It's been a cool spring, with frequent stiff winds coming in off the coast of Constance Bay bringing light rain and thin sleet. Less than ideal for crops that struggle to grow in the fertile soils that ring the bay.

In the middle of the bay, Bakaar, the floating city is alive with energy as local communities and small businesses that have weathered the bad economy have come together in a spirit of togetherness, but it is beginning to feel a bit forced.  Conversely, tough times have hit the regional capital Port Hopewell much harder.  The city houses the souther contingent’s major spaceport and it is frequently busy managing the large number of emigrants who are leaving Akir seeking greener pastures.

Akir is not well known for heavy industry, but what little there is produce sturdy, if not cutting edge, android electronics. The market tunnels of Serrah City provide great deals and pretty much the only nightlife and live music scene in the system. It’s a fun place to hang out if can handle the narrow, low tunnels. Down in the tunnels, the instructors at the Planetary Academy are winding down for planting season break.  A few crowd sourced courses will be running this 'semester' but for the most part, the Academy will be slow until after the harvest.  Until then, the curriculum doesn't have a rigidly structured schedule, and it's pretty common for programs to pop up or wind down every few weeks. 

Across the bay, the militia base Fort Stalwart Settler is a hub of activity. fearful of aggressive neighbours, the planetary council has authorized additional call outs of reserve volunteer forces.

The sun peeks through the window shade. Amaterasu, and the people of Akir, rise early.

Half awake, you hear the stream on the satfeed. As usual, the daily crop report drones in the background, it’s the same as it has been for the past three cycles. Yields are down, prices are down, the only crop that remains profitable is coffee, but even those prices are keeping the planetary economy barely viable.

”In other news,” the reporter continues, ”Another Malmori cruiser was spotted at the outer reaches. This the third incursion of the cycle. The planetary council has sent diplomatic missions to reinforce our sovereignty to both the Empire and the UDW. Economic woes remain on the forefront of everyone’s mind, but a coalition has formed within the council seeking funding to create an automated defence system to augment the planetary militia and regional volunteer forces. An expense estimated to cost over 2,000 credits. Global referendum on the spending reforms is scheduled to occur early next week.”

”Belit,” comes a familiar voice, somewhere nearby, bringing you fully awake, ”Get out of bed, you’re going to be late if you don’t get moving.”

@Belit - you are here.

Where are you? Who is calling? What are you going to be late for?

Belit groans, rolls over, and mashes her face halfway into the pillow. "Goddess, Marn," she replies in a sardonic tone. "Do I hafta go people today?" 'People' being a verb in Belit's lexicon. I people. You people. They people. He/she peoples. "Can't I just stay in bed, do shrooms, and project hallucinations into Missus McGillicudy's prefrontal cortex?" Marna would catch all kinds of hell if anyone found out, so Belit flings back the covers, climbs out of bed, and trawls the bedroom for the nearest approximation of clean clothes. She 'reads' her foster-sister's retort and responds before Marna can speak. "Commming!" She half-climbs, half-tumbles out of the loft and pads to the kitchen where Marna has already dispensed piping-hot coffee. Belit cradles the mug in her hands, closes her eyes, and inhales before taking a drink. "Great coffee, Marn, but I'mma need to motor if I wanna be ready for that funeral."

Great start!

Marn sat silently for a long moment, you didn’t have to be psychic to know something was eating at her. Avoiding the looming conversation, she busied herself at the cooking unit, taking longer than normal and growling at the little domestic robot that was trying to help.

Finally, she let out a sigh and spoke her mind. ”I’m not even sure why you’re going. It’s not like he was anything to you. They… they gave you up, sis.” she said choking back an empathic sob. ”She’s probably going to be there you know. Are you going to speak to her?”

Belit pats Marna's shoulder in what she hopes is an approximation of the appropriate -pathy. Em- or sym- or neuro-, one of those she was fairly certain. "Hey now, he was something to me. Okay, he was just my splooge donor, but that... that's gotta count for something, right? Right?" She slumps forward, hiding her face in her mug while gesturing vaguely with one hand. "I am not even remotely sure what I could say to her. 'Hi, I'm Bae. Sorry for all the weird food cravings I gave you waaaay back when I was squatting atop your bladder for nine months like some kinda mutant prawn'."
This message was last edited by the player at 03:23, Wed 11 Oct 2023.

‘Spooge donor’ causes Marna to spit blue milk across the table as she tries to stifle a laugh. ”Gorramit Bae, be serious for once,” she says giving you a playful shove. ”Do Mom and Dad know you’re going? They’ve been so busy and stressed out dealing with the bank, I hope you didn’t tell them. They would totally freak out and get all self-doubty.  They’d be bent out of shape for the whole quarter cycle thinking they did something wrong.”

Belit rolls her eyes and pops an edible in her mouth. "Worse than when they found out I was selling, not just," she says as she crooks her fingers in the air, "'growing for personal use'? Because that would be one epic freakout." She gives Marna a harmless thwap. "Like the time I went through that whole telekinetic phase when I was eight." Belit slants her eyes to one side and grins conspiratorially. "Goddess, what a boon that would be for my burgeoning criminal enterprise."

”Real criminal genius.” she says laughing. ”You we’re still in probation when the referendum to legalize passed. Doofus.”

Glancing at her chronograph, she added, ”Better hurry up and get dressed,  I can drop you at the maglev terminal. It’s on my way anyway.”

Belit grumps and glances over to where her Academy skirt and blazer hang. "Isn't it just pathetic that my fanciest outfit is my school uniform?" She crosses the room and dons skirt, blazer, blouse, and most of the traditional Academy accessories. The chonky shitkickers are all Belit, though. "Thank Goddess these are self-cleaning. Imagine smelling of patchouli and pot when you arrive at a stranger's funeral," she says as she tugs on the appropriate tabs. She brushes her hair, fixes her scarf and lapels, and takes one last glance at herself with her smartphone. "Baby, I'm ready to go."

---

Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JgffRW1fKDk
This message was last edited by the player at 08:50, Thu 12 Oct 2023.

”Passable.” your sister says giving you a once over. ”But swap your school blazer for mine. Plain gray blends in better than academy burgundy”

You hop into the passenger seat of the micro-compact and Marna pulls out into the grid, letting the automatic nav system take over while she preens in the mirror. It’s a short drive to the maglev terminal where you can catch a bullet train to Port Hopewell.  ”Call if you need to talk, ok?” she says supportively as you get out of the car. ”And behave yourself!”

The automated turnstile accepts your student pass and lets you out into the platform. The wait is bearable and before long you are on a maglev hurtling around the bay, seated next to a Tlaxian who chitters proudly about its brood.

You are fortunate enough to have caught an express and the train makes up for lost time. You arrive at the Port Hopewell terminal with some time to kill before the funeral.

What do you do with time in your hands?

Belit finds herself a cafe with outdoor seating along one of the less busy boulevards, where she can drink coffee, watch the pretty girls, and vape in the poised way she knew people found chic. Getting others to do what she wanted had always come easily to her, though how much was due to her talents and how much to a certain moral flexibility she couldn't say. The day was already somber enough without dwelling on the state of her soul, if even she had one. Puff. Sip. Admire. Meditations on the little pleasures. Puff. Sip. Admire. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Yes...mmm.

Outdoor cafes rarely let you down, but the weather today puts a literal damper on your plans for people watching. Normally the city would be on the cusp of summer dress weather, but most of the pretty young things are still wearing heavy sweaters to keep out the chill.

Watching the street from under a heat lamp, you see few figures moving out in the morning drizzle. A company man here, a professional looking woman there. Then an unlikely pair catch your eye.

Seeking shelter from the drizzle in the awning under the entrance to a transparent geodesic dome, one of the colony’s first buildings, prefab and brought from offworld, you spot a man wearing a spacer vest arguing with a scratched and pockmarked droid that has seen better days.

It’s too far to hear, but the man’s emotions are powerful enough to hit you, even across the distance of the street. He is really pissed about something…

Belit likes heavy sweaters and breathy girls, so the inclement weather actually suits her. She does make the cafe staff come out and serve her, but she is just demanding enough to hint that there is a big tip in it for them if they cater to her. The pair across the way intrigue Belit, so she opens a window in her psychic shields just enough to attempt what her pirate side likes to think of as 'a boarding action'. She queues up an ancient Earther tune on her smartphone, takes a big hit from her vape, and closes her eyes as she probes the boundaries of the spacer's noosphere. What has you so upset, Mister Man? Tell Bae what's wrong, hm?

---

Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GpBFOJ3R0M4
This message was last edited by the player at 08:56, Thu 12 Oct 2023.

You reach out, across the drizzle in the street to touch the spacer’s mind…

Scanner 18:03, Today: GM, on behalf of Belit Ilani, rolled 11 using 2d6+1 ((6,4)). full success

…he is troubled that the ‘droid has betrayed him…

…they are friends… no, not friends, business partners…

…why is it asking about that anyway… it should already know that it is safely stored on the ship’s computers…

…he realizes that someone has gotten to the machine… reprogrammed it…

Vapor wreathes Belit's head as she exhales and opens her eyes a fraction. Yes... safely stored, she projects, reinforcing the man's convictions over and over as she carefully manipulates him. Safe. Yes, safe. It's safe. Over and over. Safe. Safe. Over and over. Safe. Stroking his thoughts like she would a lover's special places, coaxing him toward giving her what she wants: the revelation of his secret. Her gaze locks on him from beneath her eyelashes. She takes a long draw on her vape pen. The music in her ears, the vapor in her mouth, and the smolder of her psychic seduction each contribute to her own excitement. She parts her lips, exhales sensually. This is it, she thinks. Money shot. Give it to me.

As you concentrate, working toward understanding what the spacer has hidden, what the hijacked droid is looking for, a heavy cargo transport blocks you view. As it passes by, inching down the city street, blocking your view, you feel the spacer’s mind suddenly reeling. As it moves away, you see the droid retracting a long needle from its wrist. The spacer stumbles, catches himself, then falls against the structure, using it to prop himself up.

Fear. The spacer feels fear, sadness, regret.

All thoughts of what is stored in the ship’s computer are gone.

Have you touched the mind of a dying man before? How does it make you feel?

The droid looks as if it is about to grab the spacer, but a passing colonial police drone seems to make it think otherwise. Without looking up, the droid hastily walks away from the scene of its crime, unnoticed by the drone, leaving the spacer staggered in the shallow alcove, his breathing labored and shallow.

