Chapter 4 - Lost in the Void

Compared to Astyoc, the food here on Haliant is outrageously good. Graham berates himself silently, "You moron...setting up shop on Astyoc..." He forgives himself with an inner shrug, as he realizes that Astyoc probably has fewer sucklers of donkeys, per capita, than most of the known systems. There is always a trade-off, he reasons.

Ah. Astyoc. He'll need to deal with that, and soon. Ha makes no mention of it, or of business of any kind. The crew will be here for days while Undertow is repaired, there is plenty of time for business. Right now the business at hand is to forget the business at hand.

"Listen, why don't I grab the check, while you guys go find something fun to do. Nazir and I are going to walk back, we have some things to discuss." He gives Nazir a nod and a grin. "I was going to get a taxi, but Nazir expressed some concern that I might grab the wheel and slam into another taxi. Based on his experience, the odds of that are shockingly high...." He shrugs slightly, and gives his mustache a little twist.

"Just remember, Haliant is full of older people who might not be happy about the presence of younger folks. It is a near certainty that you will be told to get off their lawn." He smiles an easy smile, and with a final "Good night, all", he turns to head back to the hotel.

Taelor gives Graham a hug before he leaves. "Alright, we'll try to avoid their lawns and stay out of the way of their mobility scooters. Goodnight!"

She turns to the other twentysomethings. "Okay! What do you say we find out what the nightlife is like on this rock? I'm thinking drinks and dancing. Even if it's corny, old-people-type dancing."

"Well I figure that not everyone is old, right?" Elan asks somewhat rhetorically, as he's actually unsure if he's right or not.

"All these rich retirees don't want to be doing the work themselves, so there must be a population of younger employees that actually run the place. I figure they need places to drink and dance and do young-people things.

"But not too late! We have a ship to sell in the morning and I have some ideas about how to move it..."

It turns out that Elan is a woeful dancer. Whatever physical agility lets him sneak around at will and seemingly phase in and out of sight somehow does not translate to the dance floor. Is it his sense of rhythm? Did nobody ever teach him? He basically steps to the left, brings his right foot over, then reverses it. Step to the right, bring the left foot over, repeat. The old people dance better, although if confronted with this obvious truth then Elan will retort that they've had more time to practice.

Taelor is not a good dancer, but she sticks to her moves and does well enough to to stand out from the crowd. She is, however, indefatigable. Dancefloors tend to ebb and flow, emptying out when the partygoers get tired, go for another drink, or the DJ plays some less popular songs, then filling back up when the music gets better or the winded patrons get their energy back. Dancefloors were the lungs of a club. Taelor, meanwhile, was its heart, keeping a steady rhythm despite it all. Whether by herself or in the middle of a crowd, she doesn't relent, only taking quick breaks to refresh her drink or go to the head.

She finds the others as she comes back from one such break. "I haven't been to a club in months, maybe a year! I'd forgotten how fun it was!" She says enthusiastically, speaking loudly as she tries to be heard over the music. "Oh! You know what we need? SHOTS!" She vanishes into the crowd again, returning a few minutes later with a platter with a number of shot glasses. She hands them out. "Ganbei!" she shouts, before knocking hers back.

With a flourish, she slams the empty glass onto the table. She makes a face. "Bleh, awful!" She perks up as a new song comes on. "Oh, I love this one!" She grabs her friends by the arms and drags them back to the dancefloor.

Nazir and Graham wander back to the hotel, stopping in the hotel bar for a drink.

"I know this hasn't been easy -- the traveling, the waiting....it's time to get the ship in order, and get to work. Haliant is a good system to launch from. We may be able to find traces of your father here, I don't know, but there's lots of traffic, and they get plenty of news from neighboring systems. We can start our research here. If you have any ideas, time to spill them."

With a glance to the pretty bartender who looks bored out of her mind to be serving drinks in a hotel bar on Haliant, Graham blurts out. "Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters. Do they make them on Haliant? Two, please, if you do. And one of something for my friend, here."  He grins a slight grin, and looks away, avoiding eye contact. He doesn't want to give her the wrong idea. Not yet, anyway.

Lola had raised a sceptical eyebrow when Taelor had talked about the stew being centuries old.
"Isn't food meant to be better when its fresh? I'd have thought the sucklers would have gone for exotic things from other countries. Not old stew."
She remained dubious the entire time they waited for the food to arrive, determined not to let herself buy into some rich fad. Food was food and if it tasted bad, she was going to say so. To be honest she was more concerned about spilling her food over her new clothes. It was the first time she worse something that mattered. She prepared to watch the others before they raised any of the implements that lay in a pattern around where they were sitting, to see if there was a particular order these were meant to be used.

Her first spoonful was like a shock to the system, her eyes wide and disbelieving, staring at her utensil like it had betrayed her. This was... It was making her feel things in her mouth she'd never experienced before. It wasn't just like taste and texture. She was feeling a journey of different sensations. As she greedily consumed, she found herself conflicted. Should she savour each bite and taste all of it? Or get it inside her as quick as possible? She wasn't used to having time, either as a Zavod rat or a soldier. Time you were eating, something else was happening. Something you needed to be aware of. She was pretty silent company though most of the meal, thoroughly  transfixed by it.

Lola had as much experience in clubs as she did fancy restaurants, but she acclimatized much quicker. Though the music might be louder, the darkness and sudden light shows giving an eerie approximation of flares before the night time artillery barrage, she was quickly distracted from these thoughts by seeing the dense press of people. The reason people were here was the same, she and the other soldiers got drunk in bars, why as a teenager she'd met others in the dark by the tunnels. For the first time, she stopped looking for possible tails and instead started highlighting people for different reasons.

Initially she'd danced along with Taelor and Elan. Her moves were fairly basic, and at times appeared like she was flailing to some music she liked. However as with most of her physical acts she delivered these with an absolute confidence, making it clear that this was exactly what she meant to be doing. Occasionally she'd disappear off among the scrum of bodies with a man, or a woman or sometimes someone who was neither for different periods of time, before returning back.

As Taelor came back with the shots, she grinned at the other two, her arms and neck shining with sweat, but not looking tired in the least. Tipping back the shot, she exclaimed,
"Zalupa!" and slammed her glass down as well and let the other woman propel her along to the dance area. Once there she raised her arms up and started to shake her hips out, letting the long tapered ends of her dress rise up to about knee height, forming a ring around her.

"Don't stop this feeling!" she suddenly sung out before opening her eyes and smiling at the Taelor and Elan.
"Not a bad song no."

Elan doesn't last half as long as Taelor on the dance floor. He makes his excuses and retires before the shots arrive.

Elan doesn't really like drinking to begin with; the mental impairment makes him feel vulnerable. And there's always a concern lurking in the back of his mind that he could lose control of his psionics (or his temper) and lay waste to his surroundings. It had never happened to him, but he knew of others with MES who weren't so controlled. Elan learned from their examples.

