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..."