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[Jorus Merrill]

INDEPENDENT VESSEL 'WRETCHED HIVE'
NEW HOLSTICE ORBIT

When things got rough, the Hive switched to shift work, but things weren't rough right now. The ship's equivalent of night had dimmed the lights and quieted the work bays. In one hangar's corner, four chairs and a table sat bolted to the deck in case of zero-gee. Two chairs were occupied by two mechanics in coveralls that used the to be blue. One was human, young with old eyes; the other was an orange Krevaaki; both slurped cheap lum.

"He'll be here."

"I'm just saying, Darr, he's hitchhiking these days. Delays can be a thing."

"I pity the fool that delays [member="Seydon of Arda"] ."

"Oh, he's not like that. Feth, for a stone killer he's downright shy. Apologetic, even." The human, Jorus, eyed the remaining contents of his durasteel mug. "Maybe I should nuke some ribenes."

"I could go for some." Dingo Darr set his mug aside, rested his pincers on his knees, and stood. "I'll grab them."

"Thanks." Jorus slugged back the last of his lum and stood up too. "I'm going to take a leak and check the scanners again."

The Krevaaki busied himself with a package of tomo-spiced Karkan ribenes labeled 'Karkin' Ribs'. "Any idea what ship's dropping him off with us?"

"Not a gorram clue."

Darr grunted. One pincer sheared into the ribene packaging. "Hope the lock fits, is all."

Jorus paused in the doorway of the hangar's 'fresher. "Nah, I got the force cylinder running. If the airlock doesn't mate up, he'll be fine to come over."

The scent of tomo-spice filled the hangar. "Sounds like a plan to me, boss."

 

[Seydon of Arda]

The Guilty Night made translation from Hyperspace into Real, shuddering off vapour coats of ice, trailing a few brief stuttering plumes were plasma coughed from frayed feed lines wrapped around its barrel hull. It operated according to tramp traditions, helmed by tramp spacers running from sob-worthy woes, carrying freight that included any product between trinket and the occasional, black-taped delivery of warm skin bar-tattooed and waiting for indentured work. They rarely said no to anyone willing to pay stock fees for transportation. A grit-caked drifter caught up with them between Gamorr and Rothana. They took his platinum bars, stuck him in a closet converted into makeshift quarters, and mentioned lunch was served in a narrow galley. The Guilty Night broadcasted their ship idents toward the Wretched Hive; mind, that every digital registration scroll, guild ident stamp, authorization packages and captain's I.D. were forged or very, very expired.

It took half an hour sussing out airlock umbilicals. The Night extended a mating bridge toward the Hive's waiting portside dock, a sheathed extension fattened with rad-insulation bunches and atmosphere lines pumping in recycled air to meet the other vessel's interior pressure. When panels lit green on either side, the drifter was given a shove and watched jogging over to athewaiting airlock. Bulkhead portcullis hatches and solid shield blastdoors hissed and sunk throatily into frame jambs. The Guilty Night disengaged, sent the Hive their best wishes, trailing off on a vector toward the Parlemian Trade Route.

The airlock doused its interior with treated anti-bacterial mists and washed hard-light scanner grids to and fro. Once quarantine criteria were satisfied, a triple-thick set of further entry hatchways jawed open with abrupt, wrenching servo-motor slams. Quartz-halogen light winked in. Filtered, stale air, scents of fibrous insulation, ozone, hydraulic fluid and gelatinous greases, lho smoke, cheap over-the-counter inhalation narcotics, and too-sweet ribenes sauce washed hotly with sugared molasses and Ithorian garlic.

The drifter stepped in under the hangar bay lanterns, pulling back on his hood-cowl and shemagh scarf. Seydon of Arda took a deep breath, rolling out tension aches in his shoulders and hips. Bedraggled, his kit reduced to just a frayed tucked in tunic and thrice stitched pants, hauling a wax-leather backpack over one shoulder easy and a length of corded burlap clutched in hand, he looked every inch like another unwashed vagrant. Cats-eyes caught the light, shining sickly, scanning the hangar floor with tight attention to detail. Seydon coughed and snorted against his sleeve, striding forward.

“...Jor? ...Captain Merrill? Jorus!”