Now he's outside and it's night. Elan associates night with working, not entertainment. His work can be fun when he does it right, and he usually does. Elan is a ghost and he knows it. There's a certain confidence you feel when you have an ace up your sleeve, he reflects. In addition to his psionics - when nobody else around was armed - there's his new suit, which acts as social armor that Elan is unaccustomed to. The shoes are still stiff and the fabrics are more constraining than he's used to, but he doesn't matter. There's a different sort of comfort that comes from knowing you look your best.

A storefront catches his eye. It's closed but he goes over to look through the window. A Whole New You^TM, featuring cybernetics marketed toward the wealthy inhabitants of Haliant. There were slimworms to regulate appetite and metabolism, booster endosonts to store up excess adrenaline and release it strategically for peak athletic performance, and other endosymbionts designed to make life better. But a couple other options draw his attention: panspectral optics to improve your vision and gecko anchors to help you stick to walls. The panspectral optics are marketed as a vision replacement for aging eyes, and Elan quickly sees the professional applications being able to see in the dark (and to see laser tripwires too...). The marketing for the gecko anchors shows an athletic silver-haired gentleman hanging on a rock outcropping over an extreme precipice. Elan, not terribly athletic himself, sees the promise of navigating fences and vertical surfaces as easily as walking down the sidewalk. That's intriguing... very intriguing indeed...

He snaps out of his reverie; he's getting ahead of himself. Step one is to sell the Undertow. He has some ideas about how to do that - ideas inspired by Rena during her unpredictable moments of clarity - but first he needs a good night's sleep, a shower and shave, then a square breakfast. A little splash of cologne, his new suit, and then he's off to pound the pavement and land some credits for the team.

Taelor stays at the club until the lights come on and the patrons are ushered out. Only Lola, trooper that she was, had stuck around. Rena had taken a cab back to the hotel early and Elan had made his excuses shortly after.

Taelor shivers as she steps out into the cool night air. The sweat covering her body had been an asset in the hot club, but was proving to be a liability out on the street. She pulls at the damp, clingy sundress, suddenly missing her usual baggy pants and jacket. "Gross. I'm going to need another shower..." She glances at Lola, in her black corset and long dress. "How are you doing? Didn't think you'd last all night in that thing, to be honest," she says with a grin. "Want to grab a bite or are you ready for bed?"

+++

The key to undercutting a hangover was proper hydration and taking pain meds before going to bed. Taelor had done none of that before stumbling into her hotel room. She wakes up the next morning with a splitting headache. She crawls out of bed and spends an inordinate amount of time in the shower, soothing her sore muscles and barely functioning brain in the warm comfort of the running water, and bemoaning the loss of her early twenties. This didn't use to be this difficult, did it?

She throws on some clothes and makes her way to Rena's room. After some time knocking, the door opens and Taelor is greeted by eyes as blurry as hers. "Headache," Taelor says, pointing at her head. "Meds, please."

Rena smiles and lets Taelor in. Taelor makes her way to the bed and collapses on it with a groan. The doc shoves some pills in her hand and a glass of water in the other. With a grateful grunt, Taelor drops the pills in her mouth and washes them down with the water, before promptly dozing off.

+++

When Taelor wakes up again, sometime after lunch, she feels much better. She even manages to stand up straight. She thanks the doc for the help and hospitality, eliciting a lazy 'don't worry about it' wave from Rena, and then makes her way back to her own room. As she heads down the hallway, she crosses paths with Nazir. He smiles weakly at her and nods, but the stress weighing on him is evident. Taelor smiles back, but she feels a pang of guilt. Nazir's dad was still missing, and she had spent the night partying and the day recuperating. In his shoes, she wasn't sure she'd have managed to stay this polite.

Back in her room, she gathers up her things. The sooner they could go, the better. //Going up to the ships to start the work on the sandthrower. Any news on the cash for the repairs?// she messages the others, before heading out.

Elan isn't used to physical exertions, like dancing, and sleeps soundly as a result.

He wakes up sore, showers, shaves, drinks the local stimulant of choice - some sort of infused water - and puts on his fancy suit. Oh, and he springs for an expensive juice because why not? It makes him feel rich and vibrant and healthy, all the things he needs to channel to do a business deal.

There's a local news service that Elan taps into via his commlink. There he reads about local business matters, which are something of a pastime for Haliant's rich residents. He reads about a local importer who is having supply-chain issues due to bottlenecks around shipping, namely a deficit of sufficient cargo ships. Elan has his mark.

He summons a black cab and takes it to the business district. Stepping out, he finds himself surrounded by many other be-suited men and women who scurry about, doing deals, shouting into their compads, and generally acting self-important. It puts Elan into the proper frame of mind.

"Ah, here we are," he says to himself as he gets to the offices of mark. "Thistlewick Imports."

He pushes through the clear glass doors into the building lobby. Maybe there's a bit of security or a check-in desk but those are trivial formalities for Elan. He gracefully eludes them and, tailgating a someone using the grav lift, works his way through the building to the proper floor. Opening the office door, he finds an obese manager dressed in a garish lavender shirt berating his employees.

"I don't need last-kilometer delivery!" the man bellows, stamping his foot impatiently. "I have plenty of delivery shuttles with atmospheric configurations that can get the products that are in orbit down to the surface! What I need are spike drives to get goods into the system! Swounds, do you have any idea of the appetite of this planet?! Merlin's pants you'll have me moving sheepskin on riding ponies!"

"I have a Free Merchant in orbit for sale," Elan interrupts confidently.

The room falls silent and turns to look at Elan, who holds his ground admirably under the gaze of so many credulous businesspeople. It gives him confidence knowing that they're all unarmed and unarmored and that he could murder them all if necessary.

"Six and two is eight, who the beef stew are you?" the fat man asks of the young man who seems to have appeared out of nowhere, as Elan does.

"My name is Elan Tokála. I heard you were in the market for ships to alleviate your logistics issues. I have the Vagabond available for immediate sale. Free merchant, minimal maintenance, maximized free mass. No atmo config or anything. Perfect for cargo."

"Well step into my office, young man." Thistlewick gestures to the door behind him. "Let us discuss the particulars."

Elan strides forward at the invitation. The rest of the room appears grateful for the reprieve from Thistlewick's verbal onslaught. The door clicks shut and the real negotiations begin.

The bargain lasts a while, but Elan senses quickly the despair in Thistlewicks voice. He really needs a ship and Elan has one for sale. So after a long back and forth, Thistlewick folds and agrees to Elan's terms. The Vagabond will join Thistlewicks fleet as is (minus the sandthrower that was never even mentioned in the negotiations) and Elan will be transferred 200.000 cr.
The transaction is pending the inspection of Thistlewicks lead engineer. Thistlewick agrees that Elan's assistant, a Graham, will handle the paperwork and legal dealings and Elan walks out with a fat smile and a signed pre-contract. The sun is shining on the dome and the imported birds are chirping in the nearby park.

Elan doesn't literally click his heels on his way out but a psychic - say that hottie from the interrogation - would know that he is figuratively, mentally clicking them.

