Max is happy to be off the Imperial-infested rock. That said, the ride out of atmo was something he's been wishing he could do since he failed the NASA astronaut screening process a few years back.

Then we welcome you to our table, Swims-in-Black replies. Clay, show them where they may sleep. The Whiirr turns and heads back to the bridge. You catch glimpses of starfield overlaid with holographics before the door cycles shut.

"This way." Clay leads you through yet another dimly lit corridor shuddering under the strain of full burn. "You pay in gold, you come to the docks direct, you don't bat an eye at Master, I figure I can let you in on our little joke. Akamu's actually a Bashakran design." The lime-haired man laughs, his guffaws echoing in time with the cruise engines' rumble. He quiets down when nobody gets the joke.

"At any rate, here's the berths." Clay cycles a door recessed into the wall, revealing a cramped submarine-like barracks. Eight bunks, no more than coffin-sized cubbies set into the walls, line the small room. Detritus and various personal items lie scattered here and there. A poorly-kept but streamlined longarm of some type is strapped securely to one of the bunks within arm's reach. "Like I said, three o' these are yours. The rest o' ya follow me."

Another twisting walk leads up an access stairway - little more than a ladder - and then to a solid hatch, a mini-airlock inside Akamu. This double blast door leads to the cargo bay. Drone gantries whir to life as the group enters. The bay is lined with four blue containers, each the size of a train car. In addition, there are three large industrial vehicles of some indeterminable type.

"Agros and all manner o' parts for Hedion," Clay explains. "Keep your beddin' inside the orange lines lest ya want a monotask takin' something off by accident. Ain't no kaukas out here."

"I'll leave ya to it," he finally says. "Won't need too much labor till we hit Hedion-space. See ya when there's food."

With that, Akamu's engines fall silent, the constant shuddering and shaking ceases, and the quiet hum of systems overtakes the suddenly still vessel.

Davis waits for the tour to finish up, and then walks off to look around the ship, especially for the kid.

The instant Davis saw the kid on board, he perked up. Kids, especially ones this kid's age, are top-notch sources of information. They're smart, observant, curious, and underestimated by adults. But they're still kids, and they're pretty easy to get to open up and spill their secrets. Davis knows that if he's going to find out what's really going on in this ship, he needs to find the kid.

Davis and Max are among the first to make their getaways following the tour. Their mutual oil-and-water natures send them in different directions - Max heads towards what he thinks is the bridge, while Davis heads towards the engines in search of the red-skinned boy.

Davis is slowly able to get a sense of space about the ship now. It's not as big as he thought - the claustrophobic homogeneous interior makes Akamu seem more labyrinthine than it is. He finds the kid near what he translates as the recyclers, crawling out of a tube four feet off the deck. The child stops once his bare, greasy feet hit the floorplates and he stares at Davis.

"Hi. You look like you never seen a shipboy."

---

Meanwhile, Max finds his way past the acceleration couches and to the bridge door. Unable to find an intercom or doorbell, he knocks. After a brief pause, the door cycles.

Max is greeted by what looks like a quarter-scale replica of Cerebro from the X-Men movies. A metal walkway culminates in a round platform that hangs over what looks like empty space. Swims-the-Black reclines in a gimballed version of the acceleration couches. He rotates the chair to face Max, waving the Earthling inside. Yaris stands off the walkway, seemingly standing in empty space. A 6-inch probe protrudes from the plug at the base of her skull and connects to the central platform with a long silver cable. Dancing lights representing trajectory, acceleration, and Botane float in mid-air. It's just a guess, but given how far they've traveled so far, those roaring cruise engines must put out a staggering amount of thrust. Enough to turn a human into raspberry jam if left unprotected.

Welcome, crewman of Verrill, Black signs. He hits controls on his chair and the black starfield of the bridge shrinks down to just the front third or so opposite the bridge doorway. The rest of the bridge is a round room of sheer metal, with access panels ringing the walls. Three extra seats are set into the walls, but they look like they unfold into auxiliary stations.

Max realizes that he doesn't see any traditional windows or portholes. There's no telling where the bridge might physically be located, but then their imaging technology appears to preclude the need to actually see outside the ship.

You look as though you have never seen a cockpit, states the Whiirr.

Semo finds himself a place to drop his gear in the cargo hold, and directs his troops to do likewise. Once everyone is settled in, he wanders around the hold looking at what's there and trying to determine exactly what they'll be asked to do. Probably unloading, though these large containers will likely require machines to move. That must be what those vehicle things are for. They'll need training to work those.