[member="Jorus Merrill"]

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Seydon of Arda"]

The light closest to the table was on the fritz. In the gloom, chewing on ribenes, Jorus and Dingo Darr watched the white-haired man come through the hatch. Cats' eyed gleamed in the hangar's low light: he'd spot them shortly. Jorus reached up to the nearby bulkhead and hammered his fist against the plating. The light flickered on, bathing the table in a dull orange glow. Jorus eyed his fingers; he'd apparently made more of a mess with the ribenes than he'd thought.

"Over here," he said, wiping sauce on a rag stained with hyperdrive coolant. He got up and headed along the hangar bay's edge, winding between half-deconstructed haters and reconfigurable manufacturing gear. He'd sent Seydon an image of his new face, and a shallow attempt at an explanation. "It's me, Seydon," he said, just to be sure. "Got some lum and tomo-spiced Karkan ribenes good to go. When's the last time you ate something you didn't kill, bud?"

 

[Seydon of Arda]

“...A while, maybe?” He said, trying to smile. He joined them at the table and sat into a creaking fold-out chair, sweeping lug-nuts off the table for space. The deck kept humming under his boots. “You make do. Problem's never the meat, it's always the water. I watched this trick from a bushwoman: you find the big, fat, bowl roots that look like the plant's all swollen under the dirt. Take your knife, get a handful of shavings off the root-ball, clench as hard as you can to your lips and there: a gulp worth of clean water.”

Seydon looked over at the Captain. Somewhere under mechanics' grease and finger streaks of missed ribenes sauce was a broad nose, settled under dark eyes and mopped hair a day late for washing. Self-adhesive glue stuck against his opened shirt collar, smelling like a dozen impulse nacelle engine houses split open for maintenance, old colour-washed overalls fading at the joints but still darkening where oils, plug salves, and conduction pomades soaked into the threading. Seydon had never known Jorus Q. Merrill as a young man. Something perturbing spoiled his new face, unscarred and smooth. He hadn't been that much privy to the Captain's affairs. Arms-length at most, divided by private institutions, Jorus' dedication to myriad responsibilities and Seydon's own adherence to archaic and esoteric pathways. It was deeply flattering he got notice of Jorus' change out. Even if the explanation was a few thin sentences hinting at self-deprecation and a want for more.

'Youth is wasted on the youthful', Seydon remembered an old, jaded adage. What was it like experiencing a complete conscious transference? Into new skin and sinew? More than a few 'Dark Siders' opted out of their wretched, broken vessels in favour of healthier bodies, delaying the wages their dependence on black energy wrought on their flesh. Jorus never struck the Dunaan as vain. Tired, perhaps. Maybe frustrated at lingering palsies in his fingers or when reflexes failed to perform as they once could. Seydon wouldn't and could not judge. After all, he bartered away a piece of his being in exchange for physical and mental prowess. Drowning in the Trial of the Waters, awake and dreaming, writhing through killing hallucinations as vicious toxins, poisons, potent mutagens and neural transformers ravaged his body into something... else.

“Truthfully?” Seydon looked up as he held the ribenes, sauce slathering round the corners of his mouth. “...Missed having a fething decent rib. And sorry for dropping in. I only come around when I need something, feels like. And thing is: same story this time about. ...Lost the Relentless on Contruum. Long story. You gotta do what you do best, Captain. Build me a good ship again...”

[member="Jorus Merrill"]

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Seydon of Arda"]

"Well, I'm a lot happier than I used to be, but I'm a lot poorer too. That's not me asking for compensation, just saying the selection's going to be a little more salvage-y than it's been in the past." Jorus slumped back into his chair and gestured at the Krevaaki, a wordless invitation to introduce himself.

One orange, sauce-stained pincer waved amicably. "Dingo Darr," said the Krevaaki, selecting another ribene from the package. "Chief wrench monkey of the Wretched Hive." He snorted in amusement, as did Jorus: applying a simian metaphor to a crustacean tickled their shared funny bone. Or, in Darr's case, funny carapace. The Krevaaki grinned, tendrils twitching. "Like the man said, we can hook you up, we'll just have to piece and patch something together to do it."

Jorus found it necessary to wipe his fingers again. "We've got three spaceframes we can work with. There's a little HWK-290, a Tachyon light freighter, and a replica U-wing. Thoughts?"

 

[Seydon of Arda]

“'290 was a little high-end, wasn't it?'

