Well I guess I don't have anything to post right now. Waiting for someone to give me some replies on the ones below.

Guess I should tell some peeps I know this blog's address......hmmmmnn.....that would be a smart move.

Another bit of writing - Corvain Dagger

This one is a story that I am working on as well. I wanted to give the impression, or the feel, of medieval armies with foot soldiers and all that. But have it take place in the future. On top of that I wanted to sprinkle it with humans who develop mysterious powers. Of course I also wanted there to be a grand struggle between two massive political/military forces.

I think this one is written a bit more smoothly than Thief's Choice.

~The Corvain Dagger~

Prologue

Corvain Year 292

Planetary summer

Planet 618825

(called Bon Chance by its inhabitants)

15 kilometres from Colony 7

(called Marseilles by its residents)

Unit 18 on life form control duty- Day 12

“I can’t do it Sarge…I don’t think I should go down there,” Netmender edged away. “….I got this…um…feeling…”
“Just get in there ‘n flush tha suckers out, Netmender!” Sgt. Baker growled through his thick beard. “You don’t have ta propose t‘em or nothin’…what, do I gotta send Smith wit ya ta hold yer hand?”
Netmender’s face reddened. They were all gathered around the unit’s three flamer cannons and setting up their ambush for the Nixhecra onrush with the offhand manner of individuals performing repetitive tasks. Netmender shivered as he eyed the beckoning hole. He backed off another step.
“What ever is the matter, Netty? Scared of the dark?” someone chirped. Sharpe probably. He was the unit’s loudmouth. The other Footmen brayed behind Netmender. “Need a torch, Nort?” was another jibe. “Don’t pee yourself, kid! You’ll rust your armour!” shouted another soldier. His face reddened even further. Even the ammo boys filling the flamer tanks with volatile liquid took their concentration off their hazardous work long enough to snicker at him. They all thought that he was afraid to go into the Nixhecra hole. The shivering numbness in his toes and fingers told him they were correct. He was afraid, very afraid. But not for the reasons they expected…not for the reason anyone would expect! The Nixhecra were vicious little bastards that could be very dangerous in large groups -- and the Sgt. wanted him to follow the methodically clawed out tunnel to their nest, where there would be several dozen of them! A full grown man that fell while trying to outrun a Nixhecra horde, would be ripped to bloody shreds rather quickly.
A soldier would ironically be in greatest jeopardy because of the armour he wore. Despite their horrendous appearance and violent nature, the Nixhecra weren’t carnivores. They had no taste for flesh and blood. They did have a tremendous appetite for metals and plastics, however. A Nixhecra horde could tear a camp apart overnight with nothing left but organic material. So the units of the Southwester Division were forced to resort to systematic pest control.
All the other soldiers in the unit had already done their stint as Nixhecra bait and now it was Netmender’s turn. He had to do it, and by himself. The Sgt. expected it. The unit expected it. And what’s more, the unwritten creed of the soldier demanded that he faced the same dangers as the others of his unit. He wouldn’t be able to live it down if he didn’t go down that hole. The remainder of his service with the Corvain Army would be extremely unpleasant he was sure. He had to go down that hole!
But if Norton Netmender went down that hole, down into that deep, damp, dark, he would…what? What would he do? He asked himself. He wasn’t sure, but he felt that going down that hole would be a very bad idea.
It was something in his head that was whispering to him. Something grating –no, grating was wrong; it was more of a battering than anything else. Norton couldn’t tell Sgt. Baker that of course. The no-nonsense career soldier would definitely consider him unstable and recommend a thorough psycho-energetic probe be performed. That was a thought that truly frightened Footman Norton Netmender.
He had heard rumours of men claiming to hear voices in their heads. Symptoms of schizophrenia and other mental disorders evident in soldiers were handled as follows: They were sent to field hospitals as per standard operational procedure. The stay at the FH was no doubt quite enjoyable at first; good hot meals and a dry bed with warm blankets. Not to mention a cute nurse attending to a patient’s every need. It would have seemed like a great plan. An ingenious scheme designed to get a little vacation from the humping and constant battles with the indigenous life forms of this planet. According to grunt gossip whispered through the dust and exhaustion as they hunkered down for the night, men in the deep blue outfits of the M.U.D.D. would eventually show up at the patient in question’s bed bearing sophisticated equipment. None of them ever wore any rank insignia. They would confer quietly amongst themselves for a while then begin running the patient through a battery of psychological tests. Most times, the testing wouldn’t last longer than an hour before the patient was released back to his unit (usually with their service record bearing a stamp in red stating: DOES NOT FIT TREATMENT CRITERIA FOR D-NX-626). Sometimes however, the M.U.D.D. technicians would visit the patient again. The privacy curtain would be drawn. Elusive shadows would skitter across the canvas material of the curtains for hours, accompanied by low mewling sounds one would not expect from a grown man.