<<Deal is done>> he comms the team. <<Mr. Middleton, you'll be getting a call about the paperwork. Ms. Chen, their lead engineer will be conducting an inspection.>>

He takes the grav lift down to the lobby.

<<The price? I didn't mention that? How silly of me. 20K.>>

<<Oh, no, I'm a goof. I meant 200K.>>

Strutting through the lobby, he gives a little fist-pump. He'd high-five someone but there's no one around looking for high five. On the smooth, shiny floor - marble, most likely - he pirouettes on his heel, a far better dance move than anything he mustered the night before.

Striding out into the shining sun, Elan finger-pistols the singing, imported birds. He walks to the park, practically sashaying, as he reflects on the sale.

This is what it's all about, right? This was the goal, the reason for giving up solo work. The reason you put up with mustaches and confined quarters and other people's cooking. A good night for a thief is 2,000. A good day for a team? 200,000. Bigger team, bigger risks, bigger scores.

Of course, he hasn't done the math to amortize his share of that over the entire span of time that he's known these folks. Rena probably would at some point, which will pop his bubble a bit when it happens, but for now he's blissfully in the moment.

Elan swaggers back to the hotel, knocks on Graham's door, and slaps the signed pre-contract triumphantly on the desk. He then immediately books a consultation appointment at A Whole New You^TM to discuss various options.

Tecumseh wrote:

<<Deal is done>> he comms the team. <<Mr. Middleton, you'll be getting a call about the paperwork. Ms. Chen, their lead engineer will be conducting an inspection.>>

Graham reads with interest, "Well, this is promising..."

<<The price? I didn't mention that? How silly of me. 20K.>>

Graham reads the agreed-upon price. A hint of steam may or may not come from his ears as he reads.

<<Oh, no, I'm a goof. I meant 200K.>>

"That wanker. Nearly had me going..." His fingers tug and twist at his mustache, a slight grin creasing his face. Graham is certain there was more to be had in the deal, and is convinced he could have gotten it. But Elan wanted this task, and Graham's instincts told him that Elan needed this task. It was a solid result for the kid, and an important maturity-building experience. Some things are more important than squeezing every last credit out of a deal. Sure, selling a free merchant for a couple hundred thousand on Haliant is a rather straightforward task, but...

Tecumseh wrote:

Elan swaggers back to the hotel, knocks on Graham's door, and slaps the signed pre-contract triumphantly on the desk.

Graham looks up from where he sat on the bed, watching one of Haliant's news channels on the viewscreen, just to see the swaggering young man's overly-dramatic entrance, with his overly-dramatic delivery of the contract.

"Kid falls out of a boat, and pats himself on the back for hitting water.", he chuckles to himself. "Great job, Elan, this will keep us flying for quite some time." He gives the younger man a smile and a nod. "Lunch in 10 minutes. We'll figure out financial priorities, then a little free time. Let's check with Taelor, make sure she has what she needs for Undertow, yeah?"

He taps out a message on his commpad, something to the tune of "team meeting over food in 10 minutes, see you in the hotel restaurant" or some such. He grabs the fresh paperwork on his way out the door, reading as he goes.

Taelor sits in the tram, looking out the window at Haliant's utopian-looking scenery, her mind occupied with parsing out the work ahead. Getting the sandthrower from Vagabond to the Undertow wouldn't be complicated, but there were still some issues that had to be considered. Where would the reservoir go? How would they rearrange the cargo bay? Did they have everything they need to conduct the transfer safely? How would she keep track of every piece?

"Next stop, Kaleva Misaki Spaceport," says a soothing woman's voice over the comms, pulling Taelor out of her reverie. She pivots to look out the front window as the port comes into view. She hadn't had much time to look at it when they'd been taken to the interrogator. Law enforcement agencies didn't worry too much about their captives' desires for sightseeing.

The spaceport was an impressive sight. It doubled as both a cargo and passenger port, its massive size highlighting Haliant's dependence on imports. It looked like a life-sized showroom model, with a very sleek, pretech-immitation design. It was nothing like the decrepit port on Astyoc or the eclectic, obviously-built-in-phases-during-periods-where-different-architectural-trends-were-in-fashion monstrosity that was Chracle's main spaceport. The rich people of Haliant wouldn't have stood for such an eyesore.

As Taelor walks in, she can't help but feel like she's soiling the place somewhat and keeps expecting a cleaning drone to start following behind her, erasing the traces of her presence as quickly as it can. Taelor scurries for the orbital shuttle's counter to purchase a ticket. Thankfully, the whole process is automated and takes but a minute.

She finds a place to sit as she waits for the next trip up the well. As she settles in, her dataslab vibrates with a message from Elan.

Tecumseh wrote:

<<Deal is done. Mr. Middleton, you'll be getting a call about the paperwork. Ms. Chen, their lead engineer will be conducting an inspection.>>

Taelor grins and starts typing a response. //Great! I'm heading up soon, I'll be there by the time their eng- Her typing is interrupted by another message.

Tecumseh wrote:

<<The price? I didn't mention that? How silly of me. 20K.>>

Taelor's face falls, and her heart starts to beat rapidly. Did Elan not know how much ships went for? She knows he's no spacer, but still, he can't have-

Tecumseh wrote:

<<Oh, no, I'm a goof. I meant 200K.>>

Taelor breathes a sigh of relief, then blushes, embarrassed. She should have known he was either joking or had made a typo. Elan was no fool. 200k was pretty good for a salvaged ship. With that money, they might be able to put a few more bells and whistles on the Undertow! She starts to think about what kind of stuff she could add on without sacrificing too much cargo space. A workshop would be nice. It would give her a place to work on her drone and maybe mod some of the crew's gear! A fully stocked gear locker, maybe? You never knew what you were going to need on a job.

She might even be able to add some fittings to Peekytoe, her drone. Giving some scouting abilities might allow them to avoid unpleasant encounters, like with that damn goo spider...

Captain_Hoyt wrote:

"team meeting over food in 10 minutes, see you in the hotel restaurant"

Oh... Did I not tell them I was heading up? Taelor looks through the group chat history and finds that she had. Maybe Graham didn't think she'd leave so soon... "I should have been clearer," she mutters to herself.

She erases her half-typed message, then writes a new one. //Already at the spaceport. I have a bit of time before my flight. I can video-chat. I'll work on a shopping list for the ship.// She hits send, then starts looking up shops on the Planetary Communications Network.

moarhair wrote:

//Already at the spaceport. I have a bit of time before my flight. I can video-chat. I'll work on a shopping list for the ship.//

//No worries, video chat works fine. Just thought you'd like a little something to eat before repairing the results of my poor flying. If you need tools, food, or something for headaches, say the word and I'll get them to you. I can hold a flashlight, too, if you think it will help.//

Graham selects a corner booth, orders a pitcher of beer, and checks the menu for things a little more recent than last night's stew. It was delicious, no doubt, but he secretly wonders if it tasted great out of sheer relief that it hadn't mummified before consumption. He orders a cheese and cracker appetizer -- because nothing says 'gastric distress' quite like dairy products from other worlds. But he's feeling daring.

