In the galley
assembled before the captain
the calm before the storm

This tea in my cup
Edina's calming smile
warms me in cold space

The deckhand fidgets
seats fill around the table
quiet, Abby sighs

"Have you met him--"
eyes meet eyes, a shrug
felon pilot

Heavy footfalls in
the corridor, breathe in--
stomach turns, fists ball

OOC: Part 1 of a JP/Collab from @Xandrya, @Bugman, @Little Bill, @wanderingwolf, and @sail3695

Cal entered a full galley. The Sister, Abby, Edina, Elias, even Imani were all present and correct, though the looks on their faces were a cocktail of sorts. Strand wore an inscrutable expression; somewhere between that last ‘I-told-you-so’ and the somber mask he’d worn ever since Pelorum. As his gaze passed over each member of crew, the Captain pursed his lips, a herald of the silver case which was already in his palm. It ignited, a near spontaneous combustion, as the first mate–the picture of a classic jawline and fit physique–entered the room. To follow, a gargantuan tree-trunk of a man ducked as Boone crossed the threshold into the high-ceilinged galley. All eyes, including the Captain’s, were certainly glued to the China Doll’s new pilot.

Crossing to the table cigarette in his lips, Cal took a pull before gesturing toward Boone. “I’d like to introduce you to your new crew. This here’s Len Boone. He’s taken up as our pilot, and China Doll’s in good hands.” The Sister’s brow raised at the word ‘good’ from the Captain’s mouth, eyes full of those ostentatious tattoos.

“I’ll let him introduce himself,” Cal said, leaning against the table in Boone’s direction to cede him the floor.

Elias raised an eyebrow at the fellow, eventually uncrossing his arms and decided to give himself a little bit of vain hope. “My dearest gentleman, you do not appear to be of the erudite variety or of otherwise disposition that would have a reason to learn sign language, but perchance, would you know it?” Was the sentence formed in Elias’s head, and then transmitted somewhat imperfectly through his fingers. It was worth a try before writing a far more meager greeting on his card.

Edina’s eye caught the opening gesture of Elias’ response, the palm of his hand tapped twice to his chest. My, her mind reacted, drawing upon recent ASL training sessions she’d arranged with SAM. She watched as the mechanic’s hand moved upward, fingers clutching the air before a slight bow of his chin. The galley hand thought he’d signed “dear,” but there was something else there, a prolongation of the motion that left her curious.

As with any new language, sometimes discerning individual words and phrases from a native speaker’s conversation could prove daunting. She tried, her brow furrowing as occasional bits were cherry picked, You, a simple point of Elias’ index finger, was quickly followed by a negative shake of his head and arms folded across his chest. My dear…something…you don’t… but then she’d lost it. She knew he’d ended with a question, having caught know and the crook of his index finger.

And there was Yuri, offering up some sign language of his own, a subtle tilt of his head toward the Captain, followed by a more pointed glance toward the carafe and mugs in her hands. “Sorry,” she mouthed silently as she moved toward the head of the table.

The unmistakable colossal shape entering the galley drew her attention, and Imani made no deliberate effort to attempt to conceal her surprise. The reason was simple: in her mind, she’d already pictured a much smaller human on the pilot’s throne. Maybe not the same tiny frame as their previous one, but by no means had she imagined a mammoth for a counterpart. Now, the mental image was etched in her mind... The burly man hunched over the controls while the chair underneath him tried its hardest not to break apart.

Imani cleared her throat to keep from laughing, reaching for the warm cup of tea set in front of her.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” The giant sheepishly said after what felt like an eternity of silence, scanning the many expressions before him. “Name’s Boone.” More silence followed, and he gave a deflated exhale somewhere between a sigh and a balloon having its air let out.

Though he had his back to the galley’s sole exit and looked to weigh about as much as Elias if he had just eaten Yuri, Boone had the body language of a frightened rabbit in a trap, holding his hands in front of himself to look as small as possible, with his head hanging low.

“Usually, on someone’s first night in Urvasi we grill ‘em with questions, so I suppose it’s my turn to answer ‘em.”

Questions. Always struck Abby funny how tha whole room’d go silent as tha grave when questions was called for. But, the deckhand conjured, when tha fella what’s askin’ for ‘em got a Cut Throat tat on ‘is neck an’ a teardrop under one eye, ain’t no mystery how folk might feel a tad bit skittish ‘bout gittin’ all up inta his business.

She took a swig from her soda, chance tah hide tha fact she’s readin’ tha room. Yuri wore a poker face, eyes down on ‘is cortex. Elias looked like he always did…pissed off. One of her books called that “resting bitch face.” Tickled her a bit, but she reasoned them scars’d wipe tha smile from any man. She couldn’t see Edina or Imani, ‘less she made a show of lookin’ at ‘em. Lyen? Sister kept an open face, but Abby had tha devil’s own time readin’ them almond eyes. Only other in her eyesight was Cap’n. She been on his crew for two and a half years now. Prided ‘erself on knowin’ tha man’s tells. There he sat, lookin’ ever’ bit tha cat what ate tha canary. She ruminated on that a spell, afore decidin’ on a question weren’t above her pay grade.

“Did they hurt?” Abby asked as her soda bottle pointed out tha new pilot’s tats. “Ain’t never got one, but I been thinkin’ I might.” A real softball, she mused. Sometimes it was good to jest be the deckhand.

“Only this one, dear.” Boone said, pointing straight to the tiny teardrop below his eye, tapping a four-fingered hand on his face. “I got it when somebody I care about happened to pass away,” He continued with all the softness of a schoolteacher in his tone, lowering his index finger to his chest, “So it hurt my heart.”

That comment cracked the porcelain visage of the nun of the Order of the Interverse, whose teacup hid the beginnings of a smile. Here, the pit fighter of a man had called Abby ‘dear,’ and had spoken with the tone one might use to speak to a cherished child. She cocked her head, taking stock a second time from behind her cup. Her chestnut, braided hair fell from her shoulder as her eyes traced from heel, the height of the man.

Placing her cup on the galley table before her, she asked, “Who was it you cared about?” The nun’s gaze glued to his shining eyes.

“Dan. Two-Thumbs Dan.” Boone said, clasping his hands in front of him and switching his gaze to look down at his own thumbs. “We’ve all got two thumbs, only Danny only had the two thumbs on account of all the mistakes he had made.” Boone smiled a silvery smile, flanking his pale eyes with a set of crow’s feet, clearly picturing some cherished memory of an old friend. “We came up together on ‘Dinium. He was a real wild card, Dan.” Boone’s smile quickly gave way to a more wistful look. “Anyway, I killed him.” Boone sniffed the air, unclasping his hands to absent-mindedly scratch his chin. There was an unnervingly casual tone of disappointment to his admission, as if he had just admitted to buying cigarettes while trying to quit. The silence in the room was somehow even stiller than before.

“That sort of thing was just a part of the life. At the time, I didn’t really feel like I had a choice when they told me to.” He looked up and met Lyen’s gaze for the first time, his tone now barely above a whisper. “But I did have a choice, sister. And I’ve spent twenty-four-and-a-half-years sittin’ on that choice, and a lot worse choices than that, just trying to get a little closer to heaven one day at a time.”

A sonata played in Elias’s head as he zoned out listening about things like tattoos which he pretended to not find cool, and also pretended to not hear the tone in the voice that also very clearly found them cool. Instead, he wrote on his card. “DOES MR BOONE HAVE RECOGNIZED QUALIFICATIONS FOR FLIGHT?”

“Just over twenty years of sim-flying.” Boone said, giving a nod to his enshrouded crewmate. “Mr. Cal didn’t put much stock in it ‘till I took off.” Under normal circumstances Boone would have asked about his covered face, though these seemed far from normal circumstances for the giant.

Jesus Christ the insurance premiums. was the thought that immediately went through Elias’s head. He wouldn’t bring that up here, he was raised too politely. But he’d have to talk to the Captain or one of the other crew that could be described as a crafty ne’erdowell about coming up with some sort of scam to not suddenly have any company automatically assume the ship is about to crash at any moment and adjust payments accordingly. For now as these new thoughts flooded in he’d let the next question go.

…TO BE CONTINUED...

OOC: Part 2 of a JP/Collab from @Xandrya, @Bugman, @Little Bill, @wanderingwolf, and @sail3695

Dear.’ Strike One. Leastways he didn’t call ‘er ‘Sweetie.’ Abby mighta tried tah bust some silver outta Boone’s mouth if he done that.

She’s ‘bout tah call Fèihuà on tha whole ‘somebody-done-died-an-hurt-my-heart’ spiel til he come clean an’ fessed up tah doin’ tha killin’ hisself. Abby had no truck with that. Killin’ was killin’. Ain’t nobody lived in tha black weren’t on reg’lar terms with folk bein’ kilt. Hell, she’s fifteen when she popped a pair ‘o’ Reavers her own self. She din’ know why Boone killed that Dan with them thumbs. Weren’t none ‘o’ her business.

But who’s flyin’ tha boat she’s in? Uh….yeah! That was a matter of some concern…’specially when it sounded like Cap’n signed off real easy like on a man ain’t never actually done tha thing. No need tah come tha acid with Boone. Instead, she fixed ‘er eyes on Cap’n, hopin’ fer all tha world he might conjure a great big WHAT THA SAM HILL YAH THINK YER PLAYIN’ AT? reachin’ his way across tha table.

Straightening up on her chair, Imani took a quick glance around to gauge the reactions of some of her fellow crewmates. “Well, we’re happy you’re with us, Boone,” Imani spoke up, offering as sincere of a smile as she could muster. “As long as you get us to each location in one piece, there won’t be any quarrels ‘tween you and I.” She took another sip of her tea before replacing the cup on the table. Here was to Strand exceeding the expectations of his captainly duties.

Yuri’s eyes were focused on the little screen in his hands. 3 meter aluminum truss, 90 pieces, he scanned the list. 6 way corner blocks, 12 pieces, weldable hinge plates, 26 pieces. He hadn’t been watching the crew, but the overall tone of conversation had remained easy. He’d heard the strike of Elias’ marker to his white board without follow up to Boone’s answer, as well as questions from Lyen and Abby. 6 chain hoist, 2 ton capacity, 32 exploding bolts @ 12.7mm. He followed the quote line for line, nodding contentedly, until a substitution request caught his eye.

Laser weld pkgs are out of stock. I have 4 EB7 kits. Acceptable?

Electron beam welders weren’t quite as friendly or quick as their laser counterparts, but he and Elias would have no trouble handling them. Both Cal and Abby were at least nodding acquaintances with spot welding, so they could be brought up to speed. EB7’s are fine, Yuri’s thumbs tapped out the response. Got an addition, he continued. Do you have any XXL flight chairs?

Cal Strand, still leaning against the galley’s table, watched the eyes of the crew as they took Boone up on his offer for answers. Abigail’s reaction brought a smirk to his face, behind the stoked ember of his cigarette. He read her message loud and clear, but he couldn’t help but feel tickled at the red rising in her eyes.

‘Til this point, the Captain had been listening as a bystander, but he did have a curiosity to voice. Turning in his lean, Strand met eyes with the pilot. “What’s with all the crossin’ and prayin’? You some sort of Shepherd on the side? We already got one ‘holy’ body onboard, and this boat can only take so many morals.” Over his shoulder, Cal shot a wary glance at Sister Lyen who met his gaze with a sincere smile. Strand quickly returned his attention to Boone.

Boone shook his head with a sheepish smile. “No sir, Mr. Cal, I’m no Shepherd.” He shifted in his boots once more, clearly struggling to put his thoughts into words, pausing for a few moments before continuing.

“I did a lot of nasty things to people. No two ways about it. Left me with a lot of nasty memories when I went in and not much else. Sittin’ on all that nastiness, with nothing to do but reflect on it, day in and day out…” He shrugged, casually tossing his hefty hands in the air, “The only way I could forgive myself was to find out that I had already been forgiven. A long time ago, on a far-away desert on another planet, by a savior willing to die for what he knew I’d do.” He sighed, looking past the captain at some unseen memory. “That was the only way I could really reflect in the mirror and not smash it, I s’pose.”

Well, that’s that. Abby seen ‘erself on tha losin’ end agin. Capn’s lookin’ at ‘er over his cigarette like she’s tha butt of ‘is joke or sumpin’. Man had a way ‘o’ bein’ one arrogant sumbitch an’ takin’ pleasure seein’ her git tweaked. For sure they’s more tah this lil’ story…jest enough tah please him watchin’ his deckhand all lathered. Yeah, she conjured, he got me agin. Droppin’ her expression from ‘volcano’ tah ‘one eyebrow cocked,’ Abby leaned back in ‘er chair an’ emptied ‘er soda.

She’s ‘bout tah cut loose a powerful belch ‘til Edina give her tha eye. Abby thought tha world of Edina, ‘cept fer times like this when she gits all ‘Big Sister.’ Figgers, she mused all glum like as she swallowed tha burp. Ole Cut Throat there jest sweet talkin’ ever’body an’ I’m tha one’s gotta mind muh manners…

The room had gone quiet. Absorbed as he was in the developing equipment manifest, Yuri had taken no notice, until the nudge of a foot upon his ankle roused him from his study. Edina met his eye with arched brows and a slight incline of her head toward the Captain. Cal’s eyes delivered his order with crystal clarity.

Wrap this up.

“Um,” Yuri’s mouth fell open, “right. You’re all gonna have plenty of time to get to know Mr. Boone, but we’ve got a job to prep. Elias, Abby,” he turned to face the mechanic and deckhand, “after we’re done at the Skyplex, the three of us are gonna spend a lot of time in EV suits. Make sure you’ve got one fitted and QC’d.”

The first mate’s attention fixed upon both China Doll’s new medic and her galley hand. “Imani, Edina,” he continued, “we have to stock heavy. Conjure up your shopping lists to keep us for two months.”

That startled the crew. As he lifted a hand to quiet the galley, Yuri read surprise, alarm, even consternation. More intriguing was the keen excitement projected from two pairs of eyes. “Doc,” the colloquialism nearly tripped his tongue as he tried it out for Imani, “if one of ours gets hurt or sick, we’ll be weeks away from any dirtside med. You’ve got leeway to beef up the medbay to handle more serious stuff. Think on it, and let’s sit down before we make the Skyplex. Edina,” Yuri glanced her way, “You need to load us up on protein paste and foodstuff bars. Captain’s signed off on real coffee, the tea you like, and your favorite sodas, so everyone tell Edina what you want. But here’s the kicker.”

He paused. Once certain of everyone’s attention, Yuri said, “a Skyplex is nothing but eyes and ears. Everything we’re picking up would look normal for anyone provisioning a mining camp. That’s our story, if anyone tries to play twenty questions.” He tucked the little cortex reader into his pocket as he continued. “Most pirates won’t want to mess with all the heavy metal we’re loading. But if they get wind we’re hauling extra food and meds, that makes us a sexy target…which is why we’re gonna buy our provisions in dribs and drabs. Every one of us,” Yuri’s eyes swept the table, “will get a grocery list to take care of…pilot and mechanic included.”

He rose from his chair. “There’s a powerful lot we’re not telling you right now, but we will…once the Skyplex is in our wake. ‘Til then, get your preps and lists started for a long haul. Abby, let the passengers out to play.”

Yuri watched as the crew all stood. Abby was the first to leave, her face a tumble of emotions as she made for the stairs. From the others he read curiosity, reticence, intrigue. The tall mechanic’s eyes broadcast a deepening interest over word of his upcoming EV. “Boone,” he caught the hulking pilot on his way to the cockpit. “You’ve got your course to the Skyplex. We’ve got an extra fifteen percent of fuel beyond reserve for this run. You’re clear to get some maneuvering practice while we’re under way.”

China Doll’s crew dispersed, leaving Yuri to follow the Captain to his quarters, and some serious discussion.

The duties that’d been delegated worked quite beautifully in her favor. The captain wouldn’t allow Imani free reigns over her position—understandably a CYA matter—therefore asking Edina for some help to come up with a list would show her willingness to cooperate and work well with others, even though she much preferred otherwise. The crew began to stagger out, and Imani grabbed the chance to rinse out her cup.

“Make that list later, yes?”

Imani walked past Edina with a smile as she was heading in the opposite direction with the rest of the crew. She pulled the faucet open and let the water run over her fingers for a moment.

"Not like that, you’re doing it wrong!” Her caretaker at the time snatched the dish from her hands and hurled it against an adjacent wall, startling a young Imani. “You left a dirty spot!”

Tears welled up in her eyes, and Imani began to retreat back to her room. She didn’t get far though, not with Emmanuel hastily moving to block her path. She didn’t dare look up at him and only focused on his scuffed up work boots. “I apologize, I didn’t mean...” Imani struggled to find the right words, hands nervously tugging at the hem of her white dress. It was then she felt herself getting yanked up by the arm and roughly dragged towards the back patio door, making her desperately plea for him to do otherwise. “No—please please, no!” At only nine years old, there was practically nothing she could do to defend herself from him.

“Shoulda learned better from Lena..." Emmanuel responded matter-of-factly.

Lena was his wife, his partner for supposedly a lifetime. She was nothing like him, and their union oftentimes left Imani to wonder why she would be with someone like him. Lena was loving, patient...all the qualities of a good parent. They never had any children, and that’s why they'd agreed to look after Imani. However, when she wasn’t around, Emmanuel would take out whatever frustrations were troubling him on Imani. Not that she would tell Lena either way as Emmanuel would remind Imani they could just as quickly get rid of her if she were to say something.