It was then most common for the curtains to be pulled aside to reveal patients unsuitable for return to duty. These men were dismissed from service and taken off-world for permanent care. But there was no rush in signing out the patient. Sometimes weeks would go by before the bed would be free for use by others. Not that the ‘patient’ minded, of course. They were lost in their own world and made no complaints whatsoever.
Very rarely, the M.U.D.D. technicians seemed to discover profound and unusual results from their study of the patient. Men in unmarked uniforms were always called in at this time. These men were scarred and battle hardened. They moved with the deadly grace of those accustomed to constant wariness of one’s surroundings. They brought with them a wheeled chamber resembling a coffin. The patient was placed in the chamber and carried from the FH. It was said that the soldiers of the unit the patient originated from never saw him again and were told nothing about his whereabouts.
Netmender wasn’t sure he believed all that. He thought it was more likely one of the many ‘boogie man’ stories that floated around the service. Still, he didn’t want anything like that to happen to him so he kept knowledge of the voices in his head to himself. He was more afraid of losing his mind to experimentation than to going insane of his own accord. It wasn’t like he always had voices talking to him his whole life, anyway. The whispers had only started a few weeks after landing on-planet. He had attributed it all to stress and loneliness. He was from a small planet crowded with dozens of large fishing cities. The cultures were loud and boisterous with a distain for authority and pomp. It took a long time for Netmender to acclimate himself to military life, and so thought his strange mental behaviour was caused by the pressure placed upon him in his new environment.
He was just getting the jitters. The jitters, that’s all. Nothing else. He was going to go down that hole, be the human bait expected of him, and lead the Nixhecra out into the trap waiting for them. He would do it because he had to. To prove to the others he wasn’t going to let his fears control him and to show the ‘voice’ it was wrong. Show it nothing was going to happen to him.
He squared his shoulders and stood a little bit straighter. “Yeah. OK. When ever you’re ready, Sarge.” He felt another shiver that bordered on a spasm.
Netmender approached the Nixhecra hole. “Everythin’ ready, Eddy?” Sgt. Baker asked his second in command. Corporal Eddy Yokohama gave the thumbs up. “Alright, Netmender, you know tha drill. Get them critters hankerin’ for ya so’s they follow ya up here.” Netmender nodded. “Cut to the side when ya clear tha hole. To the right side, mind you!” Sgt. Baker’s stubby index finger punctuated his orders on Netmender’s armoured chest plate.
Netmender nodded stiffly and lowered his visor. At Sgt. Baker’s command he edged himself into the opening. As he went deeper into the tunnel he could hear his unit’s jeering. Their voices settled over his shoulders like an unwanted touch. His trembling fingers, encased within composite chain mail, worked at controls embedded into the forearm plating of his left arm. The world around him darkened, and then slowly coalesced into shades of cool green as his visor’s lowlight display came on-line. Data scrolled down the sides of his vision. Two hundred yards to the Nixhecra nest at a 12 degree decline. There was a 7% toxic gas ratio in the tunnel. Not too dangerous at that quantity, but it would only grow stronger as he went deeper. Nixhecra gastric gases were toxic, the by-products of metal and plastic breakdown in their digestive system, he thought as he eyed the figures. Netmender fixed his mask to his visor. Cool air, filtered and regulated, flowed down his throat. It tasted vaguely medicinal. Memories of his training on Fort Righteous, the Corvain Orbital Military base, came back to him. A quick glimpse through a corridor port was the last time he saw Jacobsworld. It was one year ago that he left orbit. It all happened so quickly that he didn’t have time to thinks things through. He was no longer a fisherman. He had become a soldier. Became a paid killer. He had become a killer because it paid more than he could ever make on Jacobsworld and his family needed money.
The fact that he was a Footman in the service of the Corvain Army was still a cold shock to him. He had thought he would live his life fishing the seas of Jacobsworld. Just like his father and his father’s father had done. But he did not have a boat. It was lying at the bottom of the Razor Reefs, shattered and providing shelter for sea life. Without a boat a fisherman couldn’t make a living. It was Norton’s fault the Netmender Family no longer had a boat. A man had to take responsibility for their mistakes. A man had to do what he had to do. He couldn’t let his family starve. Not because of a stupid mistake.
So there he was, a nineteen-year-old fisherman, shuffling down a rough-hewn tunnel on a planet 20 LY from home towards a nest of dangerous creatures. No wonder he had voices in his head telling him to turn around and flee. What business had a fisherman, a man who had spent all his life on or near the ocean, tunnelling underground?
