Much later...

A trio of moons glow an angry orange, barely piercing the light pollution emanating from Botane's 24/7 (or the local equivalent) manufactories. Max's team sits in silence, watching and waiting from an abandoned factory branch that looks as if it was gutted by fire. The structure creaks with the wind, and sudden shudders threaten to collapse what little of the roof remains, but the building's free of drones, cameras, or people. To the south, Duke Eglen's palace stretches skyward. To the east, the Gateport spires branch out like a overturned crab, each long curved spire a finger grasping at the flitting insects that, at this distance, must be hundred-meter-long starships.

Hugh's team looks out across the canyon to the same Gateport. They're all arrayed in hobo chic - robes and ill-fitting loose clothing are draped around their gear. They're on the roof of a four-story half-domed building in Hab 7, some 8 miles from the earlier incident. Davis' gatecrasher got them into the building, and Mellish is downstairs rummaging through an empty 4th-level hab for better clothes.

It's the fourth hour where the Kansat vox hasn't mentioned them, so Max clicks off the laptop until the next 30-minute check.

"What a shit hole." says Max to no one in particular.

"Looks like we've evaded capture for now. We need to get in touch with Captain Verrill and figure out how the hell we're going to regroup an actually do what we came here to do...Because as much as I like camping out in a condemned building, we need to focus on the mission."

Over the next few minutes, a message is morsed over the team's emergency channel and repeated until acknowledged.

Relocate spaceport. Meet in 0200 hours. Look sign.

Gatac wrote:

Over the next few minutes, a message is morsed over the team's emergency channel and repeated until acknowledged.

Relocate spaceport. Meet in 0200 hours. Look sign.

Max taps out a reply.

Affirmative. 0200. Spaceport.

Max, Semo, Angel, and Arketta reach the gateport first after a stalk through Botane's manufactories. The burnt gray sky darkens to a red-black the color of dried blood as they weave their way through streets dwarfed by colossal machines. Not even Arketta knows their purpose.

Angel spots Hugh's team coming through the gateport doors. The bazaar has quieted somewhat, but it appears the tents and stalls simply swap over for new wares and new shopkeepers continue the din of dubious commerce.

The team is ragged. Hugh's group is arrayed in hobo chic, while Max's group is streaked with grease, their uniforms sweat-stained and near-black in some places from their charred manufactory hideout.

"You guys look like shit," Taylor says in greeting.

"And I see you're sporting the latest Paris fashion trend. I hate say it Taylor, but you're a sight for sore eyes." replies Max, relieved to have regrouped without further incident.

"We're down several hours and potentially advance warning for the Imperium. Did you run an ammo count, Doc?"

Gatac wrote:

"We're down several hours and potentially advance warning for the Imperium. Did you run an ammo count, Doc?"

"Um, lemme see here. No, no I didn't. I was a bit too evading the possibility of us being captured and tortured in a Turai prison facility. I suppose that is something that should be done before we continue with this comedy of errors."

Hugh's face remains impassive.

"Save it for the debriefing. Right now, I need to know what we used and what we still have."

Reaching a hideout, filthy as it is, is a relief. Time to relax a little. Semo lowers crate to the floor to give his back a rest. Setting himself on top, he takes a quick break to recuperate.

Not long afterward, the brass work out plans to meet up, and they're off again. Since they're able to move at a slower pace, Semo gets Arketta to help him with the crate.

The trip back to town goes uneventfully. Meeting up with the others, Cap requests a hardware report. "One frag spent, sir."

Satisfied that ammo expenditure was limited, Hugh motions for Max to set up the laptop vox link to Panipon.

"Hello from your business partners, Panipon. We're sorry for the delay, but we're ready to do the trade now. Here's how we do it: We've stashed the goods at a safe place. We'll meet at a public location, just to make sure everyone's playing fair. You pay us, we tell you where the goods are, we all walk away with what we want. If either of us doesn't like the deal, we walk before the money changes hands - no hard feelings. How does that sound to you?"