“Please, you did this yesterday!” Her trying to break from his grasp was futile. Imani tried to dig her heels into the ground but that only led to scratched knees as she was pulled so hard, her shoulder could have very easily dislocated. With Lena being away for work, Imani started to desperately cry knowing she would not be okay for a few days. That angered Emmanuel even more as he shoved her into the shed. Imani lost her footing and fell, her head hitting the wall. She finally looked up at him as he closed the door on her and locked it shut. She sat in complete darkness, a trembling hand reaching for the achy spot on her head.

Imani already knew the terrain so to speak, being she was locked up plenty of times before. It was a bit of a struggle to get to her feet but she eventually got there, feeling the wall as she pushed forward towards the sink to wash her face.

Her mind then changed, and Imani left the cup on the counter. She no longer had a smile on her face as she made her way to her quarters.

OOC: This episode will include a few interspersed history briefs to set the stage for China Doll’s adventures at Asteroid AN-3872.

From Let’s Learn History! Grade 3

…”The arks carried all the people from Earth-That-Was for a long, long time, over 100 years! If you were a new baby when the journey began, your grandchildren would be very old when they arrived in our new home.”

From Foundations in Alliance History - Grade 12

…”While the arks carried a substantial portion of Earth’s population to the new system, there were other vessels that followed in the journey. Conditions aboard those ships could be harsh. Some didn’t survive the rigors of a 125 year spaceflight.”

From The Eternal Voyage: The Lost Generation Fleet - Banned

…”Due to the physics of inertia in spaceflight, these ‘ships of the dead’ kept pace with their living counterparts, a vast, traveling graveyard that over time hindered navigation and forced the use of precious fuel in collision avoidance burns. When the time came for the designated course correction burn to intercept the terraformed worlds of Londinium and Osiris, many ships of the following fleet lacked sufficient fuel. Some fared well, choosing pre terraformed worlds on which to land and await possible rescue. Others lost the gamble, and were subsequently doomed to join their counterparts of the ‘Graveyard Fleet’ for an unending journey.”

…………………………

For a humanity now spaceborne, the first few years were dreadful. Year One of The Migration saw an astonishing death toll. Most casualties were those whose only choice to escape their fate on Earth was a berth aboard one of the thousands of vessels ill suited for a 1.25 century voyage. The first ‘Mayday’ calls came after only a week, mechanical and structural failures outweighing the wishful thinking of those who cast their lots in the ragtag flotilla. As weeks became months, once optimistic supply manifests were reduced to ever more draconian rationing. When a vessel’s food, water, or oxygen reached critical levels, their fate was broadcast via the now customary SOS call.

The cruel truth not taught in history classes was that none of these cries for help was ever answered.

This willful ignorance was based in sound reasoning. In space, the old adage about “turning the battleship” is made exponentially more costly and difficult. The first challenge to a would-be rescuer would be their own fuel consumption. The acts of changing course and implementing acceleration/deceleration burns would greedily consume resources sorely needed for the final maneuvers at voyage’s end. The actual rescue itself was fraught with danger, from two vessels maneuvering in close quarters at speeds beyond 20,000kph to the crewmembers who’d be forced to traverse the void between them. Of course, supply was the most insidious hurdle. Those rescued and their eventual progeny would spend the rest of the voyage consuming their savior vessel’s food, water, and oxygen. Long story short, a rescue attempt could very well be a death sentence for the rescuer.

Many bridge crew personnel suffered neurological trauma, relative to the ongoing litany of exceedingly desperate distress calls. For those tortured souls, relief did not come when a ship would eventually fall silent. One had only to glance at the radar screen, or in some cases, look through a viewport to witness the fate of their fellow travelers. The corpse ships would glide along their course headings, a ghostly reminder of unanswered distress calls that drove many a conscientious survivor to madness.

Most of those afflicted fell into deep bouts of depression. More serious cases retreated into delusional thought, manic judgment, or suicidal tendencies. Some lapsed into a wanton depravity that present day Alliance officials are quick to point toward as counterpoint to the assertion that their Miranda experiments might have created Reavers.

Though it is rumored that some records of the Graveyard Fleet exist, the Alliance firmly refutes this claim.

JP/Collab between @wanderingwolf and @Xandrya. Scene set sometime prior to the galley meeting.

It’d been a spell since that fateful night on Pelorum–he’d put it completely out of his mind. In fact, he hadn’t touched mango wine at all for fear of the specters it might conjure. No, instead, the Captain had decided nothing but whiskey, scotch, and bourbon would do–and it would do just nicely to drift off into oblivion when his head and his heart were at odds. There was only one person there who stood as witness, one shoulder who had stood resolute and made calls he was in no fit state to make.

He’d been meaning to express his thanks, served cold as they were these many ticks later, to the woman herself, and that’s the very reason which drew the Captain to the infirmary. His knuckles rapped on the door frame, their custom and his motorized memory. Cal strode into the infirmary to find Imani there, busy with something or other, and that suited him just fine. When he’d hired her on, he had in mind the particular feats of strength she’d shown full-boar in that bar-brawl-turned-tussle that she could handle herself, replete with a knife to boot. He cocked his head to the side just to take in a general assessment of how many sharp objects might be within reach of the abundantly capable woman. Pure curiosity. Nothin’ he was going to say ought cause ire, but he’d never really drawn a bead on what put a woman in a state.

Cal cleared his throat, “Imani, might I have a word?” he asked, sidling opposite her, the treatment bed between them.

"Uh oh," she smiled, not diverting her gaze away from her still arm laid out in front of her and now pointing towards the captain. Imani was currently applying disinfectant foam to a cut that'd occurred maybe 20 minutes prior. Some scrap of metal she wasn't paying much mind to slashed her as she went on by. Given the stitching was expertly done already, she now was focusing on the final touches. "If it's bad news just give it to me straight, don't beat 'round the bush." His tone of voice was neutral; no use reading into it. "If it's 'bout me dirtying up yer boat with a drop or two of blood, well she started it,"

Imani placed the bottle aside and looked up at Cal. "How may I be of assistance?"

“No bad news, least not today. Now, wouldja look at that! Looks like a mean cut. You say the Doll gave you that? Oughtta get Elias to smooth out what caught-ya.” He clicked his tongue as he leaned in a mite to take a look. Cal’s brow raised when, to his surprise, the lack of medic aboard hadn’t resulted in a Frankenstein-esque array of stitches, but a neat row of tightly-tucked laces on Imani’s forearm. He whistled, “Where’d you learn to stitch yourself up like that?” Cal asked, lips pursed.

“Hold on, before you answer that, I actually came down here because it’s been a tick since Pelorum, but I haven’t forgotten.” He stood up straighter now, to look Imani in the eyes. “What you did for me back there is somethin’ I’m not likely to forget. Thank you. Made a call when I couldn’t, and your gut steered you right. Even got me to the China Doll in one piece.” He leaned over her arm again, “Now as to why she’d want to go and do a thing like this, I’m vexed.” Idly, his hand reached for the bottle Imani had set aside to read the label. Disinfectant, he mused, she knows her way around both sides of a knife, I wager.

“Losing a partner’s only accompanied by a great deal of pain, especially when it’s sudden, no warning…no nothing. Just figured ya needed the support during such unfortunate circumstances.” Imani, then satisfied with the work on herself, pulled the bandaged arm closer to the rest of her. “And just so you know,” she added, shifting the conversation. “since you’re ‘er captain, I’ll hold ya to this not happening again.”

That got a chuckle from Cal as she eyed him. He raised his hands in surrender, “Ship’s alive, in more ways than one. You got to square with her yourself.”

Imani got on her feet to clean up after herself. "Very keen eyes you got there too." Imani had her back to him putting away some items she'd used. Somehow, she was feeling reluctant to let him know another one of her skills. She felt it to be a touchy subject given the doctor's recent passing. "I apply no drunk stitches ‘cause I've been trained not to. I'm no means a doctor, but I can do more than slap a bandage on your pi gu. Cal, if you’ll allow it, I can fill in here until you find yourself another doctor…whatcha say?” Imani turned to face him.

That request caught him out, eyes frozen where he was looking, mouth agape–but only for a moment. Recovering, the Captain circled the infirmary, checking the state of things. The space was clean and orderly, tools and tinctures were in their places; Imani had kept things clean since… since their last medic. That’s what she was becoming now, Alana, the ship’s last medic. It was less complicated that way. Cal turned toward Imani.

“The place looks good,” he paused. “Said you’ve been trained, whereabouts?” He leveled his eyes with hers.

“Ah, well, I did my time as a squad medic for a few years.” She came back around, settling across Cal once more. “A lieutenant of mine gave me plenty of training and I gained some field experience but course, I could never measure up... If needed, I’m able to fix someone up temporarily, though any extensive and long-term care is out of my reach I’m afraid.” Imani let her gaze fall to the deck. “Never brought it up cause there was no need, y’know?”

“We got need now. Squad medic, huh? Was that with the Brown or the Purple?” his eyes were steely.

“I was a browncoat,” Imani responded, feeling almost as if she were in the hot chair. Clearly the captain held strong beliefs, and who could blame him.

Strand nodded, “Either way, folk need to be stitched up, and lookin’ at your work, I reckon you’ve got the chops. If you do this, it’ll be on top of what you got on your plate, you hear? When a body needs fixin’, you’re Jane-on-the-spot, otherwise, it’s business as usual. Shiny? Talk to Yuri and he’ll settle your share, plus extra as you’re needed in here.”

“I’m glad you’re open to this, just figured it wouldn’t hurt to have a temp until we find a proper replacement…and I promise not to overstep. If I may just ask for your complete trust when I make my decisions, I’d be beyond thankful. I’ve gone on with full blown arguments and it nearly cost a life therefore I’d rather not repeat.”

Complete trust–he shook his head. Such a thing Strand reserved only for his own two hands. “This here’s my boat, and on my boat I reserve the right to question, veto, and kibosh anythin’ I cotton to. Since you’re fillin’ in on stitches and scrapes, here, that’s your wheelhouse. When the ante gets upped, and there’re lives on the line, you pull in a body. You don’t fly solo, hear?” Cal’s face had hardened, but now he arched a brow, “That Sister; I reckon she might have some experience. Ask her to help you out.” His brown eyes were still on hers, watching for comprehension.

“I meant-” a sigh of defeat replaced the words that would follow. Imani thought on what he’d said for a moment, knowing his mind was fixed on his decision. She had no blame to place on him, the loss of Alana had hurt him beyond suffering the loss of his love. “Two heads are better than one if she happens to have the right kinda knowledge. I’ll chat her up with the idea, I’m sure we’ll make a mighty fine team here in the med bay.”

Imani couldn’t conjure up what else to say, anything to ease him up. She began to make her way towards the door to go searching for Sister Lyen.

The Captain watched Imani’s back fade from the infirmary. He’d come to say thank you; he’d come to say he’d been a leaf in the stream at that moment, and she was the wind; he’d come to put his hat in his hands. He pursed his lips and tilted his head.

Whether he’d communicated any of that, he wasn’t sure. Imani was bright. No doubt, she’d make a good medic. No doubt, he could trust her. So why did he sour her ask? Because he was the Captain of his own ship. Because, now and probably ever, he could only trust himself. Because it was easy to grandstand, if he was being a mite honest.

And so it was to an empty medbay that Cal straightened his lean, alone with the ghosts, and uttered, “Dismissed.”

“Gorram it.”

The draw weren’t feelin’ right, like her whole body done fergot how. Truth be told, Abby ain’t had practice in a coon’s age, and brother, did it show. She’s still fast, leastways to her own thinkin’, but with each draw before her mirror the deckhand conjured just how much she’d left the muscle to atrophy. Her right shoulder’s dippin’, one of the worst tells to anyone might choose to square up with her some day. Gotta calm that la shi right down, she pondered as Daddy’s Colt slipped back inside the holster.

”Ye gotta be loose, Chick Pea.” Uncle Bob told her that a thousand times. ”It’s like what them monks an’ nuns call meditation. Ye gotta clear yer head til they’s nothin’ left but yew, yer pistol, and the fella done been stupid enough to call ye out.”

She waved her arms a spell, slippin’ ‘em out like she’s balancin’ on a tightrope. Abby crooked her neck, tryna summon the sort of limber she knowed she had. ‘Cept it weren’t comin’. Meditation…maybe I should ask Sister Lyen about that, Way she figgered, gettin’ ‘er head right was tha whole sitchiation. And it weren’t no mystery what had her nickers in a twist.

<TJinks>:
Hey, can we talk?

After so long silent, seein’ his message at first robbed all common sense outta her. She opened it soon’s her cortex pinged its’ arrival…before remembrin’ he’d git word she done seen it. Abby’s still cringin’ over herself when Thomas’ next wave hit.

<TJinks>:
I miss you.

She let two days pass with no reply. Not that she ain't wrote one…or three…or six, afore deletin’ each. She wanted to rage, tear inta him with a buzzsaw of harsh words. She wanted ta hear him apologize, tell ‘er how wrong he was fer goin’ silent so gorram long. She wanted tah remind him that she’s a growed woman and she’d make ‘er own choices, thank yew very much. But underneath it all, Abby wanted most to hear his feelin’s. He said he missed ‘er. Well, that was kinda goin’ the direction she hoped.

But no way was she just gon’ go runnin’ back now he had a mind tah pallaver.

First she thought was tah make him wait a spell. Seemed only fair, after all tha weeks an’ weeks he done left her waves hangin’. But as days went by, she come tah conjure she couldn’t know how her silence measured on him, but it sure as hell was playin’ Merry Hob with her equilibrium.

That, and Alana, the girl reasoned as she slipped outta her gunbelt. China Doll just seemed all dumbstruck by the doc’s passin’. Nobody talked about ‘er, leastways not in sense of some kinda memorial. It’s jest like she’s never a part of tha crew tah begin with, and deep down, that weren’t sittin’ right with Abby. Folk come an’ go in tha ‘verse. How many times had she held ‘er own feelin’s in check with that old sayin’? She weren’t thinkin’ tah argue tha wisdom of it, seein’s how she could count plenty folk left China Doll over the two and a half years she worked aboard. Pen left tah reunite with ‘er pa. Rex joined the bikers what had kidnapped her. Hook? Man had demons tah smoke out.

But they’re all alive, she mused. Alana’s gone forever…and it’s like nobody’s allowed to say goodbye or feel sad about it. It was then that one of them connections snapped home in Abby’s head. So I’m not talking, she realized, about Alana, or to Thomas…and all I’m doing is hurting me.

The truth of that couldn’t be denied. She sat down on ‘er bunk, beside tha pistol and gunbelt, her mind connecting the dots between issue and resolution. As she thought on it, her eye traced them captures of ‘er fam’ly taped onta tha bulkhead. They was all there, tha folk she loved, mem’reis and bonds explained through a rainbow of colorful chalk connections. It was then she got her idea. Don’t need to talk about Alana, the girl’s expression brightened, not when there’s a better way to remember her.

With a freshening resolve, Abby took on her next vexation. The cortex reader slipped into her hands. Her thumbs went to work on a fresh response. This time, she sent it.

<Abn8r>:
What do you want to talk about?

This time, Thomas didn’t make her wait. Weren’t more’n a minute before he banged out a fresh wave.

<TJinks>:
About how I’m a real idiot for puffing up and trying to tell you how to manage. When you shared the pic of all your bruises I just went all ‘male gorilla.’ I’m really sorry, Abby.

“Puffin’ up.” Seemed like the first time in forever that Abby smiled. She dashed off a response.

<Abn8r>:
I conjure you were feeling protective. Next time, let me tell you when I need a hero?

<TJinks>:
Shiny. My sister said the same thing while she was whacking me with a dead mackerel.

That got Abby gigglin’. The Jinks fam’ly must be out on another fishin’ run.

<Abn8r>:
Tell her to hit you one for me.

<TJinks>:
How about we save future assault and battery for the next time you’re back on New Melbourne?

<Abn8r>:
Deal.

She checked the time. ‘Bout three hours left til they docked at tha Skyplex. Her chores was all done, an’ the passengers was just fed, so Abby had some time tah kill. Judgin’ by tha way he’s tryin’ tah catch up, so did Thomas. As she traded wits an’ stories with him, Abby come tah realize that her world was brightenin’ right up.

“Lesson Number One. If it can move, it will.” During their time together in China Doll’s galley, Hook made double certain that if she learned nothing else, Edina had that one down pat. On a boat in space, loose objects weren’t just a nuisance; they could be downright catastrophic. And the galley, with its’ heavy pots and pans, not to mention all manner of things with pointy ends and stuff that would make even more pointy ends if it broke, was a whole passel of catastrophes just waiting to happen.

And so, Edina was careful. During his tenure as cook, Joe Hooker had meticulously organized the galley, his vision taking not only the sense of utility, but also an abiding respect for safety. Each pan and utensil had an outline drawn to indicate its’ place in the cabinets. He had taken pains to secure these objects by means of bungee loops anchored into shelves and trays. His pupil was only too glad to continue the practice.

“This is your friendly galley girl,” Edina piped up on the shipwide comm. “The galley is officially closed until after we’ve docked at Little Moriah Skyplex. There are sodas and bottled water in the cooler. If you’re jonesing for just one more cup of coffee…I’m looking at you, Captain…you’ll find a fresh pot in the thermos, next to some paper cups. And maybe, if you ask me real nice, you might just get a cookie or two. Thank you for flying China Doll!” she quipped before cutting the mic.

