The hydraulic hatch of the black-and-gold messenger pod hissed open, releasing a cloud of chilled, perfumed steam.
A tall, spindly herald in high-collared velvet robes stepped out onto the metal deck of Canteen #1’s VIP dock. He wore a gilded monocle over his left eye, silk stockings, and a white powdered wig that sat lopsided on his head. His nose was tilted so high into the air that he seemed to be inspecting the ceiling lights.
Above his oiled hair, his moral integrity score hovered in a sickly, jaundiced yellow: 7/100, right below the stamped holographic crest of his master, Vice-Chairman Malakor (Goodness: 5/100).
“Disgusting,” the herald sneered, waving an embroidered lace handkerchief across his face to ward off the aroma of Grandma Chen’s scallion pancakes. “To think the glorious insignia of the Blood-Tax Star Chamber must touch a station that reeks of peasant grease and boiled cabbage. The air filtration here is an insult to civilized nostrils.”
Ten space-truckers sitting nearby burst out laughing.
“Hey, look at the dancing clown in stockings!” Old Geng called out, waving a crispy scallion pancake. “Did you forget your pants at home, mister? Sit down and have some pork broth! It’ll put some meat on your chicken legs!”
