Baby wasn't much for mollycoddling. Even when, as now, the mood struck him. Cleaving through the clouds Belit breathed out with a stare that would wither a stranger. Unblinking as she gulped out her doubts and they ghosted along his skin. Nonny Roosje would've had the words. Withered. Wisened. She had comforted him when, heart torn between what he was and what he wasn't, her little Bave sat bawling. Saying this:

"Fear keeps us focused on the past or worried about the future. If we can acknowledge our fear, we can realize that right now we are okay. Right now, today, we are still alive, and our bodies are working marvelously. Our eyes can still see the beautiful sky. Our ears can still hear the voices of our loved ones."

Alas, he could not deliver this message as artfully as a beloved crone. Instead scuffing the backs of his friends chonky footwear and giving her a jab in the morale. Something adversarial to chase her on.

"Cry about it. Not too late to tuck tail and go back to watching grass grow."

Unseen Narrator: But of course, Belit is compelled by the murder she witnessed and the dead spacer’s mind touching her’s in his final moments. She must carry on. Of course our newly arrived B.B. doesn’t know this. If he did, perhaps he wouldn’t be such an asshat.

And alas, Roan seems to be enjoying lunch in the galley much more than expected. Perhaps we should venture in without him?

The walk back through the terminal reveals the wisdom of leaving Roan behind. Colonial police are swarming terminal one, checking IDs of all offworld arrivals, looking for more Malmori bounty hunters and shaking down refugees. You sneak through unmolested, cutting across the hub of the main concourse to the spoke that is terminal six.

Unsurprisingly, terminal six looks much like terminal three. A long narrow central spoke with landing pads and berths off each side. Berth 606 is clearly labelled and, from the window, you can see that the berth is no longer occupied. Whatever ship was there, is definitely gone.

Oddly, the hatch to the gangway is open. Upon closer inspection, the fob scanner at the hatchway entrance looks like it might be smeared with blood.

Belit assigns the drone a couple tasks. "Get a scan of whatever this fluid is and see if you can identify it. Also check if the ship berthed here logged a flight plan before its departure. Grab its complete registry from port records plus the security footage inside and outside the berth if you can, I wanna know every last detail you can get hold of." She inspects the immediate area for further signs of fluid droplets. "Would it be easier to get any of that data if I had a fob for this berth?"

”It’s just a simple camera in this cheap drone,” the computer chirps. ”I can’t tell you shit about that goo except that it’s dried brownish red. Now hacking the spaceport comps, I can probably do that, but yeah, if you had a fob, I could just access the user account directly without having to hack anything, why do you ask?”

"You weren't kidding about your drones being seriously ancient. My phone can scan shit like this and at least get a read of organic or inorganic. Looks like we've a shopping trip in our future," Belit quips amusedly. She retrieves the slip tag for 606 from the pocket of Marna's Academy jacket, having transferred it from where she had hidden it earlier, and slots it into the drone's data port. "Here's the fob, go to town. Will see if I can get a decent enough scan with my phone. If not, I can grab a physical sample and analyze it later. Does Maryanne have a chemlab or medbay?"

”I think there is a first aid kit in the kitchen,” the drone replies. ”You wanna scan that fob? This thing has no hands.”

Once the fob is scanned, the berth’s terminal springs to life showing the docking record of a ship called Aces High. It’s a Venture-class merchant freighter. The ship was berthed her for three days and left only hours ago on a flight plan that registers a stop at Hephaestus Station before leaving Akira controlled space.

Baby's eyes had roamed--cat-curious--all around. Leaping here and there. Ushered by some ingrained instinct to settle where any ambush would be best laid. Eventually his palms pressed themselves softly to the window that stood between himself and that fatal infinity barely a breadth of hand beyond. But his gaze did not venture outward as he vogued.

