Just like old times

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3/27/99

Someone's knocking on the door. Maybe it's Tarrant. (If you like, you can 'reply <words>'.)

Corian calls, "Come in."

Tarrant enters from the Elevator Lounge.

Tarrant has arrived.

Corian is seated on the floor, lotus-style. She seems to be working on that temple translation, as actual-size reproductions of the text are spread out on the floor before her. Maybe it helps that they're that big. She looks up with a puzzled smile. "Good evening, Tarrant." She pauses to glance at her pocketwatch. "Actually, good morning. Are you well?"

Tarrant looks perhaps a bit less spiffy than usual, and exceedingly harried, as if he has been on the trail of something for quite some time. Casting a brief look back towards the door he takes another step in, nodding. "Sorry for interrupting so late, Corian. I'm afraid I've come to be terribly rude and beg a favor of your time. The agency's hard on my case over this one, but they've not got anybody with any linguistic bent a'tall. I know you wanted outa' contracts, but this's straight on the up'n'up." His drawl is perhaps a bit thicker, if somehow more crisper.

"You might wanna hear the details before agreein'," Tarrant's words are cautionary but a layer of hope colors his expression nevertheless. "It involves a trip offworld, although the dint through hyper's thankfully kindly short. Triglant 3's working onto getting into the Alliance, avoiding a rather nasty little war, but their statesmen speak hardly a word of standard. I have papers to deliver, properly worded and all, but they'll have questions and the like. I know the answers, but not how to respond."

Corian, papers hugged to her chest, perches on the arm of her couch, considering you thoughtfully. "Triglant 3. I do not believe that I have been there, but I have heard of the world. I believe," she adds, after a brief pause, "That their language is derived from Portuguese, yes? I would be able to manage to make myself understood, and to understand them in turn." There's another small pause, and then she inquires, "How long will we need to be gone?"

You faintly hear a chime mark the hour.

There's even more relief at that, whatever this is, it's got Tarrant jumpier than a long tailed cat in a rocking-chair factory, and from the rumpled look of him, it's been going on for some time. "Portugese, yes'm." And he's harried enough to trip into formality of a sort by habit. "It shouldn't take more than thirty-six hours, with the hyper-hop and all. In and out and back again."

Corian regards you levelly for a moment, then moves to put away the papers, striding lightly to the file drawers. "Is there anything else I need to know about the situation?" she inquires. "And do I have time to leave a message for my employers and my brother? It will be suitably vague, of course."

Tarrant glances at his watch a moment, "Plenty of time, yes. I made triple time here, and they'll hold the ship for us as needed." He considers a moment, "All the sneakiness and all's been dispensed with, we're down to the exchange of information stage. And at that you know about as much as I do. They had me on something altogether different, although I'd heard about the whole war avoidance issue. But then bang, this morning they ship me back here and are all set to bundle me onto this." He looks painfully grateful, "Thank you for this Corian, I will have to go look up a half dozen words for thank you. And think of some suitable bribe. The agency'll be paying of course, but still, a bribe of some kind or another seems required. Maybe dinner?"

Corian moves to the comm-unit, though she keys for a text message rather than an audio-visual. Typing, she pauses to cast a glance and a faint smile towards you. "You are most welcome, but a bribe is unnecessary." There's a pause and a clattering of keys, then a soft chime that signals a sent message. She rummages in her closet for a small, battered bag that would likely look very familiar, as she's used it for this purpose before, and efficiently packs a few necessities. "I believe I am ready."

"Perhaps unnecessary, but since when did I worry about that?" A hint of Tarrant's humor is restored as he goes to open the door with a timed bow, for all the world like a doorman of some noble's manor-home. "Your timeliness is greatly appreciated."

Corian inclines her head, expression fondly amused at the courtliness. She pauses to snag her coat, deftly shrugging into it and fastening a button near her waist. "I understand the need to work quickly," she murmurs, adding a quiet thankyou for the courtesy as she steps out of the room.

[Travelspam deleted, scene resumes in the atrium.]

Passing through the Atrium, headed for the spaceport, a suited accountant-type passes throughm handing off a small satchel to Tarrant. Tarrant murmurs his thanks, heading through at a brisk pace.

Corian is a step behind Tarrant, and a step to his right. She's got a small bag looped over one arm, and her hands rest easily in the pockets of her long jacket.

Tarrant heads towards the Spaceport.

Tarrant has left.

You head towards the Spaceport.

Spaceport

Chaos reigns supreme throughout this large spaceport; people, baggage, sundry cargo moving at a non-stop pace. Carts darting here and there through the crowds. Decor is early bureaucrat, designed more for efficiency than aesthetics. The ground is covered in dark grey stone, embedded into the stone are networks of paths, illuminated on either side by red glowing lights that lead to the cargo area, baggage claim, and of course the shuttlepads themselves.These are to found on the far side of the spaceport, circles outlined lined in bold yellow lights. Once it is safe to approach a shuttle, a pathway of red lights lead to the door.

Contents:

Tarrant

Obvious exits:

Atrium Quarantine Infobooth Baggage Claim

You arrive from the Central Atrium.

Tarrant reaches back to offer a hand up the brief step up into the cramped passenger cabin of the tiny vessle. "It's a good thing it's a short hop."

Corian accepts the hand up with a murmured thankyou. She's flexible. She can just fold herself into a pretzel, the better to fit into her seat. "I do not believe," she observes, with a hint of humor, "That this was designed for taller people." She does slip easily into her seat, though, stowing her bag under said seat and fastening any appropriate beltage. "But that the time spent here will be short is appreciated, yes."

Tarrant slips his own bag beneath a seat as well, folding into the seat next to you. Which, considering these are the only two seats in said passenger cabin, is not much of a surprise. Sliding into his safety harness, he buckles the clasps over his lightweight jacket. "I think it was designed by folks who never actually have to ride in these things. Courier ship must simply be synonymous for uncomfortable as all get out." He crosses his arms across his chest, and tucks his feet to either side of his luggage, quite familiar with this mode of travel. "Still, they're better than some. That closet I snagged the other week." He glances up at the board as the lights shift. "We're in the lineup, as soon as control lets us, we'll be out of here."

Corian rests her head lightly against the back of the seat, making herself as comfortable as she can. At the mention of synonymous, she murmurs, "In some languages, the words are disturbingly similar." She offers a few liquid-gargling phrases, with a faintly humorous smile. "And it could be worse, you are correct, of course. The duration will be short, at the very least."

Tarrant does not bother to stifle a quiet laugh at the comparison of the words. "I should have known." He nods, "Just a few hours is all." And as if to agree with his words the ship's manuvering engines gear on, and with a swoop, it's away and heading through the slightly ragged ride through the atmosphere. "My third hyper jump in twenty four hours, I'm not going to knock short at all."

Corian's hands rest in her lap, fingers interlaced, though her index fingers drum gently. With a sympathetic wince, she nods. "The situation is that urgent, then?" she inquires.

Tarrant rests his head against the headrest, settling in as comfortably as he can, nodding. "Yeah, leastaways that's the buzz I get. They don't want a war, but they're afraid they'll get one. So they're sorting out the treaty on the level of basics, and will leave the hoo-rah and show diplomacy for another day. I'll admit I don't know why they tagged me onto this, but I surely appreciate the help."

Corian, with a vague fluttering of her fingers that would likely be a graceful gesture if she hadn't found a reasonably comfortable way to sit, observes lightly, "It is the least I could do. I would be a poor friend indeed if I did not assist you when you were in need." Her expression at the possibilities of war is appropriately grave, but not excessively so. (That's why it's -appropriate-.)

You faintly hear a chime mark the hour.

The roaring of atmosphere gives way to the null of space, although it's exceedingly brief indeed as the hyper warning lights flash nearly immediately. Tarrant gives them a rueful look a brief moment and then steels himself for the jump. Like an elevator zooming up while the rest of the world is frozen and unable to re-act, the transition is perhaps less than pleasant.

Corian's expression is determinedly serene, though her eyes are closed and her interlaced fingers are somewhat white-knuckled. Well. More white-knuckled than usual. She's very fair-skinned, after all. As the jump is completed, she exhales slowly, then murmurs, "I do remember no why I had preferred the slower ships. Miraculously, I had forgotten."

Releasing the breath held at the start of jump, Tarrant nods with a somewhat ragged chuckle. "It's amazing how easy it is to forget isn't it? Built in forgetfulness mechanism, we don't wish to dwell on that which is so singularly designed to displease us." He does look relieved however, settling in and at last relaxing somewhat from his previously jumpy state. "Still, the hard part's over, just a quick cruise on down planetside."

Corian gently separates her hands, resting one lightly on each knee. Of course, -she- is thinking that we still have to return, so the hard part can't totally be over. But she's kind, and doesn't say that, instead murmuring a quiet agreement. "I have to say, the change of pace from the translations I have been doing is appreciated. It has not palled quite yet, but the variety will allow me that much more time before I grow too bored." There's just the smallest hint of wry amusement at that last.

Tarrant shifts in his seat so that he's sitting up a hair straighter, so as not to suffer the ignominious fate of dozing off. Hey, coming home is coming home. There's a home on the end of it after all. His soft chuckle is almost directionless in the small dim cabin. "Haven help ya' get bored certainly. Not too many worse fates, still, this should be relatively lively without being overly so. I really do feel guilty about it though, I know you wanted out and out for good."

Corian's pause is long enough to be more than noticeable, before she finally says, voice just loud enough to be heard over the ambient noises, "I made that decision in haste, after the... incident. Now that I am here, I find that I do not mind it quite as much as I once thought I would. You have no need to feel guilty."

Tarrant offers a smile, which while it may lack his usual artful attitude, is at the very least honest. "I'm terribly glad to hear you say that," he starts to add more, but is interrupted by the sudden thwump of the ship entering atmosphere. He settles back into the seat again.