The footing beneath him changed and he had to concentrate on his course. There was now plastic and metal debris peppered throughout the loose dirt under his boots. He was getting closer to the nest. The toxic gas level was higher as well.
As he trudged deeper he passed other tunnels that branched off on either side of him. They were empty of travellers and seemed rarely used. Some were little more than crude alcoves used to store caches of debris a Nixhecra would consider food; low altitude rover panels and generator parts made up the majority of the rubble.
Once, he caught sight of a standard-issue Corvain Army helmet, battered and torn with patches of some dark dried substance upon it. Though the low-light augmentation of his visor allowed Netmender to see in near dark, colors were reduced to ranges of green, so he could not tell if it was blood on the helmet. He felt grateful for the gear’s limitation. All the same, he proceeded with added caution and tightened his grip on his weapon.
The heft of his Bruebaker-Haus did little to bolster his confidence. It was a stubby autogun designed for close-in battle. Propelled by a compact electro-magnetic pulse generator, its depleted uranium bearing ammunition was capable of tremendous kinetic delivery against soft and hard targets.
Unfortunately, his rules of engagement only called for weapon fire in the event that one of the beasts got too close as he baited them towards the surface. Netmender thought he would probably be too busy running for his life to give a backward glance let alone take time to turn around and fire at any Nixhecra about to pounce on him.
That thought brought his hand to the small electronic unit clipped to one of his armour’s utility slots. The unassuming palm-sized device was a modified molecular gas dispersion unit used by game hunters galaxy-wide. It mimicked the molecular trace or ‘odour’ found on living and non-living matter and scattered the artificial gases into the surrounding area. In this case, the molecular gas dispersion unit—or MGDU—was set to give off the tang of a ton of high-grade metal. This was proven to attract Nixhecra from even the deepest tunnels they were known to dig. Once Netmender pressed the charge plug the MGDU would operate for two minutes before its load ran dry.
The right bait for the right prey. Just like fishing. It was ironic that Norton Netmender left his life as a fisherman only to end up fishing for metal eating vermin underground. I shouldn’t be doing this crap, he thought. The voice agreed. The voice demanded he go back or it was going to happen. “What? What will happen?” He complained out loud. His head suddenly pulsed with pressure he had never felt before. Like a migraine, but more intense. His vision blurred. His legs became weak.
His com-line squawked and Corporal Yokohama’s high voice washed over Netmender’s mind on a wave of nausea. He couldn’t understand what the Corporal was saying; it was too difficult to focus on anything except trying to remain standing. The ground beneath his feet seemed so far away.
The darkness was closing in on him. The walls of the tunnel seemed too close.
It was then that the motion sensor software running on his armour’s combat circuitry decided to rail in his ears like the angry nattering of old fisher wives over whose nets were in the best condition.
The voice told him it was too late now. There was no turning back. It was all on Norton’s shoulders from here on in. It had tried to warn him, but would he listen? No. He had to be stubborn, didn’t he? He had to be brave.
Netmender barely had enough time to peel off his air mask before his last meal came back up. It didn’t taste very good going down, he remembered. It tasted even worst as it passed back over his tongue and teeth. The vomit was mostly liquid, but with thick choking chunks, that escaped his mouth with surprising force. He didn’t feel any better after inhaling the base gases no longer filtered by the air mask, either.
The damned voice wouldn’t shut up. The motion sensor’s alarm became more insistent. And the Corporal….the Corporal was demanding a sit-rep. Why was he not moving? Who was down there with him? The unit was picking up movement in his vicinity. WHAT THE HELL WAS GOING ON???
Now it was Sgt. Baker who growled curses into Netmender’s ears. He was screaming that Norton should back out! Back out quick and remember to cut to the right!! They were on him, damn it!!!
They? They who?, thought Netmender. He raised his head, towards sounds down the tunnel, and activated his headlamp. The sounds of many feet scampering in the farther darkness of this enclosed space. The noise became louder and was soon accompanied by imprecise shapes undulating like a Rorschach blotter in his watering eyes. He tried to blink away the tears, but they stung even more. The gases. It was the gases, he thought to himself almost dreamily. He did not need unobstucted sight to realize what was coming up the tunnel. He knew. The voice told him. It told him very clearly. The Nichexra were coming. Many of them. More than Netmender would care to want to see. They were coming, and it was time.
“Now. Do it now” someone said out loud. He wasn’t sure if it was the voice or if it was himself. But that didn’t matter. He could see the Nichexra eyes glowing like cold little gems as they rushed out of the darkness his headlamp didn’t reach.
“NOW!”

