PROLOGUE: A Song for Aram

"Greetings, friends. Have you the time, I humbly invite you to my place of business for a meal and a proposal. Come, come, I insist. 14:00 hours on the 33rd day of the Judge. Bring your appetite... and your courage."

That was Khadija Jubal's message, which each of you received on your com links during the previous day. As usual, her message was one part courteous and one part challenge. But it was also a little atypical of your patron. Normally, she doesn't bother with direct meetings and assigns trade missions to your crew by way of video communication or data download. Sometimes she even sends a courier if the information is sensitive. So the fact that she wants to meet face-to-face is telling. You feel safe in assuming that this proposal she has planned is something important. Yet whatever the case, you all have served Khadija long enough to know that her "requests" are never actually requests; you're expected to do as you're told. Being Firstcome, your patron is nothing if not polite and hospitable - at least as "polite and hospitable" as a Syndicate charpur is likely to be.

Khadija's business (the legal face of it) is antiquities. Her shop is situated in the Souk Alesh - Coriolis' official free trader market. This colorful district - full of stores, warehouses, and khabara brokers - is found in the massive Ring section of the station, just off of the Spice Market.

Whether you all travel together or individually, the trip is the same. You ride the high-speed grav tube through kilometers of variegated metal tunnels, arriving at the one of the tube stations along the outer blocks of the Ring. As the doors of the tube car hiss open, you step into the lofty immensity that is the Coriolis Promenade - an expansive walkway running the entire circumference of the Ring. The Promenade could be described as a wide street with walls on either side that stretch up almost to the very top of the Ring. The sheer dimensions of the place are astounding, and one can't help but feel small and insignificant in the presence of such a feat of Zenithian engineering. The entire place is a cityscape in itself. Shops, cafes, and residences line the sides of the walkway, and crowds bustle passed you. Cable cars and grav vehicles speed by and beep at those in their way. Above you, you crane your neck to observe a criss-crossing network of bridges connecting one side of the Promenade to another. And at the utmost heights of the Ring's interior, where you should be seeing the dark metal of the station's hull, you instead witness clear blue sky punctuated by drifting clouds and the occasional flock of birds. Though you know this is simply an illusion generated by sophisticated holograms, it's almost enough to convince you that you're planetside somewhere and not on a space station. It's a short walk from the tube station to the so-called Spice Plaza. Here, the Promenade opens even further, giving way to a massive chamber of colossal proportions. You are immediately assaulted by all manner of aromas. Some scents are intense enough to make your eyes water; others coax pangs of hunger from you. Your nose detects cumin, nutmeg, and cardamon. Baharat, caraway, and anise seed. Harissa, coriander, and rare Algolan za'atar. Brown Dabaran amchoor, refined saffron, and exotic cinnamon affusions. From all over the Horizon, vendors have brought seeds, roots, barks, and other plant extracts from more than fifty planets. It's clear that the Spice Plaza earned its name.

But spices aren't the only things found here. You walk by colorful stalls and shops selling a variety of goods, with each vendor using increasingly vibrant and eye-catching awnings or tents in an effort to draw in customers. Every vendor and business owner hawks his wares to the people passing by. Street carts sell food: everything from baklava, kunafa pudding, and spicy yogurt, to shish kabob, shawarma, and curious interstellar fruits. Animal wranglers display individual cages containing a menagerie of small creatures, both common and alien: birds, snakes, monkeys, Sadaalian scorpions, Kuan felinoids, and more. Other vendors offer pottery, or linens, or wine, or decorative knives. In one area, Miran street performers are wowing a crowd with displays of acrobatic skill. Somewhere else, a trio of buskers is seated on the ground with high tech zithers on their laps, playing an upbeat melody and nodding when people drop birr into their cups. Further ahead, an Iconocratic priestess leads a religious procession through the crowd, surrounded by veiled women playing tambourines and sistra rattles, and reciting canticles to The Dancer. A small gathering of onlookers watch in morbid fascination as a man orders his badger-like skavara slave to perform tricks for the crowd's enjoyment. The Spice Plaza is a flurry of activity, and no matter where you look, there always seems to be more to see.

You make your way through the plaza and eventually reach the Souk Alesh. The feel of the area is less "bazaar" and more "docking district". While still loud and lively, the pungency of the spices is reduced here. Amidst a maze of warehouses and storefronts, free traders haggle over deals and vendors hawk shipments that have just arrived from the space port. There are several hookah bars catering to free trader crews, and you likely pass a number of familiar faces.

Khadija's office is located on a small, unassuming side street nestled between storage depots. Technically speaking, her business is part of Jubal Imports & Exports, a large shipping firm run and owned by her father, Aldair Jubal. However, Khadija (and her brother Khalim) took over the illegal aspects of the business, leaving their father to handle the legitimate portions of the company. While Aldair wines and dines Consortium officials, his children have almost total autonomy in managing Syndicate matters.

The entrance to Khadija's office is an arched doorway with beautiful geometric tilework and calligraphy along the edge. As is common with Firstcome doors, hers are wide in order to emphasize openness and hospitality. Given how many secrets someone like Khadija has, this is no small irony.

