"That was on purpose, Arbitrator Ortega." I remarked, eyeing the pict screens for any sign of useful information beyond slogans. I was greeted with an advertisement for Adrastus Stimms, no doubt a must-have for the laborers of the district and the work that ruins their bodies by a mere 40 standard terran years. It flickered in an out for a moment, switching to a slogan for High Paradise, a pleasure hab. A girl gyrated against a broken crease in the pict screen before fading away to another Marcello Collective showcase. I spied the manufactora and the poor souls filtering in and out of it, as if that would tell me something. I expected to be here for some days, extending the three day lease through some excuse or passing of payments. "My masters are quite careful, and they expect the same manner of discretion from myself." 

"Well I do need to know where we are to stop next." Ortega replied stiffly. 

"Stop here," I ordered. For a moment I thought I had used my will, so quickly did the Arbites oblige my command. Horns from ground cars blared and swerved as we immediately turned into a small area cordoned off to park. Emmaline nearly bumped into the seat in front of her. The ground car behind us followed suit. The grey rain had transformed into a small drizzle. 

"Out of curiosity, do you know where we are?" He asked me. 

"Manufactora XLII-C. This hab block is utilized for the production of Chromium Steel." I had taken the liberty of memorizing the symbols of the hives of Gravemire. Above the yawning doors was the carven numeral figure. "The materials of which is of great interest to my employer." I opened the car door, taking off my gloves and placing them in my jacket, an innocuous gesture, but I was doing it so I might better grip my autogun. 

[i]What is it?[/i] Emmaline asked me within a short mindlink. 

[i]I saw one[/i], I said. I sent her an image of what I implied rather than transferring the information in what one might call a dialogue. In her mind she would see a man amidst the crowd marching into the manufactora. His skin mottled and browned from the sun, his gait undulating, his eyes scanning back and forth. A small tattoo on his neck, a mark I had only seen once before, less than two months ago on Havenos. If I was not mistaken, I had just spotted a tribesman of the Son's of The Fen. The tattoo even looked made of the red ochre they had utilized on-world. 

Emmaline eyed me, and then spun to the Arbitrator who was just getting out of the vehicle, shockmaul in easy reach at his side. She regarded him with a chill gaze. "Is there an alternate entrance to the facility? We would like to be discreet and see the product without much interference due to our presence." She inquired. Ortega hesitated, and both of us could sense a small inkling of suspicion behind the iron wall he called a mind, and acquiesced. 

"This way," he bade.