Belit would've felt those pupil's weight alight upon her shoulder. Creep down along her form until it fell unto fob. Snatching it from the buzzing drone like a mantis making meal of some unfortunate morsel. _Still. Steady. ^Sudden. Such were the ways in which he moved. A frightening reminder of what fate had fashioned him for.

Fob finds its way to Scanner, meeting as things made for one another aught. B.B. rattling off the info as he reads it, and some color commentary besides.

"Hell of a road trip, querida. You're sure. Sure sure. You're cut out for it?"

In the time it took to consider his question, the Malmori put a nail to that stiffened stain. Scraping off a mote that made its way to outstretched tongue. Knowing better than machine the taste of blood. In fact, it was a rare thing to find his lips unbroken.

"These friends of yours, they're playing for keeps."
This message was last edited by the player at 10:13, Sat 16 Dec 2023.

There can be no doubt that the dried substance marring the terminal is blood. Perhaps the android has killed again or perhaps this is the mark of the spacer's severed thumb, without the fob the killing machine would have needed some way to access the berth after all.

What are you doing?

The hatch to the gangway is open, do you explore the slip where Ace's High was berthed?

The kids are waiting and there is 1CR of easy cred to be made. I mean, I'm sure it will be easy, doesn't seem all that complicated. Plus, lots of side action selling Belit's special blend. What could possibly go wrong?

Hephaestus station is a short flight into orbit. Who knows how long Ace's High intends to stay docked there?
This message was last edited by the GM at 06:08, Mon 18 Dec 2023.

Belit takes a hit off her vape and plunges into the slip to explore. She takes photos of anything out of the ordinary and has the drone do the same. When finished, she dials the starport police precinct. "Detective Sanders, please," she says when they answer. She leaves the following message if Sanders is unavailable, or tells her directly if she is: "Hey, Detective. This is Belit Ilani, the psychic you interviewed regarding that John Doe this morning on Parnassus. I just had a premonition about a berth I was passing and, on investigation, there is what appears to be blood on the access panel and the gangway hatch was left open. It's inadmissible, I know, but I have a feeling it's related to our earlier conversation and thought you should know. Berth 606. Thank you again."

"A narc now, are we?" B.B. pries. Doubtlessly unimpressed when her detective work turns out to be exactly that. And no small wonder given his rocky relationship with Akir's 'finest'. "Guess I've gotta start patting you down for wires."
This message was last edited by the player at 06:53, Tue 19 Dec 2023.

Belit, Search the slip (+Intelligence): 00:26, Today: GM, on behalf of Belit Ilani, rolled 5 using 2d6+1 ((3,1)). fail Take 1XP (Playbook updated)

A search of the slip reveals little. It would appear that the android left in a hurray, as suggested by the hastily created flight plan and the timestamp on the slip being vacated. That's not a particularly clever observation, after all, if you had just committed a murder, you'd probably be motivated not to linger very long too.

It makes you wonder how long it will want to linger at Hephaestus station. You're probably just worrying, who knows what the droid's agenda is anyway.

It is the right thing to do, calling in the cops, and you take your time scouting for clues before making the call. Coming up empty and once the call is made your time on the berth is limited, unless of course you want to answer a bunch of awkward questions.

Belit ignores B.B.'s remark and heads back to Maryanne. "Only thing likely to delay Aces HIgh is orbital traffic. Might take it a while to get a berth or close enough for a shuttle transfer." She then asks the drone. "How long do we need to get Maryanne spaceworthy? I can dip into my credit account if we keep the costs low. Do we lose our berth if we fly those kiddies home, or is it a long-term rental?"

”The star drive?” the hovering drone asks, ”I say a day tops depending on what the ground crews around here are working on. Based on what I can read from the diagnostic scans, it should be a simple swap of the interlockutor and patching up the hull where I got hit. The berth is paid to month’s end, you can come and go as you please.”

The pair had overlooked a crucial component.