“Hey, Galley Girl!” Yuri stood across the serving counter, fixing Edina with a good humored smile. “I take it I missed lunch?”

She lifted an eyebrow. “You take that right. Where’ve you been?”

“With Elias,” he set the clipboard down. “Giving him the lowdown on the truss cage.”

Ah, the infamous truss cage, Edina recalled silently. She was nigh on certain he’d managed to successfully talk everyone’s ear off about that little piece of engineering. Especially hers. Edina wouldn’t ever say that Yuri had become insufferable, but when she found herself kissing him just to shut him up, she had to admit that she was more than a little worn out with the topic. After making a silent promise to thank Elias for his service, she replied, “Sorry, but we’re all scrubbed and buttoned up for docking. If I’m honest, I think Boone ate your portion, anyway.”

“Makes sense,” the First Mate observed. “Seein’s he’s still a growing boy and such.” He then met her eyes once again. “You said there were cookies?” he asked hopefully.

China Doll’s Galley Chief folded her arms. “I said there might be cookies.” Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “Boys who can’t remember to make it for lunch usually don’t qualify.”

Yuri chuckled, “I see,” he gave a nod and a lift of an index finger. “The punishment for not eating is…not eating some more? That about sum it up?”

“Perfectly,” she answered, flashing her ‘this is me picking on you’ grin.

He appeared to think on that. Presently, Yuri turned. “Can we work out something? Favor for favor? A barter, maybe?”

Edina crooked her finger. “Follow me,” she smiled, before stepping inside the pantry. “Get the door.”

“Uhhhh,” Yuri hesitated. “What are we doing?”

“You want my cookies,” Edina teased, “you gotta give me your cookies.”

“I am totally lost here,”

She heaved a sigh which lifted a stray wisp of hair. “If Abby was here, she’d say something like, “That thar was one ‘o’ them double entendrees, yah dumbass!”

“Oh…OH!” Yuri finally caught wise. “Thank Buddha she’s not here!”

Edina’s hand shot out of the pantry, grabbing Yuri by the collar. “Come here,” she ordered, before yanking the First Mate inside.

There is a calm in open space–in nothing but the winking stars light years away that lulled the captain. Out in the black there was space to think, to plot a course, but Cal wasn’t considering bearings for the China Doll. Just like the Doll floating in the dead of space, Cal felt the same floating feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he didn’t like it.

Hands folded at the back of his neck, boots resting on the console from the Captain’s chair, Strand considered his only viable anchor: the job ahead of them. Yuri had done a bang-up job with his requisitions, from the report Cal had carefully scrutinized. He was every bit the best first mate the Doll had ever seen. Yuri’s sense of no-nonsense felt like an extension of his own, he thought, nodding. Where they had differed on the pilot Cal had plucked from prison was an open issue, but Strand knew his mate would come around.

Speaking of, Boone had lumbered off for a break, saying something about Edina’s fare being mana from heaven. It had given the Captain time to drift and think. Which turned to stewing.

Cal asked the empty bridge, “Sam, you there?”

“Always, Cal,” the AI’s tone was comforting and chiding at the same time. “What can I do for you?”

“Take a gander at Little Moriah, for me? I wanna know about any surprises that might spring up–cause any delays.”

“What kind of delays are you worried about?” Came that lilting, Bostonian accent in response.

“Old friends, new enemies, a postmaster with a grudge, Alliance presence. That sort, shiny?”

“I’ll need some time to check all the variables,” Sam’s voice betrayed a digital cadence through the matter-of-fact response emanating from the bulkhead com.

Cal scratched the back of his neck, “Fine.”

The stars were blinking in a pinkish, red nebula out the viewport. “Feels like the calm before the storm,” he muttered to himself, hearing Boone approaching the bridge.

“Ahoy, cap’n.” Boone said, holding a small bundle of cookies with the bottom half of his shirt the way a child might carry more treats than they can hold. For all his stomping and looming, sometimes even Cal could briefly forget the massive pilot had just spent the better half of his life in a cell. The cookies themselves were pucks of powdered protein bars and malt-flavored syrup, but Boone seemed to think they were ambrosia the way he tucked them away. By now, Boone no longer wore the gray prison uniform he had arrived in – that had been ceremoniously jettisoned into the black weeks ago – but instead, a previous passenger’s polo shirt that had been left behind after being stretched and dyed pink in the laundry, and an old extra-large boilersuit that had been untouched in the back of the China Doll’s cargo bay for years.

“You want a cookie?” He asked, extending his shirt-basket towards the captain.

The Captain turned his head to regard the gigantic pilot; the blank expression on his face holding as his eyes darted from Boone’s eyes to his shirt and back again. A quick jerk of his head was all the response he offered. The man certainly had his quirks, as Cal and crew had begun to learn. A little bit of hoarding, a dash of disregard for his presentation–save that orientation toward the color pink–even a bit of humor which struck a strange chord, given the face of the comedian.

Strand abandoned his posture and set to scanning his console. In the display, the radar ping of Little Moriah rapidly gained size out on the edge of the screen, but nothing showed out the eyes of the China Doll. Cal turned a few knobs to dial in measurements before relaying to his pilot, “Looks like Little Moriah’s within range at one A.U. You ready to bring her in?” His glance and arched eyebrow said something akin to: ‘Put down the cookies and pick up the yoke’ but he let the question stand.

In contrast to Cal’s tone, a lilting, feminine voice echoed from the comm in Boone’s bulkhead, “We’re in range of comms with Little Moriah’s docking control, Boone. Have you hailed a station’s traffic controller in your simulations?” Her question sounded inquisitive with no subtext to indicate anything other than a genuine question.

Boone chuckled softly, a hint of nerves underlying his usual jolliness. "Of course, dear! If there’s one thing they made sure we knew at prison, it was protocol," he responded, nodding to his invisible copilot. His fingers danced over the console, years of simulated flight having etched basic control inputs such as engine checks and hailing frequencies into muscle memory – and for a man of Boone’s size, this left a great deal of room for such memories.

As he guided the China Doll closer towards Little Moriah, a shiver of nerves went down his spine like electricity. For all his expertise in flying the old Firefly, he had only needed to go through the motions of piloting aboard the China Doll until now, he realized. A virtual stationmaster only had so many responses, and a failure to respond correctly had only ever meant a restart – the crew had been in the black for too long to consider any kind of “restart” on a new pilot’s behalf, and that was if they had enough fuel to turn around and dock elsewhere, which was far from the case. The station was only breaking into view, and already, it loomed over Boone’s mind.

“Mr. Cal, are you familiar with Moriah’s significance in the good book?” Boone asked, fixing his eyes on the skyplex in the distance.

“Can’t say that I am,” the Captain had his eyes glued to the console and bulkhead looking busy, shoulders tensing. Pursing his lips, Strand gave in, “But I reckon you’re gonna tell me anyhow…”

“It’s a mountain on Earth-that-was where God tested Abraham’s faith, by having him bring his only child Isaac and telling him to sacrifice him.” Boone said matter-of-factly, his eyes fixing on the skyplex, “Abraham got as far as tying him down and raising the knife before God brought him a ram to sacrifice instead, to reward him for following even the commands he didn’t want to carry out. For not withholding anything from Him.”

Strand took a beat before replying, “Off your only son, huh? That’s a funny way to test a body. What happened to ‘God is good’?”
From the comm speaker to Strand’s left, “Religion, from my research, has little to do with logic and more to do with faith, Cal. Faith can be defined as belief in something for which there is no proof.” Her lilting accent dipped before continuing, “The parable Boone shared is designed to be uncomfortable and impossible to grasp so as to highlight the imperative for faith.”
“From that yarn I don’t cotton proof of a ‘good’ God.” Cal cocked his head and added, “Ram in the wrong place at the wrong time, maybe.” The Captain tipped his head back to take in the view of the skyplex, finally visible out the nose of the Doll. When he looked out into the deep of space, Cal didn’t see a benevolent or malevolent creator, testing folk and vetting them to be ‘good’ and ‘bad.’ He saw gray. The Black had a way of bleeding into all the corners of the ‘Verse. From where he sat, that just left shades of gray.

Boone gave a weak shrug, placing the hailing communicator in his beefy hand. “He’s full of mysteries, cap’n. I think the mystery is part of the point in that tale, that he doesn’t ask any questions…” Boone trailed off, still staring at the incoming skyplex. “Let’s hope the stationmaster here follows suit.”

"Little Moriah Skyplex, this is the shipping vessel China Doll requesting permission to board," Boone hailed, his voice steady despite the anticipation coursing through him. “Do you copy, Little Moriah? This is the shipping vessel China Doll, requesting permission to board, over.”
There was a long pause of crackling static before a stern, no-nonsense voice responded. "This is Stationmaster Dao. Maintain course and speed for vessel scan. State your business and submit your docking code for verification. Over."
Boone glanced at Cal, who nodded in reassurance before he replied, "Stationmaster Dao, we're here for a routine resupply, and then we’ll be on our way. Transmitting docking code now, over."
After a tense more few moments, the crackling silence was broken up once again by the stationmaster.
"State the nature of your cargo, China Doll.”

"The nature of our cargo?" Boone paused, squinting in disbelief. This was a question no simulated stationmaster had ever asked of him, and one he had no answer for but to stammer. Before Boone could utter a word, Cal smoothly stepped in, his voice projecting the confidence befitting a captain.

“Moriah, we’re laden with passengers, dry goods, and cattle; sending you the B.O.L. now.” Cal pressed a few buttons on the console with a glance at Boone. Placing one palm on the mute signal and making a show of wiping his chin with the other, he added to Boone, “Less questions this way. Less inspections, too, if they reckon we’re full of cow la shi.” He straightened, removing his palm from the console, and after a few moments the station master continued.

“Permission granted, China Doll. Proceed to docking bay three-zero-niner. Any deviation from your assigned path will result in immediate action," Stationmaster Dao's voice crackled over the comm. “Over and out.”
Boone acknowledged the instructions with a curt "Understood, Little Moriah. Proceeding to docking bay three-zero-niner, over and out." Boone clicked the hailing communicator and clipped it back into place on the console.“Thanks for that, Mr. Cal. Always time for an old dog like me to learn a new trick.”
“We got a few tricks to teach here on the Doll.” Cal lifted the comm at his left and held down the button, “Elias, we’re comin’ in to dock.” He let the button go, as an aside to Boone, “That’s so engineering can start down-cyclin’ and divert power to positional thrust.” He set the comm down and added, “Elias ain’t chatty, counta his condition, but his ears work fine, and he appreciates the heads up from the bridge.”

The Captain rose from his chair, sliding arms into his duster. “Now feel free to make the announcement on the shipwide comm that we’re dockin’. I’m off to make sure Yuri’s got our list all buttoned up, shiny?” He didn’t wait for the pilot’s response as he exited the bridge, taking the stairs two-at-a-time.

Boone gave a salutatory nod, taking up the comm one last time.

“Attention all crew and passengers, this is your pilot speaking. We've got about five minutes before we begin docking at Little Moriah Skyplex, please prepare for arrival and ensure all cargo is strapped down and all passengers are prepared for entering atmo. Thank you kindly!" Boone’s voice concluded over the intercom as he leaned back in his small seat, a sense of satisfaction evident in his expression. With a contented sigh, he allowed himself a moment to relax, feeling the gentle hum of the ship beneath him. Perhaps we’ll find ourselves a nice ram on this Moriah too, he thought to himself.

Thing she come tah like most ‘bout Mr. Eleanor was he didn’t cut ‘er no slack in his teachin’. Diff’rence was after he done whupped her ass, he’d take time tah show ‘er how he done it. Abby watched as fer the last time, he snatched ‘er queen from tha board.

“So,” the old man peered above horn rimmed glasses. “How did I take your queen?”

She studied an’ studied afore answerin’. One thing he taught ‘er ‘bout chess was how important it was tah keep relationships with all yer pieces. And now, without the black queen fer an anchor, what she put tahgether weren’t gon’ hold off his attack fer long. “I’s too busy chasin’ yer bishop,” she said.

“It’s ‘I was…too busy chasing your bishop.’ Ever heard of diction, Squirt?”

Matter ‘o’ fact, she had. The mem’ry took ‘er right back tah her first days on China Doll, when ole Rex come struttin’ up like he done owned tha boat. Weren’t but a tick afore they’s thowin’ barbs like squabblin’ kids when he taught ‘er that word. “Ah have,” Abby’s eyes come up from tha board. “Why Ah need tah sound like ever’body else?”

“Ah!” Cyrus Eleanor gave her a rare smile. “Do you know the old phrase ‘Read The Room?’ Do you understand the meaning?”

“Sure’n Ah do,” the deckhand give a quick nod. “It’s like knowin’ all tha exits, never sittin’ with yer back tah tha door…sizin’ up them as like tah come at yah.”

Her response wasn’t quite what he had in mind, but it was nonetheless correct. “True,” replied with a nod. “Now, change the scene from that dingy barroom. Head uptown to a really fine establishment.”

Abby shook ‘er head. “Ah never go tah places like that. Don’t aim tah start now.”

“But that,” he lifted an index finger, “is where you can find the really big coin. Read the room,” he waved her attention to the chessboard, “and you’ll always come out ahead.” Without preamble, he reached across, plucking one of her a black pawns from the line to make a two space initial move.

“But why’dja…” She went silent. Abby always tried keepin’ as solid a wall ‘o’ pawns as she could tah protect ‘er king, but Mr. Eleanor done made an opening. She then looked on that pawn, try’na figger out his meanin’. He sat quiet as she conjured. Fer true they’s now a lane tah her back line, but that pawn just saved ‘er knight…and, she come tah see, give ‘er a whole new advantage. He’d have tah back ‘is queen, and that meant all the white queen protected would have tah back up too. “Ohhhhh,” the girl give a slow nod. “Ah see it now…but how’s that connect tah muh speakin’?”

“Read…the…room.” Cyrus retreated, his queen taking a diagonal path out of danger. “It’s the little things,” he offered with a touch upon her pawn, “that will win the day. Diction, Squirt. If you find yourself in a room with kings and queens, dialing that twang down and the skill to play at their parlance can help give you power.” He flipped his palm upward, gesturing as he continued. “Under all that rough and tumble, you’re a pretty girl, Abigail. That’s an advantage. Your move.”

Tha whole board done changed afore her eyes. Inwardly, she thought tah bristle at his boldness. Ever’ time in her life a man come tellin’ her she’s perty ended up with tha Colt persuadin’ him tah keep his hands tah hisself. But Mr. Eleanor weren’t makin’ no move tah touch ‘er. Hell, from what she could see in ‘is eyes he’s jest tellin’ somethin’ he felt was true, alot like somebody’d speak about tha weather. “Ain’t no whore,” Abby finally said as she pushed a knight two left, one forward.

He nodded his satisfaction. “Good…good. You see it. You don’t have to be a concubine, Squirt. But when the times demand, proper diction, a little charm, and some upgrades to your appearance can transform you from Abby to Abigail…and the marks will be eating out of your hand.” He pushed a pawn up to cover the queen’s retreat.

“Yah mean like a Companion?” Quill Cassidy come tah mind. Abby never conjured no taste fer girls, but Quill…she’s just so gorram beautiful an’...elegant. “Seems a mighty high mountain fer such as me tah climb.”

“Somewhat,” Cyrus’ hands rested on the tabletop. “But what if you only had to act the part for a few hours? Suddenly it becomes manageable. Do you follow?”

“Like a caper…runnin’ a job?”

“Exactly!” His queen broke left, a last ditch effort to protect an exposed king.

Abby’s eyes narrowed. “What’dja say yer line ‘o’ work was, Mr. Eleanor?” She could take that queen with her knight…wait. Then he’d kill tha knight with his king. But if her bishop done the deed, with tha knight guardin’...

Cyrus offered a contented smile in return. “I don’t believe that I did.” He watched as Abby removed his queen from the board, her bishop/knight combination posing an intractable threat to his king. “But, my dear Ms. Travis, I accomplish much of my task through reading the room…” He fell to silence as China Doll’s intercom squawked to life.

“Attention all crew and passengers, this is your pilot speaking. We've got about five minutes before we begin docking at Little Moriah Skyplex, please prepare for arrival and ensure all cargo is strapped down and all passengers are prepared for entering atmo. Thank you kindly!"

Abby took to her feet. “Ah got work,” she said. “Need a hand gittin’...getting…your steamer trunk off?”

Cyrus dismissed her with a casual wave. “I’m shiny,” he quipped as his threatened king was laid to rest on the board. “Good game, Squirt.”

“Didn’t think Ah was gon’...excuse me…I didn’t think I was going to like you,” she admitted.

He offered his hand, and they shook. “I don’t suffer fools unless there’s coin to be had. And you, Abigail, are no fool.” Cyrus Eleanor hoisted his steamer trunk onto a pair of inset casters. “Please take care of the chessboard for me. We will be playing again.”

*********************************************************************************

Docking Berth Three-Oh-Nine.

China Doll was secure, pulling power and vitals from Skyplex umbilicals. Abby lowered the cargo ramp, then watched as one by one, the passengers disappeared into moving sea of humanity. “Read tha room,” she whispered, afore Yuri’s voice come over the com.

