Angel sighs, looking over the ships, and over his bickering compatriots. Quietly, he walks over to the captain.

"Sir, I got a bad feeling...can't we at least get the two civvies to play nice before this goes to hell?"

admiralducksauce wrote:

Max jacks his laptop into the cortex while Davis heads towards the Akamu's berth. The NVR-IXI is licensed to a Pi Neho Toi and is heading for Sambasan. The Scarlet Banner's captain is Rikali Burarra and is destined for Aikoro. Akamu's captain is Helo Farsad, and it's slated for Hedion. Max's interest is piqued by Akamu's listing. There's something about the format that seems off somehow. To pry deeper into the system, either to decipher the suspicious listing or to decrypt the cargo manifests, risks notice by Gateport authorities, however.

Max looks up from his keyboard.

"Er...Captain? I believe the unsavory fellow Davis is talking to may be our ticket out of here."

(spins around the display, pointing at the suspicious ship listing)

Punkey wrote:

Davis extends his hand in friendship and smiles. "Name's Davis. My compatriots and I are looking for some...discreet transport off-world. We're willing to pay for our passage, or if you need some more strong backs, we're more than willing to work."

The man extends his hand. "Clay - I'm Master Farsad's second." Clay tongues a switch on his neck-seal and asks noone in particular, "Shipmaster? We've got a man here wantin' passage." A pause. "Yessir, money and/or labor. No, I don't know."

Clay asks Davis, "Master Farsad's not unamenable to your needs, but he doesn't appreciate someone tailing it as we're about to boost. We've got no wiggle for haggle, so tell me how many bodies we takin' on and we'll name you a price."

Dieter wrote:

"Er...Captain? I believe the unsavory fellow Davis is talking to may be our ticket out of here."

"That almost sounds like you trust him, Doc."

"Got nine individuals."

Clay repeats the number into his vox and listens to Farsad's reply. "All right Davis, it'll be 1500 lats for the lot o' ya. When we hit Hedion, Master'll hand you back 50 per body who puts 'is work in."

One of Clay's compatriots, a sullen, grease-smeared truck-driver of a man, comes over and says, "Sec'nd, we gotter stowed n' slammed. These new'uns betta not mess anythin' up becau-"

"Shut it and get shipside. They ain't takin' your pay, and they ain't touchin' the General's vitals." Trucker seems satisfied with that and heads up the ramp.

"Get the money and your group together. We're boosting in three."

Gatac wrote:

Dieter wrote:

"Er...Captain? I believe the unsavory fellow Davis is talking to may be our ticket out of here."

"That almost sounds like you trust him, Doc."

"More like dumb luck. Davis did have a one-in-three chance of picking the winning horse." sharply replies Max, disconnecting from teh interwebs and packing up his laptop.

Hugh smirks.

"I'm not worried about his competence, Doc, it's the allegiance question that throws me. But you know how I operate - smile on my face, .45 on my hip."

Gatac wrote:

Hugh smirks.

"I'm not worried about his competence, Doc, it's the allegiance question that throws me. But you know how I operate - smile on my face, .45 on my hip."

"I'm a team player, if that's what's you're driving at...It's just the armchair-quarterbacking that bugs the hell out of me. I'm on your side, it's still up in the air on whether or not the esteemed Agent Davis is willing to go long on 4th Down."

Davis walks back to the rest of the group. "We have passage on the Akamu, but we need to move now. Captain wants 1500 latz, but I convinced him to pay us 50 latz back per each of us who does some work during the transport. We just need to keep to ourselves, something that I whole-heartedly recommend."

"Cool. So what's the lats to gold ratio? I have a feeling that might be important to figure out."

Semo looks over at Hugh. "I can do my share of whatever labor they need doin'."

It turns out that the lats-to-gold coin ratio is 1:1. Clay happily takes the money and leads the group up Akamu's loading ramp.

*What a piece of junk!* Mellish quips.

*She'll make point five past lightspeed,* replies Taylor, immediately thereafter adding, *Yes I can quote Star Wars and if you tell anyone else I'll fuckin' gut you.*

"Knock off the local-ese," Clay barks. "Makes the crew jumpy."

Akamu's interior is claustrophobic. The ramp takes you through an airlock, all stark white with warning glyphs. The next chamber contains a double row of twelve pods. Each looks like it holds either a partial or complete environment suit. For some unknown reason, a speargun-like weapon is strapped to the ceiling, pointed at the airlock door.

"Comin' through!" a blur of blue jumpsuit and red skin half-tumbles, half-spins down the corridor. It's a little boy, maybe 11 or 12 years old. He's got at least 20 feet of cable wrapped around him and he barrels past the team.

"Boy, you're late!" Clay shouts. "Get that plugged and get your ass to the couch!" The lime-haired dark-skinned first mate leads you onward through a long hallway barely wide enough for Semo. The walls are all cables, pipes, and patchwork deckplating. Glyphs scrawled with indelible ink mark valves, joints, and conduits of importance.

"As I was sayin'," Clay continues. "We've got three spots in the crew bunks. The rest of you'll have to make do in the bay. Master'll be down to meet with you after we're burnin'. For now, get your gear secured" - he points to knee-high cubbies lining the corridor, covered with self-adhesive webbing - "and get to the couches." Clay nods to a line of what look like roller coaster seats with heavy flip-down restraints.