Belit gasps as she feels whatever substance... Poison? Nanites?... the droid injected sink its claws into the spacer. Grandma was different, dying of natural causes. Soft. Warm. Familiar. The spacer's dying is the opposite. Hard. Cold. Strange. She knows if she stays too long his psyche might latch onto her like someone drowning, but she can't resist. Even as her thumb keys the emergency services code into her smartphone, she telekinetically caresses the dying man's neck and projects to him in a small 'voice', ~Hang on, mister. Hang on. Help is on the way.~ She can't help her morbid curiosity, a hushed but insistent voice in his head. ~Why? Why did he kill you? What was worth your life?~

---

Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DBNLXZ6UusI
This message was last edited by the player at 09:45, Thu 12 Oct 2023.

You hold the connection, forging ahead into the unknown…

Scanner 19:26, Today: GM, on behalf of Belit Ilani, rolled 8 using 2d6+1 ((4,3)). partial success

…map…

…star map…

…Lambda zone…

A star map. Saved in the computer of the spacer’s vessel is a star map. It must lead to something in the Lambda Zone. More than that, it’s a map that leads to something worth killing for.

As you let the connection fade, you sit up with a jolt.

…come closer…

The mind of the dying man beckons you to show yourself. To come to him. You know the time for aid has slipped away  in the seconds since the poison took effect. Yet he calls to you anyway.

Belit attempts to psychically keep her distance, wary of being sucked into the man's dying need to her own death, but she rises to her feet and crosses the boulevard to the alcove where he is. Emergency Services knows my phone made the call, and I'mma bet their computer is hella less secure than this guy's. I may be seriously up Schitt's Creek. Her back to the alcove so no one surprises her, she kneels beside him and takes his hand. "I'm here," she tells him aloud, her noetic self withdrawn to the very edge of his. She realizes that she is crying when she tells him, "I'mma stay until..." Her voice cracks a little. "I'mma stay. You stay too, okay?"
This message was last edited by the player at 02:32, Thu 12 Oct 2023.

He can’t speak. He makes a gurgling sound, the poison causing foaming at the mouth while his breath comes in short, sharp huffs. You know he won’t stay, despite your plea.

He holds onto your hand, blindly reacting to your touch. You’re not even certain he gets that you are there, but he responds and grasps your hands in his. There is a sticky wetness that follows the pressure. His right hand, covered in blood, his thumb freshly severed leaving a wound that bleeds profusely.

Coughing, he presses something into your palm. Hard, smooth, sharp edged. You can’t yet see it, it stays held between his hands as the light in his eyes fades.  His body shudders and he is gone…

…vengeance…

His last thought hammers into your mind. Driving deep. After the shock, you feel it sitting with the weight of a singularity in the back of your psyche. Whispering black hate. Vengeance.

Take the condition compelled. To clear the condition you must avenge the spacer; not now, but some day, you must make that droid pay.

Belit surreptitiously pockets the object as the dead man's hands go slack, but retains her hold on the hand she clasped. She rests her chin against her chest as she reels her noetic self back in from the yawning gulf that was his mind, his self. Having seen his entire life as it flashed before their mutual mind's eye, Belit realizes knows... knew... the man more intimately than had he been her lover. "Vengeance," she whispers to the corpse beside her. Still holding his hand, she allows the tears to flow until someone arrives and can relieve her in her vigil.

There is a sound in the distance. A siren. The colonial police.

There is a sound nearby. An alarm. Your phone reminding you to leave for the funeral.

You have only seconds to get away unnoticed, or stay and spend hours being questioned by constables.

Belit knows the police will catch up with her eventually, but instinct tells her to make herself scarce. She slips away quickly, deactivating her phone's locator as she does so. Knowing she may need an alibi, she heads to the place where the funeral is being held. She eventually spies the sign for it — Rosy Cross Christian Church — and ducks in through one of the side doors after glancing back to make sure she hadn't been followed.

---

OOC: Rosy Cross Christian Church is a wee bit of an insider joke, the Rosicrucian Order figuring prominently in conspiracy theory.
Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FFOzayDpWoI
This message was last edited by the player at 09:02, Thu 12 Oct 2023.

You leave the drones and patrol cars behind. It’s only a matter of time before the authorities catch up with you, but it in that time, you hope to hunt down the murderous droid.

Inside the door of Rosy Cross, just off the narthex, you find a restroom where you can scrub the blood from your hands.  While not as refreshing as a lizard person shedding its human disguise, you are at least passable for the funeral. Coming out of the restroom provides another opportunity to scan the small assembly leaving you certain you haven’t been followed.

A steel coffin lies in the transept, before the altar. A priest of the Holy Rose intones ”The souls of the just are in the hands of God, and no torment shall touch them…” he begins just as you enter. The first reading coming from the Book of Wisdom. You have made it on time.

There are spaces to sit in empty pews at the rear of the church and space on the family pew at the front…

conspiracy theories… amiright?

Before she steps out of the restroom to join the impending mass, Belit quickly peeks at whatever it is that the dead spacer... "Georg," she realizes, his name the merest whisper on her lips... pressed into her hand before he died. She expects a blade of some sort, her memory of it being hard, smooth, and sharp-edged. Who's gonna die because of this thing? Who am I gonna kill? Please don't let it be Mom, Dad, Marna, or Martin.

---

OOC: Georg is pronounced in the German fashion: GAY-org. EDIT: Spelling correction. Also, Marna and Martin are twins.
This message was last edited by the player at 04:31, Thu 12 Oct 2023.

”The just man, though he die early, shall be at rest. the priest intones,  ”For the age that is honorable comes not with the passing of time.”

Expecting something dangerously elegant, what you find might be a disappointment. A tab of black plastic, circuitry etched into the surface, smeared with Georg’s blood. On a tiny screen on the plastic rectangle there is a blinking number - 606.

You have never seen a device like this before. It’s purpose is not immediately apparent.

Realizing she needs to hide whatever this is really well, Belit ducks back into one of the toilet stalls, pulls a sanitary napkin from her purse, carefully inserts the tab into the napkin, then peels off the the strip covering its adhesive side and presses it into the crotch of her panties. She adjusts her clothing, works herself up to tears... easier, given events of the day... and exits the restroom sniffling into a tissue. I'm so screwed if anyone strip-searches me...

Hope that things doesn’t have a vibrate function…

”We gather today to bid farewell to our brother in Christ, Robert Emerson Leigh” Oddly, the pastor continues speaking after the reading. A glance at the program shows that no family will come forward to eulogize the departed.  Further examination of the room, and the surface emotions you pick up, reveals that most of the mourners appear to be seat fillers from the church or from the funeral home.

”Robert, ‘Bobbie’ to those who knew him well, was an industrious man. An entrepreneur who put the work ethic and experience he gained as a Sergeant in the UWMC to use as an independent operator traversing the space lanes.” he continues. The priest goes on to provide a brief overview of your father’s life, which you may notice remains remarkably thin on detail. The priest does make mention of his bereaved wife, acknowledging Maryanne, who sits alone in the row set aside for family.

Somewhat surprisingly, he also mentions that the departed is survived by a daughter, Belit.

Belit looks up in shock at the mention of her name, wondering if Robert and Maryanne re-used the name as was tradition in some Akiran cultures when a child died young... or was dead to their parents like she was... and gave it to another daughter. Do I out myself despite being an unwanted child. And what if I do? Do I eulogize someone I never met? Would his wife care? Mom and Dad wouldn't understand, but Mart knows how much I need this... what'd she call it? Closure. Yeah. She breathes deeply, exhales audibly, and rises to her feet. She steps into the aisle, half worried she will be noticed, and half not.

---

Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lgk5ucvyMH0
This message was last edited by the player at 09:06, Thu 12 Oct 2023.

The ceremony seems to move in slow motion as you rise, take a few tentative steps, then commit to taking the hard road. You could simply sit quietly, get through the service in silence, leave feeling like you filled your familial obligations, tenuous as they are.  But you know that would leave so many things unaddressed.

A sense of confusion and sympathy emanates from the man at the pulpit. He gazes down from the altar with a benevolent smile, and you feel as if he is politely waiting for you to return to your seat.

Seeing you hesitate, but perhaps sensing your resolve to see this through, he nods at you standing in the aisle, and kindly asks, ”Is there something you would like to say young lady? Something you would like to share?”

Belit desperately wishes she could take a hit from her vape to calm her nerves, but does her best to soldier on. I'm the child of a UW Marine, she reminds herself. Oorah. She oscillates between sheepish smile and fidgety frown as she hesitantly tells the man, "Unless... unless I am... very sadly mistaken, I... I believe I... I am the surviving daughter." Belit's cheeks turn a pale rosy shade, a clearly visible blush giving her otherwise-bloodless pallor. "My name... is Belit Ilani."

The priest emanates understanding, sympathy.

The assembled seat fillers are mostly ambivalent, curious or confused.

The woman in black sitting alone in the family row emanates nothing. A complete blank.

A man in a dark suit, gray not black, sitting behind the woman in black is relieved. Like a difficult task has somehow gotten easier.

”You have my sympathies, Ms Ilani.” the priest replies. ”You are welcome to share your thoughts, share a story of your father if you like.”

Belit nods once, slips off her hoodie, and lays it in the pew. She approaches the crossing between the transcepts and stops just before the chancel. Turning, she faces the nave and those in attendance. "I... did not know the deceased," she haltingly begins. "I was... unwell... as a newborn, and my parents discovered... they were not equipped... to deal with my particular... special needs." She fixes her gaze on the stained glass behind the choir loft, at the far end of and above the nave, allowing the color and beauty buoy her. "As they were good and decent people, my parents brought me to others whom they knew would help me as they could not, care for me as they could not, and love me." She lowers her eyes to the woman in black. "I know my parents loved me, because they made certain that I would be looked after. I didn't understand that for a very long time, but I do now and I love them for the courage they displayed in doing something every parent dreads... giving up their child." She rests one hand on the casket and turns her face to address it. "Thank you, Robert...Father... for wishing me the best possible life." She steps forward to the first pew and lowers herself to one knee before the woman there. "And thank you as well, Maryanne. Mother."

---

Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q45yicposyI
This message was last edited by the player at 09:16, Thu 12 Oct 2023.

Awesome job! Take 1XP for great character development! Playbook updated.

*dances 'round my shiny new XP*

OOC: Edited soundtrack suggestions into several posts.

”That was as delicate and touching a eulogy as we could expect given the circumstances,” the priest says as he places his hand on your shoulder.

Kneeling, looking up into your mother’s face, seeing her eyes behind the black veil, you come to realize why she is blank, empty, emotionless. Her eyes unfocused, one side of her soft, round features droops, her mouth slightly misshapen, pulled down to one side. She rocks back and forth, muscles quivering slightly, apparently involuntarily.

”Maryanne has not been well,” the priest adds.