Darr clicked his exoskeleton in an approximation of a shrug. Seydon watched a heavy claw pinch away another section of ribenes and reached to secure the last few string-bones, before Jorus could pack it away. “Corellians have an odd sense of 'luxury'. Tell you what, for cargo space? Seventy five tons, easily. It makes up for modest guest accommodations, but I doubt you like entertaining passengers.”

The Dunaan washed heavy sauce droplets off his shallow beard. “Need utility. Function. As much as can be packed in.”

“Home away from home?”

Seydon was demurring from handing over a laundry-list of specifications. “More or less. Just one thing: the best bed or cot you have lying around.”

The Krevaaki finished sluicing an acrid wash over his mandibles, cleaning off more sauce. “Bad back?”

“No, my wife hates hard mattresses.”

Dingo waived him off from further comment. “290: check. Function and utility: check. ...And one futon for the second honeymoon.”

[member="Jorus Merrill"]

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Seydon of Arda"]

"The Hawk used to be high-end, yeah," said Jorus. "This one's been banged up and stripped down. Blue book value through the deck, but she'll fly straight once we plug a few things in. Here, let me bring it up - I'll show you."

A hydraulic lift hummed ominously. Part of the hangar's deck retracted, and up came a platform bearing a rusty HWK-290 and about a dozen assorted shipping crates.

"Finish up those ribenes if you want," Darr said, standing from his chair. "I've had plenty, and the boss is watching his girlish figure."

Jorus flipped off the Krevaaki without getting up from the access panel at the front port flank of the '290. "So there used to be some good stuff in here," he said. "Yanked it out to upgun an Underground blockade runner. We've gotten some options in since then, some modules that might fit in that particular space. Tractor beam is always good. Flex-tube warhead launcher, the kind that can fit all sorts of missiles. Orrrrr...there's some more sensor gear ripped out of Naboo probes. What's your thoughts on a precision life-form scanner? Identify anomalies from orbit, go down and start asking questions on foot? Save you a bit of time finding jobs."

 

[Seydon of Arda]

The 290 rose out of its holding space with clattering ceremony, dressed in stretched tarpaulin and heavy industrial anchor-straps, dark and gutted, it's belly stained dry from fluid leakage and pockmark-like abscesses where hulling had been cut free. Seydon rose, snarfing down the last of the ribenes, enjoying a chortle at Jorus' expense. He paced around the vessel as the Captain laid down options. Its raptor countenance reminded him greatly of his old Winter Eagle. Was Thurion still looking after its upkeep?

“Why didn't I think of that?” He muttered, tersely, more at himself than anyone. “The sensor packages will do fine, tractor beam too. I can't fight void-to-void worth a damn anyhow. Can we do anything about frequent fuel stops?”

[member="Jorus Merrill"]

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Seydon of Arda"]

"Sure can. Ship that size or smaller, you put the right gear in it, it'll go a hundred thousand light-years before you need to gas up. It takes some doing to stretch a normal hyperdrive's fuel efficiency to scout ship ranges, but there is just plain nobody who knows hyperdrives like me."

"If he does say so himself," said Darr from the other side of the '290.

Jorus chuckled and got his head and shoulder inside the access hatch, angling to unfasten a certain old and poorly placed connection point. "The downside is there's got to be sacrifices." His voice echoed strangely in the little ship's crawlspaces. "Based on the room this spaceframe's got, and the drives I've got on hand, I can give you great fuel efficiency but you're not gonna get a ton of speed out of it, not past lightspeed anyway. Class two, class three, something along those lines. I'm betting you're fine with that. To you, a ship's a home and a way to get from groundside to groundside.

"All right, next set of choices. Guns. Now, I could cram maybe four laser cannons and some other kind of toy into this fuselage, nice straightforward loadout, or I could cut it down to one laser for utility stuff and use the extra space for fun. I'm thinking Conner nets. Ship thieves use'em, big electrified nets that hit like ion cannons. Might stun a leviathan long enough for you to get close or something. Or you could toss it behind you if you're getting chased. And then there's stuff like autoblasters for ground defense."