When the others arrive, there is a spirited discussion about the use of the money from the sale of Vagabond. Nothing angry, just the usual variety of 'spend it vs. save it' that is inevitable.

There's some push-and-pull but the end consensus seems to settle on saving 75,000 credits and distributing the other 125,000. This is more conservative than Elan had hoped - he of the "be bold, be bold" philosophy - but it's not outrageous. He hoped Rena might back him up some more but she has a glassy, dazed-and-confused look that means she's ... mentally elsewhere. The fact that she's sweating in the middle of the climate-controlled day says something of her personal chemistry at the moment.

"Alright," Elan says, conceding the debate. "I'd like to get some cyber while we're here and while there's some downtime before the Undertow is repaired. I have my eye on two procedures that will set me back 30K. I have 25K coming from the sale and another 2K in my pocket. Anybody spot me 3K from their share? I'll pay you back next payday. Cyber might even help with the score, depending where we end up."

Discussion shifts to Elan's request. Cyber. For the life of him, Graham has never understood why anybody would want to do that to their body. But his own squeamishness isn't a factor, and if it means a more effective crew, he's all for it.

"Well, we're 5 months from our maintenance window, and it still leaves plenty for maintenance if someone takes a loan out of the ship fund. If nobody objects, I don't see why we couldn't use the ship fund as the bank. 30k might have been a different story, but 3k? Seems easy enough."

It's definitely not the conversation he was expecting to have, but it's a good one. He looks around at his companions, hoping for their approval. And, out of morbid curiosity, he wants to see what these body modifications actually. He vaguely recalls old stories about someone wearing a red suit and climbing walls, though he can't quite remember the name. Web-spin Man? Mister Arthropod? Shit, I can't remember... For reasons he can't quite comprehend, he sticks out both hands in front of him, palms up, middle finger pressed against each palm and says simply "Thwip". He has no idea why. His friends have no idea why. They just stare at him like he's an idiot.

Graham wonders what's in the beer.

The others can see Taelor's eyes light up at the mention of cyberware. When the question of the loan comes up, she shrugs. "A company loan is fine by me." She grins. "So, Elan, what are you getting? WAIT! Let me guess..." She thinks for a second. "With your woosh-bonk," she says, mimicking his movements when he fires with his telekinetic arsenal and lifting up her hand to signal his forcefield blocking something, "you don't need dermal armor or an integrated arsenal... um... I'm gonna say gecko anchors and holoskin emitters. Final answer!"

"On my end, I'm thinking I could add some bells and whistles to my drone. Maybe a Medical Support unit so we can use it as a frontline medic. An observation suite and stationkeeping would let it keep watch for us. What do you all think?"

"Holoskin emitters are interesting but my talents are more about not being seen at all, rather than being overlooked in plain sight.

"Gecko anchors, yes, those are a high priority. I would like to think for obvious reasons, given my skillset. The ability to move in three dimensions would be game-changer.

"But I think my top priority is panspectral optics. Seeing in the dark. Can see dangerous radiation and even laser tripwires too. That has practical applications in day-to-day life and, uh, on the job too."

Elan is being circumspect about his words, given their environment. He presumes that white-collar crime (or at least white-collar criminals) are rampant on Haliant, but blue-collar crime is probably a big no-no. Rich folks prefer to steal with ones and zeroes, maybe pen and ink if they're feeling classy, but certainly not with their bare hands.

"There are compelling options for everyone," he continues, trying to sell the idea as much as his own options. "Pressure sheathing, in case you get a hole in your vacc suit. Dermal armor for the next arachnid encounter. Drone control links to wrangle drones, to see what they see. Ghost talker transceivers, for fluid communication so everyone stays on the same page. I think those could be tremendously powerful, actually, especially collectively."

"When you get sick, will you visit a doctor or a mechanic?", Graham asks the young man with a grin. For lack of a better word, he finds the idea gruesome. As he listens to Elan describe the benefits, though, there is no doubting the usefulness. As a boy, he'd sometimes imagine himself with superpowers, like being able to stick his arms out and fly. He'd always assumed that it would take a jet pack or some similar external device, but this...this incorporation of metal and servos and thermoplastics into the human body with a human interface...  Graham couldn't imagine that for himself, the idea had surpassed dinosaurs like him. But for Elan? He treats it like fashion, like he's changing his shirt -- and he'll put it to good use.

"Interesting and useful ideas, both of you. If we can get them both done before Undertow is ready to fly, let's get them done. Elan, any idea what the recovery time is like after changes like that? That can't be easy on the body, just let me know what you need. I have no idea how any of this works, but it seems like they'd have to drug you up for these procedures. Wouldn't feel comfortable, you being knocked out without one of us having your back."

He has misgivings, of course. No medical procedure is 100%, and no machine works 100% of the time. It could be a mistake, but it's Elan's choice. For good or bad, Graham will back it. He tells himself that if things go badly, he will offer no "I told you so's".

"I think Lola and I will do a bit of scrounging for supplies and equipment, but top priority is Undertow. If you need anything, Taelor, just say the word." And with that, lunch arrives. Graham has no idea what thinly-sliced meat is in his sandwich...pig?....lizard?.... but it's delicious. And less than a century old, he'll wager.

"The lead times are longer than the recovery times," Elan explains.

"Most cyberware is custom-built for its users. Manufacturing the augmentation takes a few days, but when it's done it's tailor-made for you so that your body accepts it more readily. Because of the infrastructure necessary to fit and implant the wares, it's not commonly exported. We're lucky that Haliant is a world with a customer base that can support local production. Namely, the idle rich who are willing to pay exorbitant sums for the smallest convenience or advantage.

"I'll take Rena with me to the consultation. Lead times will be a few days, but the operation itself can be done on an outpatient basis. I should be good to go by the time the Undertow is ready. Physical recovery isn't bad with proper care." A sideways glance to Rena, hoping that she will be, ah, fully present in a few days when proper care is needed.

"What can be more challenging, I'm told, is the mental adjustment. Seeing radiation, seeing radio waves... part of the panspectral optics is to line your eyelids with a special shielding so that it's actually dark when you close your eyes." He juts his eyebrows as the thought.

"Should be wild! I'm looking forward to it."

Tecumseh wrote:

"What can be more challenging, I'm told, is the mental adjustment. Seeing radiation, seeing radio waves... part of the panspectral optics is to line your eyelids with a special shielding so that it's actually dark when you close your eyes." He juts his eyebrows as the thought.

"Should be wild! I'm looking forward to it."

Graham shakes his head in amazement, and in no small measure, a feeling of being out-of-date. "I wonder if I could find some goggles that did that..."
A thought occurs to him, "If you hate it, is the procedure reversible?" He doubts Elan will hate it. It's obvious that he's given it a lot of thought, and has a good idea what it will mean. Is it possible that Graham is expressing an inner desire to try it for himself? "What would I do with a 'modification'?" he wonders, though not taking the idea particularly seriously. "Maybe a 'crosshairs' overlay for my vision, so I can hit what I'm aiming at..."