Alright! So here is the first bit of writing that I want to show. It's a story set in the future where mankind has spread out into the galaxy. The focus of the story is a thief named Rojad Olan. I don't want to give away anything, so please read on. Oh, and I would love it if you let me know if I 'shouldn't quit my day job' as the saying goes, or if you think I might have some talent (I know I'm pretty new at this writing stuff and have a lot to learn) that is marketable. Ok. Ready....set....GO!

Thief’s choice

~a Rojad Olan story~

PROLOGUE

WANTED BY THE D.I.R.T.

Rojad Olan had never been one to worry too much about being in a sticky situation. Things had a tendency to work themselves out in the long run. At least it did in his experience. One only had to keep a cool head and have a bit of nerve, that’s all. Of course, if a little underhandedness was in order to get an upper hand, then so be it. Citizen Rojad ironically had a knack for getting into trouble whether he planned to or not. Being a master thief, getting a tad too friendly with the ugly twin sister of good fortune was stock and trade of the business. He lived with what fate dealt him and, if truth be told, had grown to love the unexpected. It was what kept the whole game interesting. Interesting was good, right? But then, the ancient Chinese had a curse about that, didn’t they? He didn’t know it at the time, but things were about to get very interesting indeed for him.

Rojad was having a few celebratory drinks over a successful and rather lucrative job in an exclusive, and unauthorized, club in a lower level of the station. At the table with him were his partner Katlan, the two con-girls used for distraction in the operation and the freighter pilot they’d contracted to move the goods. It was situated at the back of the small lounge area set aside for those not willing to expose themselves to the hazards of the dance floor. The pounding of the A-Belt Honky-Tonk was blessedly dulled by the audio screen shielding the lounge. One of the girls was starting to get along very nicely with Rojad. She’d expressed a fascination with tall, dark, men. After a few drinks and much thigh stroking, she had whispered in his ear a few of the bedtime activities she was quite fond of engaging in. The others at the table were engrossed in some techno babble Rojad was glad not to be a part of. Tech and the thief had never gotten along.

