Read T'aafhal Legacy 1: Ghosts of Orion for Free Online Page B

Welcome aboard,” de Voorst stood and shook hands with each one in turn.
    “Now that you are officially part of the company we can proceed to the main briefing room for an overview of the star system we have identified as the target for your first mission. The briefer will be our staff astronomer, Dr. Lucrezia Piscopia. I believe that you already know her...” 
     
    Commercial Port, Farside
    The in-system freighter Isaac Asimov had just docked after a return voyage from Olympus Mons. On the outbound voyage the hold had been stuffed with equipment and the passenger section bulged with 200 refugees headed for a new life on the red planet. That trip took three weeks while the trip home took only two due to changing orbital configurations and lower mass. Combine the shorter trip with the fact that only a half dozen passengers booked passage to the Moon and the trip home was a comparative pleasure cruise. Now, with the passengers disembarked and the scant cargo unloaded, members of the crew were free to go ashore.
    Two of the crew were old time spacers, having done time on a number of Navy ships before switching over to the merchant marine. Where once they traveled among the stars, now they traveled local space, hauling people and cargo between the various planets and moons of the solar system.
    “Well, Stevie. Looks like we survived yet another death defying voyage through the icy vacuum of space,” said Matt Jacobs, as the pair shouldered their sea bags and headed across the docks.
    “Matt, the only thing life threatening on that tub is the boredom,” his friend, Steve Hitch, replied. With no alter-space drive and barely able to pull 1G when heavily laden, the Asimov couldn't really compare with any Navy vessel.
    “Hey, you were the one who was tired of the Navy chicken shit, and the low pay.”
    “Come on. You can't say that what the Navy had us doing was anymore exciting than this. The only difference was having to take a ration of crap off of the officers and senior chiefs. Admit it, the pay is a lot better and it's not like the Navy was an adventure. Nothing like the old days on the Peggy Sue.”
    Matt gazed across the huge open space that was Farside's main commercial port and sighted a familiar shape—a beautiful swan nestled among the ugly duckling transports. There was no mistaking that bow, the curving transparent panels framed by sinuous sliver strands, like half of a crystal egg designed by Fabergé with a hint of Gaudí for good measure. 
    “Speak of the devil, isn't that the Peggy Sue across the way?”
    “I think you're right. It looks like the old girl has been getting refitted—I wonder what for?”
    “I think we ought to find out, don't you Stevie?”
    “Hell yes. Let's stow our gear back at our quarters and go do some investigating.”
    “By investigating you mean drinking in some of the dockworkers' favorite bars?”
    “Damn straight, my friend. No reason gathering a little intelligence can't also be enjoyable.” 
     
    Apt 32, Refugee Housing, Farside
    Among the refugees rescued with Imam Mustafa were a pair of sisters: Shadi, then fourteen years old, and Dorri, eleven. They were not a part of the Imam's terrestrial flock. The sisters' family had lived in Tehran, where their father was an engineer. Engineers were valued, even in the economic basket case that was twenty-first century Iran. The ruling mullahs recognized the need for men who could actually design and build things.
    As a result, Shadi and Dorri grew up in an environment as close to middle class as existed in modern day Persia. They attended private schools, enjoyed modern amenities and knew something of the outside world. In a country where many girls were uneducated, they could speak and were literate in Farsi, Arabic and English. Their parents, while Muslims, were not overly religious—attending prayers at their local mosque just frequently enough to avoid suspicion.
    Both girls were attractive, their long, raven black hair