”Attention all hands, this is the first mate. Due to the length of time and remote location of our next job, Captain’s ordered everyone to report to Medbay for a complete physical exam. Abby, you’re up first. Imani will be ready for you in thirty ticks….”

The deckhand shrugged. “Guess them rooms...I suppose cleaning those guest rooms will have to wait."

OOC: JP from @Xandrya and @sail3695

”Attention all hands, this is the first mate. Due to the length of time and remote location of our next job, Captain’s ordered everyone to report to Medbay for a complete physical exam. Abby, you’re up first. Imani will be ready for you in thirty ticks….”

Thirty ticks was jest enough time fer a proper shower an’ fresh clothes what didn’t stink of sweat. Afore today, only times Abby seen inside Medbay was if she got somethin’ hurt. She weren’t sure at all of what to expect, so she double scrubbed ever’ place, just tah be safe. Brushed ‘er teeth twice, too. Not knowin’ what Imani might wanna poke or prod at, the deckhand conjured less clothes might be better. With two minutes to spare, she showed up outside Medbay in a pair ‘o’ shorts an’ a tank top what read:



The door was hangin’ open. “Imani…doc? Doc Imani?” She tapped on the doorframe. “Here fer muh phys’cal?”

“Come on in, Abby,” Imani looked over her shoulder at the redhead who was cutting it close with time, not that Imani was a stickler for punctuality. In fact, she herself had the occasional tardiness or two on record.

“Given my new position, I need to go down this checklist if ya don’t mind…” She turned to face the young girl, directing her to a scale that wasn’t there before. Once Abby settled in place, Imani recorded the displayed weight on her datapad. “Don’t move just yet…” From the corner of the scale, a green laser shone up adjacent to Abby which reached the height of the topmost part of her head. The scale then read her height. Imani then added that information in her datapad, which would automatically calculate the girl’s BMI, showing it was well within normal range.

Abby held still as numbers flipped an’ come tah rest, tellin’ her weight an’ height. “Five foot six,” the deckhand read aloud. “And one seventeen. Funny,” she shook ‘er head. “Ain’t grown any taller, but looks like Ah’m gittin’ wider. Is that normal?”

She smiled reassuringly, head slightly cocked to the side. “As normal as can get. You’re growing into womanhood, that’s all. And the labor the captain’s got you doing…that’s gonna tone you up. Alright, you may step down. Aside from recent injuries that have been previously recorded, are there any other medical issues I should know about?”

Abby thought on that one a spell. “Nah,” she finally answered. “Not really. Reg’lar pulled muscles an’ scrapes from hossin’ crates in tha cargo bay. Aside from that,” she give a shrug, “nada. All shiny.” Fer a sec she pondered why ever’ medbay she ever been in had tah be so gorram cold. I wager it’s a test, she finally decided. Goose flesh check, or some such.

Walking over, Imani patted the exam bed beside her. She reached for a band that when placed around someone’s arm, would give that person’s vitals amongst other things. “Have a seat if you will, just gonna handle this real quick.” Imani pushed a button and waited a few moments. While so, she turned to Abby. “Everything good in there?” she motioned towards the girl’s head.

That one sorta threw Abby. “In muh head?” she asked. “I s’pose. Ain’t zackly been all tea an’ biscuits around here of late, but Ah’m makin’ it.” The arm band commenced inflatin’, gettin’ tight on ‘er bicep so she could feel tha blood pumpin’ in ‘er veins. Then she remembered Thomas, a thought tah brighten her face. “It’s all lookin’ up, I reckon.”

Suddenly, she wondered if this kinda stuff was what Imani was askin’ about. “Yah did mean ‘what’s on muh mind, dinya?” she asked the new doc.

“It’s certainly what I mean.” This last reading was automatically saved on the datapad, a small beep later and she was removing the band from Abby’s arm. “Ya know, mental health affects your general health and I'm making it so you’re all good.” She placed the items down then turned to Abby, leaning with her back to the counter. “Any other concerns, health-related or otherwise?"

The girl smiled as a quick mem’ry of tha last time she’s asked that question crossed ‘er mind. Tha time Alana asked, she had tah admit some embarrassment fer worryin’ ‘bout tha bullet scar on ‘er pi gu and wonderin’ if she could ever wear a bikini. The Doc had been kind in her assurances, all proved right when Abby did hit tha beach on Pelorum.

After dousin’ tha smirk, she opened ‘er mouth with another question. “Cap’n’s told us yer really good in a scrap,” Abby began. “Ain’t seen yah in action but once, when that Shepherd put ‘is hands on yah. Weren’t even a tussle,” she shook ‘er head. “Jest one really slick move an’ he’s beggin’ fer mercy.” She stepped down from tha treatment table. “Them bikers what took me? They’s on me an’ I didn’t have a chance,” Abby said. “Can’t help wonderin’ how that mighta ended if Ah could handle muhself better.”

Abby’s eyes lifted toward Imani’s. “I’s wonderin’ if yah could teach me a few things? So I ain’t so helpless when somethin’ like that happens again?”

“Hope nothing like that happens again soon...but if it did, you want me to train ya some? I’ll gladly teach you a thing or two. For example—“ Imani motioned for Abby to move closer to her. She then turned around, taking Abby’s arm as she went and placed it around her neck. “If someone grabs you from behind, you can do a shin strike and scrape.” The interim medic demonstrated what she meant, placing the side of her shoe on Abby’s shin and guiding it down without putting force in the movement. “You’re first striking their shin, then dragging your foot down forcibly and with some strength behind it.” Imani tapped her arm twice and turned to face the girl. “It works best if his shin’s exposed but then that’d mean he wasn’t wearing any pants.” Imani smiled then laughed a little at her own terrible joke. “You think you got it? That’s just one of a multitude of techniques you can try."

The deckhand followed Imani’s lead, slippin’ ‘er arm about tha woman’s neck from behind. Tha new doc’s move weren’t nothin’ she’d seen afore, let alone expected. A shoe touched ‘er shin with a mild push, then slid down, tha heel trailin’ her shinbone til Imani’s foot come softly down on ‘er own.

“You’re first striking their shin, then dragging your foot down forcibly and with some strength behind it.”

She couldn’t quite conjure how well it worked. When Imani give ‘er arm coupla taps to let go, Abby’s all set tah try it herself, an’ was jest ‘bout tah ask as much.

“It works best if his shin’s exposed but then that’d mean he wasn’t wearing any pants.”

Like tha crack of a whip, she was right back there. The bag on ‘er head smelled somethin’ horrible. Filthy burlap itched on ‘er face where she was bent down on tha table. She could hear tha knife, workin’ its’ way through her tee shirt an’ bra as Lido cut ‘em tah scraps.

“Aaaaabby…” His voice in ‘er ear…a hand gropin’ ‘er bosoms til it slid down tah pull ‘er denims off.

She growed up bein’ tough, jest like Uncle Bob taught ‘er. ”Don’t show no weakness, Chick Pea.” An’ she tried. All ‘er life, she tried. But that one moment, as that man…that Lido..hauled ‘er unders down, Abby cried, an’ she begged. She…begged.

“Aaaaabby…”

The response Imani got wasn’t one she was expecting. It was as if Abby’s mind was suddenly elsewhere. A blank expression on her face, those distant eyes... Imani quickly grew concerned, her hand hovering over the girl’s shoulder but not wanting to scare her.

Her hand clutched tha exam table, holdin’ ‘er steady as Uncle Bob said it again, clear as day. ”Don’t let it show….don’t let it show…” From deep inside come tha shame; she fought tah push it back. It was shiny. Ever’thing’s shiny. She’s in Medbay. Imani’s teachin’ her…teachin’ ‘er some fightin’ moves.

“You alrighty, Abby? I said something wrong, didn’t I?”

At last, Abby turned toward ‘er newfound instructor. “Nah,” she tried shakin’ it off. “It’s all shiny. But can Ah ask a favor? Can we do that again? Fer real? Ah wanna know how it feels.”

Imani thought on that for a moment. Abby was big enough to know what she wanted; what she needed. If it’d help her sort out her business in that head of hers, then Imani was more than happy to oblige. “Try to make it realistic then, yeah? Come at me as if you want to choke me ‘til my body gives...” With that, Imani turned away from Abby and walked a few paces away, waiting for the young deckhand to strike.

“Like a choke hold, yeah? Okay.” Imani’s back was turnt, an’ she’d moved off coupla paces. Fer a sec, Abby pondered how much arm strength she oughtta use. She kinda feared what she’s feelin’, tucked jest beneath ‘er skin as she come forward. Abby never put nobody in a choke hold afore, but she seen it enough in some of them spy shows she watched. And fer now, thinkin’ about that was one helluva lot better’n recallin’ that what haunted ‘er dreams most nights.

”When you’re a spy, violence is a tool. Use it deliberately, and without emotion…”

Everythin’ she ever seen…ever’ time she heard it told, she s’posed tah bury her feelin’s…not let ‘em cloud ‘er judgment or purpose. Til right now, Abby always thought she did that part right well. So, why come it is that a joke ‘bout a man not wearin’ pants could knock ‘er so far off kilter? It was plain as day she’s gon’ need tah think on that a spell. She’s doin’ it again, gorramit! Clear your head, jackass!

Abby conjured it wise tah keep ‘er dominant hand, tha gun hand, free. She closed tha gap in a single stride, right foot forward, her left arm goin’ around Imani’s neck. Her bicep tensed enough tah make this feel kinda real. The gun hand hovered behind Imani’s right elbow.

Do no harm.

An ethical code she'd not strayed from. Not yet anyway. Imani was not a licensed physician but she followed similar guidelines.

First it was the couple of steps approaching her, then the arm snaking around her neck. Imani would follow through with Abby's request, though she'd dial it back to prevent major bruising.

When the arm around her tensed, Imani kicked her foot back to make contact with Abby's shin. There was a small jump, as expected. She then scraped down her leg with enough force to make Abby let go, but she didn't dig a much as she could have were she being truly attacked.

Abby stiffened, knowin’ she’s ‘bout tah get hit, waitin’ fer Imani’s backblow. I kinda wish I didn’t know… “OOOOOOOAAAAAUUUUGGGGHHHHH!” First, tha kick startled ‘er, then a sheet ‘o’ pain rocked Abby from kneecap tah ankle. It was like that word in her books…ex-cru-ciat-ing…..

”...It works best if his shin’s exposed…”
As Imani’s heel done its’ work, Abby nearabouts regretted wearin’ shorts tah her physical. She lost ‘er grip on tha medic, doublin’ over afore her hand clutched tha exam table. ”Xiā hóuzi de érzi!!!, she hollered. “THAT GORRAM HURT!”

She turned around. The instant regret in the form of a slew of lively language was somewhat satisfying. Imani smirked, shaking her head as if taunting Abby. “I told ya it’d hurt, but now you know it works.”

Funny thing was, a sharp jolt ‘o’ pain like that done more’n jest promise a bruise on Abby’s shin. All sudden like,her mind was blasted clear of all its’ cobwebs. An’ that, she reckoned, felt mighty fine. Mighty fine indeed. “Hooo, la shi!” she swore as she took tah hobblin’ about. “Damn if that don’t work!” A giggle passed ‘er lips. One blow an’ she’s staggerin’ like ole Rex on a bender. “Wow, Imani!” Abby bust out laughin’ at herself, “that hurts somethin’ fierce! Can yah teach me more? Mebbe have some practices?”

“There’s plenty for your learning, I’ll be glad to teach ya.” She gently guided Abby back onto the table. With a smile, she underhanded the girl’s leg just above the ankle to take a look at the damage. Imani figured it was nothing time wouldn’t solve as she slightly rotated Abby’s leg one way and then the other. The minor scrape and bruising would likely be gone in a couple of days. “Here, let me give ya some aftercare cream,” Imani briefly left Abby’s side, “It ain’t miracle in a bottle but you’ll get a nice tingling feel on your shin. Think of it as my peace offering to you.”

To Lyen, a skyplex was a fascinating hub of commerce and beautiful sights and smells. On Santo, the idea of a skyplex had been completely foreign. Now, the nun had been to her share of skyplexes in her journeys since leaving the temple, but each time it felt, to her, like a marvel; a complete culture in and of itself. Though her Order was cast to the corners of the 'Verse, she usually happened to find a practitioner with which to commune and exchange blessings. This thought gave heart to her step as she exited her home of the China Doll, coiffed in her orange kasaya robe, her hair neatly braided in a long tail behind her.

Immediately, Little Moriah made itself known through the sizzling smell of kebabs, melted synth cheeses, and spices both familiar and unknown. The man behind a cart flagged her down, wafting the smell of his fare in her direction, "Finest meats in Little Moriah! No better prices from here to the rim!" The nun politely raised a hand in greeting, but continued on her sojourn toward the heart of Moriah. The station was roomy, with about ten foot high ceilings through the thoroughfare, clad in what had once been shining aluminum or steel--now scuffed and plastered over with flyers, posters, and wanted signs. She wandered up to a particularly covered alcove and perused the offerings. "Wanted: Castor Callum, $10,000.00, Alliance deserter and miscreant" and "Real canines, $4,000.00 OBO, healthy and ready to breed" along with "Synthflute lessons, cyberkeys, and drumpads, only $100.00 an hour!" She grasped a tearaway for lessons between a slender forefinger and thumb, pocketing the paper in the pouch that hung at her hip.

'Synthflute,' she thought, 'that might be a fun way to pass the time on this long leg ahead.' The tearaway had all the relevant details, indicating a music shop at the heart of Little Moriah: "Thames Court." The Order of the Interverse supplied their sojourning Sisters with a stipend each month, to an account wired through Londinium. Alliance credits would reach most of the civilized skyplexes and terraformed worlds without issue, simply through her ident card. For those occasions where Alliance credits wouldn't do, the Captain had provided a tidy sum in cash as a part of her limited work aboard the China Doll.

Continuing from the corridor, Lyen watched the way open up from the outer circle of docking stations to the skyplex proper. Here, all sorts of shops and services had been set up, from money lending to old-timey portraits. The portrait booth had costumes from eras on Earth-That-Was. Their display consisted of boas and sequins, top hats and canes with a large sign which said, "Travel back in time to the 19-20's! Paper portraits for your travels!" She considered asking Edina and Abby if they'd be interested in a portrait before they left. The sheer size of this place was staggering; countless alleys and doors led to a spiderweb of connected passages to travel the whole length of the skyplex.

Through to the next ring, Lyen finally laid her almond eyes on the purpose of her trip: the Interverse shrine. A single monk sat on a mat out front of the shrine, clothed in the same color kasaya robe she wore, his eyes closed in meditation. "Amituofo, brother," Lyen said in greeting to the monk, who opened his eyes and inclined his head to see her bow, hands clasped in the prayer pose.

The man was stocky, with a heavy, but kempt, salt-and-pepper beard covering his lips and chin. His eyes were a stone blue, and the lines on his face rested high on his eyes, above pronounced cheek bones. His shaved head shone in the fluorescent lights of the cooridor. He returned the gesture and rose from his position, "Sis-tear, I welcome ye. May the In-ter-verse guide yer pahth." He gestured for her to follow him into the shrine through the decorated, wooden archway, which had been crafted onto the nondescript steel opening to an inner room. She acquiesced, following him.

The shrine was humble, but ornately covered in carved wood; most were room partitions and dividers stacked against he cold, hard steel of the Little Moriah's meager rooms. An astounding amount of plants were present here, too, so much so that the air took on a heavy, moist texture as Lyen breathed in the fresh scent of wet soil. The space was about twenty feet long by fifteen feet wide, but somehow it felt expansive with wooden statues of Buddha leading the viewer toward the far end of the room where the shrine opened up to depict the largest statue of the Enlightened one, with the flames from myriad candles dancing, and offering bowls waiting to be filled. About halfway, an alcove had been constructed and coyly hidden behind some flowering bushes which offered the sound of a crackling fire.

"Please, take som' tea wit meh, and we c'n speak of yer journey," he said in a strong accent of what Lyen recognized to be Northern Scotland on Earth-That-Was; the experience was pleasing to her ear, and she replied, "Of course Brother, it would be my pleasure." The monk nodded, and indicated a small plastic chair and table covered in an elaborate table cloth indicating the symbolic pillars of their faith.

The cozy spot was warmed by a furnace on which the monk set a kettle to boil. It was customary for traveling Sisters and Brothers to carry a donation to shrines on the farthest reaches of the 'Verse. Lyen had packed her coin purse just for this express purpose. The stipend her temple on Santo supplied her was more than sufficient for her needs. Today, she carried this month's allowance in full.  The monk straightened at the table, from attending to the kettle. Lyen asked, "Brother, do you have a bowl? I wish to practice oryoki."

"Aye," the monk replied, he craned toward the furnace and produced a cloth-wrapped bowl and a bell, setting them on the table cloth between them. He unwrapped the bowl with measured gestures, the cloth unfolding into a diamond shape which he then tucked on each side to resemble the lotus' petal. Utensils were also present in his bundle, as the Brother must have participated in oryoki for each meal, even alone here on Little Moriah. Today, however, he would gladly receive any gift from the Interverse which would meet the physical needs of the shrine. 