Katlan sat across from Rojad and was pushing a tall glass hemorrhaging whiskey over its brim his way when a shadow eclipsed the table. The figure causing this unwelcome anomaly was standing behind him and couldn’t be identified directly. The look on Katlan’s face once her vision focused over his head was enough of a clue for him to guess a name. Katlan was a sweet kid and had smiles for almost everyone she encountered. The expression of utter disgust she wore now was reserved for only one person. Of course, the glazed hungry look of the woman, who was up until a second before wooing Rojad, was a big hint as well.

‘You mind not standing between me and the fluorescents, Yeoman?’ Rojad said over the rim of his glass. ‘Plus, I don’t like people standing where I can’t see them. Professional trait, you understand.’

Rojad heard the man remove himself from his blind spot. The thief turned as the man brazenly took the seat to his right. The freighter pilot served as a passable buffer between Katlan and himself.

Dwight Yeoman…. he was a reliable Info Fencer and Rojad had used his services many times. He was Earthborn and damn proud of it. Also, he and Katlan had been married at one time. It didn’t end well. Yeoman seemed to have an inability to keep his cock holstered in the private company of women that weren’t his wife. Now, there was one truth the thief had discovered over the years and it was the secret to his success: Every man has a certain thing that they just can’t resist. For some it was drugs. Others can’t stop betting on the races or the wheel. Yeoman….well, he probably was unlucky enough to have the one vice that will get a man into serious trouble quicker than assassinating the Emperor. What made matters worst was the unarguable fact that Yeoman was the most handsome man you’re likely to ever meet. He exuded charm and charisma. What Katlan saw in him, Rojad never knew. Any fool can tell you not to ever trust a ‘pretty boy’. Rojad guessed she would have to chalk it up to a learning experience. ‘So how is the dynamic duo this fine station evening?’ he said as he spread his grin between them all like honey on Centauri bread. His gaze lingered on the two females, as they were new prey and he hadn’t yet bedded them (by the simple fact he hadn’t met them before). He had them hook line and sinker with that stare of his. Rojad was ready to sock the guy, and so was the pilot if you judging his sour look.

Truth be told, the thief kind of liked Yeoman. He had a certain style Rojad appreciated. He would never tell Katlan this, of course. ‘What do you want, then?’ Katlan’s voice was devoid of any emotion. ‘Haven’t you some mindless ninny you can go shag with about now?’ one corner of her mouth curled up to reveal a sharp canine. Her eyes were glazed with booze and had a dangerous glint to them. Rojad would have to watch her.

‘It’s good to see you’ve moved on with your life, Kat’ Yeoman’s smile barely wavered. He turned to Rojad with an expression that he recognized all too well. ‘So Rojad…’ he continued smoothly over Katlan’s suggestion to allow himself to get pushed out an airlock. ‘I have some info I thought you would be interested in.’

He reached for the much diminished bottle of spirits only to see it dragged to the far side of the table by Katlan. “You’re kind of ruining our celebration here, kid. Can’t it wait?’ Rojad didn’t appreciate his cock blocking and was really looking forward to relaxing for a couple of months with the haul they’d pulled in on the last job. ‘Maybe come see me a few days, ok?’

‘I don’t think this can wait, my man’ He was all of a sudden very serious. ‘Very time sensitive info, if you get my drift?’

‘What do you mean it can’t wait?’ the thief asked gruffly. He was getting pissed their little party was starting to cool down.

Katlan leaned across the pilot and slammed her tiny fist on the table. Glasses bounced and the bottle had to be rescued by a con-girl’s quick grab. ‘Here now! You heard the man. Bugger off, you bloody right bastard. You’re not wanted here!’

Rojad was sure the con-girls would have disagreed. ‘Calm the fuck down, Katlan! I came here to talk to Rojad, not you. Mind your business.’ Rojad could see that Yeoman was starting to lose his cool, too. They were glaring at each other so intently that the rest of us became extremely uncomfortable. The energy between them was palpable.

‘I told you that you’re not to come within visual range of me! I’ve a mind to cram that beaming smile down your bloody throat, don’t I?!?’ She made a show of rising from her seat (albeit a tad wobbly). Katlan may be a tech head and a small woman to boot, but unlike most tech heads, she wasn’t a weak little sissy girly-girl. She had done two tours in the Galactic Forces Counter Intelligence division and was as tough as nails. Hell, even Rojad was afraid of her sometimes.

