Xo shrugs. "Polon should be offloading his sludge for transport to your vessel. His ship's the Caravan III."
---
"You remember that," says the gunman, stepping back and to the side as the butcher shuts off his meat processor and waves Davis into the back of the shop. The gunman interposes himself once more as Davis and the butcher disappear into the rear.
Luis figures if it came down to it, they could take the gunman. Problem is, these are ostensibly the people they've come here to meet. He bides his time like Arketta and Swims-the-Black.
Angel's shadowing the group too far back to do anything about the initial weapon brandishing, but he notices a good angle to make a shot on the gunman if necessary from outside the shop. It'd be less than subtle, but a shot is a shot. There's no side or back door that he can see from his position - one stall runs into the next, with a maintenance hatch between every four or five shops.
"This way," barks the butcher. A third human, this one a vaguely Inuit-featured woman in her sixties, slides out from between two hanging carcasses. She keeps tabs on Davis with an old-school cleaver as the butcher produces a vox.
*It's me. That shipmaster - the one who dealt Hal's crew to Fleet - he's here, but I've got a guy claiming to be from Narsai. Yeah, I know. I need M'haio to scan him.*
"Have a seat. It'll be a few minutes," the butcher says to Davis. "So, what brings you to our neck of the woods?"
Luis takes the oppertunity to speak up, "They say the best defense is a good offense. Imperium wants to do nasty things to our planet, so we're going to beat them to the punch. We're here as a recon team."
"You'll see. M'haio's just a short jaunt from the hydros."
A minute's wait, then the sound of a hatch creaking open on ancient servos grates in Davis' ears. Booted feet on deckplates. The slip-slap of bare feet on metal. The soft sound of something being dragged.
There is a back door, apparently. A disused-looking door slides open to show Davis and Luis a glimpse of a dank corridor behind the shop frontages. A man wearing tight, multicolored spacer's clothing steps into the rear area of the meat market. He carries a handlancer idly by his side, but his eyes flick to the newcomers with a gunfighter's speed. The next person in is a small pale girl, maybe 12 or 13 years old, dressed in a baggy tunic and pants with bare feet. Davis recognizes the look of a person very strung out on painkillers. The girl's sunken eyes take in the new surroundings with a cow's apathy. What Davis finds more disturbing, however, is the mass of thin pasta-like tendrils wrapped around the child's head. The owner of the tendrils floats into the room a moment later. Luis recognizes a Cyllan - the jellyfish aliens used by the Imperium as interrogators and interpreters - but Davis is not quite as prepared for the leathery sac, pulsing ventricles, and countless writhing tentacles. This Cyllan does not sport the chrome translator faceplate of a Truthseeker.
The butcher gives the creature a nod of respect. "I appreciate your attention, Joiner of Tongues, and apologize for the urgency. I would have you ascertain the truth of this one's words." He points to Davis.
The girl twitches, a momentary convulsion. Her voice is high and sullen. "There is less pain in seeing/reading than speaking/showing. Fear not - my slave/voice's fate will elude you this day."
The girl takes a few tentative steps forward, with the jellyfish alien floating after. Miniscule tendrils, like angel hair, lift up towards Davis' head.
Davis closes his eyes and think of the answers, adding some imagery to sell the thoughts. My name is Garrett Davis. I am from Los Angeles, California, United States of America, Earth, or Narsai to you. There are nine of us from Narsai. We just recently found the portal technology, and are barely off world. We're here because the Imperium is sending a battle fleet to destroy Earth, and we're here to stop them before our civilization is annihilated and our people are killed. He pauses for a second. Like Bashakra.
The girl repeats Davis' words, getting a raised eyebrow from Coda and the Inuit-looking woman at the Bashakra reference. The pre-teen adds, "It speaks/thinks truth..."
And now it hurts. The tendrils send microshocks coursing through Davis' skull, activating synapses and causing thoughts to rise unbidden from his brain. While Davis reels, the butcher and his crew exchange anxious, excited glances.
It would be best if you spoke/sounded naturally from now on, M'haio thinks for Davis. Do not just think, but say. I do not relish more damage to my slave/voice in needless translation.
"They... you... they actually are Homeworlders?" asks the woman.
M'haio responds via the girl. "Yes! Vast oceans, millions of species, BILLIONS of their kind."
