Weatherall's not much of a tourist spot. As space stations go, it's bare-bones: a small population, a lot of machinery, and very limited entertainment possibilities
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The answers are standard too; everything's on the manifesto, but there are procedures that must be followed anyway. "Small goods," says Mr. Stanevich easily. "Jewelry, mostly."
He's gazing around the docks with a slightly preoccupied air, but it's probably just curiosity. They may be unexciting, but Willis Stanevich has never been to Weatherall before, after all.
"My father was Barrayaran." This has the sound of a practiced summary -- nothing too well-worn, but an amiable explanation that's been given more than once. "With the Embassy."
"Mom's not, and he died when I was a kid, so I grew up mostly on Earth."
Mr. Stanevich, faintly rueful but otherwise unruffled, grants this point with a small waving-off gesture. "Fair, fair. I was surprised, that's all. Forget I asked. What's the docking business still to cover, then?"
Interesting, thinks the man currently called Willis Stanevich, who has a very different perspective on many things than an ordinary gem-trader might, and who came to Weatherall for reasons rather more specific than a simple refueling stop. Interesting indeed.
The guard returns to the checklist. It's nearly done.
Afterwards, the captain-owner has the freedom of the station, at least those areas open to transients: the main concourse, the hotels and hostels, the eateries, the bars and arcades.
And the public Security office, just down the corridor from the main Information booth.
It's been a long time since he did this. It's not often warranted, these days, in this world.
But sometimes it is. And there's something here, subtly, something that pulled him all this way, and he can feel it still, that half-sensed foreignness jangling at the edges of an Old One's senses. He hasn't felt that kind of tugging importance in a long time, either, except at Milliways.
Will strolls down the corridor, hands in his pockets, and lets certain of those senses open wider.
There's a lot to listen to. But life has a pattern on a station like this, and what's likely to be important is what's out of the ordinary in the right way.
Willis Stanevich pauses to study a map of the station and the notice-festooned board next to it, his face blank and abstracted.
Apparently the notice-board is interesting, because Mr Stanevich spends several minutes looking at it (without focusing on any note in particular) before he blinks, and lets out a breath, and steps away towards the Security office.
"Stanevich," says Mr Stanevich with a quick uncertain smile. It makes his round, plain, rather solemn face change into something much more personable. "Willis."
"Maybe. Well, probably not, but -- I promised my sister I'd ask at every port. After her boy. He up and vanished months ago, right in the middle of a vacation and all, and he's always been, well, he needs someone to look after him, if you know what I mean. I guess he always will. You haven't--?"
The uniformed guard is leaning easily against a railing as he goes down the checklist, talking to the ship's captain-owner.
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He's gazing around the docks with a slightly preoccupied air, but it's probably just curiosity. They may be unexciting, but Willis Stanevich has never been to Weatherall before, after all.
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"Mom's not, and he died when I was a kid, so I grew up mostly on Earth."
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Weatherall isn't known for being hub of Barrayaran... well, anything. They keep to themselves pretty well, even nowadays.
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"ImpSec? What're they doing out here?"
And then, quickly, "Not to ask awkward questions, though. I just wouldn't have thought it."
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Interesting, thinks the man currently called Willis Stanevich, who has a very different perspective on many things than an ordinary gem-trader might, and who came to Weatherall for reasons rather more specific than a simple refueling stop. Interesting indeed.
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Afterwards, the captain-owner has the freedom of the station, at least those areas open to transients: the main concourse, the hotels and hostels, the eateries, the bars and arcades.
And the public Security office, just down the corridor from the main Information booth.
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But sometimes it is. And there's something here, subtly, something that pulled him all this way, and he can feel it still, that half-sensed foreignness jangling at the edges of an Old One's senses. He hasn't felt that kind of tugging importance in a long time, either, except at Milliways.
Will strolls down the corridor, hands in his pockets, and lets certain of those senses open wider.
There's a lot to listen to. But life has a pattern on a station like this, and what's likely to be important is what's out of the ordinary in the right way.
Willis Stanevich pauses to study a map of the station and the notice-festooned board next to it, his face blank and abstracted.
Apparently the notice-board is interesting, because Mr Stanevich spends several minutes looking at it (without focusing on any note in particular) before he blinks, and lets out a breath, and steps away towards the Security office.
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"Can I help you, Mr....?"
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"Maybe. Well, probably not, but -- I promised my sister I'd ask at every port. After her boy. He up and vanished months ago, right in the middle of a vacation and all, and he's always been, well, he needs someone to look after him, if you know what I mean. I guess he always will. You haven't--?"
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"'S he look like?"
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Mr Stanevich doesn't sound particularly hopeful.
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