Oryoki is the practice of 'just enough.' It traditionally refers to meals, being an intricate ceremony of bowls for rice and soup. As a practice, though, it branches farther than the body's physical needs. We are oryoki ourselves. Everything should be appreciated as the container of the Buddha. Lyen reached for her coin purse and fished out the credits she had set aside for this purpose. She began chanting rhythmic phrases memorized while taking meals on Santo, and her cohort joined in her chant, lifting the bell. To Ly, the sound of the bell was most appealing, having none aboard the China Doll. Its clear, low sound filled the modest shrine as their voices joined it. Then, her slender hands placed the coin in the Brother's bowl. At oryoki's conclusion, the monk bowed to her, and she reciprocated, her long, flowing braid falling to her side. 

There was a palpable magic to the inclusion of common practice, even across these great distances. The 'Verse was as wide as the Interverse is deep. It is all around us, Ly thought, and it is inside all of us, connecting us. The practice of giving and participating in oryoki, filled her with strength. As she quit the shrine and the Brother, Lyen followed her feet to the center of Little Moriah's busy trade, almond eyes filled with care for each gaze that matched her own.

OOC: This episode will include a few interspersed history briefs to set the stage for China Doll’s adventures at Asteroid AN-3872.

Average flight time from Earth to 34Tauri(2020): one hundred twenty-five years.

Even the most casual student of history can understand the rapid pace of societal change. Time and again, the power of one idea had altered the course of human history, often for better, frequently for worse. Alliance sociologists had planned for these inevitable eruptions by implementing strict codes of conduct aboard the arks. All occupants would follow them without exception, for fear of a ‘three strike’ policy whose culmination resulted in the immediate death and recycling of the perpetrator. Severe infractions, such as murder, sexual assault, or endangering the vessel, could be, and were, dealt with much more swiftly.

In accordance with the accepted psychological benefits of employment, all passengers were obligated to perform daily tasks. A regular work schedule, coupled to frequent ‘information’ transmissions broadcast throughout the ark fleet network, served not only the purpose of keeping the population desirably informed, but also staved off the impression of isolation. “Let’s get there together” became a popular slogan for Alliance broadcasts. This brand of social engineering proved mostly successful, though dissidents would occasionally make themselves known. Their histories can be deduced from vessel logs whose closing entries to these cases frequently read “consigned to reclamation.”

The following Independent vessels had no such structure. Each became its’ own microcosm, a closed community either disciplined by reason or succumbed to the will of a charismatic leader. Little societies flourished, corrupted, and collapsed aboard these ships. Ideologies took hold, and frequently buckled under the crushing weight of space travel. Some vessels resorted to piracy for their sustenance. One such miscreant, SV Tempest, made a career of her predations until one day in 2165 when a mistimed approach resulted in a collision with her intended victim, venting the hull to space and instantly killing both crews.

C/V Gossamer was more fortunate. Owing to her considerable size and tightly regimented passenger count she sailed on, her course heading one-three-seven lateral, three-zero-nine vertical. On this heading, she’d soar into the heart of 34Tauri(2020), with enough fuel to navigate and land upon whichever of the terraformed worlds the Alliance would dictate.

137L. 309V.

Years passed. More vessels failed along the way, with maintenance of aging systems and brittle hulls breached now coming to the forefront. Many of these ships, like their unfortunate forbears, would spend eternity in a lifeless glide toward a new home never realized. C/V Gossamer had all the challenges of a ship growing old while in service. The sight of her engineering/maintenance crew, busy outside in their power assist exoskeletal suits, had become commonplace, as had early rationing and power conservation. The Captain and her descendants had no intention to follow the ghost ships to their catastrophic fates, imposing a firm discipline among the souls in her charge.

Families were permitted two children…eventual replacements for the parents. As passengers died, their bodies were recycled to provide nutrients for both the hydroponic garden and the cricket farming center. Reports from the Arks…occasional scraps of errant transmissions… included innovations for use by the trailing ships. One such development was the blending of crickets and plant matter into a protein rich paste that proved vital to the dwindling food reserves of the ad hoc generation ships.

People died. People were born. The world of C/V Gossamer carried on. She’d been on her journey for eighty-five years when her second captain died. It was during this year, 2186, that a thirteen year old girl sparked their greatest controversy.

Shaniqua Tyler was a fragile child, her undersized physique displaying many of the perceived effects of lifetime space travel. Her bone density was roughly eighty-seven percent of Terran normal. When her reduced muscle mass was added to the equation, the result was a less than encouraging prognosis for a healthy life, let alone the ability to bear children. Under the somewhat draconian methods adopted for Gossamer’s management, the child was a prime candidate for the recycler.

Her mother, LaShonna, a member of the ship’s engineering crew, developed a method that not only spared her daughter’s life, but provided benefits to the entire ship for the remainder of their voyage. One day, while working off her frustrations on an exercise bike in Gossamer’s gymnasium, she realized that not only were the bikes’ onboard displays powered by the simple act of pedaling, but that an astonishing amount of generated electricity was being permitted to simply drain away. Thus, a new passenger work assignment, ‘pedal power,’ was born. Even little Shaniqua could participate and make her contribution to a grateful vessel.

The girl excelled, frequently volunteering for an average eight hours of pedal power per day. As her body strengthened from prolonged activity, so did her mind. She exhausted Gossamer’s video library, in addition to making deep inroads into the ship’s digital text database. Her mind sharpened, her inquisitive nature its’ blade edge as she tackled subjects of interest. Art, history, music, literature…all would soon have her name registered as a heavy user of their selected categories.

Then, her curiosity turned outward, toward the stars themselves.
Astronomy was the first step, though she quickly became dissatisfied with the earthbound star charts when compared to the observations made through a viewport. It was this sense of disquiet that would launch a deeper interest, and ultimately expose a crucial flaw.

At first, celestial navigation was little more than a romantic topic. She loved the tales of sailors on the sea, judging their positions by reading the stars in the night sky. A favorite was a movie called ‘Moana,’ story of a young Pacific Island girl who took observations with thumb and forefinger. Curiosity thus piqued, Shaniqua devoured books, learning to master the sextant and azimuth ring. She understood from her readings that spaceflight navigation was a matter of point to point. Yet, with a viewport full of the same useful stars spread out before her, she reckoned that there was still a way to rely upon the stories they told.

Enter mathematics. “I don’t understand,” her mother shook her head over the family’s ‘Taco Tuesday’ protein paste dinner. “You have the coordinates for Earth. You have them for 34Tauri. It’s A to B,” she gave a “back me up here” glance toward Shaniqua’s father. “It’s point to point, Shani. What more do you need?”

The girl set her taco down; dad had over seasoned the food to mask the taste. “Yeah, mom, I know,” she agreed, “but if I know the velocities and headings of points C, D, and E, I should be able to track them too, right?”

“Theoretically,” her father joined in. “I bumped into Professor Berghauer in the market. He told me all about how you’re pestering him…no no!” He lifted a hand to quiet her rising protest. “He likes it. You’ve got him fixating on this thing as well. I have to admit that most of what he told me went right over my head, especially when he talked about how gravity can bend light and distort your reading.”

Shaniqua folded her arms. “Yeah,” she huffed, “but the more I think about that, the more I wonder if it even matters? I mean, ancient sailors still relied on those sightings, and they proved pretty accurate. Even Pacific Islanders…”

“Moana,” LaShonna smiled. “I knew it.”

The child stood her ground. “I can’t help if it actually worked,” she bristled. “I can’t use a sextant because there’s no horizon, but this?” Her hand waved, thumb and forefinger spread to form a distinctive ‘L’ shape. “I can plot the positions of two points relative to our course and speed. Been doing it for almost a year, and…” She stopped herself before the words might tumble out.

LaShonna Tyler wasn’t going to let that one just lay. “And what?”

She might be thirteen, but growing up in the Tyler family all these years taught her that crazy talk wouldn’t survive LaShonna Tyler’s ingrown analytics. With renewed interest, Shaniqua attacked the neglected taco.

“CHILD!” The daughter withered under her mother’s glare. ‘You will speak.”

The sudden mouthful bought her time, though seconds only. She could come up with something. But mom would see right through her. Shaniqua made a show of chewing her food, grinding it down to mush as her mind abandoned her. No crazy talk, no crazy talk…
“I think we’re going off course,” she blurted, doing her best to avoid wincing at the sound of her own stupidity.

Mom’s reaction was…’Classic Mom.’ LaShonna didn’t glare, nor did her voice lift from its’ dinner table norm. She dabbed at her lips with a napkin, then asked, “Do you know what I did last week?”

“No,” the girl’s eyes swept her plate. Here it came, the irrefutable logic, sidling up in a relatable commonplace tale.

“I had to replace LED’s in some of our displays,” LaShonna reached for the pitcher. As iced tea splashed into her tumbler, she continued, “LED’s are hardy little buggers. Very low voltage. They’ll run forever…well, in this case, more like eighty-some-odd years. But they do eventually burn out.” She plucked another taco onto her plate, a move Shaniqua thought more an act of kindness toward her father’s cooking than prompted by appetite. “Which LED displays do you think I had to replace?”

“I don’t know,” said a glum Shaniqua.

Mom took a bite, her teeth slicing through the somewhat limp tortilla and its’ underlying filling. She chewed, swallowing the morsel which was quickly washed down by the tea, “Our course heading displays,” she replied. “It sems they’ve burned the same LED’s for so many years that they were eventually burning out. Can you imagine? The same numbers, one-three-seven lateral and three-zero-nine vertical. They haven’t changed, those little LED’s haven’t stopped burning, ever since we settled on our course back in 2101.” She paused for another bite. “Our NAV systems undergo scheduled maintenance and diagnostics. They have for years, Shani.”

“But,” Shaniqua’s arguments were being systematically dismantled. Her right hand lifted instinctively, thumb stretched to create her celestial ‘L’ tool. “The readings I’ve taken. Almost a year now. They’re not adding up…”

“Could it be,” LaShonna asked her daughter, “that your instrument has changed? Can you wear the same clothes that you did last year? The same shoes?” She smiled. “Shani, you’re growing up. Smart as you are, we’ve no doubt that you’ll be essential to this ship when we land in our new home. I’m not telling you to stop observing and trying to learn about the stars, but you have to understand that what you just said could frighten folk. With forty years left to our journey, a ship full of misinformed, frightened people could be a very bad thing. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” LaShonna traded glances with her husband. “Now, I know you’ve got some homework to finish? Get it done early and we’ll lay out a game. Sound good?”

“Yes. mom.” A defeated Shaniqua Tyler took her dishes to the kitchen, before the unseen ‘whoosh’ of a door signaled the retreat to her bedroom.

LaShonna ate in silence. Sensing her husband’s eyes upon her, she lifted her gaze. “What?”

“Professor Berghauer,” he whispered.

“What about him?”

Shaniqua’s father leaned toward his wife. “He thinks she’s onto something. He followed up with his own observations, ran a second set of calculations. According to him, Shani’s numbers check out…” The instant stormclouds on her brow, coupled with an angry crook of his wife’s finger, bade him follow her in to their bedroom.

Once sealed behind their door, she whirled upon him. “Do you remember how close we came to losing Shani to the recycler?” LaShonna demanded. “No one will take her seriously,” she jabbed a finger in the direction of their daughter’s bedroom. “But an old academic? If this thing gets out, Disciplinary Services won’t bat an eye about recycling them both!”

“So how do we handle this?”

“I can’t,” she shook her head. “If this thing comes out, we’ll all be under scrutiny. I’ll lose my job. We’ll lose everything. Dan,” LaShonna took her husband’s hand, “You’ve got to get word to Berghauer…remind him of the danger.”

<To be continued>

OOC: JP from @wanderingwolf and @Xandrya

Once Imani finished typing up the medication that’d been dispensed to Abby, she saved the information and opened up a blank e-form on her datapad. Most of the new information would be entered as she went, mostly from a drop-down list. Resetting the equipment took less than a minute, though it was within that short time that her next patient showed up. None other than their captain. Imani hadn’t quite interacted much with him since their conversation about her new role, not that was much to discuss anyway.

So, here he was showing up to the infirmary treating Imani like the bonafide medic she was. The steel of the doorway felt cold as he lighted on Imani’s brown eyes. She had a datapad in hand, but there was some mystery in the depths of those calculating browns. Could be that he just wasn’t used to seeing her all official like–more in the bruising sort of nature. He pursed his lips, considering the bruising that could come out of a checkup with Imani. He’d dragged himself here trying a new thing akin to ‘leading by example.’ So far seemed more like he was following Abigail’s lead. He nodded to himself; that suited him just fine.

“Hey Doc. Heard you’re looking to suss out the crew.” He ran a cursory glance over the countertops of instruments that looked a mite mean. “Seems sensible to me: so here I am.” Cal spread his arms before taking off his duster.

“Right on schedule,” she typed a few letters and selected his name to have his pre-saved information load up. It was after a few moments that she finally met his gaze. "Go on and stand on that scale there,” Imani motioned. She was being polite, or so she thought. Despite his presence drawing no smile on her face, her tone was friendly. “Stand still while it gets your height and weight.” And there, were she interacting with someone else, she would have made some joke or another about watching the number of meat pies they were consuming in a day.

Coat slung over the chair in the center of the room, the Captain did as he was told, lumbering like the cattle he felt like–terse was Imani’s directive. “What? No wise-crackin’ at my figures?” he smart-alec’ed, as he set boot on the scale. His tone weren’t exactly friendly, but weren’t otherwise. He took another gander at the medic from head to toe. Comfortable was how she looked in the infirmary, but maybe uncomfortable under his gaze. Maybe it was his declaration that she oughn’t be flying solo when lives were on the line... It was honest of him on account of he hadn’t seen her mettle just yet, but maybe he hadn’t expressed his enthusiasm enough for her new post.

Same as before, Imani went on to record his first set of stats, subtracting a few pounds to account for his clothing and whatnot. She smiled just enough to get him to stop reading her mind, or something of the likes. “I coulda sworn I heard something about a diet, maybe it was someone else’s promise to theyselves to cut back on some carbs, not that it’d last... Up you go," she motioned.

“You look like you’re settlin’ in. How’d it go with Abigail? She give you any trouble?” Trouble? Abigail? He snickered at his own jest over his shoulder, so as to stand as still as she’d bade him.

“You happen to catch her, maybe a slight limp? That wasn’t my doing, well, not directly. When she happened to be roughed up real good back then, some of it stayed with her, as it always does with any of us. Any which way, she was insisting I teach her some defensive moves, treat her as if she were a real foe. She surely felt my heel digging into her shin while her arm was wrapped around my neck, but now she’s a tiny bit wiser when it comes to saving herself so...win-win?

Strand arched an eyebrow, mouth slightly agape, paired with an inquisitive look that slowly turned into a knowing nod. That all tracked. Imani was no egghead; he’d learned that watching her pull knives in a bar brawl. The fact that she could stitch a wound was tangential to the fact that she could kick pi goh. No soft hands found here…

Imani then looked up at him, lowering the datapad to just about her midsection and hugging it as if it were a favorite book of hers. “Can you keep this between us? I don’t want her to know I told you.”

He cocked his head, surprised by Imani’s display of vulnerability. This woman could travel the gamut of emotions in a heartbeat. There was more to it, though: expressing a confidence as consoler. Cal’s jaw worked in his cheek as he considered the implications of what Imani had mentioned regarding Abigail.

And exactly why had she told him? Imani’d be lying to herself if she did to give him a heads up on Abby's most recent “battle scar”. That wasn’t it. The real reason was to have him in the know as to her mental health. Maybe Abby had already told him something, maybe not, but Imani felt it to be of enough importance to occupy some space in that head of his.

In the silence that followed Imani’s question, Cal reviewed her report: Abigail had seen the business end of a biker gang–come out on the other side by taking their colors. It still stuck with her. She wanted to know how to protect herself, reached out to Imani to learn. Then it dawned: Abigail still felt unsafe.

That part hit him like a blow. In his mind, simple maxims like ‘the China Doll is home’ and ‘we’ve got each other’s backs’ were the salve and inoculant to fears and worries, but Abigail was still just a girl–young woman, now. She didn’t have her feet under her yet. Cal scratched the back of his neck, his brow furrowed in recognition of similar personal fears at her age.

“Yeah,” he pursed his lips, “I won’t mention it.” He stepped off the scale to lean against the nearby counter, brows still drawn. “Thanks for tellin’ me, Imani.” Strand nodded, “She mightn’t’ve told me outright, prideful as she is. Much as I can empathize, I reckon she feels safer with you.”

Imani showed instant regret. Out of the many possible outcomes, she had not expected Cal to react as such. “Maybe it’s tough talkin’ to you bout certain things cause you’re her boss and well, a man…” She absent-mindedly tapped the back of the data pad with her fingertips before smiling akin to someone trying to convince there’s good news when there really ain’t.

“Can’t change either of those things so…” Cal’s gaze measured Imani’s posture as she changed tune.

"Alright, let's get back on track, shall we? Any concerns since your last work-up? And don't try to be the hero you otherwise are out there—in here, you're just another patient needing to tell the truth or otherwise you'll be getting the stern talking to like we usually do with the hardheads.”

Strand let out a deep laugh, “Last checkup? I don’t reckon I’ve let a doc at me for a physical on my ship in memory.” Thinking of Alana for a moment, he added, “An’ I don’t think our last medic kept notes on my health, though physical we were…” Cal just let that last bit hang in the air.

“Mhmm,” she nodded all too quickly, taking away Cal’s chance to follow up if he wanted. Imani began tapping away on her datapad, eyes on the screen. She opened a new tab and sure enough, his medical history was blank. “Ya mind if I get a blood sample from you? I’d prefer the log to have some information instead of it being nothing but a blank."

