Luis stays the course and soon Jang-xur is visible on scopes. First, as an orange blob on thermal; then, through optics as a spiky hodgepodge ball; finally, as a massive network of tightly-wound gantries, hulls, and sensor arrays as you approach for visual identification. Emergency vents jettison blue-white raw plasma straight up into the Z axis. A multitude of point-defense turrets track the Morningstar and a handful of smaller shuttlecraft flitting from giant freighters too large to dock at the shadowport's myriad hangars.

The vox feed is scratchy, much more in line with what you expect from Army radio chatter.

*Freighter... Morningstar, park it in hangar 3.* Traffic control cuts out after that, without any inquires regarding Morningstar's cargo or business.

The telemetry updates as blast doors cycle open, revealing a sort of massive cradle. Luis grits his teeth and brings the ship in as carefully as he can. With the 360-degree holographic cockpit, Luis doesn't have any trouble floating the Morningstar through the bay doors. Suddenly there's a muffled KRRRR-ANG! that ripples through the very framework of the ship. Luis checks all around - the damaged sensor array didn't retract on landing and is now floating lifelessly behind the Morningstar. The see-through holographic floor goes steel gray as the ventral sensors snap off on a docking cradle. Swims-the-Black winces.

Luis winces as the ship's damaged sensors, refusing to retract, snap off as the Akum- er- Morningstar settles into the craddle. " I swear that was like that when I rented it," he mutters, then, in Imperial, "Any landing you walk away from..."

Davis is by the airlock, waiting for the ship to complete docking and to meet the locals. He hears the sensor array snap off somewhere aft of him on the ship and it tumbles away. "That sounded expensive," he says.

Punkey wrote:

Davis is by the airlock, waiting for the ship to complete docking and to meet the locals. He hears the sensor array snap off somewhere aft of him on the ship and it tumbles away. "That sounded expensive," he says.

"It's been my experience that buying a new module is often cheaper and easier than replacing broken parts. He may just done us a favor." replies Max.

The Morningstar safely settles into its docking cradle. Luis remotely opens the cargo bay doors, since the primary airlock is still jammed. While the team collects their gear and makes ready to disembark, Swims-the-Black tests his dressings by trying to stand and walk. Luis and Hugh's work holds up to the task, and Swims soon joins the team in the cargo bay. The Whiirr's got a length of pipe to use as a cane as well as a small handlancer similar to Kovos and Clay's weapons.

"One-Ton, what is Aka- er, Morningstar's status?"

"Until the boy gets into the hatches and checks for sure, the airlock's slagged, the sensors snapped off when Gupta Khari there brought us in to dock (this elicits a small chuckle from Arketta), we've got some minor hull scarring, and the engine core and the holos on the bridge could all use a once-over with some new components."

"Make me a list with what you need. We'll sell the agros for parts and try to find a buyer for the assembler components, even if it's just for the molecules."

"Master, that's the repairs covered, but Jang-xur ain't Hedion. We ain't gonna make enough to refuel unless these Homeworlders are swimmin' in lats as well as guns. And we ain't ever talked to anyone beyond some messengers for these Bashakrans. It's like to get expensive one way or the other."

"We never talked to more than a messenger because I was a Jade Caretaker who watched their planet burn. With luck, Captain Verrill and his crew will have an easier time of it. Captain, I can arrange a meeting, but as I've said, it may be best if you handled any negotiations without me."

"One-Ton, how many lats do you think the repairs will take?" Hugh asks.

"Repairs'll probably take six thousand, plus another two thousand for fuel and whatnot. We burned through a lot when we ran. We can deal with half the fuel if we're not gonna be runnin' from Needleships anytime soon, so we need to sell our shit for 7K at the least."

"Minus the fifteen hundred lats you paid us in passage," Swims adds. "That should mostly offset our fuel costs and let us unload our cargo without too much haggling."

One-Ton and Swims are impressed when Hugh hands over six thousand in gold.

"All right, I'll get shoppin'," says One-Ton. "Verrill, mind if one o' yer boys comes with? I ain't lookin' to get mugged by some brigand that sees a cripple toddlin' around."

"I'll go with him, top," volunteers Mellish. "Unless you have a better idea."