"Lower that beamer," Coda calls to the gunman. He complies. "All right," Coda says to Davis. "I'm not sure what you need from us, but we'll do what we can."
"We know almost nothing about what's out there in the galaxy. We need intelligence and support for our mission. We're going to hit back at the Imperium before they can reach Narsai. I can't say more without a more appropriate location for my associates and me to talk."
The trip through the shunt is incredibly uncomfortable. First he's freezing, then he's running out of air. Semo wonders if he's actually found the thing that will kill him.
As he struggles to retain consciousness, Semo suddenly gets a blast of warm/hot air in his face and emerges into the new bay. The sight of an Imperial assault ship fills his eyes. There are Turai everywhere.
Bar Coda listens to Davis. He replies, "We can talk in hydro control. M'haio has access, and it's dag-nasty so nobody ever wants to come down there. Get your people, leave this shop, and head through the first maintenance hatch on the left. We'll meet you back there."
The Cyllan unwraps its tendrils from Davis' head, leaving a greasy sheen on his hair.
"Shit, almost forgot," Bar adds. "Take this," he says, slapping a foam-ish container into Luis' hands. "It's prime scrofa flank, and a good cover in case you were followed."
---
As soon as Semo sees the Turai, he considers rolling off the loading drone and squeezing underneath it, but the monotask settles down flush with the deck. It's unlikely Semo - or anyone - would be able to fit.
B91, Semo's current location, is hell and gone from the Morningstar's hangar M3. No chance he'd make it on foot back through the shunts, even if he could get the shunt door open again. Luckily, the loading zone is a short sprint from the airlock to the main docking traverse - the wide corridor that branches off to each hangar or berth. The problem with that is that if the Turai were inclined to pursue, it'd turn into a foot chase because it'd be unlikely that Semo could sneak all the way to the traverse airlock unseen.
The docking crew are ensconced in the hangar control booth, similar to the controls that Semo used to offload the cargo he's hiding in now. It's up one flight on a catwalk level with the assault ship's primary ship-to-ship boarding lock. There are shadows he could possibly hide in, but no real concealment. He does have a good angle of approach up the catwalk stairs, however. He might, with luck, be on top of the docking crew before any trigger-happy Turai could draw a bead.
The Turai are vaguely interested in the cargo, mainly because it's something new to look at while on guard duty. Their attention turns lazily to the cargo bay's monotask arms as the docking crew powers them up. Semo's expansive knowledge of regulations tells him that these three Turai have likely been put on garrison duty as punishment. Their heads nod slightly every now and then as they talk, but Semo can't make it out through their chrome helmets.
There's also the fact that these Turai don't necessarily know Semo to be anyone of importance. While he's certainly sure he wasn't supposed to hitch a ride on the shuntway, the Imperials may just kick him out of their hangar. Or they could blast him. It could go either way with these guys.
No great options present themselves, so Semo decides to just wing it. Standing up when he sees the Turai turn and look toward the crew, he stretches in a yawn, then begins strolling at a relaxed pace toward the airlock.
Angel sighs, frowning slightly as he tries to make himself look like he's browsing for goods. The shot he has is aweful, and trying to get out of here without getting caught is - nigh impossible.
He hangs back and keeps tabs on the rapidly developing - and uncomfortable looking- scene.
"Right." Davis stands up and wipes most of the slime off of his head. "We'll be there in a half-hour or so, I want to do some window shopping first." He motions for Luis to follow him out of the back.
He rejoins Swims and Arketta outside, and pulls out his radio. "We need to make sure we're not being followed. Everyone that's with me already, follow me around and keep your eyes peeled for anyone following us. Angel, you hang back behind us and watch our backs. We'll do a few laps of the market, pause at some stores along the way, then head into the maintenance hatch. Any questions?"
Angel clicks his radio button once, a quick "No" that doesn't involve speaking, or even removing the thing from his vest, so that a keen eyed observer has one less clue to pick up who he is and what he's doing.
Watching the group continue on, he briefly launches into a argument in broken Imperial with a merchant, something about the fruit he's looking at looking vaugely off, and just who do you think he's trying to fool, before walking off in disgust in the same direction half a minute later, his eyes peeled for tails.
Semo leaves the cargo zone and walks casually towards the exit lock. One of the Turai starts walking towards him, having clearly spotted the sergeant. The soldier's vox-boosted voice is a scratchy baritone.