Strand wore a button down green-plaid shirt, saddled with brown suspenders, and was already tightly fitted around his elbows. He pursed his lips a mite before he deftly began undoing the buttons from his neck southward. “S’pose it couldn’t hurt.” Beneath his shirt there lie only his chest hair and lean-ish physique as he undid the last button and shrugged out of the garment. Imani had caught him on an up swing in his physical regimen, following his grief at the loss of Alana. Morning routines had shown results, and though his stomach wasn’t board-flat, his chest and obliques were toned to his liking.

He tossed his shirt over one shoulder, “This arm good?” he asked, indicating his left. “Where do you want me?” His hazel eyes measured hers.

Imani looked up for a fraction of a second when she noticed movement out of the corner of her eye. He was undressing; a good sign. That meant he wasn’t opposed to getting a needle in him. A bit overdone though, with his whole shirt gone in the moments she was preparing to go fetch a needle and sample tube, among other things.

“Sit over there on the exam table for me.” Imani fixed her eyes on his. Despite his obviously toned physique, she would not get caught ogling him. As he made himself comfortable, she went and reached for a pair of gloves. “That arm is good with me if it’s good with you. I can find a vein in the dark, not that I’ve ever attempted that...” she smirked at the thought of that one evening many moons ago.

“Uh huh,” he let his incredulous tone ring a moment as he looked around the infirmary. Under Alana’s care, he hadn’t questioned her request for some updated equipment; probably the very same Imani planned on using to extract all the figures from his blood. Thinking about Alana sobered him a bit. He had almost forgotten the feeling of coming around a corner and seeing her in here, measuring her mixtures, tallying her tinctures. Those broad eyebrows used to raise in greeting. In the end, though, she looked right past him. He chewed his cheek as Imani returned to his side, gloved hands ready with a swab for his elbow. “You ever run medical for a crew this size before?”

“Plenty of times if I dare say so myself,” she added, placing a soft ball on his hand and instructing him to squeeze in short intervals. Imani wiped clean the skin over his vein right at the crease of the elbow, then putting the alcohol wipe aside, she got a better grasp on the needle to place the tip a mere centimeters away. “This won’t be but a pinch...” As Imani spoke, she inserted the needle into his arm. There was about a second delay until she saw blood, which then slowly began to fill the sample tube. “You can drop that now.”

The Captain nodded as he watched his new medic work. She was hospitable and professional in here. If he squinted, he reckoned he could still spy the bruiser underneath the healer, but it was a long shot. Not a lick of sass while she was engulfed in her work.

There was a paper napkin holding gauze and a bandaid beside him. Imani slowly pulled the needle out once she had drawn enough blood, simultaneously stopping the tiny bleed with the gauze. The dirty needle was replaced by the bandaid, which she applied over the gauze. “Wasn’t too bad, was it?"

“You know what you’re doin’,” Cal said, slipping arms into his shirt. “We’re only on Little Moriah for a mite, so any supplies you need for our long job, you’re cleared to net.” He finished buttoning up his shirt and peeled into his suspenders, “Swing by Yuri for petty creds.” She’d only taken a small vial, but he still tasted pennies on his tongue. The infirmary had taken on that cold of deep space mingled with the anticipation of stretching your legs, and Cal had a mind to take a stretch alongside Abigail to clear a few things up. “Anythin’ else, Doc?”

“You’re free as a bird, captain.” With the sample tube aside, she trashed the dirty needle in the appropriate receptacle followed by her gloves. “I must say,” Imani then turned to face him, "while this may be hard, consider cutting back on the smoking a bit. You’re healthy enough; I’m sure finding another fix won’t be hard for you."

The laughter that followed her recommendation rolled on in stops and starts as Cal donned his duster, head shaking, and disappeared out the infirmary with a wave back to his medic.

OOC: JP from @wanderingwolf and @sail3695

To Cal, any skyplex had that sort of half-way, cooped up feeling. The way kiosks lined up against one another, people shouting across the sound of food stalls and the whir of engines. Cryers calling folk over to see what they’re peddling and more. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to the sojourn, but there was one thing that Cal treasured about the skyplex: the postmaster.

On Earth-that-was there was such a thing as little, cardboard rectangles sporting the names and triumphant faces of athletes from seemingly made-up competitive games. All manner of folk used to engage in games called hockey, basketball, football, and–Cal’s favorite–baseball. Now baseball had all the hallmarks of a game he himself might like to learn to play, someday. From the wood bats, to the leather gloves and striped outfits, he reckoned he cottoned that sport most of all.

Strand had been a member of a group across the ‘Verse for the last decade or so, of fellas and gals who liked to trade cards across the cortex. From skyplex to skyplex, Cal had sprinkled forwarding addresses around so as to always have a little something waiting, should he be headed that way on a haul. Little Moriah had a veritable trove of traded cards awaiting, from his counting.

On the heels of his chat with Imani, he reckoned he was due for some one-on-one time with Abigail, and let Yuri know as much. She’d make a good sidekick for the occasion, and he’d get to lay eyes on that limp he’d heard about. Though his reasons for spending time with the young woman were serious, he couldn’t help his upbeat attitude concerning the treasures awaiting him. So it was that he waited for the deckhand in the cargo bay, sat on a pallet. Spacer that she was, he knew she wouldn’t waste an opportunity to see what Little Moriah had on offer.

Soon’s her physical was all done, Abby got ‘erself to work. Shorts an’ tee shirt was swapped for denims, boots, an’ one ‘o’ her fav’rite work shirts what had the name Earl monogrammed over its’ left breast pocket. Her hair’s tied back to a single ponytail, the way she liked when she’s scrubbin’ and cleanin’ out passenger rooms. Her boots felt good, the right laced up tight over the bruise Imani’s first lesson done give ‘er. It hurt; it was sore and all, but she didn’t pay it no heed as she hauled all the beddin’ to the boat’s washin’ machine.

The lav still needed her, but fer now it’d wait til she could run a load ‘o’ towels.

She’d just tossed sheets an’ blankets into tha dryer when word come down that Cap’n wanted to see ‘er. Yuri ain’t said much…somethin’ ‘bout her goin’ along tah tha skyplex postmaster’s office. Meet him at the cargo ramp…easy peasy, she conjured afore slippin’ down tha aft reactor room ladder among the passenger cabins..

She knew Little Moriah. Uncle Bob sorta liked the skyplex. Fact was it’s one of the few places he’d let young Abby go wandrin’ off, mayhaps ‘cause there weren’t too much trouble she might git herself inta. Child Abby could traipse about, lookin’ fer toys an’ sweets. Growed up Abby remembered the food stalls an’ open market. Seein’ how they’s about tah be gone fer a powerful spell, she reckoned it’d be worth her coin tah search out a few books an’ supplies.

Soon’s she hit the cargo bay she seen ‘im. Cap’n was lounged atop an upended pallet, long legs crossed an’ a curl ‘o’ smoke risin’ from a fresh cigarette. She picked up ‘er pace, givin’ fight tah the urge tah favor her right leg. “Hey,” the deckhand greeted Cal. “Heard we got a run to make?”

“Hey yourself,” he said, rising, “That’s right kid,” cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth, he slid into his duster. She looked the picture of a budding woman, a transformation he seemed to have taken for granted. From the tight pony tail to the no nonsense boots, Abigail looked every bit the eighteen year old she was. Crazy how a woman can completely change her look with a hairdo, he thought. The aside gave him pause, jiving the label for ‘kid’ and ‘girl’ he was apt to use to describe the woman before him. For a moment he wondered if he weren’t inserting himself into a body’s business he had no right to.

“Walk with me.”

The entrance through the bay lock was flanked by stalls for money exchangers and last minute trinkets of the garbage variety. The main thoroughfare of shops and things to see was a walk through corridors leading to the heart of Little Moriah. The flow of traffic through the bay entrance was a throng which Cal heel-toed into with ease, Abigail in tow. With a sideways glance he watched her gate to see if she was feeling her dose from the Doc earlier today. Sure enough, he saw her hesitate when placing her right leg after a few steps.

“Don’t remember you havin’ that limp before you went to see Imani,” he said, keeping pace but not rushing along with traffic.

“Ain’t nothin’ to it,” she shrugged as they walked together. Damn if he didn’t spot that in an all fired hurry, Abby pondered. One thing she knowed ‘bout Cap’n…once he asked, it was ‘the better part of wisdom’ to give up a real answer. “Imani can handle ‘erself real good in a tussle,” the deckhand continued. “Me…not so much. She taught me a purty sharp move, an’ then Ah asked ‘er tah try it on me, is all.”

Cal pursed his lips, cigarette between his fingertips, “What are you tusslin’ for?” He wagered he’d level with her soon, since he wasn’t one to beat around the bush. Strand told himself he was respecting Imani’s wishes not to be outed as his source for Abigail’s abiding struggles after her abduction, but the truth was feelings talk felt like a foreign language.

A small boy, no older than seven or so, bumped into Cal, and without breaking stride, Strand grabbed his wrist and wrest the wad of credits he’d been relieved of from the boy’s hand before letting him go. Cal fixed the boy with a look and he pulled a face filled with fear before disappearing into the crowd behind them.

To Abigail he continued, pulling on his smoke, “Got an iron on your hip; pretty good deterrent if you ask me.”

“Didn’t stop them Headhunters,” she answered, plain and simple.

And there was the rub. “That it didn’t. I been meanin’ to ask you, how’d you end up with their colors on your back?” It was an easier segue than, ‘so you got PTSD now or what?’

Cap’n or no, she knew what Cal asked was fair, ‘specially so after the way he put spurs to China Doll an’ stared down a whole passel of gun barrels to get her back. She owed him. She owed the whole gorram crew. “I puzzled on that mah own self,” Abby said as they picked their way among the teaming crowds. “Turns out they got themselves a code. After beatin’ on me fer however many days, they tole me they liked I didn’t rat on Hook or our crew. When they gimme that cut,” she added, “I conjured it’s jest tah cover muhself, seein’s how muh shirt an’ bra was ripped asunder.” She stopped. Hadn’t meant tah rattle off that part, an’ she sure didn’t feel like tellin’ nothin’ about it. “Weren’t til they all started makin’ a big fuss, givin’ me hugs an’ muh own biker name that I caught wise.”

He did his best to face away, but if she’d been watching as she wound her yarn, Abigail would have seen the darkest hoods of his brows dissolve into a twist that left him biting his lip to bleed. Why had it taken him so long to ask what she’d been through? Had he expected the gang of thugs to serve her tea and crumpets while the China Doll was hightailing it? And they’d beaten on her... And–his face resumed that darkness, teeth grinding–they’d probably had their way. He recalled her wearing not a thing under that leather, when she was traded to the Doll. In the heat of it all, he hadn’t paused to ponder the implications. Stuck on that, he almost missed the end of her tale. He had paused too long after she’d said her piece. The crowds diverged into two streams, and Strand led them starboard, toward the heart of Little Moriah. “So they treated you like one of their own, at the end? Did they tell you why?”

It was nigh on a relief when she conjured Cap’n wasn’t goin’ down the darkest road with his questions. She knowed…knew...from his tone and a sense of his stiffness that what she said touched off distress in his thoughts. Abby regretted that; she truly did. With Alana’s passin’ and starin’ a major job in the face, she reasoned takin’ some pointers from Imani was a right move. After all, what them Headhunters done…what those Headhunters did...was all stuck in a past had no bearing but what she ran in her own head. She never woulda guessed that such a move might bring disquiet to Cal.

“All about their code,” the girl finally replied. “You ‘member their chief, Root? One ‘o’ his lieutenants was a woman they called Nips.” Abby stepped around a street merchant whose arms were draped in all manner ‘o’ gaudy necklaces. Her nine year old self woulda been right entranced. Eighteen year old Abigail had other thoughts. “Anyhow,” she continued, “Nips was keepin’ score ever’ time I fought back. If I got it right, any newbie had tah take some beatin’s and dish out a little in return.” She offered a shrug. “That, an’ like Ah said, not givin’ ‘em squat on Hook or the rest of us. Seemed tah check all her boxes.”

“Lucky, you’re tough as nails. Your Uncle Bob taught you right, no doubt.” He knew she held her Uncle in high regard. Way he saw it, she’d clung to that ship she’d rode into Persephone like it were the last torch in the dark.

“Ah loved mah uncle,” Abby agreed as they walked on. “He had some good lessons in ‘im…even after he give inta tha whiskey.” She came to conjure over time that them as he’d taught ‘er after Aunt Lupe died…watchin’ him crawl into a bottle and leavin’ her to tend the boat and its’ affairs, might just have been the most important schoolin’ she’d had.

But her couple years with China Doll opened up a whole new lesson book. Doin’ her job here was one thing. But livin’ her life, decidin’ on the sort ‘o’ person she’s to become, was a whole new thing altogether. And her shipmates were lettin’ her make those calls, whether fair or foul. “Lernt lots here as well, too,” she admitted. “Weren’t all good, but…”

“Look,” he pulled them out of the flow of traffic and stamped out his cigarette. “Abby,” a moniker he’d never used when speaking to, or of, the woman before him, “Them takin’ you; that happened on my watch, on my ship, and I take the blame. I want you to know I ain’t sweepin’ the la shi under the rug. You been through ruttin’ hell, and I’m glad to lay eyes on the other side, but you’re a Gorram kid–least you was. I know I can be ornery, but you ain’t alone here. I got your back. And if I ever meet that Root again, I’m liable to leave a holey impression, Rex or no Rex.”

Abby felt all surprised, like her pins was knocked out from underneath. Cap’n had her by the arms, but there was no harshness to his grip. When she took it into account with what she read in Cal’s eyes, her heart felt liable to break over the man’s sudden anguish. “Uncle Bob always told me tah fall in with good folk, ‘cuz when bad times come they’d look out for yah.” Her eyes fixed his in solemn regard. “That yew did. Can’t always stop bad things from happenin’, sir, but one thing Ah know sure an’ sure is Ah can always count on yew tah pull me out tha fire.”

He felt compelled by something deeper than he’d rather reckon, by the look in Abigail’s eye, by the pulling in his gut, to use that hand on her shoulder to pull her into an embrace. It was hard to ken the root of what Cal was feeling in that moment. He’d felt it before when he’d brought her supper after they’d caught her up again from the Headhunters. In truth it’d been growing for some time; maybe since he fell in step with the plucky girl who took up the clipboard on Persephone. Kin. Abigail–Abby was kin as kin could be to a spacer who’d lived life in the black and watched a body embrace the same ideals.

Cal Strand gave in, pulling Abby into that hug which might quiet the buzzing need to respond to the solemn look in her eye. She knew how he felt. He saw it in her gaze. “That I will,” she smelled like that comforting clean left on knuckles stained by honest work. He steeled himself for a moment and added, “I know you’d do the same.”

Some folk was huggers. Pen, what used to be their pilot. Lorraine, back on Pelorum. Edina was a hugger who’d just as soon wrap ‘er arms about you than say howdy do. Them Headhunters, once they patched her in an’ got lickered up. Abby’d took ‘em all with a good humor, but when it come tah givin’ hugs found ‘erself a touch more miserly, dealin’ ‘em out when her natchurly mistrustful spirit felt so moved. An’ that happened precious little. They’s that time with Hook, when she’s all loopy from Alana cuttin’ a bullet out ‘er butt. An’ Cap’n. She ‘membered givin’ him a real happy one awhile back. That’s when she learnt that like herself, Cal Strand was a might selective with ‘is own affections.

But now, here he was, foldin’ her up in his arms. Abby’s face was buried in Cap’’n’s duster coat. Swaddled as she was in his embrace reminded her what it was tah be a tiny child again, all covered up in warmth an’ care like no trouble in the ‘verse could ever touch ‘er. She done ‘er best, huggin’ back with hands couldn’t reach no higher’n his shoulder blades, but spoke their intent with a cub’s devotion for its’ elder.

She sensed his burden of pain, a deeply held sorrow for both Alana and herself. Abby wished such a witchcraft existed might take that hurt away. Mr. Eleanoir helped her with her words an’ diction, but what she conjured needed sayin’ was right beyond her. And so, as was her way, Abby went for simple.

“Ever’ day,” she answered, voice a touch raw an’ muffled by his coat. “Ever’ single day.”

Cal nodded, still clasped; her words rung true. Wasn’t a doubting bone in his body of Abby’s claim, and somehow that reassurance caught his breath a might. The reciprocity of deep feeling was a release to which he wasn’t accustomed, though welcome it was.

The Captain cleared his throat and finally released the deckhand to arm’s length. Drawing a hand over his face, Cal exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and patted Abby on the shoulder. There was a look in her eye now, something piercing but true. Truth be told he felt it in his own sight, too. Fresh eyes, fresh understanding: loyalty and trust. He reckoned she was right when she said he couldn’t stop bad things from happening, but damned if he wouldn’t try.

Throngs around the pair had continued to flow with scarce glances from passersby. “C’mon kid, I got an errand to run.”

And that was it. Once more, they were The Captain and his Deckhand, back to business. As she fell in at his side again, Abby knew it was true and right. They squared it, tested the measures and found they still held. “Yes, sir,” she replied, a contented little smile touchin’ her face as they threaded their way toward the postmaster.