Elan, with Rena at his heels, heads out of the hotel's restaurant, leaving Graham, Lola and Nazir. "Well. Shall we plan the contingencies?" The three run through scenarios of how they might find Nazir's father. Captive, lost, abandoned, in deep space, under ground...his fate is unknown. It's clear that preparing for these possibilities will cost far more than the four thousand promised credits. This additional cost was a problem before taking Vagabond, but now, Graham feels they can equip properly. Because of the delays associated with the Vagabond encounter, Graham has no qualms about committing resources to retrieving Nazir's father. They spend hours in discussion, much to the waitress' chagrin.

Elan and Rena enter the shop. It's well lit, clean, white, a mixture of a doctors office and a beauty salon. Elan can tell that the most frequent requests are enhancements that fight the problems of old age. But the catalogue lists everything a body-modders heart could desire.
A man sits behind a counter, he is young for Haliant standards, but Elan thinks he could be his grandfather. He fashions subdermal LEDs, probably nothing more than a fashion statement and a visor instead of his eyes. Across the counter another man stands facing him. "... I know, but I'm telling you, prices went up, since the supplies from Gor dried up. There is really nothing I can do about the price. It's out of my hands. Get me a the materials, I'll be happy to help you out." The man behind the counter finishes the sentence as Elan and Rena approach the counter. He gives his conversation partner a look that might say "enough now, I have other customers" and then smiles widely at the new arrivals. "Welcome to 'A Whole New You', how may I make you better today?"

+++

The shipyards in orbit are not part of Haliant. They are in orbit of the planet, but that is all they have in common with the clean white and green communities under the domes.
The shipyards are loud, messy and functional places. Clearly this is behind the scenes, where things are running to make Haliant the refuge it has become.
Taelor feels at home. It looks nothing like at home, but it is an honest place. No pretend colors, no pricy imports to impress others. Everything has a place and a function.
The works on the Vagabond and the Undertow go smoothly and she makes steady progress.
Although she works alone on the two ships for now, she never is alone. Other ships in the neighbouring bays are being worked on by other crews, some from the ships, others local, hiring their skills to those that lack them.
During the breaks, people meet in the cantinas and kitchens for a meal, drinks and friendly banter. Quickly Taelor makes superficial, but fun acquaintances.
On the third day in orbit, her and Marc, a local, are having a drink in the storage area and exchanging war stories, when a frail old voice calls out for help, but is quickly muffled. Taelors look immediately turns toward the source of the noise and sees a few men and women, drag an elder into one of the other bays, gagging him to suppress his shouting.
When she looks at Marc, with a face that must say "we need to help" he puts his hand on her arm and says "Don't, you don't want to get involved with those guys. I'm sure he'll pay. He'll be fine. Let's go back to work."
With those words and a worried look over his shoulder, he gently pushes Taelor back towards her bay and starts towards the neighbouring bay where the ship he is working on is parked.

"I have an appointment for a consultation," Elan tells the man behind the counter. "Elan Tokála.

"I'm interested in some vision correction. Improvement, even. Plus some enhancements for, ah, rock climbing."

"Ah, Mr. Tokala, yes, I found your appointment in the system. You're lucky, your desired personal improvements require little material, so I will happily help you. Please, come over here into the scanner, for measurements and analysis. We'll have your fittings ready in three days and you will be back on the rocks in less than a week. If you could just scan your pad for the credit reservation. Of course you will only be charged after the procedure, but it is standard procedure with clients with... unknown reputation. " He points out a gently pulsing pad for the pad scan and then points to a door towards the back.

Elan, as a client with an unknown reputation, scans his pad for the credit reservation.

He then goes over to the scanner for measurements and analysis.

He keeps an eye open for chicanery, but presumes that there is a minimal amount on Haliant. Systems and safeguards are usually built around customer demands, and rich customers demand a lot.

He'll leave the medical questions to Rena. Presuming, of course, that she doesn't go under for something herself. What would Rena get? he wonders to himself, browsing through the menu. Probably Bioadaptation Augments, to better partake of the local flora.

The day after the club, Lola had rolled out of bed feeling like her body was inside out, everything she touched feeling awful and horrible. Her head was easily the worst, but her guts hadn't appreciated the mix of different toxic substances either. Her eyes blinked, adjusting themselves to the midday light as she started putting together the memories of the past night. They'd got in about seven which gave her a decent amount of sleep. There had been nights on campaign when she'd had to start at first light, hangover or no. And it was the only way she knew to fight it off. Ignoring the dizzy feelings as she stood suddenly, she changed into some light clothes, and after storing a simple weapon, datapad and identification in a bag she tied over her right shoulder, along with a large bottle of water, she set out.
At first she jogged through the streets, forced to a gentle pace with all the people around. Eventually though she found a large open green area, obviously designated as a park. Here she really turned up the pace, forcing her sore muscles to work and generating as much sweat as she could. The old adage in the force had been, once you had fully replaced all the tainted water inside you with as much fresh stuff you'd feel better. At least the pain would be less localised and instead spread everywhere.

Sitting in the meeting later, she'd voiced no objection to Elan taking a loan to pay for his mech bits. There had been plenty of others in her unit who had loved their shinies but she hadn't been convinced yet. She didn't understand them and they came from big companies. Who knew what fine print you weren't aware of when you purchased them. Nothing came without a price and she was wary of the one thing she owned belonging to someone else again.

In the restaurant, she became a bit more talkative with Graham and Nazir. Planning out an operation, such as this missing persons one, was something she was much more experienced in and felt that she could contribute.
"As Graham says, we have a number of possibilities."
She started laying out the condiments on the table in line with her points.
"Captive, lost, abandoned, or dead. If the last, it could have come after any of the other three which could effect our ability to retrieve his body."
Looking up she linked eyes with Nazir.
"I hope he is alive. This will sound blunt but it is how I plan things. My thoughts are that we should plan for all eventualities which means we should hide our objective when we land. Instead we need to scope the lie of the land. If you can remember the name of his outfit Nazir we can check that, see if they more crew. Maybe get a chat with some of their current workers and talk to them. Check out local news for talk about any recent accidents or issues. If this doesn't work, we could look about getting person on the inside. Last resort choices might come down to trying to break into their system and looking for suspicious information, or talking to any competitors they might have."

Thelonius wrote:

On the third day in orbit, her and Marc, a local, are having a drink in the storage area and exchanging war stories, when a frail old voice calls out for help, but is quickly muffled. Taelors look immediately turns toward the source of the noise and sees a few men and women, drag an elder into one of the other bays, gagging him to suppress his shouting.
When she looks at Marc, with a face that must say "we need to help" he puts his hand on her arm and says "Don't, you don't want to get involved with those guys. I'm sure he'll pay. He'll be fine. Let's go back to work."
With those words and a worried look over his shoulder, he gently pushes Taelor back towards her bay and starts towards the neighbouring bay where the ship he is working on is parked.