"That won't get you spaceworthy." he cuts in; his first word more intrusive than those that followed. As silent thereafter as a man that intended never to reveal the reason why--but would--Belit knew. Picking up on the confident pulse of one that knew better and would savor showing it.

Jacket flaring open like a lizard's frill his outspread fingers feel their way up the lining and into pocket. Sleighting something from there with a show of empty palms, then forcing an expression of feigned surprise as he pats himself down further. Eventually reaching out to pull a less than pristine little card from a somewhere on the drone.

B.B. grins to his observers in laminated miniature. Above the words; V3 Precision Driver. CFQC Certified. Something of an overqualification for a cabbie, but one his mother had insisted on. If she couldn't keep her son from those risky races he was always sneaking off to she'd at least make him prove that he could handle it. And there it was. _{(Held with a thumb stretched out across the front, barring what those initials of his spelled out in their entirety.)}

"Don't be too impressed. They'll give a license to just about anyone these days." a bit of bon mot delivered before the coming reality check. "All the same might want to  _ea^se  your way into the seat of an Argo. Coach just really has his heart set on getting those kids home *sub* orbital velocity. Kind of a killjoy."
This message was last edited by the player at 04:26, Fri 22 Dec 2023.

Belit raises a hand to forestall any more of B.B.'s chatter. "Go ahead and schedule those repairs for the day after tomorrow," she tells the drone. "We'll take the kiddies home, get Roan introduced and set up with a job, and still have plenty of time for familial interrogation over dinner." She rubs her cheek idly. "We'll take Maryanne on a shakedown jaunt to Hephaestus after she's patched up, then maybe a quick tour of the Reaches."

”Your the boss, boss,” the computer riding the drone replies. ”Booking in a repair team now. Getting prepared for launch, atmospheric engines are both good to go so we should be ready by the time we get back.”

Before long, the ship is making its first tentative lift off presumably with B.B. at the helm and making a low approach to the parking lot where the bus is broken down and the kids are sitting listlessly waiting forward their ride. Maryanne’s cargo hood is plenty big enough to hold the bus one you limp it on board and Coach is suitably impressed that he will be getting the team home tonight instead of waiting until morning for a replacement bus to arrive.

Some light psychic sniffing around reveals a few prospects for a bit of side hustle offloading some of Belit’s special blend, all she needs to do is be sure Coach doesn’t get wind of it.

B.B. keeps his attention on the control yoke. First time at the helm of Maryanne and the weight of the bus during atmospheric flight make this one a bit of a white knuckler…

Pilot. 21:42, Today: GM, on behalf of B.B. 'Baby' Vandammez., rolled 12 using 2d6+2 ((5,5)).full success

…but the Argo is a very common design and the time spent in sim on the stick of one of these pays off.

With Akir back under them B.B. loosens up on the reins, adjusting his seat just so and finding somewhere other than the floor to lay his feet. His general take away being that the Maryanne tended to turn like a weather vane and was a bit fatassed with heavy cargo, but was a fine vessel all the same. So fine in fact he felt it was a shame to land so soon, if at all. Sleepwalking through a post-flight sequence of buttons, switches and knobs he had learned by rote.

The Serah City Sting Job: Aftermath.

Despite it being his first outing at the helm of Maryanne, B.B. handles the ship well. Delivery of the kids and the bus goes off without a hitch.

Side hustle: pushing weight.
Belit comes up a bit short trying to discreetly sell drugs to the Sting’s players. Take 1XP.

Downtime.
You have a day or two kicking around the Spaceport if there is anything you want to do while Maryanne is in for repairs.

With the damaged stardrive now up and running, you lift off bound for Hephaestus Station. You break free of the atmosphere leaving he cool blue green of Akir behind and climb into orbit spotting the lights of the space station glowing against he inky black of the inner solar system.

It glitters in the unfiltered sunlight, blue gray, bare metal. Around a large central orb there are two superstructures, a docking ring and habitation ring. The rings run perpendicular to each other, crossing over at their midpoints making a shape not entirely unlike the theoretical model of a simple helium atom.