The seats prove more comfortable than advertised. There's a layer of adjusting foam, and the restraints don't physically touch you as much as they seem to provide a gentle hand keeping you in the seat. The low hum from behind your head suggests that they're definitely powered up for a purpose. Clay jogs up a short ramp and darts through a heavy door. You're soon joined by the small boy and two other crew - one's an older but craggy dark man in a black jumpsuit. The other is a hairless woman with golden eyes. Not just pupils or iris - the entirely of her eyeballs are gold. She too wears a black jumpsuit, and nods to the team as she flips down her own restraints.

Clay's voice barks over Akamu's systems, presumably broadcasting to whatever passes for the Gateport's tower.

*Botane 773, this is Akamu requesting departure.* A pause. *Confirm trajectory 45 mark 8.*

Akamu's gravitic impellers come to life, prompting a momentary gastrointestinal lurch. You can't tell if you're moving or not, it just feels... off.

A few minutes pass. Arketta asks the older man, "How long till we reach the outsystem gate?"

"The General'll be under cruise for 2 hours," he replies. "We're skimpin' this run, so we gotta longer coast. Should be 20 hours to the gate. We gotta recalc once we slip, 'cause Hedion's always got shit for traffic, but I'd say no more than a day, day n' a half from outsystem to the rock itself. Oh, pucker up." The old man smirks and you see his fingers grip the restraints a little tighter. The hum behind your head grows to a buzz and somewhere below your feet Akamu growls.

The cruise engines ignite and that gentle hand turns into a steel cage. Arketta winces but is soon smiling as an onslaught of shaking and vibrations threatens to send Angel and Luis into nausea. The sensation is like a roller coaster in reverse - instead of that first weightless drop, it's a stomach-pummeling upwards shot down a gravel road with no suspension. The worst passes in a few minutes, but the ship shakes and bucks as if to remind you just how fast you must be going. The restraints disengage and you're free from the sweat-soaked crash couches.

Angel grunts as his stomach drops through the floor, and narrows his eyes as Arketta.

How many drops is this for you, Lieutenant? Thirty eight... simulated. How many *combat* drops? Uh, two. Including this one.

Davis makes it through the launch well enough, but is still relieved to be off of Botane and hopefully clear of Imperial scrutiny, at least for the time being. He stretches and walks over to the elderly man and the woman with the golden eyes to introduce himself. "Hello, my name's Davis," he says to them, smiles that trademark smile, and offers each of them his hand in turn.

"Kovos," replies the old man, returning Davis' smile. "This is our shipboy," Kovos adds, nodding to the child with the red skin who quickly leaps down the corridor towards what you presume to be the rear of the ship. "And this is-"

"Yaris," says the goldeneyed woman. Mellish smirks, and gives Max a glance like does she know she's named after a Toyota? "I am the General's datasphere expert and navigator. Please excuse me, but I must see to our heading." She turns to head to the bridge? Cockpit? and you notice that in addition to her striking eyes, she sports a small chrome plug at the base of her skull.

"Poor girl used to be an interceptor pilot," Kovos says. "One in a million chance we ran across her pod. Damned thing calc'd that she wasn't gettin' picked up and it simmed up a fake rescue - a fake life - for the two weeks she was drifting. Nutrients were practically gone, no hydro to speak of, and when she got rescued for - what seemed to her - the second time, she went a bit tweaked."

"At any rate, I'm the cargomaster. You'll likely be seein' more o' me than you'd like, if you're wantin' to make back some of yer cash. One-Ton's our tech, he's got 'is own crasher back with the engines. I'll go see if Master'll want to see 'is meat now."

Kovos trudges up to the door Clay and Yaris passed through and disappears. A minute or so later, the door dilates once more to admit a Whiirr. Its tusks have been capped with a jade material and it wears a loose robe of fabric that shifts in concert with its own fur. The shipmaster looks very much like a sasquatch pirate was dumped into a technicolor dreamcoat.

To my crew, I am Master. To my guests, I am Swims-the-Black, the alien grunt-signs in its native language. To the docking authorities, I am Helo Farsad.

Hugh lets Davis take the lead on the Imperial crew introductions, but meeting a Whirr gives him the opportunity to spread his wings and throw some signs around.

We are honored to meet you, Swims-the-Black. I am the master of my crew. My name is Hugh Verrill.

The outbound burn is rough, even worse than riding in the truck out to the fields at that one crappy farm near Modesto. It's a pleasure when the afterburners shut off and they drop into cruise mode.

Fortunately, Semo picked up some of the Whirr-speak, so he rises behind Hugh after the Whirr arrives. "Mellish, Rivera, Stanhill, you're with me. Keep alert. Eyes and ears, men."


(ADS: removed Dietrich, as he's discharged and back on Earth)

Mellish and the others get up with Semo as Clay, who you didn't hardly notice besides Swims-the-Black's bulk, starts to translate into Imperial but stops once Hugh replies back in the Whiirr language. He's visibly impressed.

Black replies, Honored in return, Hugh Verrill. We will dine in three hours, once our burn is complete. If you or yours can handle a shipchef, you are welcome to prepare whatever you like. We should have two full cycles until we reach Hedion. Do you have any questions?

We would like to eat with your crew, if that's possible. We did not make this pilgrimage to eat only what we know.