Taelor looks back one last time, but doesn't fight Marc as he herds her away. She feels bad for the old man, but she was unarmed and outnumbered. If Elan or Lola had been here, things might have gone differently, but she didn't think Marc would back her up in this fight. "Who are those people? Should we call station security?"

The conversation continues, and for whatever reason, the topic has brought Lola to the fore. Her approach seems to fit Graham's own thinking, as she rattles through the contingencies. When she mentions hiding the group's objective, he silently agrees. He wonders what kind of soldiering she did. This wasn't boots-on-the-ground kind of thinking, this had hints of officer in it. Either way, he didn't care. This meant the crew had a trained officer on board, or the crew had a solid soldier who could think on her feet. Either way, Undertow was better off for it.

"As it stands, those are fair contingencies to consider. And, in the absence of any other information, our starting point is that each contingency is as likely as the next. As you'd imagine, this affects our spending and preparation. Nazir, tell me -- is there any reason to believe that one of these contingencies is more likely than the others?" His fingers stop drumming on the table, and he turns his head to give Nazir a steady look, and to gauge his facial expressions.

He'd had people working for him before, and he's seen the hesitation when they tried to lie about why they couldn't work on Friday afternoon, or why the planetary shipping authority's database hadn't been properly indexed. He's been slowly trying to learn Nazir's expressions just for moments like this. In the time since meeting Nazir, Graham hasn't really known what they are up against in the search for his father. If Nazir knows any more than what he's led on, it's time to find out.

"There is no point in calling station security. These guys are from the Collas. Those are gangs that live in the darker areas of Haliant and finance themselves with kidnapping rich old guys and hauling them up here. If they don't pay up, they just stay here. But the old folks age quickly when they're off planet, so everybody pays. Station security is either part of it or afraid. As you should be. The Collas don't mess around.
The rich people can afford to pay, so what's the big harm. Redistribution of wealth. "

+++

The scanning process is quick and contactless and the medical exams are done with a simple scan of the finger tip. Elan is in and out in no time.
The store owner takes a quick look at the results and then adds Elans order.
"So, Mr. Tokala, can I interest you in anything else? Subdermal LEDs? Dynamic hair pigmentation? Cosmetic changes are no problem. Just the heavier augmentations are currently hard, since materials are very hard to come by.
Otherwise I will see you in three days for the implementation. "

+++

"AstroOre didn't tell me anything, so I'm not sure what rock he was assigned to, but I know he arrived in-system. I'm guessing the station would be the best starting point.
Or we could pay AstroOre a visit over on Staconago. But I doubt they'll give us anything. "

"Tempting," Elan agrees, more to be polite than to express actual interest. "But for the moment my goals are more around function than form."

Then he pivots, having bided his time.

"But tell me about the supplies from Gor drying up. I'll be headed to Gor in a week. Nowhere better to do some rock climbing than the 0277 Renaudot asteroid belt, amirite?" This is probably insane; Elan gives a jovial laugh.

"So what do you need? Something from Aganarp? Or Bamberg, the research base? Or do you need heavy materials from the asteroid belt itself? I'll be on a free merchant that has some cargo space to spare. Is this a logistics issue or did something change in Gor that affected the supply chain?"

"I don't know what is the problem. The freighters from Gor bring no more metals. They say the supplies in the stations is empty and no more is coming in from the mines.
I'm sure they will figure it out. It just hinders my business severely until they do.
If you bring back metals from Gor, I'm sure you'll find plenty a buyer here on Haliant. And keep me in mind when you do. "

Thelonius wrote:

"There is no point in calling station security. These guys are from the Collas. Those are gangs that live in the darker areas of Haliant and finance themselves with kidnapping rich old guys and hauling them up here. If they don't pay up, they just stay here. But the old folks age quickly when they're off planet, so everybody pays. Station security is either part of it or afraid. As you should be. The Collas don't mess around.
The rich people can afford to pay, so what's the big harm. Redistribution of wealth."

Taelor grimaces. Letting it slide didn't sit well with her, but she certainly wasn't about to take on a whole gang by herself, all the while working on the Undertow. "Seems odd that the authorities don't crack down on them. Poor people preying on the rich doesn't usually get overlooked. Maybe they target somewhat rich people and not the obscenely rich?"

Once she gets back in her bay, she tries to get back to work, but her mind keeps wandering back to the old man. After a bit of time, she stands and makes her way to the comm station on the bridge. She sends a message to the rest of the crew, detailing what she has seen and what she has learned about the Collas. //So, what do you think? Should I talk to station security? Marc says it's pointless, but... idk. Feels weird to do nothing.//

She had hoped turning to the others would alleviate her guilt somewhat. It had not. She heads back to her bunk to check her guns as she waits for an answer.

Elan nods to the service rep, confirms his appointment time, then heads outside. He informs the team of what he's learned.

<<I've been told that the freighters from Gor don't bring metals anymore. They say that supplies are empty and no more metals are coming in from the mines. Could be a supply-chain issue, or it could be related to the disappearance of Nazir's father. If we can resolve that, we could make a heap of credits by filling up the Undertow's cargo hold on the return journey.>>

+++

Taelor's message comes in just as Elan is prepping for the clinic.

<<Station security is either on the take or not sufficiently staffed to take care of the problem. Tell them if your conscience demands it, but you might be painting a target on yourself by doing so.>>

<<Every community is going to have gangs; every world is going to have crime.>> (This is both ironic and a statement of the obvious, as Elan brings the crime with him wherever he goes.) <<Unless we get hired to intercede, it's safer to leave it. Every ecosystem - and every economy - has predators and prey.>>

Elan could imagine getting involved if they were laying down roots and wanted to clean up the neighborhood, but their current relationship with Haliant is a transitory, transactional one.

<<Let's get some more bodies in orbit to watch Taelor's back. I would go but I'm about to go in for my operation. Lola?>>

Tecumseh wrote:

<<I've been told that the freighters from Gor don't bring metals anymore. They say that supplies are empty and no more metals are coming in from the mines. Could be a supply-chain issue, or it could be related to the disappearance of Nazir's father. If we can resolve that, we could make a heap of credits by filling up the Undertow's cargo hold on the return journey.>>

//Could be related. Obviously, something has changed in Gor. If we want to talk to the people who know, we need to be where the ships are coming and going, ie, the starport.//

+++

Tecumseh wrote:

<<Station security is either on the take or not sufficiently staffed to take care of the problem. Tell them if your conscious demands it, but you might be painting a target on yourself by doing so.>>

<<Every community is going to have gangs; every world is going to have crime.>> (This is both ironic and a statement of the obvious, as Elan brings the crime with him wherever he goes.) <<Unless we get hired to intercede, it's safer to leave it. Every ecosystem - and every economy - has predators and prey.>>

<<Let's get some more bodies in orbit to watch Taelor's back. I would go but I'm about to go in for my operation. Lola?>>

//Just chiming in to second this. Not our fight, way more downside than upside, and we're just passing through anyway. It sounds like Taelor wouldn't be a target if she lays low. All the same, she should have some support up there. Who's in? And Taelor, you know those external cameras we used to secure Vagabond? Let's put those to use. If there's any kind of incident, we'll want video data.//

It's the first clue they've come across. Not a big one, but it's a starting point. Graham orders himself a beer, and wonders who he'll need to contact, cajole, or bribe to get more information.

