The coffee was cold, frigid in fact. Genevieve la Mare had forgotten that the heating system turned off in the aft section of her fighter when it docked. She had come to retrieve the ceramic mug, as she had forgotten it in the storage section. She took a sip, and then finished it in one long draw, disgusted at the acidity of the liquid. Stepping out of storage she hung a left and hit a button on the canopy of her eclipse to open it up. Scrambling out of the cockpit, she hopped down onto the hangar deck. It was good to be home on board the Monte Carlo, the family’s private yacht. A man in a sharp suit greeted her. Her father’s butler, Pierre.
“Accueillir à nouveau Genevieve, we have been anxiously awaiting your return! Your father would like to speak to you in his office.”
“By all means, show the way.” Genevieve was tired, but it was more important to stay alert. As Pierre led her out of the hangar into the corridors and they took the elevator to the top of the ship. As they stepped out, she was ambushed by her uncle Gregor, coming from her father’s office. He was a large man, at least 100 kilos, if not more. He looked as though he had not shaved in two days and his jowls jiggled as he smiled, but he smelled like tobacco and home.
“Genevieve! Accueillir à nouveau! How are you?”
He gave her a bear hug, and she rolled her eyes good naturedly.
“I’m good uncle. Southern Bretonia is beautiful, particularly when dismantling Libertonian Mastodons.”
He chuckled boisterously, “So much like you mother! She could reduce a disabled Maquis freighter to scrap in no time flat! But your father is waiting, I won’t keep you.”
Gregor clapped her on the back and shuffled past. Leaving her once again with Pierre, who had positioned himself in front of the large cherry doors to the office, inlaid with a pure gold crest of the family. She swallowed in anticipation.
“Pierre, I could use some cognac.”
“Of course mademoiselle, I’ll be right back.”
She pushed through the doors and stood quietly at the back of the room. A panoramic window covered the forward wall, displaying the beautiful colors of Planet Angers and the two suns of the Anjou System. Bookshelves lined the edge of the room, and a stout tea tree grew in a pot nearby, imported from Planet Curacao. The cherry paneling was accented by red velvet and gold trim, and the floor was covered in a vast rug with the family crest. A small fireplace and an arm chair were situated near the back corner, where a copy of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness on top of a credenza. The entire room sloped in toward the window, and the vast mahogany desk lying in front of it. And behind it sat Acel la Mare, her father, Judge of the Gallic Junkers.
His long grey hair could be seen peeping above the top of his chair, turned away, and a curl of smoke swung lazily in a serpentine motion above his head.
“Genevieve.” It was more a statement than anything else, an afterthought as cold as the coffee she had recently downed. She stepped forward uncertainly.
“You called me?” He swung his chair about.
“Yes. Sit… please.” His voice warmed a little, and he put out his cigar. “I need you to go on an assignment for the family.”
“Sure! Of course!” He was unaffected by the enthusiasm.
“We believe that IMG and the Colonial Republic are allied to each other. I need you to go to Coronado. You’ll meet up with my contact, Franz Kurtis. Quite a man, great with the business. You’ve never met him, but he is quite reliable. Always sending back funds, setting up deals with the local freelancers.”
“Coronado.” That was farther into Sirius than she had ever been.
“Yes, we’re issuing you a Combat Service Freighter. The supplies you can stow there should keep you going for the next half year.”
“Half year…”
“Problem?”
“Not at all.”
“Good, you leave tomorrow.” He turned back to the panorama. Sensing that the conversation was over, she turned to leave. He said finally, without turning about: