Private Sand in My Shoes, Sand From Gilaria

[Helena Cross]

After Sun & Starlight
[all that is real is the feel of the sand in my shoes]​

The hotel suite that Helena Cross had booked herself into on Gilaria to oversee the last of her business on the resort world had the attractive quality of overlooking a tranquil cover. Gentle lapping of waves against the shore was interrupted occasionally by the calling of a tropical nightbird. It was almost too idyllic for words. Even Helena, who found holiday worlds tiresome, had to admit as she leaned against the balcony that Gilaria was less tiresome than most.

She still felt distinctly on edge.

She was not one for relaxation, not while she was on the clock. But she couldn't look like she was on the clock.

The charade would be over soon. She had received word that her her work in getting word of the auction coming in front of the Commonwealth succeeded, and she had an appointment with one of their representatives to provide the requisite details. Helena had the room booked out for another week, but she would be gone in hours. That way if the Commonwealth operatives decided to return to clean up loose ends, they'd find an empty room.

Hopefully.

She glanced at her watch and then turned back into the room. From the sideboard she picked up her pistol and checked the cartridge before tucking it into her thigh holster. Helena had no intention of causing trouble. It would be bad for business. But she didn't intend to let anyone get the drop on her, either. Helena shut the balcony door, locked it, then draped a black wrap around her shoulders, snatched up her key and clutch, and headed for the door.

The meeting would be in the hotel lounge. A secluded corner of it, to be sure, but public enough to hopefully avoid a scene.

"Good evening Ms. Cross," the host, an obliging, bronze-skinned man said as she entered. "We have you in the Blacksand Booth, is that correct? Excellent. This way, please."

"I'm expecting company," said Helena pleasantly as she followed him through the lounge. "They'll have my name. Please be sure they're shown in without delay."

"Of course, madam. Here we are. And you'll be charging the evening to -- Suite 1138, is that right?"

Helena smiled a crimson smile. "You've got it, Jannis. Thank you."

"Something to drink while you wait, Ms. Cross?"

"Gin, please," Helena answered. "On the rocks."

Jannis nodded and set off. Helena took a seat in the small secluded seating area, crossing her legs and reaching up to adjust the origami iris pendant at her throat. Nothing to do now but wait.

Frankie​

 

[Frankie]

Frankie hadn't been entirely sure what to expect when her handler first mentioned this sort of mission. Gilaria, of all places, the bloody holiday world. The hoverlimo's interior smelled faintly of something floral and expensive, piped in through the vents along with air just a few degrees too warm for her taste, resort comfort, calibrated for people who wanted to feel pampered rather than alert. Outside the tinted window, the Gilarian city's coastal skyline slid past in soft gold: glimmering hotels, venues and an array of lights, the whole city of Maravaila built to seem like it was on permanent holiday even as speeder traffic and comm towers gave away the machinery underneath. It was pretty. Frankie didn't trust pretty.

She sighed, adjusting the hem of her dress, a sparkly blue thing that made her want to gag, though she knew better than to say so. Checking herself in the mirror set into the partition, she ran through hair, makeup, and, apparently, her own confidence. She made a face, wondering what the Corellian might do in this situation. Balance help her, she was already considering what Allyson would do, and she'd only met the woman a handful of times.

Frankie pressed her lips into something like a smile, testing it, just as the driver announced their arrival.

As she departed the limo, Frankie reached for an impression of Ivalyn that would have to do for now. Any lessons learned from the Corellian would have to hold the rest of the way. She took a deep breath and headed toward the hotel, the rush of cool air greeted her the moment she stepped in. The blonde made her way toward the agreed upon meeting point. Frankie could bring a drink, mhm, she should bring a drink. The woman ordered, "a Coral Sunrise, please." Vodka and Schnapps, something simple as she turned, walked toward her point of contact.

Helena Cross ​

 

[Helena Cross]

Helena rose as an attractive blonde entered, shown in by Jannus who was, incidentally, also carrying her drink. She took the drink from the tray, noted that Frankie already had one of her own, and stood back to study the contact for a moment. She wore a blue dress that caught what light there was in the the semi-secluded booth. A bit sparkly for Helena's taste, but it wasn't out of place for the environment.

"Good evening," she said, reaching across the divide to offer a hand. "Helena Cross, Tallis Risk Partners."

She waited for the introductions -- or not -- to conclude and then gestured for the young woman to take a seat while she resumed hers.

"How much do you know?" Helena asked, crossing her legs and adjusting the crimson of her so it hung just so over her knee. "I'm happy to fill you in, but I'd hate to more you, you know?"

Frankie​

 

[Frankie]

FRANKIE FORTAN
FIELD OPERATIVE // INTELLIGENCE DIRECTORATE // GILARIA
TAG: Helena Cross ​

---

Frankie took the offered hand, her grip brief but firm, and let the corner of her mouth curve into something that could pass for polite. "Frankie," she said no surname, no title. She'd learned that much from watching people like Helena; the ones who gave away the least tended to be trusted the most, oddly enough.

She sank into the seat across from Helena with more ease than she felt, crossing one leg over the other and resting her drink against her knee without drinking from it. The dress itched. She ignored it.

"Enough to be sitting here," Frankie said, meeting Helena's eyes and letting the silence stretch a half-beat longer than was comfortable a trick she'd watched the Corellian use, letting the other party fill the gap first. "Why don't you tell me what you think I need to know, and I'll let you know if we're on the same page."

It wasn't an answer. It wasn't supposed to be. If Helena assumed a Commonwealth rep walked in briefed to the teeth, Frankie saw no reason to correct her not yet, not until she knew what shape the correction would need to take.

 

[Helena Cross]

HC

HELENA CROSS

GILARIA

HOTEL LOUNGE

EVENING • DATELINE: UNKNOWN

♫ A TOUCH OF FROST — DAVID ARNOLD

x

✹

"What you need to know, hm?"

A smile played across Helena's dark crimson lips. She raised her glass to her mouth and took a sip and, for once, was not disappointed in her lipstick. The Black Lotus range really was night indelible. Good to know. She allowed the astringent, earthy taste of the gin sear down her throat and set the glass down on the table near her.

"What you need to know is that my organization recently came into possession of a cache of First Order-era artifacts, among which was a camouflaged datashard containing something that my superiors have every reason to believe is of interest to your government. Something of a... family connection, as it were."

She reached into her handbag and withdrew her datapad, unlocked it with her biosignature, and then held it out to Frankie. It showed Natasi Fortan at some public engagement or another during the First Order days, an evening affair that required formal dress rather than her standard Grand Moff uniform. An old-world diamond brooch was pinned at on a fashionable black evening gown. "Some fool with a flair for the dramatic will insist on calling this the Property of a Lady brooch, but it's provenance isn't merely aristocratic." This, strictly speaking, was not need-to-know, but perhaps Helena herself had a flair for the dramatic, too, and she did love to do the work of research.

"It entered her family when it was given by the Queen of Galidraan to her great-great-grandmother as thanks for accompanying her on a grueling world tour. Passed down mother to daughter and, occasionally, mother to daughter-in-law, until it reached the Duchess of Foxfield. The datashard was added later, when it was safer to transport jewels than intelligence. What's on it would curl people's hair. Worse than what even the worst things they say about the Order of old. Concerning a certain saurian race."

Helena tucked her datapad back into her handbag and picked up her drink. "Not that I blame them, but things do change. What might have been prudent then could look very much like a war crime today. And if someone were to use it now?" Helena shook her head and took a drink. "But -- need to know -- it will be on auction next month. It is only fair that your government, as a potentially impacted party, has the right to know." She reached into her handbag again, this time producing a holographic projector, which she passed along.

"The details, if you're interested. You'll need to bring it."

✹

x

WITH

Frankie • Helena Cross

 

[Frankie]

FRANKIE FORTAN
FIELD OPERATIVE // INTELLIGENCE DIRECTORATE // GILARIA
TAG: Helena Cross ​

---

Frankie kept her face perfectly, professionally still as Helena turned the datapad toward her. Natasi Fortan, mid-party, unmistakable even out of uniform.

She'd grown up on that face, carved into public monuments, quoted in civic ceremonies, spoken of in the reverent shorthand the Commonwealth used for its own founding myth. But Frankie had also grown up in rooms where the family talked about Natasi the way families actually talk, low-voiced and unflattering at the edges, and she'd learned early that the statue and the woman weren't the same thing. So she didn't blink at the photo the way someone raised only on the official version might have.

"A relative," Frankie said, flat, before Helena could finish making it sound like a delicate revelation. Not a question. Not surprise. Just a fact, stated the way she'd state anyone's rank.

She listened to the rest without moving, the brooch, the Duchess of Foxfield, the datashard hidden inside jewelry because jewelry didn't get searched the way intelligence did. When Helena got to the part that mattered, worse than what even the worst things they say about the Order of old, concerning a certain saurian race, Frankie's expression didn't so much as flicker. She let the silence hang exactly as long as Helena's did, matching her pace rather than filling it.

"Understood," Frankie said, reaching for the holoprojector and accepting it with a hand that didn't hesitate. "I'll have it verified. You've been thorough." A small, deliberate nod, the kind that implied this was all proceeding precisely as expected. "We'll be in touch about the auction."

The Auction would be a great opportunity, she thought for a moment, followed by, don't muck this up. This was too important to let slip out of her grasp, anything connected to the Ssi-Ruuvi, Frank's automatic connection, would be valuable beyond words.

 

[Helena Cross]

HC

HELENA CROSS

GILARIA

HOTEL LOUNGE

EVENING • DATELINE: UNKNOWN

♫ A GAME OF CHESS — THE FLIGHT

x

✹

Helena's brow lifted a little when Frankie said A relative. She didn't know what that meant at first. There was a family connection to the Commonwealth, of course, that much was more or less public record. There was the intriguing question as to why there were now two First Order successor states -- the Commonwealth originating in the boundaries of the old Order, and the Renascent Heirate, which purported to descend from a continuity of government plan from the First Order and claimed to maintain the crown jewels and the seal of the First Order.

That was all for the historians to figure out. But this woman? Uttering something about A relative -- that interested Helena. "You mean..." Black eyes flickered down to the image she had shared, then went up to the woman opposite her. There was little in the way of family resemblance. A certain angularity in the features, perhaps. Then again, the blood would be diluted by now. Helena offered a prime smile. "Well. Whoever would benefit from this ought to bring a lots of credits."

The agent let the holo of the invitation go. "Pleasure doing business with you,, Frankie. I'll look forward to seeing you at the auction, if your government decides it's worth the effort. And who knows, perhaps you -- that is, your government -- will find some cousins there. They will have some vested interest in the disposition of these artifacts, as well, I assume." Helena settled back into her seat and finished her drink, then lit a cigarette and took a long drag.

✹

x

WITH

Frankie • Helena Cross

 

[Frankie]

FRANKIE FORTAN
FIELD OPERATIVE // INTELLIGENCE DIRECTORATE // MERIDIAN STATION
TAG: Helena Cross ​

---

Meridian Station announced itself in scale long before Frankie's shuttle finished docking, the arrivals concourse alone was bigger than most towns she'd walked through on Commonwealth business, all polished stone and soft gold light and the particular hush of money that didn't need to announce itself twice. She'd been briefed on the specs. The briefing hadn't prepared her for the actual weight of it: thousands of guests, a private economy running on discretion, and somewhere above her head a casino floor built to make people forget they were on a station that couldn't run from anything.

She was not, tonight, Frankie.

"Blythe Daala" was the name on her credentials, and it belonged to a woman who bought and sold art for people who preferred not to be named, plausible enough for a luxury auction, boring enough that no one would look twice. Frankie had worn the alias for exactly six hours and already resented how easily it fit. Her cousin would have made it look effortless. Allyson would have made it look like fun. Frankie made it look correct, which she supposed would have to do.

She moved through the concourse without hurrying, the same discipline she'd learned on Varonat translated into a different kind of camouflage, not blending into grime and jungle heat now, but into wealth so total it barely noticed itself. No one here would clock a well-dressed woman with good posture and better manners. That was rather the point.

The auction house occupied one of the station's discreet private meeting facilities on the upper decks, the kind of room built specifically so that people like her could conduct business people like Helena Cross wouldn't want photographed. Frankie presented her credentials to a bored-looking attendant, was waved through a layered security check that felt more thorough than it looked, and stepped inside.

The room was already filling. Frankie took a seat toward the back, close enough to the exit to matter, and let her eyes do the work her face wouldn't. Somewhere in this room, if the intelligence held, sat someone representing the Renascent Heirate, another First Order daughter with her own reasons to want, or bury, whatever was actually on that datashard.

She'd come a long way from a jungle safehouse and a stolen armor set. Frankie folded her hands in her lap, arranged her face into something that could pass for idle interest, and waited for the bidding to open.

 

[Helena Cross]

HC

HELENA CROSS

MERIDIAN STATION

AUTION SALON

EVENING • DATE OF THE AUCTION

♫ A GAME OF CHESS — THE FLIGHT

x

✹

Helena Cross wore black, and it suited her. The only embellishments were a trim crimson belt with a gold buckle and a small, black pendant in the shape of an origami iris flower, outlined in gold at the edges to simulate where the paper would have been folded. She chose black because it was simple, because it was elegant, and because it didn't distract from what they were all really here for. The fashion show going on three decks below was the cover, and the designers didn't even know it.

Helena stood at the front of the room, concentric half-circles arrayed around her, leading back to elevated tables at which individuals offered bids from those for whom the trip to Meridian Station was either too far, too indiscreet, or too public. Behind her, the lots appeared on a floating plane of black glass, accompanied by image, provenance, certification level, reserve status, and the current bid. The podium in front of her responded to the touch of the small gold stylus between her fingers.

"Four hundred and eighty thousand from Line Cresh," Helena announced, her eyes going not to the console but toward the room. She gestured with her free hand. "I have five hundred in the room. Five hundred twenty from Line Cresh, thank you. Five hundred and fifty from lady in green."

She allowed a pause, long enough for pride and the fear of missing out to needle the bidders. "Do I hear five hundred and seventy five? As a reminder, this is for Lot 12, the location of a cache of First Imperial navy records which we believe may contain the location of secret stockpiles set aside during the Great Galactic War. Advanced technology at the time -- still very much above the standard for today. Do I hear -- five hundred and seventy-five in the room, thank you. Six hundred from Line Cresh. Six twenty-five? Do I hear six twenty five? Six twenty-five in the room. Do I hear six hundred and fifty?"

A woman in white gloves lifted two fingers from the edge of her glass. "Thank you, madam, six hundred and fifty in the room. Do I hear seven hundred thousand?" Her black gaze swept the room once, twice. "Fair warning. Six hundred and fifty to the lady in front. Selling. Selling." Another inquisitive look. She brought a small wooden tool down against the podium. "Sold! Meridian escrow will confirm transfer and custody route. Congratulations to the successful bidder."

The screen behind Heena cleared and a quiet round moved through the salon. It wasn't applause or even relief. It was apprehension. Then, the screen lit up behind her again, showing by now a familiar photograph: Natasi Josephine Fortan -- then Grand Moff of the First Order -- at some kind of First Order function or another, looking stylish in a crimson evening gown. It was a candid; she wasn't posing, wasn't even looking at the camera. Inset was a zoom in a brooch at her upper right chest, a confection of ancient diamonds and platinum.

Though the diamonds were small, that spoke well of it in antique jewelry circles, because it supported the conclusion that it was old. "Lot thirteen, then. The Property of a Lady. Platinum and diamond brooch. Made by commission of Queen Minerveia of Galidraan in the 400s by Tarvier Jewelers, then holders of the royal warrant by the House of Dalterra on Galidraan. It was presented as gift to the first Countess of Herevan by Her Majesty the Queen."

Helena leaned delicately against the podium. "It was in the private collection of the Duchess of Foxfield, where it was augmented with a databank. There is no public exhibition history prior to this evening. You are in rarified company. The reserve has been met privately. Bidding will therefore open at twenty million credits. Increments will proceed at five hundred thousand to twenty five million, one million until thirty million, and two million thereafter, unless I determine otherwise."

She paused for effect. "Remote bidders are reminded that this lot requires confirmation of final settlement prior to successful adjudication. Room bidders are reminded that physical presence does not improve legal standing. As I stated, we will begin the bidding at twenty million credits."

Line Cresh immediately lifted her paddle. "I have twenty million credits from Line Cresh." Helena smiled broadly, looking out over the room. "Do I hear twenty million five hundred thousand?"

✹

x

WITH

Frankie • Isobel Nakano

 

[Frankie]

FRANKIE FORTAN
FIELD OPERATIVE // INTELLIGENCE DIRECTORATE // MERIDIAN STATION
TAG: Helena Cross | Isobel Nakano ​

---

Twenty million, opening bid, and the woman two rows over hadn't even let Helena finish the sentence before her paddle went up. Frankie noted it without turning her head. Line Cresh. Eager. Or performing eager, which was its own kind of tell, nobody serious opened at exactly the floor unless they wanted the room to think they had money to burn, or unless they'd been told to move fast and lock out competition before it could organize.

Frankie let the silence after Helena's question sit. Do I hear twenty million five hundred thousand?

She didn't raise her hand yet. She wanted to see if anyone else in the room so much as twitched first, see who else was here for Lot Thirteen and hadn't tipped their hand. Nothing. Just the low hum of a few dozen people pretending not to be doing the math on what a First Order-era secret was actually worth to the right buyer.

Only then did Frankie lift two fingers, unhurried, the way she imagined her cousin might have done it, not a bid so much as a correction. "Twenty-one," she said, her voice pitched to carry without effort. Not twenty million five. A full million over. Let the bidders over Line Cresh wonder if she'd misjudged the room, or if the woman in the back had money to burn too.

Frankie was just glad the coffers of the Commonwealth could provide. Rather, it was likely the coffers belonged to both family and state.

 

[Isobel Nakano]

CIPHER-3

MERIDIAN STATION

THE NIGHT OF THE AUCTION

♫ RESULTS — NIELS BYE NIELSEN

x

x

x

Isobel Nakano sat at the terminal assigned to Line Cresh, the communicator to her lips. She spoke quietly, discreetly, describing what she saw in the room, who was bidding what, and occasionally relaying a bid to the auctioneer. Assembled on the other end of the communicator was an intelligence analyst Isobel didn't know well by the name of Noema Kintar, and the smoky-voiced, profane woman Isobel knew only by her code name, Warrender. Warrender, for Warrender House, eponymous with the Cipher program, of which Isobel was a member.

Warrender wasn't happy. And when Warrender wasn't happy, ain't nobody was gonna be happy.

"Twenty fucking million?" Warrender thundered. She had the unique quality of whispering even when she was shouting. A relic of her alleged two-pack-a-day cigarette habit. Isobel heard a faint click she recognized as a lighter as Warrender lit up another. "That is an insane amount even if it's everything they say it is."

"Twenty million is nothing for some of these people," Noema chimed in. "Some would pay twice that to try to embarrass Her Majesty. Old actions cast long shadows and not all of her enemies are dead."

At the dais, Helena Cross recognize the big smoothly. "Twenty one million credits from the lady in the room, thank you madam. Do I hear twenty-one five? Twenty one five from the gentleman in the green tie. And we are on to twenty-two. Twenty-two million credits."

"Don't," Warrender half-snarled before Isobel could prompt them. "See who else tries to bid. Kintar, who is this green-tie fucker?"

"On it, ma'am," Kintar said.

The bidding continued: twenty-two to an Ithorian, twenty-two five to an elderly Sullustan, twenty-three to the woman in blue, twenty-three-five to another phone bidder. That one, she at least recognized. A relic of the old SIA days. Probably working for loyalists of the Galactic Alliance before last -- or was it the one before that? -- which had tangled with the First Order all those years ago. "The bid is twenty-three five to the old Alliance proxy," Isobel reported quietly into her mouthpiece.

Warrender made a growling noise. Isobel could almost see her eyes rolling before she snapped, "Fine. You can go up to twenty-five."

"It will go higher," Isobel warned as she lifted her paddle. "Twenty-four."

"You think I don't fucking know that? Kintar, get the Prime Minister on the coms. She needs to authorize more money."

Helena nodded and smiled politely. "Twenty-four million to the bidder at Line Cresh. Do I hear twenty-four five?"

x

x

x

WITH

Frankie • Helena Cross

 

[Frankie]

FRANKIE FORTAN
FIELD OPERATIVE // INTELLIGENCE DIRECTORATE // MERIDIAN STATION
TAG: Helena Cross | Isobel Nakano ​

---

Twenty-four million. A number with weight behind it now, Frankie could feel the room's attention sharpening, the idle fashion-show tourists upstairs a world away from whatever was actually happening at Lot Thirteen. Line Cresh's paddle hadn't wavered once, but the pause before "twenty-four" had been half a second longer than the ones before it. Someone off-site was arguing about money. Frankie recognized the rhythm of it even without hearing the other end of the conversation.

No one had told her where to stop. That was either trust or a test, and Frankie had decided a while ago it didn't much matter which, the job was the same either way.

She lifted her hand, unhurried. "Twenty-four five."

Clean. No games this time, no correction to make a point. Just enough to say she wasn't going anywhere, and that whoever was bankrolling Line Cresh should start wondering how deep the woman in the back actually went. Nice and easy, she thought to herself.