Elan's message seemed to trigger 'investigation mode' in Graham. He's been eager to do some searches, but he's put them on the back burner while the group tackles the most pressing priorities, namely, getting interrogated, showering and eating, shopping, selling Vagabond, fixing Undertow, and more eating.

Before diving into background stuff such as Gor, interstellar traffic to Gor, mining in Gor, criminal activity in Gor, piracy in Gor, etc, he searches for symbols -- specifically, a white wolf's head with red eyes.

Elan heads to the clinic is loose-fitting clothing. Rena accompanies him. She is... sort of present, mentally. Or maybe too present would be more accurate. She's buzzed on something called Cereprax, which has the street names of Brain Boost and Egghead. It boosts neurotransmitter speed and connectivity, allowing for greater recall and cooperative leaps of logic and intuition with exceptional clarity. But when the high ends, the overclocking of the brain results in exceptional migraines and a sluggish intellect. Currently Rena is high - which is good in the sense of understanding the procedure and what the implications are for Elan's physiology - but it also means that she'll probably be a slack-jawed yokel by the time Elan is done with his operation and is coming out from anesthesia.

Great, just great, Elan thinks to himself as Rena rattles off scientific concepts that Elan has little hope of understanding. Rena chatters away, oblivious. Cereprax puts you on such a different level, mentally, that you're not even operating on the same plane of existence as your peers.

For all her genius, you'd think she could time these things better, Elan thinks as he rubs his temples. But genius and self-discipline are separate things. Knowing what to do is different than actually doing it. Rena has her demons, and sometimes they're stronger than her angels.

Elan pockets some painkillers before heading out the door, some for him and some for Rena's inevitable headache.

Captain_Hoyt wrote:

Tecumseh wrote:

<<Station security is either on the take or not sufficiently staffed to take care of the problem. Tell them if your conscious demands it, but you might be painting a target on yourself by doing so.>>
<<Every community is going to have gangs; every world is going to have crime.>>
<<Unless we get hired to intercede, it's safer to leave it. Every ecosystem - and every economy - has predators and prey.>>
<<Let's get some more bodies in orbit to watch Taelor's back. I would go but I'm about to go in for my operation. Lola?>>

//Just chiming in to second this. Not our fight, way more downside than upside, and we're just passing through anyway. It sounds like Taelor wouldn't be a target if she lays low. All the same, she should have some support up there. Who's in? And Taelor, you know those external cameras we used to secure Vagabond? Let's put those to use. If there's any kind of incident, we'll want video data.//

Taelor sighs. She knew they were right. Nothing good would come from getting involved, and they'd be gone soon anyway. It still felt wrong. //K. I'll keep my head down. I'm plenty busy anyway// She slips her dataslab back into her pocket and secures her weapons in her storage comparment.

She goes to close her bunk, but hesitates. She take her pistol back out and puts it in her backpack, just in case. Guns were illegal on the station, but it shouldn't be an issue so long as she stayed in the Undertow's docking bay. If the Collas tried anything there, she'd be ready for them. She then shuts her bunk's hatch and heads back to work.

The research through the feeds is slow and sluggish. Not due to the connection, which is blazing fast, but due to the abundance of 'recommendations', 'suggested items', 'messages' and other euphemisms for the ever present commercials.

The logo of the wolf is quickly found. The Striker Group seems to be publishing a wide range of magazines, papers and other electronically published information sources.
Also affiliated with them is the SSTTD, the Staconago School for Telepathic and Telekinetic Development.
When Graham searches a bit deeper, he comes across a forum conversation, that strikes his interest.

Quote :

Someone12576: Fuck, I screwed up. My guys made a whole mess.
SweetGurl97: Shit, need help?
Someone12576: Either that, or a ship of world, and fast.
SweetGurl97: Try the Strikers, they might help. I'll dm you the contact off Henry, he'll set you up.
Someone12576: Damn, gurl, you're a life saver. iou1!

A cross check of Striker Group and Henry yields a Henry Cook, the apparently wildly eccentric, some say insane, owner of the Striker Group, local to Staconago.

When digging into the Gor situation two news snippets jump out of the stream of information regarding the neighboring system.

Quote :

Irregularities on Bamberg
After reports about irregularities on the research station Bamberg, Innovative Networks states, that a minor incident involving the lifeforms under research has occurred, but that everything is fully under control and back to normal business. Security protocol however dictates a preliminary quarantine of the station as a precautionary measure.

Quote :

Did the symbiosis break?
We all noticed the sudden spike in prices for everything that contains metals from Gor. But do we know why? As the deliveries from Gor dwindle more and more people wonder what the reason is.
But answers are scarce.
Some report of piracy, but as we all know, this has always been an issue and can it really be a reason for the late exodus of trade? I doubt it. Some even say the problem of piracy has been successful addressed.
Other voices speak of depleted mines and broken stations, but noone has a conclusive answer.
If you ask me, the symbiosis of our two system, fragile as it always was, is threatening to break. I call the authorities to take action and renew the relationship, because in the end, without Gor, what are we?

Elan wakes up in the clinic. The room is dark... or is it? Elan finds himself squinting, even though something intuitively tells him that the lights are low.

"Here." A medical attendant hands Elan a pair of dark glasses. They're like goggles and are almost completely opaque. And yet... Elan can see through them. They look ridiculous but they help his headache.

Elan staggers out of the clinic under Rena's less-than-watchful care. Walking is... hard all of a sudden? The same medical attendant had said this might be the case. "You may accidentally activate the miniaturized gravitic manipulators in your feet, which may unintentionally anchor you to the ground. Don't worry: most users adapt within a day or two at the most."

That will be nice when that happens, but until then Elan is walking like his feet are sticky, or like he's not strong enough to lift his own foot off the ground. Rena hails a cab since walking back to the hotel is clearly out of the question. Elan opens the door of the gravcar but then... can't let go? He shakes his arm several times until his hand releases its grip on the door handle.

During the trip back to the hotel, Rena pulls out her compad. Elan squints at it because it's... glowing? He lifts up his shades and sees flares of color as the compad emits radio transmissions to the nearby comm server. Elan puts his shades back in place and closes his eyes.

"I have a headache," he groans.

"Your brain needs to adjust," Rena tells him. "It requires time to adapt to foreign stimuli."

"What?"