Yeoman leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed. His wrist glinted with a panic band. Katlan also had a hidden implant that would alert the station if both their biometrics paralleled each other. He had taken quite a beating from Katlan the third time she caught him with another woman. The authorities had warned her that if she harmed him physically again she would be jailed. ‘What? You think that I haven’t knicked the bloody kill code? I could snap your fucking neck and the station wouldn’t hear a peep, old son!’

Rojad could see Yeoman’s shoulders tense with the threat. Katlan was just drunk enough to do something that stupid. Yeoman and Rojad both could see the signs; they’d each known her that long. ‘You’re drunk, fem. You don’t want to do anything you’ll regret later.’ Yeoman said calmly. Rojad had to give him credit for not bolting right them and there.

The con-girls, however, did take that as a sign to become scarce. They could tell there was a shit load of history here and didn’t want to get caught in it. They made a quick exit as they said their good-byes and grabbed their jackets. The pilot also grudgingly stood to go. He reminded the thief of the departure time for his launch, downed the last of his whiskey and handed a passkey card over to Katlan. She looked at it blankly for a moment, but then turned to the pilot’s disappearing back and promised him that she’s be at the hanger within the hour to set up the launch scanner jamming device in the freighter. He waved an affirmative as he walked beyond the audio screen.

‘Way to go, Kill-joy.’ Rojad hissed to Yeoman. He gave Katlan a swift warning glance to calm down. Her eyes slid away from Rojad’s and he took that as a confirmation she understood and was going to play nice.

Yeoman shrugged an apology. ‘I didn’t know it would go down like that, man. I just wanted to pass on some juicy Intel to you, is all.’ He fumbled inside of his real leather coat. It had about a dozen pockets and it took a few failed attempts before he was able to produce the target of his search. He placed it on the table between the thief and himself.

It was a data clip. Shiny new and its content light winked like a tease Rojad couldn’t resist. He picked it up and felt the heat still remaining from Yeoman’s touch. ‘What’s that, then?’ asked Katlan grudgingly. ‘And how much will it cost us?’

‘Listen to it,’ he nodded at the data clip in my hand ‘and then tell me what it is worth to you.’

Rojad pulled the data reader from his belt and placed the clip into an empty slot. He keyed the data stream to narrow permission and activated passive virus scan. Yeoman was an ok guy, but Rojad didn’t trust him. He trusted no one with anything directly involving his well-being, with the exclusion of Katlan. ‘It’s on the up-and-up, Rojad.’ He was insulted Rojad was taking such precautions.

Nodding, Rojad hit the play button. He had already done his set-up, anyway. The volume was high enough for him to hear it, but didn’t reach much farther. It sounded like a DIRT transmission to station launch. It droned on with what sounded like uninteresting jabber for about two minutes. ‘What the hell, Yeoman?!? What’s this shit?’ Rojad finally said, about to press the stop button. Katlan couldn’t resist any longer. She took up residence in the chair across from Yeoman and took the data reader from Rojad’s hands.

Rojad turned to Yeoman. He was trying very hard to talk himself out of smashing the bottle over Yeoman’s perfectly coiffed head. Yeoman saw the look in Rojad’s eyes and said hurriedly ‘keep listening, man, keep listening….’ Rojad was just starting to explain the ways he was going to prove a man can live with his limbs pulled off when Katlan of all people pulled urgently on his shoulder.

‘Forget that shite, mate! This is some serious business!’ She held up the data reader like it had suddenly spoken with God’s own voice. ‘The bleeding DIRT wants you for questioning, Rojad. The bleeding DIRT, mate!’

Rojad’s mouth hung open. ‘What?!?’ He asked stupidly. Katlan pushed the device at him. ‘Listen for yourself, mate.’ She rewound the recording and raised the volume several octaves. Launch Command was talking to the navigator of a cruiser. Rojad concentrated to filter through the techno mumbo-jumbo to understand the core of the conversation.