In the meantime, might as well relax. Semo whips out his iPod and starts groovin'.

admiralducksauce wrote:

You look as though you have never seen a cockpit, states the Whiirr.

Max tries to stifle his curiosity into a carefully worded sentence.

"A bit more sophisticated that I usually see, but then again, I don't often hitch rides on vessels of this Class." replies Max, respectively.

Davis leans up against the wall. "It's been a while since I've had to take a ship to get off-world," he says, reaching back to his childhood and growing up in the LA ghettos, adding a bit of that aggressive nonchalance to his speech. "But sometimes, you're just doing what you do, and the Kansatai decides to get all up in your business. You know what I'm talking about. Kid like yourself, you had to have gotten in your fair share of trouble with those bastards, am I right?"

Luis is still a little shaken from the ride up as he follows Max forward to the cockpit. Simply put, there's a reason he joined the Army, not the Navy, and that has somthing to do with why he came close to getting a second look at his breakfast. Still, he perks up at the possibility of seeing the control center, and his excitement helps setle his stomach. Still, he lets Max field the first question.

Semo's able to relax through two songs. The gentle hum of the ship isn't that much different than the various systems below Mesas Negras or Diego Garcia. Alone with his music and his thoughts, he goes over his equipment and makes sure everything is where the book says it should be. Taylor and Mellish are catching up on some sleep after their frenetic journey thus far. Arketta has gone forward to check out the shipchef with the Captain.

"All right, time for lessons," Kovos says, entering the cargo bay and prodding Semo. "You ever use a Series 9 monotask?"

---

Hugh's suspicions about the "shipchef" are not entirely on the mark. It's definitely not a replicator. He's glad Arketta chose to shepherd him through the machine's intricacies. It resembles nothing so much as a long soft-serve ice cream dispenser. There are nozzles for consistency, dials for flavor, and Arketta is extremely pleased to see the 'chef has temperature regulation.

"In... service," she says, "Almost every meal comes from this. Our suits have a basic reservoir as well. More talented people than I can almost make it taste like real food. I have, however, brought ketchup." She almost gleefully shows Hugh a series of ketchup, mustard, and salsa packets she pocketed from Earth.

Hugh tries his hand at the shipchef. The warm, tan paste that issues forth isn't bad considering his almost nonexistent grasp of technology, but the texture is far too gritty for what could be chicken.

"Not everyone eats this all the time, but on a ship, you must make do," she explains upon seeing Hugh's grimace.

---

Yes. Yaris is a skilled technician, answers Swims-in-Black. I was not always a shipmaster, he adds, prompting Max and Luis to think back to the barely post-Stone Age natives of the jungle planet. He thumbs some controls on his chair and the holographic starfield envelops the bridge, leaving everyone standing in empty space once more.

We are now seeing what is outside Akamu, Black says. The starfield looks like any other, a black void pinpricked with unblinking countless stars. Behind Max and Luis, Botane's sun is a golf ball-sized beacon. Ahead of them, nothing.

Now we overlay navigation. A yellow line arcs away from the front of the ship, heading into infinity. Glyphs for time elapsed, ETA, and other values Max can't decipher yet flicker back and forth. We are still too far to pick up the Gate on scopes, but we can pick out our sister merchants, here - a section of space wavers and zooms in, revealing a silver vessel, all tapered nose and bulbous aft.

That's odd... says Black. There are no ships behind us. That courier I pointed out will soon pass us, but our aft-space is clear.

---

"I don't get in trouble, not with Kansats, not with Turai," boasts the shipboy to Davis. "Last time we were boarded, the Turai didn't even know I was here. 'Swhat shipboy does. I know General better than Master even."

Davis nods his head, impressed. "Yeah, but you guys can't get boarded all that often, doing cargo runs from system to system, hauling some rock farmer's lifter back and forth. Turai don't care too much about whatever milk runs this ship makes, know what I'm sayin'?"

Angel ponders this...new situation...for a moment. The ground for this fight just keeps getting worse and worse - anyone who saw Alien knows that. The small team is also decidedly out of their element. Talk of operating heavy equipment, a shady deal, and Delta bluffing the whole way. He figures the spook can probably handle himself, and the nerd might pull it off, but is there really any point in his pretending? After all, people don't engage in questionable, shady deals with starship captains without some form of muscle to back it up.

At least he hopes not.

Stowing his gear, Angel does his best to give off the general image of a dangerous man.

