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Agent Loshiri shrugged in his merchant robes; as usual, the biomask tingled. Literally taken from the skull of the Hei’ trader who he ‘replaced,’ retrovirused into symbiosis with Loshiri’s immune and cardiovascular systems, built up on the inside with artificial bone-stuff to make it not only fit the agent but look and feel realistic, the biomask was one of the standard tools of an Alpha insertion agent’s trade. Quite standard, and, in Loshiri’s opinion, quite disturbing. He didn’t mind the fact that back in the Zone there was a cadaver-one that used to belong to a Thaurian gun-runner and general dealer in contraband--without a face; the guy was supporting True Earth through an intermediary and didn’t have enough social virtue to fill a paper cup. What bothered him was the idea of having what amounted to a massive bloodsucking leech attached to his head. And the tingling sensation akin to someone applying just a tad too little general anesthetic over his entire face… that didn’t help matters any.
On the upside, he didn’t really feel the cold of the hazy Trono night as he turned a corner and continued on down Lowsky street. At least his cover’s robes were useful; they easily went over the standard Alpha agent electrothermoptic ‘cloaking’ active camouflage trenchcoat. Why, exactly, it was a trench coat was never fully explained to him; apparently it was just traditional for elite spies to have sleek trench coats. Having full-body coverage without standing out as much as a skinsuit was just a side benefit.
So this is the Historic District, hmm? Loshiri looked idly at the buildings, whose time-worn façades looked no different architecturally than the rest of the city. Still, by their more extreme decay-brickwork disintegrating around the edges, walls almost worn through in some places, windcarved by odd city winds-they were obviously older than the rest of the city. Practically, however, the buildings were just as ugly and the streets as serpentine as the rest of the entire Thaurian Concordat. Damned Thaurians couldn’t plan an efficient city if their lives depended on it.
He came to the Bluesky-Lowriver intersection and started looking for "The Yellow Slipper." He didn’t have to look very hard; it was probably the only building on the corner not just covered in flashing noble-gas lights, but flashing noble-gas lights depicting various forms of genitalia doing rather suggestive things. Loshiri sighed and shook his head, chuckling. Subtlety is not a social trait, hmmm? Then again, with a high illiteracy rate… one has to market to the lowest common denominator. He walked across the street and ducked under the low entrance covered in a drapery of beads. The beads tinkling behind him, he sized up the interior and was suitably impressed. Very, very subtle, looking more like a cultured parlor than some sort of stereotypical cathouse. Thaurians talking around tables, everything very quiet, with a soft analog to chamber music piping in. Sure, the females were scantily clad, but tastefully so. The discordance disoriented Loshiri somewhat-the differing needs of advertising and operation-but he shrugged it off and started to follow the trail hinted at by his mission orders.
An elegantly clad female-probably the madame, seeing how she was the only one visible who was dressed appropriately to go out into the cold night, and also quite a bit older than the rest, but still quite handsome-stepped up to the agent, simple black binder in one orange-skinned hand. "Come in out of the cold, sir," she smiles faintly, "and enjoy our company. Is this your first visit to our establishment?"
"Yes, but I was directed here by a friend." Loshiri responds politely, his voice maintaining an even tone. The simple resonators around his neck-also built up with prosthetics to match the dead double-ensured that his voice had the appropriate depth.
The madame nodded, taking Loshiri to be a male of mind at least and so adjusted her tone and selling pitch. "What are you interested in tonight, sir? Perhaps some light conversation, or maybe something more private?"
Hmm… I’m sure wandering isn’t going to be allowed, so I’ll just have to be a little more proactive. "Eh, conversation for now; I’m still adjusting from the cold." I wonder if people actually do come in here for just someone to talk to. Well, if priests can pay prostitutes just to talk to them about God, I guess nothing is impossible.
Smiling, the madam motions Loshiri to one of the tables, in the corner and comparatively secluded. "We’ve found that those who visit our establishment for the first time tend to be rather… shy." She chuckles softly at the concept of shame in such a situation, either as an outdated concept or just one that’s been disproven by years in the biz.
"Thank you." Loshiri bows his head slightly and thanks the spirits that Thaurians don’t have a blush response-if that damned biomask sucked any more blood out of his face, he’d just have to faint on principle-as he sits down in the booth. Drumming his fingers lightly on the table, Loshiri carefully took in the room in glances, both managing to not only see what he needed to but look sufficiently nervous to keep his cover. One of the lesser-dressed females soon comes over and sits across from him, hands arched.
Despite the rather revealing ‘clothing,’ heady perfume, and odd body art, she and Loshiri managed-after the expected bit of initial fumbling-to get into a rather interesting discussion concerning local events, gossip about the war, standard small-talk that, while quite endearing, wasn’t getting Loshiri anywhere. It’d be impolite to ask about another girl, and I’m not sure this is the "Cloud-Day" I’m looking for. Time is of the essence, but I can’t rush this… can’t look too suspicious.
"Well, this has been a pleasant conversation… um…" Loshiri pretends to search his memory. "I’m afraid we were never introduced."
The courtesan chuckles. "I am called ‘Snow-River’ here." She looks back inquisitively with a slight smirk.
"Ah, glad to meet you." Hopefully they don’t have multiple stage-names. "I am… hrm…" Lessee… common name for the TC… "Loctor Shiro."
Chuckling, the courtesan waves dismissively with one hand. "Well, that’s fair enough. I lie, you lie, we’re even."
Well, that went well, but she’s the wrong one. Damn. Checking his timepiece, Loshiri sighed. "It’s been a pleasant conversation, but I should be off. What times do you normally work, in case we should return to this conversation in the future."