Panipon's strangely accented voice squawks across Max's jury-rigged vox. "Ever-cautious, I see. Very well, I will hold a table at the place where we first met."

Arketta looks over at the lift to the starport levels. *We meet now?*

"See you soon."

Hugh kills the connection, then turns to Semo.

"Take the crate somewhere safe and come back here. Take someone to help you."

"Yes, sir!" Semo replies to the Captain's order. Turning, he gestures toward the crate. "Angel, you're with me. Grab the other end."

Once they have the crate hoisted, they are out the door and looking for a place to stash the goods. Perhaps one of those maintenance ducts...

Angel nods bends down to help heft up the crate, helping Semo carry it. When they're out of earshot, he'll speak quietly.

"Terrible ground to have a fight in Sarge..."

"I agree, Specialist," Semo replies softly as they move through the area looking for a place to stash the weapons. "But it's always bad when you don't know the lay of the land. Just part of the mission. Hopefully, we can avoid any more trouble until we get to know the area better. Stealth is your specialty, Angel, and we need that right now."

While Semo and Angel hide the crate, finally deciding on a crawlspace underneath the walkway heading to the docking trellises, Davis returns with a few wraps, ponchos, and ragged cloaks. They are smelly at best and downright awful at worst, but they serve to cover up the team's uniforms and weapons.

The starport bar - more of a plaza of bars and taverns than a single bar, really - is not as crowded as your first visit, but it's still bustling. There are three large arches leading into the collection of tables, couches, and lounges where people talk business over food and drink. Singly or in pairs, the team moves out in intervals to cover the entrances. Semo and Angel slide into a circular booth with a good view of what seems to be the primary arch. Taylor, Mellish, Arketta, and Stanhill make a loose line across the other two arches. Luis and Arketta can see both entrances and can signal Taylor (slumped next to a ventilation duct and doing a fine impression of 'drunk and passed out') and Mellish (standing around, obsessively checking departure times) from their small table.

That leaves Max, Hugh, and Garrett for the actual deal. Panipon walks right by Taylor without nary a glance. The small olive man is wearing a iridescent half-cape over a gray tunic. Light golden chains hang from the cape's fringe. He walks in the shadow of a Whiirr, a massive brute whose camouflage hair creates a shifting angry pattern of orange and red. One of the alien's long tusky teeth is snapped off, giving it a lopsided snarl. The thing isn't the only Whiirr you've seen on Botane, but it is the meanest one you've seen. It walks sans clothing, save for a black circlet around its massive neck, like a collar.

Luis and Arketta spot the duo moments later.

*Target's on-site. Brought some muscle - a real Chewbacca-looking motherfucker.*

Angel keeps an eye on the proceedings, and the archway in the event that the Turai catch their trail again. He lifts a glass of some foreign beverage, letting it touch his lips but not actively drinking, do his best to look disinterested.

Hugh discreetly flags Panipon down. He takes note of the Whirr bodyguard/slave/muscle, but doesn't speak to him yet - no use in giving away that he can talk to the alien in his own language.

"Hello, Panipon. That's an interesting friend you have there."

Angel's drink smells sweet, and the tang of an unfamiliar alcohol burns his nostrils as he feigns sipping. He catches Panipon's cape out of the corner of his eye and then sees the Whiirr muscle behind the small man. They're cutting a path towards Hugh's table, a teardrop-shaped platter with seats on the wide end and a small stack of snacks at the tip.

"Traveling with this much currency necessitates... protection," Panipon answers, taking a seat and motioning his goon a few steps backward. The impression is of a small foppish kung fu master sitting with his back to a hairy mountain. Panipon produces a small roll of black mylar fabric and places it on the table, palm down.

"Forgive my assumption, but I took the liberty of obtaining your payment in gold rather than in Imperial lats. Zero point nine kiloweight, as promised." Panipon slides the roll a third of the way to Hugh, still holding it.

"And my merchandise?"