 

[Seydon of Arda]

He followed Jorus' reverbs and odd metallic pings echoing through access panels along the undercarriage. Each set of options hee'd-and-haw'd between tempting offensive choices or opting for less bombastic and more utilitarian, more varied attachments. Seydon quieted the boy-like voice jumping thirstily for big guns and missile pods. Never mind he'd rarely be able to afford costs recharging the energy banks or replacing spent rocket warheads on the off, off chance he managed in a zero-g battle, or faced down increasingly rare super-organisms needing a resounding artillery punch to their hide. The Dunaan would manage without.

“We'll pare back its teeth, if it's all the same. Wager that netting system might be worth its weight if you got creative enough. And sure; bolt a single barrel up under the nose, off chance I need to cut open anything. But those autoblasters, that's a little more intriguing. Bit of crowd control, if that crowd can get into range. Hell, switch out the firing system for a cheap canister launcher. Flush a whole gang of Sinkers out of their little swamp hole with one Comet Fall dosage. Maybe. Wishful thinking. What else, Jor?”

[member="Jorus Merrill"]

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Seydon of Arda"]

"Y'know, I was thinking gas canisters too, just wasn't sure if you'd consider them unsportsmanlike or something. Only downside is it costs a ton to snag a warhead full of Brix-C or coma gas or Ssi-Ruuvi paralytic agents. What I can do, though, is rig a canister system that'll take whatever agent you have on hand. I'm betting I can trust you not to fill up on, like, chemical weapons."

Feet first, Jorus squirmed out of the light freighter's maintenance hatch. He sucked a skinned knuckle and tossed a rusty component aside.

"There's a decent shield generator slot and I've got a good ray shield that'll fit. No particle shield generator, but you've got plenty of armour. No particle shields means one less thing to worry about when you're dropping gas. That's your defenses right there: armour and a ray shield. Armament, one laser cannon, one Conner net launcher, one gas canister bay, and one integrated HVFC."

 

[Seydon of Arda]

Seydon barked a laugh.

“A what?” Dingo called, ducking under the forward cockpit prow.

“Nothing.” An old gag that still had comedic legs. The Dunaan rubbed grit from his eyes and nose, following Jorus through more rounds of loose technobabble. He caught the gist. The '290 would have enough teeth to service a few scenarios, otherwise he'd have to rely on her thick skin and a vetted ray-shield emitter to see him through trouble. He slid a thumb along a hull seam, collecting dust and rinds of old, disintegrated sealant. The vessel was spast-ugly, hook-nosed with almost cubist lines of aerodynamics, reminding him of brutalist aesthetics still popular in Imperial space. It offered freedom all the same. A private bed, cargo space open and waiting for conversion, he'd transform it inch by inch until it was a whole replacement of what he'd lost when the Relentless blew out. Those could be his own expenses. Unless Jorus still had contacts in the fringe market.

“She'll do. Very least, it'll be flying under my own power. I need that. So far behind... In everything. Year on, still feels like I'm playing catch up. ...Anything else you wanna finagle? You understand the intricacies of all this,” He said at Jorus.

[member="Jorus Merrill"]

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Seydon of Arda"]

"Well, here's the thing. All the bits of this are secondhand or salvaged. There's no telling for sure what kinds of leftovers we'll have to work with once they're all connected. Physical space, processing power, and energy: those have to balance out. All that to say, I'll need to put together what we've picked so far before I know what else we can cram in."

Jorus closed the access hatch decisively and sucked a knuckle reflectively.

"Go pass out, rest up a bit. Tomorrow morning I'll get started on this, you can relax, and we'll be on our way to the very best place to find just about anything. You ever hear of the Tion Trade Nexus? Rave was big in that - she mention it, or what all it was about?"

 

[Seydon of Arda]

“Not especially,” Seydon replied. Courtesy between specialists asked for mutual ignorance. Rave never, if ever rarely, questioned him on what methodologies brought home her pick of alchemically bestial hides. Seydon didn't bother prodding her business ambitions, the craft she utilized treating materials, where she bought, stole, haggled her fearful understanding of Force 'magic' and imbuement.

“Was never sure if I liked her business or not. Know she had arrangements with some outfits in Tion space. She was... affluent, for sure,” The Dunaan shrugged. “Nowadays, what I know about the trade sector amounts to... four points on as many fingers. But you said trade. So I figure whatever is worth finding can be bought or negotiated there. ...Jorus.”

Their talk quieted. Dingo poked his casement-head from around a set of parts barrels being hauled up to the '290. “For all you're doing for me, haven't yet said thank you. ...You brought up Rave.”

