The Zoner Conference

[Dusty Lens]

Smoking was a bad habit.

But this might be worse.

That being sitting in the high chair. He hadn't thought much of the last time a Port had been placed in his care. Sure that one had been more burning than station and the flavor of the week was seeing who could add a few more windows to it. But between the Bounty Hunters Guild trying to declare war on all and sundry, the Corsairs kicking up a storm and the Omicroners trying to burn what they hadn't blown up everything had turned out pretty ok.

So what had he done to deserve this?

Shuffling cards in Wellgood's and pushing the occasional delivery to see if he remembered how to fly a good spell with his feet kicked up made.

The Taxi in which he rode bustled about a final bend, bringing the general environs of the estate into view. Hey, not every shmuck is going to be flying into the private pad via their luxury whatsit. Some fellows hop a shuttle and take a taxi. A taxi in which they smoke.

Being volentold to represent the wary interests of Nine to the good people of who knows where or who didn't strike as the optimal configuration to his day planner. But. Still. A few days out of the bowels of Nine and into some sunshine might do him some good. Skulking about following the Volkhan business couldn't be a top sign of pristine mental health.

Timothy Rhyme bequeathed the gate guard with his most charming smile. One which seemed to do little to deflect the ire, and subsequent exhausting of the cigarette he was sporting, of the guard whom inspected her person. But the paperwork cleared and in he strolled, looking about for any old faces he might recognize.