OOC: JP from @wanderingwolf and @sail3695

The postmaster stall was, as it ever is, both a reminder of Alliance reach and incompetence. “What happened to Willie?” Cal asked an unfamiliar face. “Willie?” the short, stocky man replied. Cal nodded, “Yeah, big fella, always eatin’ somethin’, never gained an ounce.” Willie’s half-pint stand-in tilted his head in recognition, “Promoted closer to the core, left half a dozen ticks ago,” he punctuated the news with a hawk but no spit. “‘Promoted,’ eh? Wouldn’t exactly call the core a promotion,” he cogitated, and added to Abby, “Younger me thought so, though seein’ it first hand left much to be desired.”

“Uh huh,” Abby said kinda absent soundin’. She seen plenty ‘o’ postmaster offices; this one weren’t no different. They all come in tha same colors, leastways years of hand prints an’ dust kinda wore ever’thin’ down tah that universal drab. They’s a packagin’ station for them as didn’t think tah box what they’s shippin’. Ident card applications an’ capture on demand. Collectable postage certs…looked like tha latest was “Unification War Memorial Sites.” Poster screen rolled through each purty picture. Serenity Valley, Du Khang, Three Sisters…places once turnt upside down by war…now made gardens sproutin’ placards an’ statues of heroic Alliance soldiers, each place decked out with guided tours an’ gift shops. Made Beautiful…To Honor Their Memories the poster claimed.

Abby come out with a quiet snort. ’Cept fer what they don’t show yah, the girl conjured of all tha fake shiny. She’d been tah New Kasmir…seen tha ragged, unmarked ground what held the mass graves. She walked ‘em all, ever’ one she could find, ponderin’ which ‘o’ them grisly fields mighta held ‘er parents.

By and by, the girl’s ruminations set her eye upon her fav’rite part, ‘Wanted’ posters what flipped an’ scrolled over a broad piece ‘o’ wall. Captures changed ever’ few ticks tah display a passel’ ‘o’ hard cases an’ what coin may come fer their capture. She read, lookin’ over names an’ crimes. Sometimes, Abby might see one ‘o’ them gunfighters was ranked in The Book. Last was ole Charlie Two Horses, a tribal who give up his teepee fer licker, women, an’ tha fast payoff of a hired gun. He’s Number Twelve fastest draw…leastways til he bought his bullet squarin’ up with Jean Ann Cuthbert nigh on four years back.

She’s just gonna turn back tah see Cap’n’s dealin’s when a face caught ‘er eye. Then another. She looked ‘em over. The one she called ‘Big ‘Un’ stared back, same dead eyes she recollected from each time she’s forced tah deal. “Pistool…pistool…” Abby muttered afore dismissin’ that thing he called her in whatever lingo them grifters used. “Eight counts ‘o’ conspiracy tah defraud,” her lips moved as she read. “Four counts ‘o’ grand larceny.” Not much money on ‘is head; he wouldn’t have tah sweat tha serious bounty hunters. His sister, Green Haired Girl, held ‘er prim smile, but Abby conjured she looked tired ‘round tha eyes. She had ‘er own raft ‘o’ charges, some like ‘er brother, and some what read ‘Cortex Fraud’ and ‘Data Larceny.’ Alliance offered a smidge more coin fer her, but still not enough to set a real tracker on their trail. Only one missin’ was Little. She looked about. His face was nowheres among all them Wanted folk. Down inside ‘er, Abby felt sorta good he’s not under scrutiny. She once held that “them grifters would save a drownin’ man, rescuin’ what’s in ‘is pockets first.” Though she saw no need tah change that opinion on tha pair, Little had turnt out tah be a decent sort. She wished ‘im well, then gravitated back tah Cap’n an’ his pallaver with tha postmaster.

By the time Abby rolled eyes around, Strand had concluded discussion with Little Moriah’s latest, albeit abbreviated, postmaster, Mason Gouch. “So who’s on Purple’s Most Wanted these days? Is it Yuri? Bet even his mug shot is a portrait.” M. Gouch sourly disappeared before Abby sidled up, Cal reclining as he awaited his parcels, back to the PM and eyes on the rest of Little Moriah. Honest folk among them, surely, but the kind grabbing attention hereabouts were the sort that made him feel for his wallet. No salt of the Earth-That-Was accounted for, himself notwithstanding. Speaking of, Cal thought, better disobey the doctor’s orders… His fingers fished for his silver cigarette case, the thought of Yuri winking in a mug shot curled his lip.

“Nobody worth goin’ out our way for,” Abby replied as she watched the postmaster through an open door…little fella…ruttin’ about inside a room stacked with boxes an’ crates. “Pshaw,” she give a snort at mention ‘o’ Yuri on a ‘Wanted’ poster. “No way he’d end up on nobody’s wall,” she chuckled. “Ain’t even got a crime name. Aw, yew know,” she said to put paid tah tha question growin’ in Cap’n’s eyes, “a crime name…like a nickname, but sumpin’ ties yah to yer gang or whatcha done. All them bikers had names,” the girl explained. “They’s Root, Cottonmouth, Nips, Mouse. One fella they called ‘Cheese Dick,’ an’ afore yah ask, I got no idea,” she giggled. “But Yuri? Short ‘o’ ‘Purty Boy,’ I got nothin’. Ask Edina.”

“Cheese Dick, huh? I’m gonna hafta noodle on that one. ‘Sides, I’d rather not ask Edina her pet name for ol’ Chisel Chin.” He lit the cigarette, still leaned against the postmaster window. “What’d they call you? Them bikers. What’s your crime name, hmm?” His tone was curious as he pulled long and deep, exhale aimed skyward.

“Payback,” the girl piped up. “Earned it fair enough, I conjure, but if Ah git muh pick, I’s right tickled with a name Hook gimme after we had a little target shootin’ contest. Abby Oakley.” Mem’ry brought a smile with it. Then another, from ‘er time with Lorraine, who’d called ‘er ‘Cornflakes.’ Irritated ‘er a might to start, but as their friendship grew it wound up layin’ easy on ‘er brow. “But doncha fret none, Cap’n,” she added. “Ah’m just as good with ‘Abigail’ or ‘kid.’

The Captain nodded as he heard both names, then paused to consider which he fancied. Just then, the stocky Postmaster returned with four small bundles tied up with brown paper and twine. Each was about as big as his palm as he stacked them on top of one another and cleared his throat. “Strand, here are your parcels, C.O.D.” He slid a receipt across the barred counter to which Cal quickly counted out the amount and slid it back. “Aye, here we go,” Cal murmured, pawing the four packages as he opened them up right away.

As Cal tore into the first, Abby would notice that most of the contents of the brown paper parcel were packaging materials and glittery notes of some sort. Cal set the notes aside as he delved into the heart of the package and retrieved something with a look on his face that put him somewhere akin to a kid in a candy store, cigarette perched in his cheek. “It’s ‘Hank Aaron outfield Milwaukee Braves’” he read from the card itself, fingers tracing the words as he went. “Wouldja look at that, kid, Hank Aaron! Just look at that fella!” An excited Cal brandished the card for Abby to see, holding it out to her to take if she wanted a closer look.

If she’s bein’ truthful, Abby couldn’t figger out exactly what she’s lookin’ at. Pitcher of a fella wearin’ a blue an’ red cap with letter M on it. He’s clean shaved. His skin was darker’n she ‘membered Hook. She could read what Cap’n blurted out from mem’ry…but it din’ really spell out jest what she’s sposed tah know or think.

Only two things she conjured. Thing one? This pitcher was old…crazy old. Old enough she’s kinda skeert…scared, she corrected ‘erself… touchin’ it. Thing two was Cap’n. In the years she been flyin’ China Doll, she never saw Cal Strand so spun up. Like a lil’ boy, the deckhand mused, a lil’ boy who found himself a real treasure. And here he was, holdin’ his prize out tah her, like a mama dog willin’ tah let her pup be handled.

After wipin’ ‘er hands on ‘er shirt, Abby held ‘em out. “One-nine-six-four…Topps,” she read aloud, puzzlement in her eyes. Then it come, all sudden like. “That tha year?” Abby’s jaw dropped as she looked at Cap’n. “Nineteen sixty-four? This was made…five hunnerd,” she gasped. “Five hunnerd sixty years ago?”

A pleased looking Cal replied off-handedly, “That’s right, this here’s a bit of history. Way I see it, baseball–that’s the name of the sport–had all the right ideas. Big wooden bat? Check. Field like a diamond you run ‘round? Check. And them striped uniforms weren’t bad neither. This here sport was world famous, on Earth-That-Was. Teams from every country, all competing against each other.” Cal righted his cigarette and took a puff. “You ever held somethin’ that old ‘afore?” He drew a breath, as if savoring the very air around the object. “There’s something deep that comes in through the fingers when you hold it. Like the millions that musta held this card through the years left a mark, each one.” Strand shook his head, it was the closest thing to spiritual he felt, he thought to himself; bits of cardboard connecting past generations in a line through time.

“A bit ‘o’ history,” she repeated. As Cal talked about this…base-ball, Abby laid one palm over t’other, fingertips touchin’. In that gentle cage she turned the card over, avoidin’ the pinch of fingers upon it. Hank Aaron, it told in bold letters over faded orange. She conjured where it said his height an’ weight, but Bats: Right and Throws: Right puzzled her a bit. Below lay column after column of numbers what left her without a clue as to their meanin’. But they’s one part caught both eye and imagination.

BORN: FEBRUARY 5, 1934

“You ever held somethin’ that old ‘afore?”

“Don’t believe Ah ever seen nothin’ this old…ever!” she confessed. She seen plenty of things designed old…replicas, they called ‘em. Her daddy’s Colt, now worn on ‘er hip, was called “Navy.” Looked the part ‘cept fer tha target scan an’auto reloader give it twice capacity of its’ cylinder. Also, her long rifle, tha Mosin Nagant. Looked right close tah ones she read was used by Ruska tah bring down them nazis. Simple an’ keen enough tah knock a gnat off a bull’s swishin’ tail, she loved it…but it weren’t tha actual thing.

”There’s something deep that comes in through the fingers when you hold it. Like the millions that musta held this card through the years left a mark, each one.”

Abby ruminated on that. Hank Aaron, thirty years on when this was made. She wondered what he might think about all them folk, knowin’ his name, lookin’ at his likeness, from century tah century. “Yer right,” she said in a wonderment. “First time I ever conjured what ‘permanent’ can truly be.” Her outstretched hand offered the ‘base-ball’ card back tah it’s new owner. “Funny how such a thing can getcha thinkin’.”

“That it is, kid.” She had a look about her that said she still had one foot miles off in thought. It reminded him of hisself the first time he’d stumbled on the collection of the late ‘Strand,’ his predecessor. A trove of plastic covered cards resided under the foot of his bunk in the captain’s quarters when he inherited it. Strand the former had had a keen eye for basket-ball and something called hockey, but the handful of baseball cards he’d squirreled were enough to hook a younger Cal Boone.

There were three more packages from the postmaster, just like the first, but Cal tucked the bundles neatly into his breast pocket. “Permanence in this ‘Verse is a pipe dream, that’s certain, but makin’ your mark? Now that’s plum possible. For instance, the Sister might say Buddha’s permanent, but to my eyes, he ain’t no different than any fella on these cards. Permanent don’t matter to nobody, less there’s a body still around who cares.” Wisdom thoroughly dispensed, Cal took one last gander at Hank Aaron before trading his likeness for a cigarette from his silver case.

Cal stepped away from the postmaster’s window to look out on the throng in the heart of Little Moriah. Pulling on his cigarette, “Well that’s me sorted here; I got to wander on to the barber, then to catch up with Yuri. Suspect he’s pullin’ down the reqs right now.” Strand asked, “You got business ‘fore we head out?”

Making your mark. Something else to think about. Abby never conjured great things to come of her life. She weren’t no Hank Aaron, nor a Buddha, after all…just a deckhand tryna make her way in a life what seemed to grow as complicated as you might wish. Mr. Eleanor pointed out she could change that path if she wanted. Thomas also had thoughts on the matter. One could lock ‘er feet dirtside, while t’other offered a strong chance of joinin’ them grifters on a postmaster’s wall. But Cal showed ‘er somethin’ she understood right now. ...A body still around who cares… Mayhaps, if you just make your mark with one, like Cal did with her, and she might do with another…mayhaps that was all the ‘permanent’ a person needed. “Nah,” she give a toss of ‘er hair as they made for the corridor. “Edina handed me part ‘o’ the shoppin’ list. Thought I might take care ‘o’ that afore headin’ back.”

“Shiny,” the Captain said, “Well, get your ya-ya’s out while you can, hear? We’re pent up for a spell while we haul out to the job.” Cal’s eyes scanned for look-y-lou’s as he nodded to the deckhand. “Ku?”

_{Collaboration: @wanderingwolf}

“Izzy, Hurry up,” Penelope Abernathy looked over her shoulder, holding tight to her 11-year old daughter’s hand. “We have to leave now!” She exclaimed in hushed tones. Her volume was loud enough to be heard by her daughter alone and to convey the urgency of the situation.

“But mummy, I don’ want to go?” the tow haired girl whined. “I made a friend. Can’t we stay a little longer?” The girl was tall enough to see over counters, about 59 inches.

Penny took hold of her daughter by her upper arms. She squatted down to eye level looking her in the eyes. “Izzy, if we are taken by that man and his son who you think is your friend, they will put us to work doing terrible things that neither of us want to do. We would be nothing more than slaves. Move!”

The girl complied to her mother’s forceful demand. The pair did get away, but moved off along the complex closer to where ships docked and away from the retail vendors. Once Penny felt comfortable with the distance she’d placed between herself and the would-be kidnappers, she settled down on some boxes hidden behind other much larger boxes. Then she pulled a shard of bread out of her satchel and handed it to her daughter. “Here, eat this. It may be the only food we get for awhile.”

The girl took the food, shoving it into her mouth, she chewed heartily. Penny took a second piece from her satchel and ate it as well. Then she retrieved a small plastic bottle with water. She took a few sips and passed it to her daughter who took three large gulps leaving about a quarter of the bottle full.

“Izzy, that chunk of bread is all we have for the moment. Until I find a job or some way to get food we are done,” Penny looked around not sure if anyone could hear her.

But Lyen did hear Penelope’s plight, on her return to the China Doll.

The nun had reached her destination in Thames Court, and engaged the proprietor for both a synthflute and a lesson. The last hour had been a rigorous one, replete with Lyen becoming acquainted with the ins and outs of hand holding, finger movements, breath stability, and note changes. The man who had taught her, Marcus P. Wilx, was patient and intrigued by a member of the Interverse wishing to learn an instrument. He included a book of basic melodies in her lesson, so that she could continue practicing, as well as his wave coordinates, should she seek a follow up lesson. Lyen held the synthflute, an interesting instrument which produced a synth wave of sound based on the buttons held and the pressure of breath, under her arm as she journeyed home, but that was before she overheard something which pricked her ears.

The sound emanated from behind a stack of cardboard boxes and braced travel crates; it was just loud enough to hear someone morosely mention their last meal to someone else. Halting her gate, the nun investigated the boxes carefully, her long braid falling to her side as she peered around the corner to discover a woman and a child, both eating bread, but the child feasted with wanton abandon. Such a sight tugged at Lyen’s gut when she remembered the food stall not far from where she stood: the purveyor of the finest meats this side of the rim. Unnoticed, Ly skulked off to engage the man for three skewers of meat, the source of which she purposefully did not request, before returning to the boxes and, with her free hand, knocked gently on the box nearest the pair, her other hand brandishing the three kebabs. “Amituofo, may I come in?” her clear voice was gentle as she made her request.

Penny swallowed the last bit of bread, glanced at Izzy and then quickly turned her neck toward the woman’s voice. “Hmmfpf!” she cleared her throat. “Yes, please come in.” It was a reactionary response, but what was in? The small blind she found inside stacks of boxes and crates? “May I help you?” Penny remained seated looking up at the woman. She looked back at Izzy who had devoured her chunk of bread as well. Then back at the woman.

“Please pardon my intrusion, but I couldn’t help but overhear that you might be hungry, and our Order strives to meet the needs of others,” Lyen, clad in what was recognizable as the bright orange kasaya robe of the Order of the Interverse, stepped closer and extended the three skewers to the seated pair. The smell of the meat, fresh off the sizzling grill, filled the hiding space. The nun made eye contact with first Penny, then Izzy, as crouched beside them and held out the offering.

Pride. That insufferable trait restraining people from getting what they want. “I couldn’t possibly.” Another reaction. Refuse. She glanced at Izzy and then back at the meat. She couldn’t deny her daughter. “Izzy,” Penny accepted the skewers and handed one to her daughter. “Eat this…and thank the nice lady.” The girl hungrily tore into the warm meat, ever so delicious and tender, like a ravenous wolf devouring its prey.

“Thank you, nice lady,” Izzy addressed the woman in orange robes without giving her more than a glance.

The moral battle in her head fueled by pride fought a losing battle with her stomach. “Damn it” Penny ate the meat on one of the skewers. She held the third to see if Izzy would want it. She looked at the woman from the Order in her bright orange robes. “Thank you…thank you very much.” She took another bite of the meat. Swallowing her pride, she felt shamed.

Once that was complete, holding three wooden sticks she looked up at the woman again. “We are actually looking for work. Do you know of a ship’s captain who may be in need of a cook or deckhand? I could do either. I feel bad taking your food without some compensation. I am a trained and experienced cook. I have worked in that capacity on other ships.”