"You! Stop! How did you get in here?"
Semo gauges the distance. The turai is 30 feet away, the exit maybe 20. To run now, however, would raise a potentially lethal amount of suspicion...
---
Davis, Arketta, Luis, Swims, and Angel - following from a safe distance - meander through the market for a while. Angel doesn't notice any tails nor does he pick up on any fallout from the confrontation in the butcher shop. The gunman takes over behind the counter in the absence of Bar Coda.
It's soon time to meet, and they make their way through the back access, through a dingy hexagonal tunnel whose pipes leak rivulets of fluid every few meters, through a moisture-soaked "ready room" of sorts, with stained environment suits stowed away in safety lockers, to a security blast door. A semicircular optics array regards the group's approach. The door whines as safety interlocks disengage, and it cycles open onto a cylindrical hub. A wide conduit filled with water runs from floor to ceiling, with a rudimentary pressure lock allowing access to the liquid. Miniscule particles float in the water - there could be dirt, algae, feces, nanites, any number of things in that tank.
Illuminated by the wavy glow of running lights refracting through the conduit are Bar Coda, his woman, and M'haio with its pre-teen translator-slave. Several storage crates and footlockers are stacked in the corner, secured to the wall with webbing like the stowage back on the Morningstar.
"We can help you as much as we can," the woman says once everyone is inside. "But we are mainly a contact point, a recruitment cell. When anyone who thinks of resisting the Imperium decides to up and do it, they go to a shadowport. Whether it's living life your own way or engaging in more active methods, the shadowports are where your average citizen travels."
"But you can't affect anything from a shadowport," Bar adds. "We're allowed to exist for exactly that reason. We're a pressure valve for those who won't be dictated to. The Turai don't come here as long as we don't threaten the Bureaucracy and allow certain elements - the Khiraba, for instance - to bring back their prey. Which is why we must meet in secret, even on Jang-xur."
"Bar makes frequent trips to Aikoro for our cover business," the woman continues. "He gets all our specific instructions dirtside, according to a predetermined means of passing information. He only met our cell's contact once, when he was recruited. We pass information to them the same way."
Dead drops, Davis figures.
"That said, what can we do for you, Homeworlders?" Bar finally asks.
Hearing the Turai address him, Semo glances over his shoulder at the man and curves his path to intercept, though perhaps a bit closer to the door.
"Sorry, sir. I fell asleep after loading the cargo on the shunt platform. They must not have seen me sleeping there before they sent the cargo through.
"Man, that's a hairy ride! Wasn't sure I was going to make it alive..."
"It's probably best that we accompany you to Aikoro and let you set up a meet with your contact. Our mission is on Napai, and we're going to need help getting on-world. While we're here, we could use some intel on a few people we've seen around." He describes the second bodyguard from the sale. "I get the feeling that she's not just your average bodyguard. Do you know who she is?"
"Lazy bastard," the turai says. "Get the hell outta here. I've got you scanned, if we see you again you'll be pacified. Now MOVE."
Other than the troubling matter of whatever "I've got you scanned" might mean, the Imperial soldiers seem content to let Semo leave.
---
Bar offers a slightly revised plan. "I'll take my usual trip to Aikoro. You follow me however you can. There is a fountain in the central plaza of Gran's Hope on Aikoro. Very famous. Be there in, say, 48 hours? My people will find you. You won't see me on Aikoro - better for both of us that way."
"As for your mysterious bodyguard, I can't say."
"She accompanied a Steward of some rank with a penchant for children," adds Swims-the-Black.
"Talia het Malenko," M'haio spurs his slave into speech. "She is an Expansion official who uses her constant travel to make clandestine stops in order to placate her vices. If you saw one bodyguard, there was likely two more you did not. Even if you spied a hidden protector, there may have been another, perhaps cloaked, perhaps watching from a drone high above. This specific bodyguard, however, I do not know of."
---
Xo authorizes the parts container and has drones load it into the shunts. "As I said, Polon's vessel is the Caravan III. Your parts are on their way now. If that is all, I should get back to the Aloof Merchant."
Davis nods. "Sounds like a good plan. If it's not too much trouble for you or M'haio, I'd love to spend some time talking with him about a few things." He extends his hand to Bar to shake. "It's been a pleasure working with you, and I wish you luck on your trip."
Admiral Duck Sauce