Angel starts no shit and gets no shit in return. Akamu's crew seem content in not asking too many questions, at least not before chow. It's still too hard to tell whether these people are representative of their profession, semi-shady, or outright criminals. They're happy to see gold and less concerned with their passengers' identities than Angel would be were their positions reversed. The Whiirr culture seemed to be OK with slavery and obedience to the Imperium, but this is the first of the shaggy aliens that's been in a position of authority. The woman's ex-military and rumored to be a little crazy. Angel doesn't know much more about the others.

Back near the recyclers, the shipboy continues his conversation with Davis.

"Sometimes we carry people," the kid says. "Mostly we get boarded when we carry people. Been boarded four times since I been here. Time before last was before we found Yaris. Turai took everyone but Master, One-Ton, and me. The last time they only took our passengers."

"And they just let you guys go? You guys tight with the Imperium or something? I'm just sayin', I don't know if I should still talk to you if it'll come back to bite me in the ass later."

"No tighter'n you, probably," says the kid, clearly incensed at the accusation. "But when they say hand people over we don't put up a fight anymore."

admiralducksauce wrote:

That's odd... says Black. There are no ships behind us. That courier I pointed out will soon pass us, but our aft-space is clear.

"Odd?" chimes back Max, interested to hear the reason behind the Whirr's statement.

Davis back up a bit and puts his hands up in a defensive posture. "Hey, I'm just saying. Still, why not stand up to those bastards? I mean, I've got my own reasons for hating the Imperium, but you guys? What's your story? I mean, you've got a ship full of badasses here. You just said you used to stand up to them, used to tell them where to get off. What happened?"

Semo looks up, then rises as Kovos enters. Popping his earplugs out, he gestures for Mellish and Taylor to join them. "Nope. Can't say I have. Now's as good a time to learn."

"Odd?" chimes back Max.

Yes... It looks like we are lucky today, Black explains. We must have just missed a lockdown. It's hard to read the alien, but Max and Luis both get the feeling that Swims-in-Black is pretty sure you're not space-monks. The question is, does he care?

---

"All right, good to see you lookin' to earn yer keep," Kovos says, looking approvingly at Mellish, Semo, and Taylor. He clicks his vox. "One-Ton, gimme point two five on the aft impellers."

After a moment, Semo can feel himself become a lot lighter. It's not zero-g, but it's definitely a shift. The shock isn't as bad as takeoff was, or even Gate travel, but it is disconcerting.

"No need wastin' power to lift these crates," Kovos explains. "Let's get to the booth." He leads the trio up a catwalk to a small booth, protected from errant cargo by a semi-circular blast shield. There aren't the fancy holographic controls from the bridge, just good-old levers, joysticks, and switches.

"The Nines never did take well to voice control, and we don't splurge on controllers when we've got perfectly serviceable hardtools here. Step in here, slip your right hand into the sleeve, grasp the handle. Right."

Semo follows Kovos' commands, and one of the monotasks comes to life. It's like a robot warehouse crane, all gantry and pistons - surprisingly old-school compared to what Semo's seen thus far.

"Left hand's got the ball. You've got overhead feeds bottom center."

Semo's left hand controls the minute movements of the machine. It's like being Doctor Octopus on a massive scale.

"Okay... you're takin' well to this, son," Kovos says. "We need the ags front and center for off-load, so grab that 11179 crate and slide it back 5 meters." Semo reaches with his right hand, then grasps with his left. The waldo clamps down on the crate with a metallic screech.

"Easy does it. You're not lifting it, don't need to squeeze." Semo relaxes and the monotask easily moves the huge cargo container according to Kovos' instructions. The light gravity makes it as easy as stacking styrofoam.

---

"I told you what happened," Shipboy says. "They took everyone but Master, One-Ton, and me... they didn't know I was here, and Master convinced them that the General won't run without One-Ton whether they confiscated it or not. That left Master to fly us home."

"Hm." Davis nods and thinks for a second. "Grabbed your passengers and crew, just like that? They must have been pissed at you guys for something. Still, you said that you don't put up a fight anymore. What happened to change that?"

At Kovos's request, the gravity field lightens sharply. Semo stumbles for a half-second, but manages to avoid ending up on his face. Would'a looked rediculous if he'd fallen - especially in low gravity.

If there's one thing Semo's familiar with, it's manual labor. Fortunately, he had operated a few forklifts back on the farm circuit, and this is surprisingly similar. Takes a little more finesse, as the controls are a bit more sensitive, but the basic concepts are the same. Semo takes a few moments to move the arm short distances back, forward, up, down, left and right to get the feel down.

"Sure thing," he says as he reaches for the indicated crate. Grasping the crate, the crane nearly crushes it as Semo squeezes a bit too hard.

"Sorry." Semo eases off and glides the container into position. "I think I got this," he says, smiling.