The gentle hum of conversation had settled over the Maurer memorial garden like a particularly virulent smog. Foreign voices swam through the air, intertwining with the almost imperceptible pulse of the three-tiered fountain that dominated this part of the Sylvania dome. Camille sat upon a bench at the fountain's edge, staring into the meticulously filtered water. Carefully cultivated moss lined the stone-textured plastic, patches of greenery stretching out towards the feet of passers-by with delicate fingers. A half-overgrown plaque rested near the foot of her bench, faded bronze etching standing in unnoticed memorial to a Zoner explorer who had apparently borne the name Onishi Gaku. She kicked a half-inch of moss from the plate, eyes searching the passing crowd with a nervous energy that set her heel tapping a beat against the cobbles. It was an amateur's mistake, but that was okay. The Order would be expecting an amateur.
The journey from Oubli had passed smoother than she could have hoped for, Freeport 10's officials sparing her altered papers little more then a cursory glance. The Eagle that crouched several decks below did not, whatever the documentation in her pocked proclaimed, below to her. Tattered and faded, the fighter's original owner had parted with it easily enough, trading the decrepit ship for a pardon and a promise of work, neither of which were in her power to give. She gave a mental shrug. It hardly mattered, in the scheme of things. The smuggler would receive whatever mercy the courts decided upon, and the ship had served to carry her here, a far worthier use than ferrying cardamine to the Gallic edge worlds. Despite herself, she felt a faint trill of enthusiasm.
The Order were ghosts, phantoms lingering at the edge of major events in the sector. Rumor had it that they even had eyes within Gallia's own borders, though Camille scoffed at that particular notion. Regardless, the Order was a significant force in Sirius, and one that barely anyone seemed to know anything about. Certainly, they knew the organisation existed, and supposedly did so to fight the aliens, but her contacts had offered little more then vague assurances at the mention of the group once derided in the Sirian houses as terrorists. And she was to meet one. If not for the conditions that fostered the meeting, it was almost a triumph in itself. She pivoted on the bench, returning her attention to the milling crowds.