Yet, despite the damage to her memory and to her mind, you feel a pull of recognition. It’s fleeting, slips away after barely a moment. Returns, and with it a feeling of tranquility. As if your words, your very presence has lifted a heavy weight from her spirit.
This message was last edited by the GM at 15:14, Thu 12 Oct 2023.

That’s a kick ass cover of Don’t Fear the Reaper

Belit chokes up at Maryanne's flickering recognition and reaches out to gather her hands. She caresses them physically as she psychically comforts the woman's wounded spirit. Eventually she asks the priest, in a voice hoarse from crying, "Does... does Maryanne have anyone... to help and love and look after her? Somewhere to live and be cared for?"

Her mind, fragments that reflect shattered memories, is calm. There is peace among the fractured remembrances of a full but often difficult life.

”She is alone,” whispers the gray suited man seated behind Maryanne. ”They had no other children.” he adds, ”Robert set aside enough for her to be well looked after. The estate has sufficient value to cover the expenses of ongoing care. Most of the property has been bequeathed to family offworld, she will relocate to live closer to them. Our firm will hold the accounts in trust to ensure she is provided for.”

Lawyer speak. Gross.

Her face an expressionless mask, Belit replies to the lawyer in a polite tone. "Might I request copies of Robert's will and all documents related to the provisions for Maryanne's care? It would greatly put my mind at ease to know the arrangements are the best possible." She smiles tentatively. "Is it to Robert's family that she would be moving nearer, or her own?"

”Ahem,” the priest said pointedly, indicating that Belit should take her place beside Maryanne. As he started walking back to the pulpit, he began: ”The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want…”, signalling that the funeral service is drawing to a close.

A pair of men appear in the deacon’s doors, emerging from the sanctuary. They wear the long black cloaks of men who manage mortuary services.  As the priest continues, fearing no evil, trusting in the rod and the staff, the men wheel the casket out toward the church doors.

”Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” he said with finality, closing the cover on his datapad and pausing for a long somber moment.  Another attendant comes to collect Maryanne, helping her to her feet.

”You are invited to remain in reflection.” he said retreating through the deacon’s door.

Belit gives Maryanne's hands a parting squeeze as they stand, wishing she could better act on her newfound filial affection. I don't know how I could take care of her, any more than she did me when I was a babe, she sadly thinks. Hell... I'm barely out of nappies by some folks' standards, too young to adequately care for myself let alone anyone else. She retrieves her hoodie from the rearmost pew but sits for a time to partake of the invitation to reflect.

You are able to sit in silence, in disturbed, for a long moment.  The church is quiet, giving you a moment to collect your thoughts.

Watching Maryanne being led out is like watching the summer leaves turn yellow and fall from the trees. There is a certain finality that feels like winter setting in. It’s a hard decision, even though there is really no decision to make. You aren’t equipped to handle her needs. It is best that Maryanne’s last days will be spent with family. She will be looked after.

Resolved to the only real option that’s available, your mind can now turn to other things…

…like the lawyer you sense lingering in the narthex, waiting for you.

Belit rises from the pew and makes her way the short distance to the narthex and the waiting lawyer. "I realize it's horribly old-fashioned, but do you have a business card? I fear I can't exchange information wirelessly, my phone currently needs a charge. If nothing else, I think I have a pen and notepad in my purse."

”Hmmm, I’m afraid that I don’t.” he replies. ”The firm is Mathers, Gilbright and Xylex. We are listed on the planetary directory. It will not be difficult to find us.” he adds. ”You had asked about the arrangements. As a beneficiary of Robert’s estate, I can share those with you.” he says pulling out a portable datapad. ”Perhaps you would prefer that I send you my information then you can check it at your convenience?”

Hang on a second… did he just say beneficiary?

Belit smiles and nods. "Yes, please do. Maglev to ca..." She blinks. Blinks again. Blinks a third time. Wriggles a fingertip in one ear and furrows her eyebrows. She vigorously shakes her head, eyes widening slowly in shock. "Begging your pardon... but... did you say... 'beneficiary'? I don't... don't under... huh? Whowhatwhenwherehowwhy?" She is vaguely aware that her jaw is hanging slack.

”While most of the property has been transferred for disposal with the proceeds of all sales to be placed in trust for Maryanne’s care,” he explains, ”There was one item that was bequeathed to you directly. It was Robert’s wish that you be given this.”

He reaches into his pocket and hands you a small plastic folder. Through the folder, you can feel something solid, symmetrical, rectangular but fairly light.

”I will need a thumbprint to acknowledge acceptance of this property.” he says, passing his datapad to you.

Belit disbelievingly glances back and forth between the datapad and the folder, eyes still wide. Her thoughts practically breaking the lightspeed barrier, she robotically extends her thumb and presses it to the datapad... fumbling and nearly dropping it in the process. The folder is not so lucky. She absently stares at it and extends the datapad to the man. She remembers to say "Thank you," only because she's on autopilot, as she bends forward to retrieve the folder.

The lawyer takes back his datapad, stopping it from dropping to the hard marbled floor with a little huff that betrays his annoyance.

On the floor, the envelope has spilled out the property Robert bequeathed to you. It’s another one of those odd little fobs, just like the one you have hidden away under your schoolgirl skirt.

The same black plastic, the same copper circuitry, fortunately no blood and a different number… 307.

Belit mutters aloud as her fingers fumble with folder and fob. "I have absolutely no clue what you are, little doohickey, but you appear to have at least three hundred and six siblings." She raises her eyes to the lawyer's. "I don't know that I've ever seen anything like this. Should I? Know what it is, I mean. 'Cause I don't." She turns it over and over in her palm.

”We didn’t know either “ he replies, ”Most people never see them, but we happen to have an intern articling at the firm who spent some time on an inter-planetary freighter. That’s a slip tag, for a berth at the space port.”

He pauses, obviously waiting for your reaction…

Belit silently mouths the words she has just been told. Slip tag. Spaceport berth? What the actual fuck. She shakes her head incredulously. "How many spaceports are there on Akir? And how would I know which one, if so?"

Growing up in Akir, it sometimes felt like a bit of a galactic backwater. It’s mostly farmers and businesses associated with farming. And banks. And Lawyers. Plenty of vultures to prey on failed farms after a tough season.

There’s a handful of other industries and a few of the mercenaries from what came to be known as the ‘battle beyond the stars’ have hung around, but all-in-all, life here is pretty slow.

Which explains why there is only the single spaceport. There are a few smaller launch pads up in the northern continent, but the only proper space port is right here in Port Hopewell.

Belit thanks the man and excuses herself after jotting down the name of his firm. Outside the church, she digs out her vape pen and takes a strong hit to calm herself. Belit starts walking back toward the maglev station, stopping at the very first city services kiosk she can find to look up the location of the nearest public library. Once she arrives there, she makes use of one of the public computer terminals to do a little research. First, she finds and prints out a pamphlet map of the spaceport with the locations of the two berth numbers marked. Second, she tries to ascertain whether her phone can be hacked to disable the locator, so as not to be picked up within minutes by the police if she uses the damn thing. Damn it, wish I had paid more attention in electronics shop.

The vapour hits hard, which is exactly what you need to calm yourself down and come up with a plan.

What do murdering robots and your inheritance have in common? A spaceport that up until today, you never gave a second thought.

You’re not going to rest until you are sure that there isn’t a capture drone waiting around the next corner. And you’re certainly not heading to the spaceport until you can be reasonably sure that there are no security forces on your tail. It’s a short trip to the public library and a public data terminal that isn’t going to set off the colonial police alarm bells. A public terminal where you aren’t afraid to look up some shady shit…

Roll+Intelligence: 21:14, Today: GM, on behalf of Belit Ilani, rolled 11 using 2d6+1 (6,4). full success

…it’s actually as simple as getting a new user identity module and swapping your old one out. You’ll be assigned a new number and the device will be clean.  Your contact info will be different, but that’s a small price to pay and, since the privacy referendums, neither the council, the courts nor the colonial police are permitted to access personal device logs.

With a new user module, you’ll be clear of any law enforcement complications.
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:32, Sat 14 Oct 2023.

Belit rests her chin on her palm and ponders what she has discovered. Where do I purchase a user identity module? And do I have enough dosh in my credit account to afford one? She pensively tugs at her lower lip with her teeth. Mart might know, and he'd keep his nose out of my business. Could even ask him to send a small tub or two of one of my 'special blends' via messenger so I have some less-traceable 'currency' to work with.

A few more keystrokes tell you all you need to learn:

To your surprise, your account balance is still sitting at 7CR. With the rent and groceries split between you and Marna and the part time work you had been doing at the Academy hydroponics urban farm, it looks like you hadn’t dipped into your savings nearly as much as you though that you had this semester. Seven credits is about half a year of rent money for a small apartment, about half the price of a new(ish) car or the price of a ticket offworld.

Getting a new UIM is actually not all that tough. In fact, the library has a vending machine that will print you a fresh one for a nominal fee. Price: inconsequential.

After a few texts with Mart using the terminal, he agrees to ship you the goods by courier drone. He just needs a place to deliver. He’s available to chat if you want to vid-call.

Belit starts the vending machine printing her new UIM and settles down to chat with Mart. "Hey, Mart. Thought I'd spend the rest of the afternoon in Port Hopewell and catch the late maglev home. I am in such a good mood, the funeral went so well. Maryanne... that's my birth mom... was happy I came, and Robert... that's my late birth dad... left me something... not a clue what it is... in his will! How goes your day? Oh, before I forget, here's the address of the library I'm at!"

Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5W6gjAAHvo0

Great choice. I’m also a fan of This Corrosion

”The funeral went well!? You know sis, if we hadn’t spent our entire lives together, I’d think that was a strange thing to say.” he jokes, but you can tell from his voice and the look on his face that he is relieved knowing that you are doing well after such a difficult day.

”Left you something? Well, so tell. Are you a wealthy heiress?” he asks lightly, then adds in a more somber tone of voice, ”Or at least enough to pay off the bank.”

Belit spreads her hands and shrugs. "I'm every bit as mystified as you. I got there, was sitting in the back, the preacher doing what preachers do at funerals, and suddenly he says 'also survived by a daughter, Belit'." She leans toward the vid-screen and lowers her voice. "And that was when I realized... they never stopped thinking about me, never stopped loving me. They were good and decent people who just... couldn't deal with a special-needs baby. And that was when I stood and spoke up."

”You spoke?” he asks somewhat stunned. ”God and Goddess, what did you say about him? About them? With all of their friends and family there. That must have been a tough crowd.”

Sorry for the one-liner… trying to keep pacing as if it was an actual conversation.
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:12, Sun 15 Oct 2023.