"Unfamiliar data. The new photoreceptors in your eyes convert electromagnetic transmissions into electrical signals. These electrical signals travel from the retina through the optic nerve to your brain. Your the brain turns the signals into the images you see, but it is dealing with signals it has never seen before."

Elan grunts. Rena pops some painkillers but forgets to offer some to Elan.

"What sort of man does it take to go into a clinic and say, 'Take these perfectly good eyes that I've had all my life and suck them out of my head'?"

"Stop being dramatic. They put them back."

Rena hmms.

The rest of the taxi ride is in silence. Elan makes it back to his room with a strange sort of gait that's not particularly fluid and has him locking his knee almost every step in order to get his foot to detach from the ground properly. Taking off his shoes is even harder. He takes off his glasses but the external stimuli are so overwhelming that he falls on the bed, buries his face in the pillow, and goes to sleep.

The time on Haliant moves.....slowly. Once they'd shopped for equipment, Elan had had his procedures, and Taelor had started on Undertow, Haliant just seemed a bit empty to Graham, like a large, domed retirement home. But all that time meant he had time to chat up the locals, some who work on Haliant, some who worked on Haliant. Years of experience with system control software and starport operations procedures provided the 'in' for several conversations at drinking establishments near the travel hubs.

Over beers, it starts with talk of shipping and cargo-carrying/authorities evading adventure. Sneaky places to hide contraband on a Meng Heavy Industries Corvair MkII, or how to shore up the landing skids for high-angle-of-attack drops into hot zones.

Over beers, questions like "Whose palms do you have to grease...." and "Can't you just get ship manifest information from..." result in more information than Graham can process. Everybody likes to talk about what they used to do, it seems, especially if they can throw around the dirty secrets without getting in trouble. He tries to look casual, but in the world of mental notes, he's scribbling furiously -- names, government departments, unsecured interwebz used as back-up information for the main systems...

The endless small talk and prodding and pushing finally yielded some results.
The records Graham recovered do confirm that Nazirs father travelled through the system, albeit they did not stay. They seemed to have travelled on a ship creatively named AstroOre 3 around the time Nazir said his father started his tour. The ship continued to Gor system, headed for Okhotsk station.
There are no logs of them returning to Mentta.
Another person of interest catches Graham's attention. Only a few days before the Undertow entered the system another ship, a freight hauler called Star of Ioles entered the system. That alone is not unusual, but in one of the logs the name Sarandanis is listed, in all other manifests of the ship, the name does not appear.
The ship stopped on Staconago.

Elan wakes up... on the ceiling?

The room is uncomfortably bright so he closes his eyes again and rubs his temples. He's not one to sleepwalk - at least, not before now - so he concludes that his body and mind must be working their way through some unexpected interference from his new cyberware.

His commlink is radiating strangely, which probably means he just received a message. He detaches himself from the ceiling and bounces off the bed mattress. Grabbing his commlink, he manages to narrow his vision sufficiently so that the screen no longer shines in his eyes like an atomic explosion.

Elan does his best to parse the update from Graham but his head hurts and he's having a hard time of it.

<<From an administrator's point of view, what's the implication of this?>> he types out to the group. <<Did Sarandanis appear out of thin air, bureaucratically speaking?>>

<<And Sarandanis was on a completely different freighter than Nazir's father, so is this relevant to our current inquiry or is this just bookkeeping trivia?>>

Then he shuts off his commlink screen and closes his eyes again, wondering what he's gotten himself into with these cybernetic 'improvements'.

The black-clad man wheeled around, pointing the nozzle of his weapon at Taelor. The tip of it glowed yellow menacingly, like some sort of demonic eye. He pulled the trigger and flame washed over her. Her vacc suit started to melt and the flames licked her skin. She gasped as the air escaped and fed the flames, the burning sensation overtaking all her senses...

Taelor wakes up with a start. Panicked, she sits up and violently hits her head on her coffin cabin's ceiling. "Ow, fuck!" she yells as she lies back down, clutching her head with both hands. She'd had the same nightmare every night she didn't stumble into bed pass-out drunk. The encounter with the spider had been horrific, but she'd gotten through it all right. The flamethrower had been something else...

She slides out of bed and her cabin. Turtle opens one eye as her feet hit the ground, suspecting a midnight cuddle attack, but Taelor isn't looking for that kind of comfort. As she makes her way into the head, the cat closes its eye and settles back into its bed.

Taelor turns on the shower, keeping the water cool. She sheds her clothes and steps in. She breathes a sigh of relief as the cold washes over her. The burning might have been a dream, but it only now feels like its lingering is finally going away. She stays in the shower until she starts to shiver.

She puts on a robe and wraps her damp hair in a towel. She makes her way to the galley, retrieves a bag of popcorn and puts it in the reheater. The noise in the kitchen draws Turtle out of his refuge. The cat prances his way into the kitchen, making it clear he is gracing Taelor with his presence and she should be suitably impressed and thankful. She chuckles, shakes her, and retrieves a handful of chow from the cupboard. She drops it in the cat's bowl and pets him as he eats until the popping from the reheater starts to slow. She takes the popcorn bag out and carries by the corner to the table. She takes a seat, pulls her dataslab closer and unfolds it. Having finished his bowl, Turtle slinks his way to Taelor and jumps up to sit in her lap, pretending to be uninterested in the steaming bag of popcorn. Taelor opens the bag and hands in a piece. As the cat gleefully crunches down on the kernel, Taelor turns back to her dataslab, connects to the planetary network and starts searching.

It doesn't take her long to realize you can't buy armor on Haliant. From what she can read online, Staconago might be the place to look for it, as their laws around weapons and armor aren't as stringent. She sighs. Another detour? Would the others agree to further delay? How fair would it be to Nazir to add more time before heading to Gor? Was it okay for her to selfishly insist on it because she was scared? The memory of the black-clad man and the flames pop back into her mind and she gasps and shudders. Surely, it wouldn't take that long to buy an armored vacc suit, would it?

Tecumseh wrote:

<<From an administrator's point of view, what's the implication of this?>><<Did Sarandanis appear out of thin air, bureaucratically speaking?>>

<<And Sarandanis was on a completely different freighter than Nazir's father, so is this relevant to our current inquiry or is this just bookkeeping trivia?>>

//He's on the run, hard to say. But he's not a low-value target for authorities, and that can be cause enough to make travel a little bumpy for others, like us.//

Graham looks to Nazir, "Repairs are done. We need to arm up on Staconago, then it's straight to Gor." Nazir's mouth opens in protest, but Graham raises a finger, holds it there, and starts tapping at the commpad with his other hand.

//You know, we're in Striker Group's back yard, and Staconago is their front door. And who does Neighborhood Watch for them? Innovative Networks. So, besides a 1-day delay, a trip to Staconago can go several flavors of sideways. We'll need to be on our toes, and keep an eye on the exit.//

Finger still raised, he turns away from Nazir. "Come on. We need to grab some gear for the trip to Gor." Graham knows Nazir wants to object, can feel the eyes staring holes in his back. "And hurry up, you're slowing us down."