crowd.

Mike folded his arms across his chest. "We're here on business. Buzz Fignet, tell him that we've got some 'shipping' to discuss."

The phrase made the Centaur's eye stalks lift. He let out a deep-throated, bellowing sigh. With a few taps on his data screen the VIP Door opened, and he shooed them inside.

Fignet's bar was a uniquely cosmopolitan place in the often self-segregating quarters of Elven settlements. Humans, Catians, Orc Natives and assorted creatures of the Fae crowded the bar. All manner of aliens, from Centaurs to hairy Wuggabos crowded Fignet's watering hole. It provided a brief respite for weary travelers and drunken revelers, before time and the inexorable demands of their lives pulled them once more into the stars above.

As they entered the building Allynna took the lead, weaving her way through the fluorescent lighting of the crowded bar as she led her two companions to Fignet's office, making a beeline for the rear stairwell.

It was much more packed this evening than on the day the

Halfbreed

had crashed, when Mike had passed the time hitting on those two Catians. His eyes briefly scanned the bar to see if they were there. They weren't. In hindsight, it was probably for the best.

Noticeably absent from this hodgepodge of alien species were Elves of any description. In fact, Aly seemed to be the only Elf in the building, a fact punctuated by the long, leering looks she received from some of the less reputable patrons as she led the way in her graceful manner through the dank interior. Mike gave those he spotted ogling her the stink eye as he passed.

They circled the adjoining wall, moving deeper into the murky part of the bar, where the lighting was low and the security was thick. A bukly, big-nosed Firbolg stood in front of the security door leading to the stairs up to Fignet's office. The nearly seven foot creature looked odd and uncomfortable in its loose-cut suit, like a wild animal chafing at domestication. The granite-chinned alien set his jaw as Mike approached, narrowing his tiny eyes down to pinpricks over his heavy, brown brow. His flat, grey skin rippled with latent aggression.

"Jel'Arr." Mike said, reading the alien's name tag as he extended his open hand out for a handshake. "How's the wife?"

"Take off th' Jacket." The Firbolg responded in his species' broken speech. "Arms up, back to me. You got any wep'ns?"

"My tongue." Mike said. He reluctantly removed his Gelph leather jacket and handed it to the bodyguard, turning around and lifting his arms as the alien began a thorough pat down. "Try not to get too handsy, all right?"

The Firbolg grunted. "Keep th' hand where I can see it at all times," He said, gripping Mike's right wrist and squeezing hard against the liquid-metal device with his grey fingers, "-and no funny gestures, neither. Boss is in a foul mood with ya' as it is."

"Trust me: he'll be over the moon once he hears what I have to say." Mike said, grinning as Jel'Arr pushed him away, moving next to Allynna.

He took his time searching her, whether that was because of the Elf's penchant for stashing weapons on her person, or the fact that he had an Elf within his grasp was open for debate. Either way, Mike was no longer smiling when Jel'Arr finally finished and moved to Lashvara.

The Orc, ever the troublemaker, strode up to the shorter Alien and stared down her nose at him. "...I am unarmed."

"Then turn around." He said.

Lashvara let out a heavy sigh. "Interlopers." She grumbled, turning around with a scowl on her face as she looked Mike in the eye. "Do you see what harm a dishonest lifestyle like yours brings, Smuggler?"

Mike smirked, "If getting felt up by Jel'Arr is such a punishment, maybe

you

should be the one to break it to him."

"My integrity is being brought into question." The Orc said, giving him a hard look. "If I desired for his touch, we would already be in coitus, I can assure you."

"Then ask for the cavity search." Mike said, laughing.

When he finished his search, Jel'Arr let out a grunt that sounded vaguely like a boulder rolling downhill and gestured for them to follow. Turning his back to them, the hulking brute fiddled with the keypad. There was a

beep

, and then the door slid open.

"Follow me." The Firbolg rumbled, not bothering to look behind as he ascended the stairs. Casting a last glance over his shoulder at his two companions, Mike moved to follow.

They came to the top of the stairs, to an imposing, mahogany door with an opaque glass insert. Splayed across the front of the door was a long, extended depiction of Fignet's full name:

Fignet Whitfoot Argent-Skie Farwalker Bitters-blend Opalbraid, Esquire, of the Home-Hold of Barkkan

Jel'Arr lifted his thick fist and gently rapped against the foggy glass, leaning his head forward as if he were whispering into the door's ear.

"...Boss?" Jel'Arr asked in a tentative voice. "They're here to see's ya."

Silence answered his statement. A long moment passed as the four stood in the awkward silence of the antechamber. The moment lasted so long that Mike shot a questioning look to Jel'Arr, who looked equally uncertain. Finally, the light above the door blared a bright, fluorescent red and the door unlatched, swinging open with a sudden, disturbing creak.

"Stay here for a moment." Jel'Arr barked at the three, sweeping into the room as he mumbled something in a low voice towards the occupant. Mike and Aly shared a glance.

"Fignet is agitated." Lashvara murmured, "When we enter that room, introduce us and then let me do the talking."

"Don't worry," Mike said, pushing open the door and striding into the office without waiting for permission. "I'm sure this'll go well."

The first thing that Mike noticed about Fignet's office was that it was almost remarkably predictable in its appearance. It had the cultured superficiality of a well to-do Dwarf's private quarters: an elegant atmosphere, a classical business art deco, and an assortment of trophies and knick knacks clinging to the walls like so much ostentatious flotsam.

It was his desk that commanded the room, arguably the only thing in the room that truly spoke of for him. It was composed of a dark, wood-like material manufactured in the Dwarven Freeholds. Mike detested the feel of the stuff, yet the stunties seemed to love the friction on their toughened skin. Apparently the sensation of "sandpaper on glass" was all the rage with these days. The last gig Fignet had given them before the Shield Generator debacle had been to deliver that very uncomfortable, yet very expensive desk to his doorstep.

There was a certain falseness in the office's cultivated look, in the row upon row of pristine, untouched book covers dotting the walls behind Fignet's desk. Mike doubted that Fignet had read one of them. The Gelph-leather chairs in front of the desk looked costly, but uncomfortable. They were noticeably shorter at the seat than the top of the desk, leaving the sitter in the unenviable position of having to tilt their head upwards to meet the gaze of the Dwarf, who was at this very moment glowering behind his desk.

Fignet sat in the seat of his high-backed chair with the air of a King holding an uncertain court. He wore a fitted black cape around his broad shoulders, the puffy fur of some rare beast adorning the collar and giving him the appearance of a Lion's mane. His thick fingers were folded together, idly twisting the assortment of gold and jeweled rings that lined his hands. There was a large, cylindrical device, almost like a monocole, or a half-telescope tied around his left eye. It flickered as they entered, registering each of the new arrivals one by one.

The large beard that gave him his namesake was wound together into a single braid, looped and locked in place by a golden band tied near the bottom. His metal-tinged hair was dark opal, nearly black, seeming to almost glimmer in the light like twinkling gemstones in a pitch black quarry. Occasionally the light from the dance floor below would filter in through the two-way mirrors to his left, illuminating his unsmiling face with bursting shades of purple, blue, and red.

Fignet's sharp, beady eyes narrowed upon the Smuggler as he marched into his inner sanctum unannounced. The Dwarf's thick eyebrows fell into a deep scowl. Seeing this, Mike spread his arms wide, as if to embrace the stumpy sot in a hug.