Snow-River chattered off a listing of days and times, and Loshiri mentally logged not to show up at those times. After making a courteous exit from the conversation, he waited for the courtesan to be out of earshot before leaning to the madame during the exchange of currency for services rendered. "Would you mind if I could see some schedules, so I can know when to come in the future?"
The madame smiled with a nod. "Of course not. It’s been my experience that… those with a refined taste make the best customers. Wheeling the thick hide-bound book in her hand towards Loshiri, she smiles as he scans the list of names and dates. Aha. Tomorrow, this time… matches up with when Snow-River is out. Excellent.
"Thank you, ma’am," Loshiri smiles, "that is a great help."
"My pleasure." She smiles cordially, greed safely locked behind her eyes.
Loshiri steps back out into the night, humming softly to himself. Tomorrow, a confrontation.
The next day, Loshiri did a bit of sniffing around the economic backwaters of Trono. Seven million doru was a lot of green, and that much money is hard to push around without being noticed. Moving it physically would be safest from tracking, but… very few people in the TC could be trusted with that much hard cash, so few that the number would approach nil. Added to the danger that the cash could be swiped in transit by a simple mugger… no, something safer to transmit would be required. Something electronic.
Of course, the risk with electronic transfer was that it could be traced. No matter how much it was laundered, it would show up in totality in two places: The sender and the receiver. It was an easy enough job for Loshiri to find the account Cloud-Day used to get the money; a secure account in an underworld ‘money-holding’ institution which served the traditional role of a bank but without all the annoying aboveground oversight. Working backwards from there, it looked like it had been rather well laundered… gone through at least seventeen different middlemen, all connected to the Kargah group of Hei’ merchant-mafia. Still, what’s the motive of economic mobsters to off the Master-Cleric? He was already basically in their pockets, according to reports… it doesn’t work for them. Must be someone outside the dons, but someone they’re willing to listen to.
Loshiri blinked at the screen. The numbers weren’t coming back together; it looked as if the provincial governments of several hundred worlds were each cashing into the pot. A conspiracy that big? Naw, the Inquisition would’ve been all over that. Difficult to organize effectively, either. Not only that, but the Kargah dons would’ve had no reason to accept it. Those aren’t major centers of business for them, and their local hit squads could easily off any measly planetary lieutenant. It has to be bigger than that, almost. Looking over the list of planets, he rubbed his temples. What’s the connection? These have nothing to do with Kargah or Imcedi… wait a min. Political alignment?
Mostly quietly Garbog. Well, I’ll be. It’s a double play. All I have to do is meet Cloud-Day and confirm this, and everything will be set. Loshiri smirks to himself. Damn, am I good or what?
TO: BASILICA
FR: LOWLIFE
SJ: Our current problem
It looks like BORGIA was involved all along, getting his little peons to foot the bill, probably through military and political pressure. He probably just said "pay up" without even telling them the goals. I’m sending the data I have now, and will try to confirm with suggested direct intelligence.
Loshiri passed through the beaded curtain again, head ducking under the low door, hands parting away the chains of baubles. The madam lookd up and smiled cordially again, ends of her lips curling up slightly more. "Glad to see you back, sir. Unfortunately, Snow-River isn’t in right now."
Loshiri made himself look suitably disappointed. "Oh well, I’m here so might as well. Who else is in?" The madam responds with a suitable roster. "Hm, ‘Cloud-Day’ sounds nice."
"Very well then. Follow me, please."
The madam leads him to a private room in the back; in response to Loshiri’s appropriately questioning look she responds with a casual smile. "She always prefers to speak in private, and she’s a decent enough worker that I do my best to fulfil her wishes." Nodding, the madam steps out, leaving Loshiri alone in a small room upholstered in deep red leather, looking like something out of a corner booth in an ancient pub, complete with dim yellow atmosphere-lighting. The air just wasn’t the right smell nor smoky enough to complete the image in Loshiri’s mind. Sitting down on a long seat, he taps the transmit key on his QE communicator before folding his hands atop his crossed knees. Waiting patiently, he knows full well he wants this observed.
Cloud-Day emerges from a side door, wearing Thaurian professional clothing, looking more like a high-class Hei’ merchant than just some courtesan. Nodding curtly to her customer, she sits down demurely across from him, face a curious mix of haughty severity and quiet friendliness.
Loshiri blinks with surprise and allows himself a slight smirk. "I must admit, this was not at all what I was expecting."
The courtesan chuckles while idly taking up a fruit from a bowl on the table, then bites into it slowly. "This is not a problem, I hope?"
"Not at all. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised," Loshiri folds his arms over his chest, tucking one hand into his sleeve and readying his hold-out blazer just in case, "given the amount of money you’ve been handing out recently, I suppose you’ve enough to afford the lifestyle." He nods wryly to her robes with a smile.
"I’ve heard rumor tell of seven million doru passing through these chambers, leading directly to the ill fate of Our Previously Exalted."
Cloud-Day chuckles softly, leaning back in her seat. "Oh, really? All donations from admirers in House Garbog, sure enough, with the note that it be passed along to someone deserving."
"I’m sure the Inquisition will be extremely interested to know that," Loshiri grins.
"You do, hmm?" The courtesan stretches slightly, tapping a trigger under the table that sets out a screeching wail, quickly going ultrasonic as she lunges forward and takes the agent’s communicator, knocking his hold-out uselessly from his hand. "There’s something you should know," she grins darkly, drawing and leveling an evil-looking fusion pistol of Thaurian manufacture at Loshiri’s face.
"You lied about Garbog?" Loshiri grimaces. Damn, in a tight spot.
"Hardly." She flicks off his communicator with a click. "I am the Inquisition."
Loshiri never even sees the muzzle flash.