Belit sighs heavily. "Was all professional mourners that I saw, save for Maryanne, the preacher, and the probate guy. What family they have left all live on other worlds." She sniffles as she tears up a bit. "I said that I had been unwell as a baby, that they realized they couldn't care for me as I deserved, and loved me enough to find someone who could. It's clear that they carried around tremendous guilt about giving me up, it traumatized them more than it did me. So much so that they never had other children.

”Well I’m glad they found us and glad you came into our lives,” he replies, ”It’s pretty messed up that they carried that trauma until he died. But, totally fair if you think about it. It must have been really hard for them to make that decision, and hard for you to unpack all of this. It sounds like you really worked through some heavy shit today! That’s probably the understatement of the cycle.”

”So you gotta go see this lawyer or whatever? That what’s holding you up in Port Hopewell?”

Belit laughs self-consciously. "I kinda do, to check out the arrangements that have been made for Maryanne's long-term care." She simply says, "She's not well, and I've discovered that I care very much that the rest of her life is as pleasant as possible." She leans close to the screen again and whispers into the microphone. "What's really holding me up, though, is that I have to retrieve whatever Robert left me. It's here at the spaceport and I have something called a slip tag. Another one of those came into my possession before the funeral, but... I don't think it's wise to talk about that over a public data channel. I'll call you back when I get my phone working. If Marn is home, might wanna make it a three-way call. Mart? I... may be in trouble. Call you back soon." She disconnects before Mart can respond and goes to check the progress on her replacement UIM.

His stunned face freezes on the screen momentarily as you cut the connection and close down the public data terminal.  Tou can see that he was a little taken aback, a little hurt too. But, the cloak and dagger routine feels right somehow. Knowing that the anonymous spacer had something worth killing for leaves you confident that keeping things to yourself for now is the right play.

The UIM sits waiting for you in the machine and swapping chips proves to be very simple. You can only trust that the help files and user suggestions you found on the net are right and that switching on your phone won’t bring the colonial police down upon the library.

Belit furtively wipes down the vending machine and the data terminal, to remove or at least badly smudge her fingerprints like she has seen in vids. She then exits the library, briefly wondering whether Mart sent the courier drone already or would make her wait until she contacted him again. She did the mental math, trying to figure out how long it would need to arrive from home. She kills enough time vaping to calm herself for the package to have gotten here, based on her quick-and-dirty guestimate. Whether it does arrive or not, she takes a deep breath and powers up her smartphone. Hope all this effort has been worth it.

As you wait outside, the speedy little drone whirs to a hover before you. The little bot has an LED display that informs you of the need to scan your thumbprint to confirm receipt of the property.

For the second time in just a few short hours, you scan your biometrics and collect your stuff.  The blends your brother packed will keep you in spending money if you sell them off on a vice sharing network which will keep you from dipping into the cred you have in the bank.

If the new UIM works as described, Belit knows that Martin's and Marna's phones will not recognize hers. She sends them both email with the proper identifiers and a warning that, if they receive this from her old UIM, they will need to discover where the Port Hopewell police are holding her. She summarizes what happened earlier and explains that she will be going to the police as soon as she can, admitting that it was a very mixed-up thing to allow intuition guide her when she had just seen a murder. She begins walking toward the starport, waiting for either a callback, the police to surround her, or both. Ready to go...

The chill air is bracing against the skin of your bare legs as you walk through the city.  Nearing the place where you witnessed the spacer’s murder, this part of Port Hopewell dates back to the colonies early days when much of the building material was brought in from off world. Most of the city that surrounds the spaceport are old style geodesic domes.

As you walk, and explain the day’s events, messages begin flying into the group chat that you share with your brother and sister. Both share their doubts about what you are doing and urge you to reconsider. Advise you to go to the police now because it will only be worse if they track you down, it will look like you have something to hide.

Before the conversation ends, you find yourself under the shadow of the space port command centre. Arrayed around the central command tower are six terminals, each with a number of slips. Only terminal two is big enough to handle the big star freighters. Terminal one is dedicated to the colonial militia, leaving terminals three to six for passenger traffic and small cargo vessels.

Belit agrees to go to the police immediately. "The station at the starport is nearest to me, or should I just contact Emergency Services?" She frets somewhat. "I worry that anyone could show up claiming to be the police if I contact them. If I just show up, no one could predict at which station." She stops where she is to await her siblings' reply.

Both of your siblings text you their support, relieved that you have decided to tell the police what you know. There is naturally a station at the spaceport, one of the oldest precincts on Akir. Over the years, the detachment and the volume of spaceport operations have outpaced investment in the precinct. They have clearly outgrown their home, making the place a disorganized buzz of activity.

It is easy to get the attention of the desk sergeant. After a few questions, a constable leads you to an interview room, provides you with a cup of coffee and asks you to wait for on of the detectives to come and speak with you.

Your paper coffee cup is empty and ringed with dried brown stains by the time the detective joins you. She moves quickly, efficiently. Placing a recording unit on the table and flattening her conservative black uniform before settling in facing you. ”Good evening, I’m Detective Sanders. I’ll be conducting this interview.”

This message was deleted by the player at 01:40, Tue 17 Oct 2023.

Belit inclines her head in acknowledgment. "Good evening, Detective." She sets her empty cup to one side and folds her hands before her on the table. She resists the urge to actively 'scan' the detective, contenting herself with a passive 'read' instead. Not that she was expecting much. To make detective you likely had enough training to suppress surface thoughts and emotions. If the detective wasn't in fact a teep herself. Out on a backwater like Akir, it's not like telepathic violations of privacy would bring down Psi Corps' wrath. And it would make 'interviews' go so much easier.

”The desk Sergeant says you were witness to a murder,” she says, her surface thoughts a blank mask that betrays formal training to resist psychic probes. ”That must have been very traumatic for you, but can you share with me what you saw? Any detail, no matter how small, might help us with the investigation.”

Belit nods in confirmation. "I came to town for my birth-father's funeral. My maglev arrived early, so I stopped at the StarLux cafe on Parnassus Boulevard for coffee." She gestures vaguely. "I was nervous, I didn't know whether my presence would be welcome, so I closed my eyes to meditate and calm my nerves." She lowers her hand to table again. "That's when a massive wave of emotion hit me. Anger. Betrayal. I peeked through my eyelashes at the disturbance and saw a man in a spacer vest across the street arguing with a battered old droid." She reaches up to brush a strand of hair from her eyes. "I didn't see the act itself due to a passing transport, but I felt the man's visceral shock and saw the droid retract a long needle into its wrist. The man stumbled away. Sadness. Fear. Regret. The droid looked like it was gonna grab the man, but a passing CPD drone spooked it and it left before attracting attention." She gestures futilely. "That's when I called Emergency Services. I crossed the boulevard to see if I could help or at least comfort the guy. Once closer, I could tell he was dying. Some sort of nanotech or poison. He was gurgling and foaming at the mouth." Belit feels herself tearing up. "I took his hand. Saw his whole life flash before his eyes. His last thought was to tell me his name, Georg, and to cry out for vengeance."

”Oh,” she says with a tone of surprise, ”You are psychic. Where did you receive training to manage your sensitivity? Are you registered?” Although not strictly speaking a requirement on Akir, the council does encourage psychic sensitive to register themselves. The program has no enforcement mechanism and is entirely voluntary.

The original Akira colonists had a fierce sense of independence that permeates the culture to this very day. The government has been given only enough power to carry out the mandate to investigate the most serious of crimes. The psychic registry is managed with the same veracity as voluntary registration of private after school childcare programs, crop rotation land rest programs and tracing bloodlines for purebred domestic pet rotaks.

Belit sheepishly admits that she never received formal training. "It wasn't until I landed with my current foster-family that I developed any genuine control." She laughs then. "Kinda figure someone must have registered me at some point, given all the troubles I caused. I spent a lot of time bouncing between orphanage and fosterage because my latent talents tended to manifest whenever my emotions got the better of me." Belit shrugs noncommittally. "Maybe I just fell through the cracks."

@Belit:

”Hmmmm,” she seems reflective as she jots a few notes into her datapad. ”I’ll need a moment to speak with my Captain.” she says switching off the recorder. ”You’ll have to excuse me.” she adds before leaving the room.

It’s another lengthy wait before she returns. The fact that she arrives without a datapad or a recorder seems to bode poorly. ”As an unregistered, unassessed and untrained psychic sensitive, the information you have provided cannot be admitted in court. There is simply no way to know if your impressions were accurate, skewed by your own personal feelings or the feelings of other nearby” she explains. ”The information you have provided does coincide with a case that we investigated earlier today, but the physical evidence suggests a drug overdose. You are the only eye witness and the evidence you have provided is inadmissible. I’m afraid we can go no further.”
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:18, Wed 18 Oct 2023.

@Roan

For the past half-cycle, Port Hopewell spaceport has been teaming with traffic. People flowing in from the nearby uprisings on the Malmori Empire’s spinward edge, people flowing out as crop failures and bank foreclosures force some Akira to seek greener pastures.

You’ve been hanging around, watching the central terminal for familiar faces, hoping against hope to catch a glimpse of Frill, Lucerne, Hue or anyone else from the Tannhauser revolt.  The whole winter cycle and there was nothing, not one single survivor from that blasted, desolate moon.

Until today.

Your heart nearly skips a beat when you see Wouroust. He was a mechanic’s apprentice, if you remember it right. Not in your crew, but you saw him once or twice before during shift changes when everyone gathered in the central shaft for pickup and transport back to barracks.

Spotting him, you suddenly find yourself hoping that one of your friends will be among the latest arrivals, but it is not to be.

At least there is one familiar face…

Roan pulls his collar up around his face reflexively, a habit he's picked up since the escape with his fellow skinners from Tannhauser-VI. He's more or less made the spaceport his home over the last few weeks--there are enough people to blend in easily, and nobody much cares if he catches a few winks leaning up against a pillar or in a dark corner somewhere.

It has been a lonely, mind-numbing existence. Now, that has changed.

It takes everything in Roan's power not to run up to Wouroust and embrace him. He's the first friendly (or at least familiar) face Roan has seen since he arrived.

But that survival instinct--the thing that helped him make it off that barren rock, that's kept him alive until now--kicks in just in time. He flinches, but does not move.

Instead, his eyes began scanning the surrounding crowd, looking for signs of someone tailing Wouroust, or keeping watch over him. Is it coincidence that he's showed up now? Or is he the bait to lure the fish who got away?

Belit frowns but bobs her head. "No justice for poor Georg, then. You'll put out an alert for the droid at least, yes? Doesn't it constitute a threat to public safety or some such?" She thumps the table with a fist. "Do my eyes not count for anything? I'm an eyewitness, y'know. Just because I'm psychic doesn't mean I didn't see what I saw." She shakes her head, exasperated. "I guess I can leave now, detective? Unless you have any further questions."

@Belit. ”I’m afraid that I don’t have anything more for you.” she says, not without empathy, but having clearly decided that there is nothing more to be done. ”I will ensure that your description of the droid is communicated to our patrols officers and drones. I do appreciate you taking the time to come in. It was the right thing to do.”

@Roan. Life on the run breeds anxiety fuelled suspicion. Always watching. Always wondering if there is someone on your tail.  Seeing Wouroust raises your guard.

Scanning the crowd of new arrivals, you don’t spot anyone that causes you immediate concern, but a good agent will be hard to spot. Just when you are about to decide that your paranoia is getting the better of you, Wouroust reaches the border authority immigration officer when a man emerges from the crowd and slides in behind him in line…

"Son of a bitch..."

Roan had been all ready to make contact with Wouroust, but then the other man steps into line behind him. Just another traveler passing through? Someone tailing Wouroust? Or a bounty hunter ready to cash in?

Focusing in on the man behind Wouroust, Roan looks for the telltale signs--the bulge of a weapon under the jacket, the discreet communicator in the ear, the specialized cybernetics that no itinerant worker could afford... anything that would tip him off to the man's identity or intent.

Belit softens her expression at the detective's words. She gathers up her purse and makes her way to the door. "Thank you for saying so, detective, and thank you for your time." She follows the detective out of the room and back to the public area of the station. She goes out of her way to thank the desk sergeant as well, thinking cops likely don't get enough thank-yous on an average day. Once outside the precinct house, Belit takes a lingering hit off her vape pen and makes a beeline for the cafe she spied earlier, across from the Border Authority Immigration terminal exit. She phones Mart and Marn as she walks. "Heya. They thanked me for coming in, said it was the right thing to do. They can't do anything because psychic impressions from someone unregistered aren't admissible under law, but they put out an all-points bulletin for the droid."

@Roan. Wouroust spends several minutes speaking with the border control agent. You’re very familiar with the process and know that he may be held at immigration for quite some time before he is granted asylum.  This gives you plenty of time to look the man who slid in behind him over.

He’s tall and slim, wearing a long brown coat that could easily conceal a weapon. You didn’t notice where he came out of the crowd. He may have been here waiting or he may have been on the refugee transport.

Roll +Intelligence. 21:35, Today: GM, on behalf of Roan Beltzer, rolled 3 using 2d6+1 with rolls of 1,1. critical fail something bad happens, take 1XP

Just as Wouroust seems about to finish with the border agent, the slim man steps forward. Producing a datapad from under his coat, he steps up to the agent and grabs Wouroust by the shoulder. You can’t tell what is being said, but it is pretty clear that Wouroust is concerned.

But worse. The man turns and points in your direction…

---

@Belit. ”Well, that’s not the outcome I thought you were going to get.” Marna says sympathetically. ”I’m surprised that the police wouldn’t investigate further. There was something in the news about funding cuts for some services. Apparently the drop in crop prices is making if hard for the government to fund them.”

Another of Alir’s idiosyncrasies, one of the first referenda in the colony prevents the colony council from running a government deficit. The result is a stable tax system but service delivery standards can be volatile as funding fluctuates.

That might explain the sea of people currently waiting at border security. Probably another immigration transport from the fractious systems on the edge of the Empire.

"Ahh shit."

Seeing that he's been made, Roan tries to disappear into the crowd milling about, with just enough urgency to lose potential pursuit, but not so much as to draw extra attention from local law enforcement.

Wouroust was on his own for now...

Belit orders her usual black coffee and finds a table where she can people-watch. "I'mma go check out Robert's berth once I've chilled a bit. I know, I know... mixing my chosen vices. But I need the pot to take the edge off, and the coffee to sharpen what's left." She exhales a plume of vapor. "Plus there's something else I gotta check out whilst I'm here. What? No, nothing to do with Robert and Maryanne. That trouble I mentioned possibly being in. Worried I may cross paths with that droid with only a premonition to possibly warn me." She shakes her head. "I'm here and time may be short. Georg gave me something that I gotta check out. Yes, the dead guy. No, I didn't tell the cops. I had a feeling, okay? You know my feelings. I already feel exposed, having gone to the cops. I'mma go to Robert's berth first, hope I can find something to help me get outta this with my skin intact." She sighs in exasperation. "I don't know... something that'll disable a droid with the push of a button. Yeah, a demper. Droid Electro-Magnetic Pulse. No idea whether Robert would have one, but he was a UW Marine and a trader. He'd probably at least have had a stunner." She took another big hit off her vape. "Yes, Marn. I know life would be so much easier if I was obsessed with sex like a normal girl my age. Pardon me for having been born with an inquisitive mind and telepathy. I'm not big on the whole breeding thing just yet."

@Roan. your heart racing, you wonder if it’s a bounty hunter, bringing skinners back to the Empire. The legal status of artificially created beings varies between systems. Akira recognizes your rights as a person but Akira is also bound by certain cease-fire treaties with the Empire that make for some thorny legal wrangling between the two.

You’re not interested in waiting around to find out which lawyers might be right.

Disappearing into the crowd isn’t all that hard, but staying disappeared might be tricky. Fortunately among the rag-tag band of refugees and the eminently pragmatic Akira and the strange array of beings at the spaceport, your mismatched outfit doesn’t stand out too much.

Public areas mean more places to blend in, but more eyes and more chance surveillance cameras or drones will spot you before you spot them.

There are a few more quiet places, where you might be able to hide. They may be patrolled by security or require special access. You can’t be sure, the spaceport is a strange place.

There are ships. So many independent spacers in terminals three to six, maybe you could find a ship that has been sitting here for awhile and stowaway to wait out the police.

@Belit. ”This thing with the spacer could cause trouble, sis.” comes the reply from Marna. ”Maybe he was into something really shady. Keeping the hell away from that droid seems the best thing to do, but it would be good to have some way to defend yourself.”

As you chat with your brother and sister, you become vaguely aware of a fracas developing over at the border control station. The appearance of a slim man out of the crowd has caused a ripple of panic among many of the refugees. Fortunately if you continue to Robert’s berth at slip 307 it takes you away from the chaos.

Belit lowers her voice as she hunches over her phone. "Whatever he was into, it involves a map to something in the Lambda Zone. He kept it in the data core on his ship, and I have the slip tag to his berth." The collective sense of panic slams into her like storm surge preceding a noetic hurricane, the first glimmers of a migraine aura distorting her vision. "Guys, shit is going down at Border Control. I gotta motor before my occipital lobe gets dropkicked into next week by all the negative waves. I'll call you back once I'm clear." Belit abandons her half-finished coffee and practically flees toward Robert's slip and hopefully a safe haven from the psychic tumult.

@Belit. leaving the main terminal behind along with the waves of psychic distress, you follow signs directing you toward terminal 3 and Robert’s slip.  Out in the smaller terminals, there is less but more varied traffic. Spacers are an eclectic bunch and, being wedged between the UDW and the Empire, Akir attracts a wide variety of different types.

Out on the ground pads, you can see all manner of ships through the spaceport’s plasteel windows. Ground crews and automated workers service passenger transports, cargo haulers, research vessels and private yachts.

Picking your way through, you find the port that leads out to slip 307. The hatchway is locked tight. Seeming secured by a lock controlled using a little terminal where it seems like one of those plastic fobs might fit into a small slot…

Belit makes certain there is no chance anyone could take her unawares before she steps to the terminal. She takes a strong hit off her vape, lets the pen hang from its lanyard, digs Robert's slip tag out of her purse, and fits the tag into the slot. This go south, Bae, you don't go anywhere near that other slip. Do you really want a map someone would kill for? Is your damn acquisitiveness something you want to die for? The tab clicks into place, there is a low chunk, and then a mechanical hum. Fuck yes, she thinks to herself. All this danger has me hotter than I was when Wren Copeland and Paolo Davies asked me to psychically 'ride along' as she lost her virginity. 'Course my concept of gender has been completely fucked ever since. Will all this do the same to my concept of safety? Am I gonna become a danger-junkie?
This message was last edited by the player at 07:53, Sun 22 Oct 2023.

If there was one benefit to having spent so much time loitering around the space port, it was that Roan knew how to get around without causing a scene.

Quickly evaluating his options, Roan decides to make for the terminals, hoping to find an empty ship to hide in until things blow over.

@Belit. you can hardly believe your eyes when the little plastic fob clicks into place. The terminal chips happily and the hatchway rolls open.

Descending down to the pad, heart in your throat, you find…

…an Argo-class starship sitting on the concrete. One of the most versatile classes, there are Argos in many merchant and military fleets.

What kind of ship is it? Choose one:

-UDW Explorer: Advanced Drive, Shuttle Hangar

-UWMC Scout: Advanced Electronics, High Manoeuvrability

-UWMC dropship: Armor, Afterburners

-Civilian Cargo Hauler: Fuel Tanks, Massive Cargo Hold

-Civilian Passenger Transport: Luxury Quarters, Medbay

And what is its name?

---

@Roan. you follow the first long terminal corridor off of the main terminal, doing your best to blend into the crowd of spacers, aliens and droids. Trying to remain discreet, you spend some time feigning indecision at a vending unit while watching the happenings reflected in the glass.

After a few moments, you notice an open hatchway that leads down to the landing pads.

Seeing the name blazoned upon the ship's hull, Belit's mind is suddenly awash with memories from her brief contact with Maryanne. She was psychic. Is psychic. I'm psychic because I'm hers. They didn't abandon me. They made sure I was safe, because they did things that weren't. And she kept the terrible weight of those things from destroying Robert. Because he was a good and decent man forced to do questionable things for questionable reasons. It wasn't the UWMC that made him who he was, it was the Operations Directorate. They programmed him, turned him into a killer, but the conditioning made him unstable and she was his handler. But she broke protocol, helped him escape, became his lover and later his wife. Oh my god... they were fugitives living under assumed identities, and gave me up because they expected OD operatives might catch up with them and kill them at any moment!

---

OOC: The ship's name is obvious to me... Maryanne. She was everything to Robert, the shining light which pierced the darkness which threatened to consume him. Though the song's title and lyrics spell it Marian, Andrew Eldritch pronounces the name as I would Maryanne. (Yes, basically I've stolen the premise of the Bourne films, with Robert as Jason Bourne/David Webb and Maryanne as a hybrid of Marie Kreutz and Nicky Parsons, and bridged it with Sisters Of Mercy lyrics.)

Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nx2I4lSmx3w

Seeing the empty hatchway, Roan takes his chance.