"I'll stand guard on the ship, sir," Taylor offers.

"You and me both, Mellish. That's a lot of gold a'wanderin' and I'd like to get my face known a bit better."

Hugh nods to Taylor's suggestion.

Luis looks around the landing space. "Hey, could we move some of that stuff we're going to be selling off out here? It'd make good cover if things get bolluxed up, and we don't want to be carrying the extra mass if we have to ditch in a hurry."

"Yeah," One-Ton says. "Let me get Kovos to- oh wait, he's dead. That's all right, I'll just ask Clay to- oops, he's a corpsicle too! Lemme limp MY ass over to the monotask and unload it all while some OTHER person who knows the difference between a series 4 duplex resistor and a series 5 convex application matrix goes shoppin' for parts."

"Cranky bastard," Taylor growls. "I got a once-over with the cranes, I can get 'er unloaded."

"Fine. We're wastin' time." One-Ton starts his limp for the airlock into the shadowport proper.

"Indeed," Swims adds. "I'm going to find a buyer or buyers for the cargo and set up a meet." The Whiirr hefts his length of pipe and likewise makes his way for the lock with great effort.

Davis moves to help the injured Whirr. "I'll come with you, and after we set up the sale, maybe we can start looking for a group sympathetic to our cause. Captain Verrill, if we could have Arketta and one more accompany us..."

Luis steps forward, "I'll volunteer for that."

Semo steps forward. "I seem to have gotten the feel for workin' the whatdayacallit... monotask, Swims-in-the-Black. I can handle getting the unloading done, if the Captain doesn't need me for his shopping trip."

Hugh answers all three requests with a single nod.

(OOC: Max, Semo, and Angel: You may go with either group, stay behind, or do your own thing as you please)

The first few breaths in Jang-xur itself are cold and slightly stale, tinged with the accumulation of hundreds of people's collective stink. It's not as bad as Botane, but it's been a while since you've inhaled anything that could be considered "fresh air". Swims-the-Black hands over a small docking fee to the three "security personnel" waiting outside the docking lock. They glance at your accumulated weaponry, decide that either there's nothing to raise suspicions or that there's too many guns for them to start something, and wave you on through to the primary traverse.

Jang-xur is the Morningstar's interior, writ large. Everywhere an enigmatic access hatch or series of conduits. A maze of corridors and lifts. The Ossogur Nebula can be seen at nearly all times, although you're unsure whether it's through holographic display walls or actual windows. It may give a spacer relief from cramped surroundings, but for the Earthborn it successfully compounds claustrophobia with agoraphobia.

Bartering for Parts

One-Ton limps down a sterile-lit corridor, takes a lift, and exits into a groaning underbelly. The whines of the docking cradles vibrate underfoot. Inside this cavernous maw, which might actually be the retrofitted cargo bay of some monstrous freighter, people barter gold for parts. Most of the sellers have holographic representations of their wares here rather than the actual items themselves.

"This is the Aloof Merchant," One-Ton explains. "She's part of the shadowport now. Got built onto and around, but she's got the monotasks and facilities to handle moving what we're buying. Ah, here we go."

One-Ton hobbles towards a dark man in subdued robes. His prominent mutton-chops shake with his jowls as the fat man lights up at what must be a frequent customer.

"One-Ton! So good to see you!"

"You're lookin' well, Xo," One-Ton replies, clasping hands with the merchant-captain. "Lookin' to upgrade, need some specific components. I can pay cash this time."

"Then my selection is yours," Xo says.

While One-Ton scrolls through Xo's inventory, you can't help but look around the Aloof Merchant. It's busier - and more civilized - than you would expect. Perhaps you expected a Tortuga-esque Mos Eisley-ian barfight cum auction, but all in all the various transactions around you tend to happen without too much hooliganism.

Of course, it doesn't stay that way for long. One-Ton lays out his parts requirements, gets the approved manifest from Xo, and is about to hand over the gold when four angry men storm into the Merchant. The leader, a lanky man who could pass for a space-age Abraham Lincoln, points directly at Xo, stalking towards the fat merchant with malice in his eyes.