The Zeni calligraphy above the door reads The Tapestry of Truths. When you step inside, you hear the soft ringing of door chimes. The place is much like you remember from previous visits. Multi-colored rugs abound, as do natural dark wood furnishings and plush chairs. All around you are sample antiques in display cases. Nothing terribly valuable, but all pleasant to the eye: old icon statues, Algolan vases, Kuan prayer tablets, intricate Zalosian jewelry, etc. The air feels comfortable in here; it's climate controlled and not like the cold, stale recycled air in other parts of the station. You smell incense burning.

At this point, you know to wait until you are summoned.

Brahim lingers in the Souk Alesh and enters the office exactly one minute before the appointed time. He is imposing at nearly 2 meters and close to 120 kgs of what appears to be mostly muscle under his plain charcoal kurta and dhoti. His skin is ebony and his shaved head reflects the soft light in the room. He wears no jewelry or ornamentation of any kind and his facial hair appears to be his only attempt at style. He says little and watches the captain with an intensity that might be mistaken for intense emotion, but which you have all learned is actually an indicator of awkwardness and missed social cues. He is unaware how his direct and steady gaze might be interpreted by others.

The tasseled curtain at the opposite end of the showroom ripples for a moment and then parts. A large, hulking figure steps through, and you can feel the heft of his footsteps as he walks in. He easily towers over even the tallest of you by several inches. Wide shouldered and barrel-chested, the man likely cuts an intimidating figure to most people. He sports a white headwrap and kaftan, and under his tunic you glimpse the familiar gray plating of light ballistic armor. Beyond the kaftan's sleeves, the man's forearms and hands are very clearly mechanical. His grizzled, bearded face is expressionless, though his eyes hint at suspicion and disdain.

Each of you have met the man before. He goes by the name Batool, and he's one of Khadija's enforcers. In all the time you've known her, your patron rarely goes anywhere without Batool at her side. From previous interactions, you get the sense that the cyborg doesn't particularly like or trust any of you. Then again, he seems the type of person who doesn't like or trust anybody.

Silently, the cyborg stands aside and holds the curtain open for you. With a gruff flick of his chin, he motions for all of you to proceed. As he moves, you can hear the light whirring of cybernetic servos.

Batool stands quietly as you all pass. At Zahra's ribbing (which is probably a running joke, at this point), he reacts with little more than a narrowing of the eyes to signal that he doesn't find the remark funny. The cyborg's eyes graze over each of you, though he barely acknowledges Brahim, as if the mutahadir is beneath his notice; alas, this is a common reaction that humans have to humanites on Coriolis. On the other hand, Batool does pay particular attention to Tarek. He watches the duelist carefully and possibly regards him as the biggest threat on the crew, combatively speaking.

Batool appears to be completely oblivious to Sani's indiscretion. The display case wasn't alarmed or locked, and the cyborg was too focused on Tarek to notice any improprieties. You all proceed down a short hallway and into a large storage area full of crates and boxes, with Batool trailing behind. You see several workers milling around and tending to various tasks: opening cargo, moving crates via grav lifts, checking inventory, etc. Most of the workers are tattooed and/or cybernetically enhanced. In truth, they look more like hardened criminals than warehouse staff or antiquarians. This doesn't surprise any of you; Khadija is known to recruit from the local street gangs on Coriolis.

You ascend a flight of stairs and enter another hallway. Walking through the hall, you pass by several doors for offices and additional storage rooms. One room has an open door, and inside you glimpse a group of five men relaxing around a table and playing a game of Tarneeb. A pile of birr sits at the table's center. There is a haze of hookah smoke in the air, and each of the men is clearly armed. From behind their cards they shoot less-than-friendly glances in your directions as you pass.

Finally, you reach an arched door with a curtained entrance. From the other side of the curtain, you hear Dabari lyre music lightly playing and can smell the odor of frankincense burning. Batool walks ahead and pulls aside this curtain for you, as well.

In Coriolis terms, Khadija's office is swanky, to say the least. The entire room is wide and open, with high vaulted ceilings, tapestry-covered walls, and tile floors drowning in expensive handwoven rugs from a dozen different systems. The chamber is furnished with low coffee tables, ottomans, sofas full of tasseled throw pillows, and potted plants adorned with exotic flowers. Across from the entryway, there is a lovely balcony overlooking the Souk Alesh, though instead of seeing a sea of warehouses, you find yourselves overlooking the vast green jungles of Kua. You hear the distant sounds of wind susurating through canopies and the calls of alien bird life. Sunlight appears to illuminate the room. The occasional flicker in the scenery’s holographic matrix, however, betrays the fact that it's just an illusory vista projected to make customers feel more comfortable. Two more armed men are in the room, each equipped with what you believe are Vulcan pistols and dura blades. One is seated, and the other is standing by the entrance as you walk in. A third man is sitting in the corner. Next to the third man is an azuk - a biosculpted combat beast popularly sold in the biotech bazaars of the Algolan meat district. The creature is roughly comparable in size to the Asian tigers of Al-Ardha (old Earth), with similarly tiger-like eyes, claws, teeth, and tail. But while feline in form, the azuk has shimmering scales instead of fur; they glisten with a sheen not unlike gasoline.

The azuk is relaxing on the floor with its head on its fore paws. The beast's ears perk up as you enter the room. It watches you all for a brief moment before its attention goes back to napping. The man next to the pet azuk is holding a chain connected to a collar around its neck.

All of these are familiar sights to your crew. Batool motions for you all to take seats.