Waiting a few breaths to make absolutely sure no one was tailing him, he kicked the vending machine--feigning disgust at having spent too many credits and not even getting some squid-flavored protein paste out of the deal--before whirling around and making for the hatchway. He didn't much care what sort of ship he found, he just needed a place to lay low and figure out his next move.

@Belit. there is some carbon scoring on the rear quarter of Maryanne’s hull. You’re no expert, but exposed wiring and a broken metal strut lead you to conclude that something back there might be damaged.

Running your hand over the dull gray ceramic plates of the hull, something, perhaps your fingerprints, triggers the gangway to descend from the ship’s belly.

Looking inside, you can see the interior matches the standard issue marine corps gray, with bright safety orange trim marking hard points and sharp angles. The vessel’s walls covered in padded cloth to minimize injury risk to the crew or occupants if they are thrown around.

The ship is pragmatic, military, efficient. From the gangplank there is a single hexagonal hatchway that leads deeper into the ship’s interior.

---

@Roan. the jetway leads down to a long lone of passengers waiting in line to board a small private passenger transport. At the hatchway that leads into the ship, a crew member is checking datapads and identification.

Staying in line, the clock is ticking. It’s only a few moments before you are expected to show a ticket and identification to board the ship. Looking around the apron for an opportunity, you spot a number of workers, loading cargo, servicing ships or managing refuelling.

Choose:
Option one. One of the workers has stripped off his yellow spaceport ground crew vest. If you are quick enough, you might be able to snatch it while he isn’t watching.

Option two. The landing pad is busy, but the workers are focussed on their tasks. You should be able to slip past the workers and sneak over to the next landing pad.

or something else?

Roan's eyes flick between the adjacent landing pad and the unattended vest. He isn't sure how well acquainted the ground crew are, so he can't be sure he'll blend in.

The next landing pad it is.

Timing it so that the fewest number of people are looking in his direction, Roan waits for the perfect moment to slip out of line and over to the other landing pad.

Belit does a full circuit of the ship's exterior, inspecting it dorsally and ventrally for further damage. She takes pictures of everything she finds, then climbs the boarding ramp to inspect the hatch. "Are you already keyed to me , too?" she asks it. "Fingerprints? Retinal scan? Voiceprint? Genetic scan? The last of those seems the most likely."

@Roan. watching for an opportunity to slip past the shipyard ground crews unnoticed…

17:42, Today: GM, on behalf of Roan Beltzer, rolled 13 using 2d6+2 ((5,6)). full success

…you time it just right so that you sneak off the landing pad without drawing any attention.

The shipyard is busy and cluttered enough that evading the workers isn’t a problem at all. Skirting along the edges and using cargo containers as cover, you soon spot a ship sitting alone on a launchpad with its gangplank down.

---

@Belit. the ship’s dorsal side shows more signs of damage with long, thin lines of blackened char burned into the hull plates. You don’t know enough about space travel or the ship to know what might have happened, but it seems clear that something back there has sustained some damage.

”Clever.” comes a voice in response to your musing. Is a sound like old cigarettes and bad whiskey, but formless, unliving, or at least not alive in the sense that living things reveal a psychic impression. ”It’s genetically coded.” it continues, coming from somewhere in the forward part of the ship.

Using the momentum of his successful evasion of the port security thus far, Roan swiftly makes for the gangplank, then slows just as he approaches it, going up it as carefully and silently as he can.

Belit considers the hatch and the voice. "Then you likely know who I am, within a certain range of probability," she observes. "And you are? Probability suggests an independent crewbot or the ship's computer. Pleasure to meet you either way." Belit extends her hand to touch the hatch's activation plate. "Request permission to come aboard."

@Belit. ”Yes, very clever indeed.” says the voice. ”I’m a Knightsbridge Autonomous Operating System.” the cockpit replied. ”It’s your ship now, so come on board. Come up into the cockpit.”

@Roan. you pause for a moment before your foot touches the metal plate. There are voices up ahead, a man’s voice and a woman’s, but they are somewhere deeper into the ship. You can slip in unnoticed.

@B.B. ”Awright, c’mon guys let’s get to the bus.” Coach Trellis bellows as sixteen teenagers start shuffling listlessly. This assistant coaching job for the Serrah City Sting rollerball team was a quick way to score some credit and help Uncle Trellis out since his regular assistant came down with a nasty flu.

Having spent some time on hover skates and even more time cracking heads, your input led the Sting to a silver medal finish at planet wide championships. Not a bad weekend away from the farm, but now that you’re back at Port Hopewell, you’re trying to corral the kids and get them moving to get them home.

Belit leaves the hatch open behind her as she embarks and makes her way forward. "What should I call you? Do you have a preferred name or designation? I'm not up on proper etiquette when it comes to AOSes, sorry." She pokes her head into the cockpit and looks around. "Is there somewhere you'd rather be? Do you have digital family somewhere?"

Roan hesitates just for a moment, unsure if he should look for an unoccupied ship. But he was lucky enough to evade capture until now... no reason to tempt fate. He stalks carefully and quietly up the gangplank, hoping to slip inside and find a nice quiet bolthole to wait until local security got bored of looking for him.

Baby sunk into his seat at an awkward angle, letting his long legs extend past the edge of the footwell and out into the aisle. He was cramped, his shoulders stiff from sitting upright for what had felt like a forever of hearing highschoolers chatter on and off about whatever drama had transpired at his old alma mater. Something a dropout like himself never imagined he would be subject to again, much less in the front seat of the bus.

He had his good old uncle Trellis to thank. Or 'Coach' as he'd so insufferably insisted Baby call him during the duration of his new job. It wasn't a career by any means, and even less of a paycheck, but he wasn't exactly swimming in opportunities to do anything better with himself right now. No amount of fluffing his resume was going to convince anyone to take a risk on a kid with fewer references than misdemeanors. Least Baby could do in return was herd cats a while longer and put these two days...these two LONG days...in the rearview mirror.

His head lolled to the side, checking for any change in the view out his window. No dice. Trellis had made it pretty clear they were following protocol; the order of events had been set since their first day together and no one was supposed to stray from that. With the only thing said itinerary had failed to account for being the literal bus load of meatheads it was based around.

Coach really liked to be in control of everything. His team, his students, even his good for nothing nephew, apparently. Baby thought maybe he should feel flattered that his uncle still cared about what he got up to, but somehow all it managed to do was piss him off. An emotion he now channeled into the lengthy blare of the horn that made more than a few heads turn.

"Attention all Serrah City second stringers! This is your Captain speaking!" He croaked into the intercom. "If you're not currently wearing a seatbelt...enjoy your extended stay here at Port Hopewell. See you next season."

With the announcement out of the way, he slipped back into his usual slouch and revved the engine, sending the whole thing bucking forward into an obnoxious donut before peeling away from the curb in a cloud of exhaust fumes. It was times like this, when Baby felt so carelessly weightless, that he actually missed driving. And by driving he meant street racing, sure, but technically the technicality was close enough. The power under the pedal, the rumble in his chest, the wind in his hair. Feeling that kind of freedom again was practically all he ever wanted anymore.

Almost.

He'd see how heading home sounded to those silver medalists after a little joyride...
This message was last edited by the player at 11:33, Tue 31 Oct 2023.

@Belit. ”The only name I’ve ever had is Knightsbridge Autonomous Operating System.” the cockpit replied dryly, the voice always sounding like it was in the edge of breaking into a lifetime cigarette smoker’s hack.  ”Robert just called me ‘computer’ and Maryanne didn’t say much. My license numbers indicate that I have two immediate relatives. I expect we bear an uncanny family resemblance.” The last sentence sounding a lot like ironic humour, there might be more to this AI after all.

But that might have to wait. Just as you are about to reply, the ship asks, ”Are we expecting someone? There is a man on the gangplank entering the ship.”

---

@Roan. seeing no prying eyes, you slip inside the ship. Heading toward the stern to avoid the voices in the cockpit, you find a small  berth with a bunk and a locker. Crew quarters, unoccupied by the look of it.

---

@B.B. the bus shudders under your heavy foot, lurching forward reluctantly. Shouts of fright and excitement come from the seniors assembled on board as you push the unwieldy machine through an attempt at a donut.

Through the rear cameras, you see the dull grey exhaust turn inky blue, then sooty black, just before the engine sputters out and dies. ”Gawd dammit,” Uncle Trellis bawls angrily, opening to door and popping open the ancient vehicle’s hood. A moment later, he emerges face black with carbon. ”Lookit what trouble your hot dogging got us into. This thing is dead. We’re gonna hafta wait for the school to send us another one.”

You are stranded at the spaceport until a new bus arrives.

Belit frowns and glances aft. "Only thing I'm expecting is trouble. Got any intrusion countermeasures?" she replies in a low growl. "Failing that, got an arms locker close at hand with a stunner or the like?" She raises a finger to forestall a response, focuses her thoughts, and seeks the intruder's mind with her own. She skims their surface thoughts, and attempts to glean their identity and purpose. "Who are you? What do you want?" she subvocalizes.

Maybe my luck is looking up after all...

With that thought, Roan allowed himself a crooked smile of satisfaction, and stole into the crew quarters. As quietly as he could, he perused the lockers for anything useful, then began searching for a good spot to hunker down.

@Belit. you reach out and touch a mind that is preoccupied with worry, dreading being captured, returned to a life of servitude, chattel in the cramped cold dark.

@Roan. a woman's voice comes from nowhere, from everywhere all at once. "Who are you? What do you want?" In your short life in the mines, have you ever encountered a psychic? Are there psychic skinners?  It seems to me that if there are psychics in the Malmori Empire they are probably high placed or used as internal security... they would probably have been pretty frightening...

As the woman's voice invades his mind, Roan recoils almost as if physically struck. He drops to his hands and knees and crawls pitifully to a corner of the room, drawing the concealed laspistol from under his coat. He brandishes it inexpertly, his eyes wide with horror.

"No," he croaks, his voice a mixture of fear and anquish. "It can't be. How did they find me? The auditors..."

His mind is flooded with images...

Figures in dark suits, with some kind of reflective masks covering their faces. He sits across from one, his hands chained to a chair. Their voice is a mechanical drone, filtered through their mirror mask.

"Your audit will now begin," they say. "State your designation and work assignment."

Dread... Hatred... An unquenchable desire to escape...

"The only way out is through," the others say, and he knows it's true. But to make it off of Tannhauser-VI, they have to pass right by the barracks for the auditors.

"It's a risk we have to take," the others say, and he knows that not all of them will make it off that rock.

Adrenaline... Pain... Everything he's ever feared, seared into his mind's eye...

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees them--their faces reflecting the carnage, orange and red. The others are clutching their heads and writhing at their feet. He feels as if his brain is about to burst from his skull. But he runs. He can do nothing else. Just keep running.