"Don't pay that bastard! Xo is a thief!"

"What's goin' on?" One-Ton asks, stepping a few feet away from the merchant, gold still in hand.

"Master Polon, if you have had issues with anything I might have sold you I'd be happy to-"

"Had issues, fat man? That core wiring you sold me must've been ripped out of a monotask! It fried on us, we got sniped on our delivery, and now we're stuck with a cargo of rancid protein! I demand compensation!"

Polon's three associates spread out in a line as most of the room turns to watch this new development.

"I assure you, the cabling I sold you was of the highest quality. If you did not know the frequencies your reactor operates under or if you pushed your drives beyond the legal output, well, I hope you can understand that I cannot be held responsible for your actions. Nor, might I add, the actions of another freighter who manages their time better than you."

"Oh, we were running fine - YOUR wiring flashed and we had to coast back to Sambasan on impellers! Impellers, Xo! The way I see it, you owe me for the parts, and then for the cargo! And I'm getting paid no matter what!"

eBay in Space

Swims slowly makes his way through the main traverse to Jang-xur's auction house. A long hall sloping gradually upwards, the auction hall is not terribly unlike Fremont Street in Las Vegas. An arched roof provides either a real or piped-in view of the nebula while various shops, small eateries, and carousers line each side. In the first five minutes, you see everything from gaudy blankets to uranium for sale. There's even a relatively clean shop where one can purchase shipboys. The dormitorium above the storefront echoes with the babble of pre-teens.

Roaming merchants walk the hallway with floating holodrones that project their wares. There's a shop that rents the small floating drones - Swims-the-Black puts down a few lats and uploads the Morningstar's cargo manifest. Soon after, the agros and assembler parts are flashing above the Whiirr's head as you walk the promenade.

The roof flashes every minute or so with glyphs proclaiming new arrivals, special offers, and Imperial cortex updates.

Hugh listens to the complaints, thinks a few seconds and then chimes in.

"Forgive my intrusion, Master Polon, but I have two questions for you. One, what kind of protein does your cargo consist of, and two, how much do you ask for it?"

Gatac wrote:

Hugh listens to the complaints, thinks a few seconds and then chimes in.

"Forgive my intrusion, Master Polon, but I have two questions for you. One, what kind of protein does your cargo consist of, and two, how much do you ask for it?"

Max, who's been tagging along soaking up the atmosphere, takes a concerned stance near Hugh.

"Can't go anywhere without some spacer getting up in our grills."

Polon's laugh is a bitter bark. "Rancid, and lots of it. If you need 25 tons of rotting biomass, I need five thousand lats to stay out of the red on this job."

---

Swims gets a few confused window shoppers, but as one might expect, heavy machinery and agricultural drones aren't hot sellers for smugglers and the spaceborne. You walk, watching Swims' pain increase a little more as time passes, until finally a lined woman in a gilded cocoon approaches the Whiirr. Her robe consists of petals that splay out enough to give her ample personal space. Three verdant shipboys trail the woman. A black-armored male struts a few paces off her flank. His face is covered with an opaque blast shield, but the stubby beam weapon slung on a thigh hardpoint seems clear enough.

"An interesting inventory, beast-captain. If you can deal in standard Imperial currency rather than gold, I think I would be able to purchase your wares."

Swims perks up at this. "How many assemblers and/or agros would madam require?"

"All your wares, beast-captain. Are you familiar with the ruins on Lor?"

"I haven't heard of that world, madam."

"Not surprising. I doubt you follow colonization efforts like I do. Suffice it to say that I, in a certain fashion, represent Imperial interests on that world and just happen to need materials for a significant construction project."

"Very well, madam. I am more than willing to deal in lats, if madam prefers." You can tell Swims isn't pleased with the choice of currency, but isn't going to blow this chance to offload the cargo.

Hugh smiles.

"Which, I presume, is the price you bought it for plus whatever it cost you to get it here - fuel, ship's upkeep, pay for your crew? See, that would be sound economic thinking, if the material wasn't rancid. I'm sure there's a use for it, which is why I'm interested, but I don't do charity. 2000 lats. Or you could dump it out the next airlock, but some lats are better than a total write-off, right?"