‘Launch Command we receive…confirming approach vector of 675 to berth 82. Over’ came the voice of the cruiser navigator.

There was a second of static followed by the bored reply of the Launch Command operator. ‘That is an affirmative vessel 392984FWQ. Approach vector is 675 to berth 82. Over’.

A new voice came on the communication circuit, overriding the cruiser navigator’s reply. ‘Launch Command, this is Investigator 1^st Class Raj Mohamed of the Dominion Investigation and Resolution Troubleshooters. I will require your Station Security Chief’s presence at the berth upon my team’s arrival, as well as an immediate lockdown of all departures. Do you copy? Over’.

There was a long silence on the circuit. Finally a new voice came online. ‘Vessel 392984FWQ this is Launch Command Executive Officer Roche Mallard. Under whose orders are we supposed to do this thing you ask of us?’ The Launch Exo’s manner was as stiff and imposing as that of the Investigator’s. ‘We cannot just shut down all egress on some DIRT whim’.

‘Oh, I have sufficient authority, Mr. Mallard’ grated the investigator. ‘Please do validate the following code directly from the sector governor’.

A few minutes of additional silence followed. Rojad didn’t even think to fast forward the recording, he was so riveted. Katlan and Yeoman didn’t attempt to remind him that he could, either. His palms were sweaty and he felt a headache starting to manifest itself. Those minutes seemed like years, but the Launch Exo eventually came back online. ‘I…ah…am sorry for my earlier rudeness, Monsieur’. The Exo’s tone was completely different now. He sounded scared out of his boots. ‘We will give you all the assistance you require, Investigator Mohamed’.

‘In that case, I also want a station-wide search for one Citizen Rojad Olan’ said the Investigator. ‘He is wanted for questioning, so I want him alive. Do you understand ? Over’.

‘I....we understand, Investigator. It will be done! Over’ the Exo quickly assured.

‘Good. I will give further instructions to the Station Security Chief when I arrive. Vessel 392984FWQ signing out, Launch Command.’

Rojad didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he felt his lungs begging for release. The air escaped his mouth in a nervous hiss. He was stunned, his mind racing a parsec a minute. What did the DIRT want with him? Did he “liberate” something that was Government property in the last little while? He tried to think back through the jobs of the previous year or so. Nothing came to mind. He and Katlan always made sure that they only operated in the private sector. Military and governmental jobs were always more trouble than they were worth. He couldn’t recall anything that had passed through their possession out here in the fringe systems that warranted DIRT involvement.

Rojad looked at Katlan. He could see the same wheels turning in her head, or maybe not. She turned to Yeoman. ‘What your game, Dwight? You could probably make quite a bit of cred with our whereabouts. Why come to us instead of sellin’ to the DIRT?’ Katlan’s eyes were narrow with suspicion.

Yeoman raised his hands defensively. ‘Whoa there, Kat, whoa! Two reasons why I would come to Rojad before anyone else: Number one is that if they get their hands on you I may come up in the investigation. My work depends on a low profile. I can’t charge as much if my face is too well known, you get me?’

‘Yeah, right….and what’s reason number two, then?’

Yeoman sighed patiently. He looked Katlan directly in the eyes. ‘I thought that would be obvious.’ He replied. ‘I don’t want you to get hurt, Katlan. The DIRT doesn’t treat ex-military criminals with a soft touch. You know that.’

Rojad glanced at Katlan out of the corner of his eye. She looked shocked. ‘How much do you want, Yeoman?’ Rojad asked. ‘What do you want for this info? I can only assume your soft spot for my partner doesn’t go so far as to provide a discount?’

Yeoman shrugged and pulled his multibox from one of his pockets. ‘Business is business, Rojad.’ He said as he made some calculations. ‘Let’s see….5000 creds for the information. Another 500 creds for exclusive access to the information provided. I’ll charge 1500 creds, for my exposure to potential danger and incarceration, for a grand total of 7000 creds.’

‘You’re an angel, Yeoman. You’re a real honest-to-god angel with a shiny halo and lily white wings.’ Rojad muttered. Katlan was still speechless next to him. She was studying Yeoman like a Zeno-biologist at a freshly uncovered alien excavation site.

