2954-07-29 – Tales from the Inbox: A Memory's End 

Obviously, a person like Mr. Tsiklauri is likely to make a number of rather unsavory contacts in several years as a freelance spacer with his own starship. Spacers, especially those who've done the Strand circuit, are hardly known for a consistent track record of good moral character. 

That being said, I find it strange for him to still be on speaking terms with someone who has tried to kill him before on multiple occasions. "Just business" may apply to economic competition, but it does not usually apply to mortal combat. Since I can also find no record of his associate despite weeks of research, I am beginning to wonder if she is a composite character, with all the alluring and unsavory traits of two or more real people rolled into one, for storytelling purposes. 

Why Mr. Tsiklauri would do this, in what otherwise claims to be a truthful account, I cannot even speculate. 

Within an hour of taking his leave of Roger Simon, Zeph Tsiklauri had downed two thoroughly mediocre pints of local ale and identified about twenty independent spacers who were in the Braunweiss system whose reputations made them likely candidates for the job. He was glad most of all that this was the Coreward Frontier, and the far extremity thereof to boot; the region didn't attract the same caliber of renegades as the Silver Strand. With the ever-present carrot of Navy contract jobs at stake, a freelancer would think twice about tarnishing his reputation for a quick credit windfall. 

He'd have to contact them one at a time, of course, paying a small sum up front for contracted silence. Who accepted and who rejected an offer that, though lucrative, carried few details, would in turn influence who Zeph had to contact next – and he couldn't afford to wait for anyone too long, with the clock already ticking. 

He'd gotten three messages from an unknown sender in that hour as well. That would be Anata, of course. He hadn't listened to any of them. If she was sincere about no longer being tempted by his death mark – and he rather doubted it – that was an acquaintance that could be renewed and tested out slowly over long distance comms during the boring weeks of his contract. 

As had become a custom of necessity, Zeph did most of his research from a corner booth at one of the station's watering holes, holding his expanded wristcuff screen up so he could see everyone that came and went. He could have retreated to his ship, but Anata knew where that was, and was probably loitering near its berth, waiting for just that. 

Zeph doubted Mr. Simon would null out the contract just because of yet another shootout resulting from yet another syndicate hit attempt on his life; after all, it was very much his reputation, after all, to have and to endure that sort of problem. His onetime shipmate was not likely to try such a direct approach, not on her own – but if she caught wind of the value of the claim Zeph was now responsible for protecting, it might be too much for her to resist. 

He'd sent out messages to the first three prospects – spacers named Royceston, Markova, and Nissen – and was nursing a third ale waiting for them to reply when a slight figure with shock-white hair sidled into the establishment. With a sigh, he folded his wristcuff screen as Anata made a stop at the bar to order a drink, then slid into the seat opposite him. 

"You get the job?" She asked, after waiting for some time for Zeph to speak first, and finding him unwilling to do so. 

"Job?" Zeph shrugged. "Don't know what you're talking about, Ana." 

"So yes, you did." Anata rolled her eyes, and tossed her head in a way that would have sent her previously luxurious cascade of red hair dancing. A mohawk, obviously, didn't produce quite the same effect. "And no, I'm not invited." She nodded and looked away. 

"Even if I had a job, do you really think it would be good business to pull you into it?" Zeph shrugged.  

"Probably not." Anata flashed a grin at the young man who delivered her drink. "But it would be good fun. Like old times." 

Zeph waited for the attendant to leave before speaking again. "I have enough scars from old times, Ana. No interest in more. Besides, it wouldn't exactly help you get back in with the Triad." 

Anata gave Zeph a strange look, then took a long, slow sip of her drink. "We didn't know how good we had it back in the Strand, did we?" Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. 

"Miserable living conditions. One food-fab that never worked right. Skipper bawling us out any time we did anything except prepare for launch ops. Terrible pay, regular brushes with death..." Zeph smiled slyly. "I do miss it." It had been his fault – or rather, the fault of people chasing the mark on his head – that their ragtag mercenary outfit had come apart at the seams. Zeph had corresponded with Anata and others after his forced departure, at least for the six weeks of the company's remaining existence from that point. 

"You could get on with one of the more respectable crews on this side of space, you know." Anata gestured with her glass. "One of the outfits that can afford good military-grade tech, maybe even the pull to get Navy contracts now and again. They're always hiring, and always shipping out for months on end to places the syndicates can't reach." 

"Probably." Zeph had considered it; he had a cousin working for a mercenary company out of Maribel, a decently prosperous outfit called Blacktrail Defense. When he'd passed through that system on his way out toward Braunweiss, they'd been preparing to go out on a long-haul patrol of some sort. He could have probably pulled strings to go with them. Something had held him back, though, something he'd not spent any time trying to identify. 

Anata nodded knowingly, apparently guessing at least some of his thoughts. "You don't think it will be the same." 

"I'm also not too excited by the prospect that it will be." Zeph drained the rest of his drink. "Don't forget that I got poor Steffen killed." 

"Steffen was unlucky." Anata shrugged. "But there wasn't anything you could have done, except get killed in his place, which is what those bastards wanted anyway." She smirked. "He'd have hated to trade places and give those tweakers a win, eh?" 

Zeph scowled. "Yeah." It being true couldn't do anything to make him feel better, of course. A friend and comrade had died as a consequence of his own death-mark; it shouldn't ever feel better, by his lights. He'd brought trouble with him, trouble nobody else on the crew had asked for. 

Just then, Zeph's comm chimed. One of his prospects had responded. 

Anata drained the rest of her drink and stood up. "It's been good catching up, big guy." She put a hand on his briefly. "I'll be seeing you around. Watch your back, so it isn't too tempting a target, hmm?" 

With that, she was gone. Zeph watched her go for a long moment, then turned his attention to the incoming message on his comm.