"Starship Maryanne, you are clear to dock at berth 5." comes a voice over the ship's comm system. "Once you arrive, customs officials will come aboard and verify your cargo to ensure there is not contraband. Please enjoy your stay at Hephaestus Station."

A click of the airlock and a cursory visit from some bored looking customs officials later and you are left to you own devices. Stepping onto the deck-plates of that same bare blue-grey metal, you arrive on the main concourse. The station is predominantly an education facility, a university campus in low orbit. But there are of course other amenities you might associate with a border checkpoint or frontier way station.

Traders seeking to avoid planetary taxes or constabulary complications use the market to buy, sell and commission ships for trade routes.

Nefarious characters mingle among students at the main concourse bar, which hosts a small but active gambling parlor in a back room.

The university itself boasts an extraordinary AI and robotics program. One of the top institutes in independent space, rivaled only by the big schools of the UDW and Malmori Empire.

For 1XP, give me a post that adds a useful detail or an amenity on the space station.

Roan emerged from the ship's galley as the customs officials left, relieved that his presence had not resulted in immediate seizure of the ship and his unceremonious return to Tannhauser IV. "I want to thank you guys again for keeping me hidden from the bounty hunters. You could have sold me off for a few cred and been better off not harboring a fugitive," the skinner said a bit sheepishly, unaccustomed to being treated like a person instead of like a commodity. "I owe you both is all I'm saying."

GM here - I'll take over Roan. I'm pretty sure we'll never see the player again, but I like the character enough to keep him around.

Belit dismissively waves her hand. "You may have noticed I'm something of an odd duck. Believe some things are right and others are wrong. Being able to peep inside folks' heads, see their hopes and fears and all? That just makes you realize what folk have in common. We all wanna be free, to live life on our own terms. That means slavery is just plain wrong, to me, and I'm obliged to fight it when I'm able. So I should be thanking you for giving me the opportunity to feel morally superior for a spell."

”Don’t let her fool ya, she’s never needed a reason to act morally superior,” B.B. quipped playfully coming down from the flight deck. ”The customs officers gave us the all clear and Station Control says we have the run of the place. If you two are ready, I’d like to head to over to whatever passes for a watering hole up here. Even killer robots need to work their networks of contacts and a bar or gambling den seems like a reasonable place to start, neh?” he added, the last word betraying his Malmori upbringing.

GM playing a new take on B.B. - a little more rakish, a dash more puckish, a lot more cooperative and a lot less … whatever that was…

Belit rolls her eyes at B.B.'s remarks. "Robots aren't allowed in bars or gambling halls, dumbass. They don't buy drinks, they cheat at cards, and they're always lewdly flashing their interface armatures at the jukeboxes and slot machines." She shakes her head in amusement. "I gotta swing by the duty-free store before we do anything else," she tells the boys, "plus I need to pick up that spoofer-suit that'll keep Imperial scanners from flagging Roan. Stay put, I should be back in half an hour."

"Those are the rules dirtside," B.B. said smirking. "Your spacefaring experience is second only to your drug dealing," he added echoing Belit's amused tone and taking a playful dig at her failed attempt to peddle her special blends to the highschool rollerball team.

Hoisting his small pack over his shoulder, he made his way to follow her. "No way am I letting you go poking around after murder bots on your own. Marn would vapourize me and I like keeping on good terms with her," he added, his surface thoughts betraying the torch he still carried for Belit's adopted sister. "Control said no weapons on the station and I've only ever been up here once. It seemed like station security was on the ball, so I don't think we want to chance it."

Belit cocks her head to one side. "You do remember that I attend uni here, yes? I have years more time in space than you do just based on that. And my business is legal except in the Empire. As this is not Imp space or an Imp station or an Imp world, go flush your arse out the nearest airlock unless you want me to tell Marn about what you secretly jones for."