"The only way out is through."

Belit reflexively slams her mental shields shut as the images from the intruder's mind assail her. She sits down hard against the bulkhead, clutching her head as her vision swims. "Notgoodnotgoodnotgood. Breathe, Bae. Breathe." She pulls her knees tightly to her chest and wraps her arms around them, burying her face in the crooks of her elbows until the throbbing in her skull subsides. Several minutes pass before she dares raise her head. "Fucking Malmori... they torture their slave labor, and use teeps to keep 'em in line. Our 'guest' is a fugitive." Belit climbs unsteadily to her feet and fumbles for her vape pen. A short draw followed by two longer ones, each held for a slightly-increasing number of heartbeats before exhalation. "Computer... can you secure their compartment until I have time to collect myself and visit in-person? I don't want 'em scarpering off in a panic. Could hurt themself or someone else."

@Belit. ”You’re the boss, boss.” the computer replies. ”Crew quarters are on lockdown. There is cold water in the galley if that would help with whatever is bothering you.”

@Roan. ”Hi there stowaway,” a raspy voice emanates from some hidden transceiver in the berth’s walls. ”Just sit tight for a few seconds, will ya? Skipper will be down in a sec to speak with you.”
This message was last edited by the GM at 04:11, Tue 07 Nov 2023.

The voice coming from the ship is at once startling and comforting. On the one hand, Roan isn't expecting it, which causes him to jerk and swing his laspistol around wildly. On the other hand, it is clearly coming from the ship itself, not originating inside his head. This is a voice belonging to... someone who is not an auditor. Of that much he can be sure.

”Just sit tight for a few seconds, will ya? Skipper will be down in a sec to speak with you.”

The words snap him back to reality, sending the memories back into his subconscious where he'd buried them. Someone is coming for him.

"Shit..." he mutters under his breath. He leaps up and begins searching for an escape--an air vent, a door into an adjoining room, or any other way for him to get off the ship.
This message was last edited by the player at 06:56, Tue 07 Nov 2023.

Meanwhile, Baby was confronted with a more common breed of shuttle trouble. Gathering up enough desire to take action, he planted a hand to the dash of the stalled machine, braced, and pulled himself to his feet. Letting Trellis lay as much blame there as he'd liked.

"A new bus?" Baby echoed, peering out the shuttle window at the beleaguered station surrounding him. "Yeah. 'New'. Huh." The place was a mess of aged machinery and tired workers. He hadn't seen this Hopewell in its heyday, but the faded plaques that greeted arrivals told all; a long line of distinguished history stared them down, while the station itself stood as testament to its own decomposure. "C'mon Coach. The school would sooner mail me a diploma than spend a single honest cred. Surprised this hunk of junk held on long as it did, any older and she'd of had a set of wheels."

Baby heaved his bag over a shoulder and kicked open the emergency hatch. It groaned and slid half-open, getting stuck in its frame. The thing was definitely due for retirement. And not too shy to tell you so. With one final look at the inside of the shuttle, he hopped down onto the platform. There wasn't even a breeze to ruffle his hair and give him some sense of the time of day here. If not for the flickering sign announcing 'Welcome to Port Hopewell, your Gateway to the Amaterasu System!,' Baby could have been just about anywhere.

The first thing he did when his boots hit concrete was give his bat a few aimless swings. Urging his fingers around its familiar shape was enough to take his mind off being stranded for a moment. It was comforting to know that if worse came to worst, there'd be no shortage of things to put over the plate here. "Relax. Quit twisting your knickers over a little engine trouble, yeah? Order a couple pizzas. Pretty yourself back up. I'll figure something out before the pies get cold." he'd reassure, wetting a thumb with his mouth before reaching out to daub away some of the soot blacking out his uncles features. The gesture was not welcome.

Before leaving the platform behind, Baby stopped long enough to grab an advertisement flier from where it lay crumpled on the ground. Tap-tap-taping it airborne with the back end of his bat, he skimmed his eyes across the landscape for less populated areas to wander toward. If luck would have him, maybe even a transport to 'borrow'. But considering his streak...
This message was last edited by the player at 11:57, Tue 07 Nov 2023.

@Roan. there isn’t much to these Spartan crew berths. A bed, a table surface that folds down, a small nozzle that recycles the air. But the good news is that the locks aren’t made to keep people in. With a little muscle and if you are sitting waiting for too long, you are confident that you could force the door open.

@B.B. ”Don’t worry about my knickers, laddie. Worry about finding us a way home that gets us there sooner and I’ve got a cred for ya.” he snarls in retort as you stomp away leaving a couple of teenagers lounging around listlessly beside the broken down bus.

The spaceport is teeming with people and you can see shops rise above the control dome every few minutes. Finding transport won’t be a problem, but finding it in short order might be a trick. The promise of a full credit to parlay into a short ride across the southern continent will sweeten the pot for whatever ship’s captain is hard up enough to take the job.

Belit swings by the galley, grabs a tray and a couple cold beverages, and scrapes together a few sandwiches from whatever sounds appetizing before heading aft. She pauses at the door to the crew quarters, balances the tray on one arm, and tells the computer to unlock the door. She knocks and asks loudly, "Ya hungry at all? Thirsty? Got some sammiches and cold drinks here if so."

Hearing the knock, Roan whirls around to face the door, his pistol trained on it.

"Who are you? You with the auditors? Tell those imperial fucks I'm not going back. You hear me? I'm not going back!"

His voice quakes with something between terror and rage.

Belit scrunches her nose at the wave of negative emotions pelting her forebrain. "Nope, not Malmori. Grew up here on Akir. Couldn't tell you where I was born." She crouches down and sets the tray in front of the door. "I'll leave the tray for you, you can grab it any time. Door's unlocked." Backing away down the corridor, Belit calls, "Ain't got nothing against synthetics. You rest up as long as you like, I sure as hell ain't gonna turn you in. Name's Belit... Belit Ilani."
This message was last edited by the player at 07:00, Fri 10 Nov 2023.

For a moment, Roan is struck dumb by the lack of aggression from Belit. He had been ready for a fight, to blast his way off the ship if needed... just as he'd done to escape Tannhauser-VI. He stands slack-jawed for a few seconds, before carefully approaching the door. Hearing the retreating voice, he brings up his laspistol and opens it, peeking through. He sees the tray of food and drinks--and that's all. No hit squad, no weapons, no mirror-faced auditors.

Not yet brave enough to enter into the hallway, he presses himself up against the wall of the crew quarters, next to the open door, and calls to his benefactor down the hall.

"If you're not Malmori, then who are you? How did you... talk to me like that? I thought only the auditors could do that."

"i'm just a student between semesters at Academy. Akir being an agricultural colony, Harvest is our long seasonal break," Belit calls back in response. "Came to Port Hopewell for personal business, which is why I'm not back at the farm helping out. Could prolly get my folks to offer you a job for the season, If you don't mind farm work. Always need help at Harvest," she volunteers. She pauses briefly before continuing. "Don't know jack about auditors except what you broadcast when I touched your mind. I'mma guess they're scanners too. Psychics. I'm also a latent telekinetic, but that only presents during emotional outbursts. Let's just say I... was a difficult child."
This message was last edited by the player at 15:42, Mon 13 Nov 2023.

Roan lets the words sink in, judging their sincerity. It seemed highly unlikely that a bounty hunter would be so elaborate as to lure him out in such a way. And what were the odds he stumbled onto the ship of the very people looking for him?

He stashes his laspistol back under his coat and steps out into the hallway.

"I didn't know there were other... psychics? Other than the auditors. Apologies for lumping you in with those..."

He pauses.

Were the auditors the monsters he thought they were? Or were they slaves as well, under the boot heels of the empire?

He shakes his head and pushes past the thought.

"I wasn't trying to steal your ship or anything. Caught the eye of, well, someone looking for my kind. Needed a place to lay low. Sorry for the intrusion."

Roan awkwardly shifts from one foot to the other. He's never had to introduce himself to someone socially before.

"Um. Name's Roan..."

He looks down at the nametag stitched into the stolen coveralls he wears: Beltzer.

"Roan Beltzer. I guess..."

Belit dismissively waves her hand. "Nothing to apologize for, I get in trouble myself. Having a place to lay low is important. You can stay here as long as you need. Happen to know anything about hacking?"

@Belit. @Roan. ”Hey, what’s this about hacking?” the ship’s computer snarls with intensity normally reserved for those roused too early after a night of drinking. ”You better not be thinking of doing anything foolish.”

@Belit. Is that other berth key fob burning a whole in your …. erm … pocket?

@B.B. the bustling spaceport would give even the most mentally calloused sensory overload. A seven foot tall alien strides past, hissing something about lost luggage. A droid with a single wheel in the place of legs rolls by chattering about the transport it just missed. The wandering leads you through a number of terminals, checking into small cantinas but finding nothing particularly promising.

Belit exaggeratedly rolls her eyes at the computer's remark. "I was given the fob to another berth here at the starport and told there were navcharts aboard the ship there that I should retrieve," she replies with a natural-born liar's complete lack of tells... or so she hopes. "As a personal favor to a family friend. Oh, and what can you tell me about the Lambda Zone?"

@Belit. @Roan. ”Well hell, why not just say so?” the cantankerous computer snarled.  ”Got my circuits all shorted for nothing. If you want to bring along one of my remote units, maybe I can help with that. There are a few little ‘copter style drones in the cargo hood. I can patch comms through that and tag along to give you any tech support.”

Belit glances past Roan as she replies. "There's an element of danger. A rogue droid may be involved. Have any means of disabling one that won't trash your drone?" She pads to the end of the corridor, retrieves the tray, and returns. "There's a table and comfy seats in the galley, C'mon, you should eat." She heads forward and pauses just outside the galley waiting for Roan to follow.

”Good droid will chew that little ‘copter up and spit it out,” the ship replies, ”But there should be a few of them back there. Cheap and disposable.” it adds. ”Your dad kept a few things in a weapons locker just outside the port side engine compartment. Not sure what he had down there but you might find something to keep a droid at arm’s length.”

Belit chews her lip thoughtfully. "Having aerial reconnaissance may come in handy. I can sense organic minds at range, but not positronic ones. Don't even know if that's something I can learn."

Elsewhere still but nearer yet B.B. casually maundered what was, unbeknownst to himself, soon to be a collision course set to knock him right back off the straight and narrow. Taking in the strangely familiar strangeness that filled every corner of the port and view thereof atop this invisible tightrope. While not his first foray stationside--or second, third or fourth for that matter--soaking up the outlandish shapes and shades of the UDW's diverse tapestry was infinitely more exciting than another day of watching quinwheat grow back home. Even if the stares returned to him were much less friendly. He was used to it. His being here both a testament and test of Akir's open arms.