Corian's fingers interlace once more, elbows tucked neatly against her sides. Of course, in the tiny seats, there's not really much other room for them. Good thing she's that small. She's thrilled that landing is near, of course, as that means that getting -out- of the small seat will be possible, but the actual landing itself clearly isn't especially pleasing. As the appropriate lights dim, she releases her safety harness, getting to her feet with a faint wince, then bending down to retrieve her bag. "That wasn't so bad," she murmurs.

Tarrant un-hooks his safety harness with practiced ease, unfolding stiffly from the seat. A brief stretch ensues, and hence he is able to shift down normally to retrieve his satchel. Moving to the door he keys at the lock, undogging the hatch. Pressing it open the speaceport is revealed, drenched in a light rain. Jumping down with a grace that would seem impossible in spurs and an apparently bum leg, he offers a hand down. "Careful Corian, it's slick, and the pilot probably wants to get out before this pumpkin turns into a coach."

Corian takes the precaution of pulling up her hood and fastening her jacket before joining you, with a murmured thankyou for the courtesy, so she's even more concealed than she usually is. How convenient. "What lovely weather," she observes, without any obvious sarcasm. Of course, she also is a fan of rain, especially when puddles may be formed.

Tarrant reaches up to shift the hatch into place, moving up to the pilot's compartment to rap it twice before moving clear of the vehicle and checking to make sure you follow. He tugs a scrap of paper from one pocket, brushing back water from his eyes, "Fleet street, it's supposed to be only a couple of blocks..."

Corian follows, of course. As fun as it would -be- to stay next to the ship while it takes off, she opts against that. So, she follows. She doesn't even pause to play in the rain. Alas, she's all business now. "Do you know the local time?" she inquires. She sounds maybe just a bit tired. Imagine that.

Tarrant doesn't exactly seem entirely awake himself. It has after all been a long day. He is however awake enough to have un-muted his spurs, and the combined splashing and jingling sound is kind of festive. He pauses to peer at his watch, "About four in the morning more or less. Perhaps we should hole up til morning?"

Corian is not even remotely going to say no to that. "I believe that is an excellent idea. A bit of sleep would be appreciated, and perhaps a little time to re-accustom myself to the roots of the language." Trailing along at your side, she murmurs something not quite clear about nasal dipthongs, and how her accent is usually better in Portuguese-based languages when she has a head cold.

Tarrant's brows just lift in something approaching amusement, but damp amusement. See, this is where real hats far outshine the use of their imaginary brothers. Reaching a hand to your elbow to gently indicate the turn he makes a sharp right, abandoning his former course. "There's an official hotel this way. I think they may have invented the word frippery, but it's comfortable enough."

Corian is mercifully un-damp, not counting her feet, thanks to her super-spiffy jacket. See, this is why she keeps it. That, and it just looks suave. She keeps up with the turn, despite fatigue, and even manages a quiet chuckle. "I believe I will be able to endure the frippery, as long as the denizens of the hotel will allow me a few hours' sleep."

"I doubt they'll attempt to interfere, just don't look too hard at the knick-knacks, you might keel over from a sudden attack of tastelesness." Tarrant keeps the hand politely nearby, realizing your tiredness as he makes his way up a few low steps to the front of a terrifyingly fancified hotel. He does pause however, "How in the name of the seven sisters do I hold open a revolving door for a lady?" There's a pause as he gestures for you to precede him instead. "I don't think they had these monsters in mind when they came up with the rules."

Corian's brows arch fractionally as she spots the frightening hotel, but she does, of course, go through the evil revolving door of doom, with an amused smile for your predicament. She's kind, and waits until she's somewhat out of range to push back her hood, as more of a shower would be less than kind. "It's certainly quite festive," she observes, a spark of humor in her gray eyes.

Tarrant follows along afterwards, simply shaking his head at the lobby. "And they call me silly." He heads to the mostly untenanted counter, tapping in a sequence at a station manned by a computer. He returns in jig time, offering you a key-card. "Fifth floor, room 516. I'm next door."

You faintly hear a chime mark the hour.

Corian takes the card with a smile that is definitely tired, but still pleasant and warm, and all sorts of happy things. "Many thanks. Do we have a time at which we should be at our destination?"

Tarrant heads to the elevator, keying it for the fifth floor. "Not a set one. Probably pretty early would be best though, much as I hate to say it. Soon as business hours hit I guess." The doors slide open again, on the fifth and scarily decorated floor.

Corian inclines her head. "The earlier we begin, the earlier we may finish." She pauses in front of 516, offering a smile and a bow that isn't quite as low as it usually is for you. Balance is tricky just now, you see. "Dream sweetly, van'chela."

Tarrant manages a more or less normal bow in return, although the straightening up is not without the creak of much abused joints. "Pleasant dreaming to you as well, and I'll see you in the morning."

Corian makes use of the keycard and disappears into her room, though a quietly amused amended, "Later in the morning," may be heard before the door closes with a quiet snick.

Tarrant pauses a moment in the hallway, simply grinning in a rather rueful fashion for a moment before using his own keycard. As he steps into his own room, he mutters softly, "Just like old times."

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