Dressed up in his finest uniform, Hortan entered the party and immediately knew he had missed something vital. The bar was full of what appeared to be a support group from CLM, all swaggering, bandanas, cutlasses and parrots. The rear of the room contained a Roman consul's table, complete with slaves, to the left side, and a Heavy Metal band with support groupies to the right. A trio of Victorian looking poets, one with a very thick book, were trying to perform something very loduly between these rowdy groups. But what took the price was the seven foot drag queen dancing on the table in the middle of the room and her, or rather his entourage with the very large moustache and broad shoulders, that was performing some kind of breakdance/martial arts on the floor to the tune of an ancient Swedish band named ABBA. Dancing Queen, how apt Hortan thought, and was just about to turn and bolt, when one of the pie rats swaggered up to him, bottle in one hand , eyepatch on both eyes, a pegleg and a wicked looking claw.
"Yarr, it be the Hortan yarr. What kinda costume be ye havin'? Some kind of trader, yarr? Pay ye me then"
Hortan looked closer, "Pasquel? That you?"
"Yarr matey, he be I yarrr. Hey, didn't they tell you? It is a fancy dress party." Pasquel pointed to the consul, slurring slightly. "There's Vardonx, but who the two slavegirls are, I don't know. Unfortunately," he laughed. Hortan had some idea.
"Over there is, Moda, Zathras, M.2, Fluffy, Mor Isil and the girl that looks at him so adoringly is his secretary, Ms Kanaka," he pointed to the metal heads. "The guy with the large orange Afro-Mohawk is Fluffy, just in case you are wondering." "Over here in the bar is me, Ato, John, Strat, and Mercy," he pointed with the bottle of Sedina Rum before taking another swig.
"The Victorian bard over there is Surbius, and I believe he is trying to force people to listen to his poem "An Ode to the 243-b, Permission to Dance form", but nobody seems to listen much. It has been going on for about three hours now anyway. The green clad fellow against the wall with the "Kiss me I'm Irish" t-shirt and a bottle of whisky in each hand is Buzz. And the attentive helper with the banjo is Tuinya. Amazing patience, deafness, or a momentary lapse of sanity is my bet as to why they didn't run off or perish hours ago." Hortan looked, but he failed to take his eyes away from the swirling drag queen for more than a few seconds.
"And the piece de resistance, Mary-Jo on the table, and Betty-Lou on the floor. Better known as The Boss and Waldoze." Pasquel took another swig of the bottle.
Ecka finished his tabledance with a jump down to the floor, a swing around the chair, pirouetted over to the bar on the six inch plateau shoes, landed in an empty chair and called in a very deep voice for whisky. Hortan was awestruck. The timing was perfect, as befitted an extremely skilled acrobat/fighter such as The Boss. Waldoze ended his routine with a handstand and vaulted over to Hortan. He pushed Hortan into a chair and sat on his lap.Taking Hortans cap off, he quickly ruffled his hair.
"So, you came. Bloody marvelous. Need a drink mate, can you fix me one? These heels are killing me, and the skirt and stockings doesn't make it much better." He planted a huge kiss on Hortans cheek, thereby painting it in bright neon red and switched lap to Pasquel, so Hortan could get up.
Completely confused, Hortan started for the bar, turned around and went back for his TGFT propeller cap, put it on his head and went up to the pie rats. He moved in between John and Strat, and tried to get the barmans attention. Dressed in black leather pants with cut-outs on the buttocks, a leather vest with metal studs, a huge moustache and a low leather cap, Lambin turned around and smiled at Hortan.
"So, what'll it be sailor?" he said with a slight lisp.
"One large rum, one large Helio Mists and one Nyrius Dew, please," he smiled at Lambin.
"Sorry, no can do mate." He pointed to the sign proclaiming that you had to be above 18 to be served alcohol.
"It is not for me, it is...Hey, I am over 18" Hortan protested.
"Not what you cap says. According to that, you are a minor," Lambin had to turn away so as not laugh too loudly.
Hortan tore his cap of and looked at the caption. The E in MINER had been covered with an O. Looking up, he saw that John and Lambin could barely contain themselves, and as he realised this, they cracked completely. Loud laughter was echoing through the bar, and Lambin served the drinks. Wiping away a tear at the corner of one eye, he stuttered "On the house mate, on the house."
Hortan looked at John fuming and indignant. "How long time have I been walking around with that?" "Oh, no more than some hours, a day at most," he hiccupped. Taking Hortan around the shoulders, he led him over to the table with Waldoze and seated him. "You have fun now, you hear? Chill out and have fun mate"
Hortan lasted two hours. Then he had to get some peace and quiet, and retired to his bed. He awoke to the soft chime of the guild internal channel. Awake almost immediately, he punched "answer" and croaked "yeah."
A soft female voice answered "Hortan, you are needed in the command centre. You have 10 minutes. End of message."
Regretting that he had brought the dress uniform to the party yesterday, and especially that he had been active in playing "space helmet rugby" across the wet floor, he settled for a standard flightsuit and propeller cap. He bolted down the corridor to the OPS room. Inside the room, he was greeted by Ecka, who was sitting as usual in his command seat, crossed claymores and shield hung over the impressive tartan cloth that adorned the back wall.
"Hortan, how are ye lad?" the Voice of Ecka cut through the clattering noises as clearly as if Hortan had been wearing earphones turned up to maximum. "Come over here, sit." Ecka pointed to the large synth leather chair normally used by Surbius.
Hortan walked over, sat in the chair, and looked up at Ecka. "I am good Sir, I am still on my medication, but the doc says that I can fly again."
"Aye lad, I read ye file. What he also tells, is that ye have ta do second line duty for a while. I have however a wee problem ye cae help me with if ye so care."
"Anything Sir, just tell me what," Hortan said eagerly.
"We be havin this convoy later that we are setting up fa the TPG, ye kenn? And we hae promised to support with five combat pilots. Yesterday Lambin tried a new trick with a cutlass and impaled himself with it. So he is outa flying for at least a week."
"Sir," Hortan protested, "I can't fly as a combat pilot, I don't know how."
Ecka stopped him with a smile and a shake of the head. "No lad, ye will nae be flying combat. I am asking ye ta take my space as leader of the TPG merchant convoy, and the I will take the combat duties. Truth be told," he winked, " I prefer a wee fight to a convoy duty. So, can I count on ye?"
"It will be an honour Sir," Hortan said, bursting with pride. Him, leading a TPG convoy for the greater co-operation between the guild and the ancient group.
"T'will have ta be a secret lad. Ye hae ta paint ye moth in green and pretend ta be me, ye kenn? I trust ye lad, contact Moda for specifics. We'll fly in 18 hours. Dismissed."
Hortan practically ran down to Moda to get the details. He would show them that he could handle it, he would show them. Then perhaps he would be allowed to do solo mining missions again.
Ardan watched the three EVA teams walk into the three Tunguska Aggressors, silently counting them off as alfa, bravo and charlie. One team could do the assassination, but Ardan was a firm believer in triple redundancy. Besides, at just around 150k credits per team, he could easily cover it under the expenses allowed him by the Council. The strike force was almost ready and assembled. The navigation route for the convoy had been implanted in the correct computers. That was another million credits. Now he only had to wait for the main players to undock so the plan could unfold. His plan, his masterpiece, his entry into the council.