Most just saw a Malmori. Hard to miss in fact. The differences between humanity's many offshoots and those whom declared themselves its pinacle as obvious as spotting a wolf that'd wandered into kennel. And unhappily, these supposed lesser-thans lived lives of servitude and selective-breeding beneath the brutal yoke of Shad's imperium. Animalized with labels like Skinner. Auditor. Etc. Sins Baby had never taken part of but been paying for all his life the same. Honestly, the bank's debts were nearly kind by comparison. Nearly.

Born Bave Bonifaes Vandammez, and barely much further from where he was standing, B.B. was strictly speaking Akiran. But there was no arguing his heritage. His ilk known and feared for their unmistakably bright eyes. Eyes that only grow brighter with time's march, the careful ecosystem they contain aging like a rare vintage.  Himself an early bloomer his adult blood and bones had already come in, before B.B'd had much chance to bleed or break the old ones in fact. And at present he stood, uncertainly, on the very cusp of his 'Uncauling'. A formative event of postpubescence where the world in which he'd been living would be brought into the harsh focus of an instinctive marksman. Or so his mother warned.

The Empire was seldom spoke of, and never fondly. For his mother, once a pregnant asylum seeker, had remarried here. And resolutely refused to raise her children as she had been: to see different as better or worse. Words like purebred, half-sibling and step-father were not welcome under their  ever-crowded but always loving roof. And to her credit the woman had done well-enough with the boy she'd been given. Though too young and hot-blooded to be humble he wanted to do right by her. Failed to, often. But wanted to all the same.

He wouldn't be stranded here taking 'Coach's' shit otherwise. And his knuckles certainly wouldn't be announcing themselves so loudly from the outside of Belit's inheritance.

"Oi! Oi! Oi! Anyone in there want to make a quick cred busin' some kids a short ways..."

He pauses, then adds.

"Not like..._{I don't mean trafficing them or nothing} ...Just our old ride ain't going anywhere else but the junk heap is all."






@Belit - This'd be the crossroads where you get to decide if the two know each other. My vote is YES. Maybe they met after Belit sold some drugs to B.B's little brother (Loonise--better known as 'don't call me nice' or 'looney'). B.B. was NOT happy about it, and showed up with every intention of intimidating you to stop. Thinly veiled as you encroaching on his 'turf'. Maybe even left thinking they succeeded at just that. But the whole 'she's literally psychic' deal probably means she got a third-eye full of the fact B.B. was all bark and just looking out for their sibling. These days he's more bite, but that sheepdog side of him is still there.
This message was last edited by the player at 05:33, Sun 19 Nov 2023.

@Belit, @Roan ”Ship’s never been so popular, skipper.” the computer chimes in, perhaps avoiding the question about the Lamba Zone. ”You got another visitor out on the slip.”

@B.B. ”Cool your jets a sec, will ya?” comes a gravelly voice, sounding vaguely hungover hover, emitting from the ship’s loudspeaker. ”I’ll check with the skipper to see if you’re welcome aboard or if I turn the cannons on ya.”

Belit hands the tray to Roan and shoos him toward the galley. "You should eat," she says again. "Please. Back shortly." She heads aft to the gangway. "This one say what they want," she asks the computer, "or they just bang on my hull for giggles?"

A bit of both and more of the same as the computer offers to demo its inbuilt armaments. Causing B.B. to coach his brandished bat between arm and body as he forms a finger-heart in reply. All with a breed of try-me confidence most men needed body armor to produce.

@Belit. "Who can understand the motivation of organics?" the computer replied grimly. "Sounds like he might want to hire the ship though. I'm damaged, so some extra cred would help get those stardrives up and running again."

Belit commiserates with her positronic counterpart. "I sure as hell can't, and I can read minds." She hits the button to deploy the boarding ramp and descends to meet whoever is waiting outside. "This day just keeps getting busier," she mutters to herself.

Inch by inch the falling footbridge reveals him. Trouble in a road torn racing jacket. His sports bludgeon spun from one idle hand to the other as he leans left, then right. As if expecting the aforementioned skipper to step out from behind Belit's smaller frame. It doesn't happen. And as the Malmori moves on to take his measure of the fostered farmer's daughter come captain, he'd look exactly like a cat with newfound mouse. Messing a hand through his already messy hair and failing to suppress a smirk.

"So." he'd say. Letting the o lay on his lips a little longer than it need to, a brow raised. "Gonna turn those cannons on me?" Far from sounding threatened, Baby likened the landed ship to the bonus stage of some old school beat-em-up rather than potential peril. If push came to shove that is. "Or..." The r hangs around awhile, an all but written invitation for Ilani to interrupt.


_{These Vibes: https://i.ibb.co/y0R6nmt/BBetter.png}
This message was last edited by the player at 09:42, Sun 26 Nov 2023.

"And Baby makes three. Wadda ya know," Belit snorts with a smirk. "What brings you to Port Hopewell?" She gets that look in her eye like she knows exactly what B.B. is going to say, but she doesn't give him time to voice a response. "Maryanne is for hire, it so happens, but I have an errand to run before I could take on anything new."  She smirks again. "And don't you worry none 'bout the cannons, my AI gets cranky when he ain't had his iCoffee. 'Sides, he knows how much the portmaster charges to clean stains off the tarmac."
This message was last edited by the player at 02:42, Mon 27 Nov 2023.

She earns herself an impressed whistle, B.B.'s spaceball bat brought to back and bridging the span between each shoulder. Still looking down, just less down on the newly minted ship master. "Errand, huh?" He'd repeat back, trotting the word out with a fresh coat of skepticism. "This a drug deal?" Belit found herself being asked. The Maryanne immediately mistook for a mule and Ilani a smuggler. Seemed he thought she was moving up in the underworld.

Belit rolls her eyes and clicks her tongue in an exaggerated fashion. "The possession and sale of cannabinoids and derived products is perfectly legal in the southern hemisphere. My trademarked brand of cultivars has long been approved by the Growers Regulatory Association. I am a botanist specializing in cannabinoids! And thanks to the hard work and generosity of my birth parents, newly the owner of a starship." She dismissively waves a hand. "My errand, however, has nothing to do with my established business. I have to retrieve a piece of property on behalf of a family friend."

Impervious to Belit's legalese, B.B. staggers his reply until the wan woman went back to speaking his language. "Family friend? When'd you get yourself either of those?" The boy needled, assuming himself enough of the latter to poke fun at the former. Now very former from what he was hearing. "And whoever's just gonna hand over whatever to your scrawny self just like that?" he heckled, hiding a hint of deeper concern in the dense, prickly landscape of his speech. Folks weren't fond of forking much over with the banks circling Akir's bloodied economy. Enough fares ended in a footrace for him to know that much.

"Well go on then." Baby bid, turning himself sideways that she could pass but sticking to her like a shadow if she did. Explaining himself in a lax drawl. "Don't go giving me a look now, we both know I need an eye on me or I'll be flying that thing off from under you. I just ain't in the mood for another one of Trellis' tirades..."

Belit snickers at B.B.'s jest. "Yeah yeah, I'm completely friendless. Diss my family again, though, and I'll burn out your damn brainstem from the inside." When he turns to let her pass, she halts partway and totally invades his personal space. "Mmm, why do you have to smell so good?" She throws her arms around his neck and kisses his cheek. "Missed your snark whilst I was away at Academy, babycakes. Have I told you recently how awesome a friend you are?" She untangles herself and slips past. "Gotta tell ya, Baby, today has been surprise after surprise, and this errand is the fucked-up next chapter of a fucked-up political thriller. I saw a dude get murdered today, and with his dying thought he gave me the slip tag to his ship's berth here. It's over in one of the other landing areas."
This message was last edited by the player at 05:33, Wed 29 Nov 2023.

An expected scowl descends upon B.B. as the botanist prescribes him a due dose of his own medicine. Skirting well marked boundries with an embrace that not only goes unreturned but sees his hands flee as far as reach allows. Distancing those devil's playthings from Ilani as an incriminating awareness of each unfilled palm spread though him, thinking very hard about anything but white hair pulled taut. In Baby the bridge between stimuli and reaction was arrow straight and temper short. But therein lay the allure of petting tigers.

Not so expected was his next reaction. A flush flooding his face. Pupils dilating until they crowded the darks which housed them. A glimpse of tongue lashing over dry lips. All of it quickly ruined as unquiet synapses stripped away any mystery and lay the reason bare. Murder on the mind, a dozen unvoiced questions now swam like startled fish within his skull. And try as she might not a single who, what, where or why materializes amid the teeming hows his head contained. Schlocky imaginings that saw the self as its component parts and sought spectacle in their unjoining.

Blessedly, B.B. reins in his bucking subconscious;
"Might be." he'd return. "But I wouldn't bet any cred on it with the streak of surprises you've been walking into." The Malmori shook his head nice and slow at the prospect. "Fucking ^woof. No small wonder you're paler than a pearl's ghost."

A pained expression crosses Belit's face. "Did I mention there's a fugitive skinner in my galley having a snack? They escaped an Imperial labor camp, found their way to Akir, and stowed away on my ship hoping to rest and throw off pursuit." Shaking her head, she remarks, "And today I learned that the fucking Empire uses people like me to torture people like my guest."

His belief now well and fully beggared B.B. could only join the woman in her newest revelation. Simply resigning himself to the fact today would have more twists in store than a pretzel shop.

"Botanists..." he'd keenly posit.
This message was last edited by the player at 10:24, Thu 30 Nov 2023.

Belit raises her vape pen to her lips and take a huge hit after fumbling with the lanyard from which it hangs, then exhales for what seems like forever. It's a tell B.B. knows all too well. For all her seeming nonchalance, she's seriously freaked out.

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."

<seagreeen>"Legal to sell to adults, Ms Criminal Mastermind,"</seagreen> B.B. replied, carrying on the teasing banter and giving as good as he got. Knowing she was right about the space station, he was slightly irked but kept his mouth shut, preferring to let both his error and his feelings for Marn simply pass by unacknowledged.

Leaving Maryanne through the ship-to-shore airlock, you exit onto the docking ring mezzanine and follow the signs to the station's main promenade where Belit knows she will find the duty free and the small bar 'White Ring Alehouse' - a play on the white rings issued to graduates of the university robotics program. (Belit Take 1 XP for useful details)

The station follows the planetary day/night cycle and things are winding down for the workday. The duty free outfitter remains open and is stocked with a variety of space faring equipment while the pub is slowly picking up with students passing by for a quick drink before heading off to dorms or back to campus to the university labs and libraries.