Yeoman put away his multibox. ‘Come on, Rojad!’ he said with exasperation. ‘You know I could get three times that amount from the DIRT. Not to mention a nice tidy sum for contract work from them if I convinced them I’m the best Info Fencer this station’s got.’

Katlan cleared her throat. ‘He’s right, Roj, on both counts.’ She signed and looked like she had a bad taste in her mouth. ‘There’s no reason he shouldn’t be smoozin’ with the DIRT right now’. She reached into her vest with a swift, jerky motion.

‘Listen, Katlan, I’m telling you that—‘ Yeoman retorted quickly. He was sure his ex-wife’s hand would be reappearing with a maser pistol.

The tech’s small hand slammed down on the table with the bang of metal on metal. Yeoman flinched, his eyes wide with fear. So did Rojad. Her hand pulled way slowly to reveal two worn chips of platinum. ‘8000 in universal currency’ she said quietly.

Rojad didn’t believe that Yeoman could appear more stunned. He was wrong. ‘Kat…’ he whispered. He hand hovered over the chips but slid down to cover Katlan’s.

‘The extra 1000 is for your assurance you won’t sell this conversation for at least another 36 station hours’ she said not looking at him. She pulled her hand from under his and stood up. She looked at Rojad, who was trying his best to become invisible during the whole interaction between the two. ‘We should go, mate. We can get that pilot to drop us off at the next sector station.’

‘You don’t have to go, you know.’ Rojad replied. He had been partners with Katlan for a long time and didn’t want to part with her. He didn’t want her caught up in whatever the DIRT had in store for him, either. ‘They’re after me, not you, Kat.’

His partner snorted as she headed for the lounge entrance. ‘And just what do you think they’ll do to me if they catch me, hmmn? Ask me for tea and crumpets and a nice bit of talk about the Emperor’s three wives?’

Rojad and Yeoman sat silently for a moment looking at Katlan’s disappearing back. Then Yeoman turned back to the table and pushed the platinum bars back to Rojad. ‘Keep the creds, Rojad’ he said. ‘Just promise me you won’t let anything happen to her. She’s the only thing I truly love in this world.’ He reached for the bottle and poured himself a stiff drink. ‘You better go before I wise up and change my mind.’

When Rojad left the club he found Katlan standing in the darkened doorway of a heavy machinery distributor across the causeway. He reached out to her, hoping to convince her to change her mind about going with him. She shrugged off his touch.

‘Shut your damn gob, mate…don’t even bother to waste your breath, you hear? I was getting sick and tired of…this whole place, anyway.’ She turned and started towards the nearest lift tube. ‘Always hated this bloody station, didn’t I?’

Dwight Yeoman sat alone at the table, deep in thought. He was running numbers and scenarios in his head, juggling the risks and advantages like a deep space navigator plotting a series of jumps without computer assistance.

If he was really heartless and cold blooded he could stand to make about 200 000 credits just by handing over the berth number of the smuggler Rojad had just met with. That was enough cred to get himself into the core systems on a nice technological planet. He’d always wanted to get back to Earth and start up a legit company. Show those cits back home that he wasn’t just a no-good black marketer. It would be so easy. All it took was a call. But could he live with himself if sold out his ex-wife to the D.I.R.T.? Would any amount of money sooth his conscience? How badly did he want to get back to Earth?

He took out his multibox and cycled up the security service number. On the third ring the line was picked up. “This is the Security Services, Officer Martin speaking. How can I help you?”

Ok, so I can finally see my blog. I just need to personalize it. Ho-hum! I sure do love messing around with code (not!). Since I'm on pager over the week-end there's not much else for me to do, I guess. I am starting to wonder if posting my writing in ablog is the most, shall I say 'visually appealing', format to present it in. I mean the horizontal area available for the stories to be viewed is a bit lacking. I'll have to see if I can maybe have the secondary area at the top instead of the side.

Ok, I off to bed again (got paged at 5am).

Let's hope I can see this...!