Seydon took his pack and fished through tightly bundled contents. Eventually withdrawing a wrapped length of cord-knotted deer skin. He undid the gut-cord, and presented a salvaged lead insulation pipe scrawled with hard, permanent crystal chalk and quartz-like jewelry imbedded against the metal. Here and there were impressions of fingerprints superheated against the lead skin. “'Fore we go anywhere, figured I ought to deliver this over. Rave's last great project.”

[member="Jorus Merrill"]

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Seydon of Arda"]

"I get it about the mutual ignorance thing. Sort of how she and I got by as family. I was off killing cultists and... well, let's put it this way. I fought a lot of people she called friends. Not you, though. You were the only one we both got along with. And Alna too, I guess: Rave warmed up to her and Mara eventually."

Jorus sat on the edge of a large toolbox and started playing a scanner beam over the '290. "Can't say as I raised her. Didn't know how. I just called her my sister and made sure she had food and clothes. Looked the other way when she chanted in Paecean. Weird little life, back when we were kids. Anyways, I don't know how much thanks I'm due; wouldn't say a lot. If anyone brought her up, it was Sirella fething Ballmer."

He accepted the long piece of rune-marked salvage almost reverently. "So this is it. Mara told me about it, and the knockoffs she made, but I'm blanking on whether I've held this one." Resting the metal staff in the crook of his arm to free up a hand, he tapped his temple. "Memory's a little fuzzy after the switchover."

 

[Seydon of Arda]

“Gotta tell me how that works one day,” Seydon said. He rearranged his pack and settled it back over his shoulder, still carrying the other weight of wrapped burlap in his off-hand. A weight that clacked steel against oiled leather whenever his arm gestured broadly. Like as he pointed to the sooty staff stuck under Jorus' armpit. “...What it's worth, I figured you two were never close. But kin's a funny thing and it never felt like it belonged to me anyway. This way, it stays in the family. Memento mori.

“But anyways,” He breathed and shifted on his feet. “I'll let you get to it. I will put my feet up somewhere and sleep off this damn lightspeed-lag. Got a spare bunk? Or room in the cockpit? Dirty laundry makes an okay futon too.”

[member="Jorus Merrill"]

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Seydon of Arda"]

Rave's last creation was lighter than he'd expected. Most of it was a length of repurposed pipe, after all. Careful of the crystals' potential fragility, he laid it aside on a work bench for further study. Mara would understand it far better than he could.

"There's a bunkroom made up for you. Take that lift one deck down, hang a left, second door on your right. Showers are at the end of the hall. Uh, as for the..." Jorus gestured vaguely at his face. "Was none of my doing, the how and why of it anyway. Long story. Suffice it to say I don't have the first clue how it works. If you get torn up too bad, though, I might know someone who does. Just saying. Have a good one, bub. Welcome back."

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Seydon of Arda"]

Name: The Roach

Make: Corellian Engineering Corporation

Model: HWK-290 Light Freighter with aftermarket modifications

Colour: Dark red

Trade-In Value: 40,000cr

Size Classification: Subcapital

Mission Profile: Personal transport

Combat Role: The Roach mounts a tractor beam and single laser cannon for utility purposes, and some heavy Conner nets and multipurpose gas canisters for weakening large beasts. A couple of autoblasters keep it safe on the ground. It's got rusty armor and no particle shields. Bottom line, it's definitely not a combat ship. Seydon of Arda uses it to get from job to job and pinpoint large critters that might have a local bounty on their heads.

Tech Level: Core Worlds civilian, heavily modified

Sensor Range: Standard

Hyperdrive Range: 100,000ly, suitable for crossing the galaxy at a leisurely Class Three before refueling.

Sublight Fuel Capacity: Interorbital. The Roach can easily go from space to ground many times, but it might be asking a bit much to go between planets at sublight.

Cargo Lift Mass: 20 tons, in a small bay.

Supply Capacity: The Roach can support two crewers for a week, or Seydon and a passenger.

System Strain Resistance: The Roach is an old ship, rusty and heavily modified. Push it too hard, take too many ion hits, and systems will start burning out or glitching.

Points of Strain: The life support system's temperature regulator can get finicky. Stretch the Roach's capabilities too far, and Seydon's in for a survivable but chilly ride.