Latest polls from the election in Patocuda indicate a landslide victory for the 8th Dragon Squadron; a faction accused of allying themselves with Archon Delaine by the Patocuda League and current head of their election campaign, Dia Riordan. Initial reports suggest that control of Bao Orbital has already been handed over to 8th Dragon security forces, with Riordan leading the retreat of the Patocuda League’s infrastructre staff from the extraction outpost.
While Dia Riordan was unavailable for comment, this begs the question – what is going on with the political landscape in Patocuda? This is a huge turnaround in what seemed to be a forgone election result for the Patocuda League...
The corvette erupted in a glorious ball of debris and expanding oxygen. It had lasted less than a minute once the Dragon pilots had targeted it.
“You stole my fucking kill!” shouted Fangz across the comms.
The reply he received was the united laughter of the other Dragon Commanders, as they turned to the struggling Type 9 nearby. This was a slaughter.
“Mohizz, get your fat ass out of my face!” demanded Fangz as he approached the limping ship, shields down, his Corvette glancing across his fellow Dragon’s bow. The Type 9 lasted mere seconds, its cargo spilling out as the power plant failed and the ship exploded.
“Find your own targets, you thieving piece of shit,” Mohizz laughed.
“Python!” shouted Nyxx. “No, he’s already dead.”
“Gentlemen, I apologise for my intrusion, but if I don’t kill one of these little darlings before my ammunition runs out, I’m going to be ...
“….and the hydroponic process is state of the art,” Furieux said reverently. “After the middle run they analyse it by advanced gas chromatography, and that is why this drink” – he paused, raised the glass to his lips and took a mouthful – “is the finest in the galaxy.”
Adamantium didn’t particularly care for gin, but since Furieux’s return to Coney Gateway he was somewhat enjoying the customary lectures that followed consumption of half a bottle of Centauri. Adamantium’s beer was taking effect, and he found the subtle glow from the glass to be somewhat hypnotic as began another tale of gin-themed adventure.
The first flicker of the lights went almost unnoticed. The second lasted longer, and the bar became hushed. Distant booms could be heard echoing around the station and the Star and Garter was suddenly bathed in the green glow of emergency lighting...
He wore green-lensed goggles and a wry smile that told you that he wasn’t one to cross. Everybody in the Star and Garter knew he was a drug dealer; he had visited several times before, selling his Tarach Spice. The more aware knew his name, Commander Ne’Mall, and that he flew with the Guardians of Tranquillity, a cult of drug-pushing ‘crazies’ led by Tranquillity Boss, their Spice-Seer. Those in the business of intelligence gathering knew the most: ‘Two-times Tranquillity Top Dealer and aide to T-Boss’ meant he was a diplomat for an independent faction, a player in ‘The Game’… and a puppet on a string; perhaps they knew more than he did.
He approached the bar. The goggles were removed and he ordered a drink. Tranquil Tea. The barman, never forgetting a face, knew Ne’Mall and his green eyes...