Lyen was moved, despite the brevity of their interaction, by the way what appeared to be mother and daughter interacted and adapted to their situation; even insomuch as the woman made plain their plight. The ‘Verse had steered Lyen here in one form or another, into this hiding spot behind the boxes, of that she was sure.

“I’m Lyen,” she gave a short bow before extending a hand to shake, “and I have just the place for you. A Firefly class ship, and a Captain I’m sure will find a station for you and miss…?” The nun nodded gently to the child on the cusp of womanhood.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lyen,” Penelope spoke sheepishly. “I am Penny and this is my daughter, Izzy. We were dropped here a few weeks ago and our…” she paused, “My former employer left us here. I have money, but can’t access it and no one seems to want to hire me. It can be quite frustrating.” Her eyes welled up a bit like she was on the brink of tears, but successfully fought it off.

Lyen nodded as names were exchanged and her brow furrowed as Penny braced herself,”The China Doll is a cargo vessel departing for a long haul to the RIm. I think our first mate said three months travel time?” Ly nodded, “I know it’s a long trip, but after that I conjure we’re headed for the Core.” Considering for a moment, she added, “I’m sure Edina–that’s our cook–could use a hand, and Abby–our deck–wouldn’t turn anyone away who’s looking to help.”

“I really appreciate your offer and would love to take you up on it, but how would your captain feel about taking on both a mother and a daughter. I realize that’s two mouths to feed. She is accustomed to being my assistant in the kitchen. I spend time teaching her school subjects too, so she gets some form of an education.” Penny did start to relax a bit. “Where is your ship and Captain?”

“You’re both coming with me, and if I need to I’ll give the Captain an encouraging nudge.” Lyen rose, hands at her hips. “The China Doll is just down this way, not far. Come on, I’ll take you to Captain Strand.” The crowds had thinned a little, since the trio began their caper. Only a few engineers, busy with seeing to the needs of docking ships, their fuel, battery levels, or otherwise, remained in the corridor between Lyen, Penny, and Izzy and their destination.

“Lead on, Miss Lyen,” Penny spoke as she rose, reaching for her daughter, Isabella’s hand. “Come along, Izzy.”

Berth three-hundred and nine offered entry to the cargo bay of the China Doll, whose airlock door was ajar only enough for people to enter and exit one-at-a-time. “This is it; it may not look like much, but it’s a good home.” Her smile touched her almond eyes.

Penny looked up at the Firefly class ship. “I’d seen one of these before, but never been inside one. This will be my first time.”

“First time for me too, mummy.” Izzy contributed her two cents. “Mummy, will we be able to get our belongings?”

“We don’t know if we will be going with these people yet or not. Best to leave them be until we know, right?” Penny responded to her daughter. She turned to Lyen, “is the Captain aboard? would he be available and any chance we can see your galley?”

“By all means!” Lyen led the way through the portcullis into the cargo bay proper. The crates and provisions stacked and strapped there left little room for the trio as they entered the China Doll. A three month journey, after all, requires a lot to sustain the whole crew. Ly made a mental note to ask SAM if the hydroponics bay on this craft was operating; they’d need some seeds to get it going, but it might produce some salient relief in the ocean of protein paste that was invariably their future with such a long leg. The med bay was just visible at the end of the stacks as Lyen led the other two toward the catwalk and up toward the galley.

“So this is a Firefly.” Penny muttered aloud holding Izzy’s hand as the pair followed the nun through the cargo bay. “That must be the medbay,” she pointed out the location for her daughter. “What sort of medical personnel do you have aboard ship?”

Ly looked up as Penny gestured, “We have a medic onboard, newly appointed, actually. Her name is Imani, and she does something else for the Captain, too, but I’m not sure what it is.”

The three walked the stairs. “I guess I didn’t imagine there were this many steps on a ship this size. It is definitely larger on the inside.”

The galley itself was a modest space, made cheerier by the chalk drawings on the cold steel walls and doorways, and served as the center of the ship, in the nun’s mind. Here they all heard the Captain’s orders, relaxed after a hard day’s work, or played games of Tall Card across from one another. The sitting area to the side had been relegated as Lucky’s new perch, and his cage hung at waist height between two armchairs so he could always be a part of the action. Lyen had taken quite a charm to Lucky, though he did brandish some very foul language. She had no idea who would have taught the bird such filthy words; though the only other person she’d witnessed spending much time with Lucky was none other than the Captain himself.

Speak of the Devil…

Captain Cal Strand sat at the head of the dining table opposite the entryway used by Lyen, Penny, and Izzy. His hat on the table beside him, he was elbow deep in what appeared to be requisition papers detailing provisions, steel, tools, and all manner of bits and bobs needed to truss the Doll in preparation for their destination. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth as his eyes darted to the orange robes of Lyen and the two in tow.

“Hey Captain,” Lyen said in a steady tone as she repositioned her long, braided hair. “Do you have a moment to spare?”

Cal fixed her with a look and rubbed his face with his hand, “I might, what do you need?” Reclining slightly from his work, he rested his wrists on the table and picked up a tin cup of something strong-smelling.

Ly glanced at her charges before taking a step toward Cal. “I’d like you to meet Penny and Izzy.” She fixed him with a smile, “They’ll be joining us on our next leg.” Cal’s eyebrows rose expectantly, to which Lyen parried, “We could use some extra hands, and they need a ride.”

“Mummy! They have a bird!” Izzy squealed and ran closer to the bird. She truly could care less about what adults got on about. But a bird on a spaceship. That was something new. “What’s the bird’s name?

“Izzy get back here!” Penny snapped, but the 11-year old had a mind of her own.

“Look mummy! A bird” the girl repeated with an ear to ear grin on her face.

Penny looked at Cal Strand. “I am very sorry, sir. My daughter is young and excited. She doesn’t get to see too many birds.” The black haired woman from Hera and Ariel extended a hand toward the ship’s captain. “My name is Penelope Abernathy. Your friend, Miss Lyen says you may be able to use me as a cook or a deckhand here on your ship? I have experience and my daughter is actually quite helpful. She serves as my Sous chef on occasion.” Penny smiled at the Captain.

“Now there’s a four-dollar-word,” the Captain said, taking the woman’s hand politely. “You oughta tell her the bird’s liable to bite.” But there was nothing to fear, as Lucky engaged immediately with Izzy, “Ready to sail!” he cawed. The excited bird traveled by beak and claw to the edge of his cage to cock an eye at the little girl.

The woman before him had a pretty smile, and the way her dark hair was cut and laid told Strand she knew how to take care of herself. There was something fiery about her eyes, like a hope that wouldn’t blow out. The girl, Izzy, looked to be all spunk. He hadn’t paid mind to kids for many a moon–Abby being seventeen when he took her on, she barely counted. Part of him didn’t much like having an innocent under his roof to look out for… but there was a determined look in Pennelope’s gaze, and it was out of character for Lyen to bring in just any stranger to bear like this. His eyes flit to the nun’s, then back to Pennelope’s.

“Nice to meet you and your girl, Ms. Abernathy, but we’ve already got a cook–”

Lyen broke in, finger raised, “Surely, Edina wouldn’t mind some help–”

“You callin’ orders now, Sister?” He fixed her with a stare to which Lyen folded her hands in front of her, but made not acquiescence to his tone, “As I was sayin’, we got a cook, but we could use another deckhand, especially since the haul on our next stint will have us strapped to the gills.” Cal cocked his head toward Lyen, raising his eyebrows. There was more to it than met the eye. Lyen nodded in affirmation.

“What do you say?” Cal said, rising from his seat, he tapped his cigarette into the ashtray on the table. “There’s room and board, and everyone pitches in for chores. Shiny?”

“Shiny!” Penny smiled. She didn’t know this man, this sister but the desperation in her situation afforded the accommodating nature. “Where should I store my bags?” Izzy? She didn’t care. This was a grown up business.

“Mummy! Lucky is a sailor!” Izzy was smiling from ear to ear.

A JP from @Xandrya and @sail3695

The Captain’s gift of a clipboard was well received. Suddenly, the business of China Doll was laid out before her. If she chose, the galley hand could look into a myriad of details, from Yuri’s equipment orders for the coming job all the way to Abby’s notes indicating which of the boat’s passenger berths were clean and ready for paying customers.

SAM had taught her a neat trick, a way to import the Skyplex pricing for items on her grocery list. This had proven a source of some dismay, as the total cost of her tally exceeded Captain’s mission budget by some two hundred credits. She’d catch Yuri in a bit to see if there was any wiggle room on that number. Otherwise, she’d have to make cuts to an already lackluster menu for the next two months.

Edina was mulling over just how offput their deckhand might be over the loss of her beloved ‘PB and J’ when the clipboard flashed a message:

Physical Exam in 5 Minutes

“Saved by the bell?” she muttered, before collecting herself to make the journey to China Doll’s lower deck. Medbay was every bit the embodiment of its’ occupant and caretaker, equal parts cleanliness, organization, and a lowkey sense of purpose riding the air as she tapped on the open doorframe. “Imani?” Edina asked. “Is now still a good time?”

“No other time would be better,” she smiled, albeit not looking at her next patient who was making her way inside the infirmary. In a spur-of-the-moment decision, Imani directed her to first take a seat. Edina was one of them from the crew she hadn’t gotten to know better. Nothing at all against her, but both women simply had their own work going on and their paths barely crossed. With datapad in hand, Imani stood near Edina.

“Tell me, any significant medical past? No detail is too irrelevant."

Edina followed the medic’s invitation, popping herself up onto the exam table. “Nothing much,” she answered, her palms pressing into the padding at her sides. “I broke my left arm at seven, tonsils out at ten.” The galley hand’s gaze crossed the ceiling as she taxed her memory. “Oh, and my appendix taken out when I was sixteen.” She shrugged. “Aside from that, cuts and bruises…a couple chipped teeth.” She didn’t feel the need to mention that most of those wounds occurred during the three years before she hightailed it out of New Melbourne aboard China Doll. “That’s pretty much everything.”

“Not the one to lie about and read a book I see,” Imani smiled, making reference to Edina’s mentions of her scrapes and whatnot without the knowledge to know any better. She made note in the datapad of Edina’s two previous surgeries under the History portion and scrolled up on the screen, skipping over some fields that would be irrelevant to her. "What about now, how are you feeling...physically or otherwise?"

It was strange, holding any sort of conversation with Imani, let alone revealing details about her body and general fitness. Until now Edina always surmised that the normally circumspect woman chose to believe the old ‘actions speak louder’ adage. She wasn’t complaining; prior to today’s encounter, Imani had given her a great deal of feedback by which to prep the galley. She’d learned the new medic’s preferred tea, and just how she liked it. Imani’s taste in seasonings had driven further research into the most effective protein paste recipes. Though Imani never ate much, the observant cook took note of the days when her plates yielded fewer leftovers.

Yet now, an extended verbal dialogue, regardless of the topic, was at once mildly unnerving and altogether refreshing. “Nothing interesting,” Edina smiled. “An occasional burn. Iron deficiency once a month. Maybe a little tiredness,” she added. “But who isn’t?”

“Sounds like it may be chronic...” Imani noted to hand her iron tablets. “Are you menstruations exceedingly heavy? Apologies for the blunt question, but I’d like to know the root of your anemia even if we’re not equipped to test for it here. Though another cause is stress.” She smiled at Edina, as much a sincere smile as she could muster. “We can treat that too, you know. Or maybe it was an isolated incident that brought about great trauma or hardship in the past, that may have very well been the root cause of your anemia."

“No problem,” said Edina “Women like me…Afro brown skin, have pretty heavy flows all the time. You could almost set your watch to my cycle,” she smiled, a lightening that faded as she continued. “I was off kilter when Alana died. Late by two weeks. I almost thought I might have to let Yuri know that…you know.” She folded her arms. “But then it hit, and it was the heaviest I’d ever had.”

"As catastrophic of a loss as this ship has experienced recently, we've seemingly pinpointed the source of your anemia... Do you tolerate iron well? If you're up for the commitment, that is." Imani then decided to offer up another solution, either perfectly optional though as long as Edina didn't feel her exhaustion was a burden. "There is also the option of birth control for you women who are in an active relationship. I don't want to assume, but I'm going to take a guess and state you two aren't planning on having children soon, right? Whichever form of birth control you're comfortable with, it would help lighten up your periods."

Edina shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know,” she answered the first question. “I guess? The protein paste we’ve been eating is supposed to have iron, so I always thought I was getting enough.” She listened, attentive to the medic’s next suggestion. “I was on pills back on New Melbourne, with my husband…my ex husband,” she corrected herself. “And you’re right. I need to get back on ‘em. Sure don’t want any little surprises on the coming trip.”

“Oh, sorry to hear that,” Imani added casually in reference to the ex-husband comment. Having never been married before, she thought it best to refrain herself from making further inquiries on the subject...at least for the time being. Maybe some time in the future the two of them would sit down together, possibly for a drink, and tell each other some personal stories. And boy did Imani have plenty of those to share “I’m gonna go ahead and assume you prefer the pill given you were on it before? Unless you’re up for trying a new method, all up to you of course.”

“Don’t be.” For a moment, the humor drained out of Edina’s eyes. The topic of Andres was a sleeping dog she preferred to let lie, though now she understood such a blunt response would be a rudeness she completely didn’t intend. “Let’s just say,” the woman lifted her chin, fixing Imani with a wry smile, “that I went on a diet and lost a couple hundred unhealthy pounds.” She fought the brutal memories, stuffing them back into the dark corner from whence they’d come boiling out. “I know we’re running a budget,” she answered the medic. “The pills worked pretty well, but if you’ve got something cheaper?”

From her looks alone, Imani had indeed broached the sore subject of, for lack of better words, a failed marriage. She cleared her throat. "Hey, if there's anything I know about our first mate, it's that he's an outstanding person." She met eyes with Edina. "You've got a good one, seriously." There was a couple of seconds of silence, and then, leaving behind the topic, Imani made a recommendation based on Edina's best interest. "I can give you a shot, quarterly or so. Cost effective and takes but a few minutes of your time. The responsibility will be mine to bear in setting the reminder and call you back down here. What do you say? I have a single vial but there is ample time to get my hands on another one before I run dry.”

“Shiny,” Edina answered, her cheer restoring. “Where do I get jabbed?”

"No need to lower your bottom for this one, I can use your arm." Imani walked off to retrieve the vial and syringe, returning a few moments later with said items. She prepped the shot before rubbing a small sterile pad just below Edina's shoulder. "Nothing but a pinch..." True to her words, Imani was quick with the injection, pinching her skin before inserting the needle.

A moment later and she was done.

"And that's all. Would you like a bandage?"

Edina’s head turned. She couldn’t really see where the pinprick had landed; nothing more than a tiny, unfocused dot hovered at the limits of her peripheral vision. “Only if it’s bleeding,” she answered. “So what’s the plan? When do I come back for the next one?” She sat on the exam table, legs dangling as the medic did her work.

"I'll put a reminder here for the day before your next shot. You can also take note if it'd make you feel more comfortable but I'll get you when the time comes." Imani began degloving to continue on with Edina's check-up. "Well, you can say I saved the best for last. Could you jump up on that scale over there?" Imani motioned, "Just need to get some baseline information and we can start wrapping this up after that."

The galley hand frowned at the scale, then slipped her shoes off. “Great,” Edina replied as she searched her pockets for anything to cast off. “Now you tell me,” she quipped, stepping toward the dreaded instrument. She felt the weight of every protein paste experiment, every ‘taste tested’ cookie… sitting ponderously upon her frame. Inwardly, she mocked herself for this foolishness. Her clothes still fit as they always had. Yuri had never said a thing. Though he couldn’t seem to keep eyes or hands off of her during their time in his cabin, Edina suddenly felt insecurity creeping over her thinking. She’d never ascertained just what his ‘type’ might be. Now, despite his enthusiasm, she carried the weight of doubt onto the scale, her eyes lifted in steadfast avoidance of the cursed numbers.

She couldn’t help but chuckle at Edina’s reaction. Taking a glance at the numbers, which were perfectly fine for someone her frame, Imani decided to have a little fun at Edina’s expense. She cleared her throat, followed by a change in expression which indicated some level of concern. “How is your diet? Are you getting enough fruits and vegetables?” But Imani wouldn’t torture the woman beyond that initial statement. After a brief pause, she went on. “I’m only joking,” she grinned, “your weight is if nothing else, impressive. I can’t imagine being in charge at the galley and maintaining such numbers."

If Edina was being truthful, she would finally owe up to a very old realization. The numbers glowing before her eyes did tell of a few extra pounds since she’d last ventured onto a scale…just over two years ago. The medic at that time had taken little notice, interested as he was in the violent bruises that discolored her ribs and abdomen. Pregnancy, or rather, the fear of such a thing, had driven her to offer Andres’ handiwork to the eyes of an otherwise disinterested physician. ’Negative test result,’ he’d assured her. ’A false pregnancy can manifest after physical trauma, which is evident upon you.’ She took this as the best possible news on a day when she’d determined an abortion to be the kindest thing she might do. The doctor went on to prescribe iron supplements and ice packs. ’And a ham sandwich would do you some good,’ he dismissed her with a chuckle. Three days later, with Andres away at sea, Edina Wyman emptied a dwindling bank account, locked their shabby apartment, and made her escape aboard an old Firefly named China Doll.

She wasn’t negligent of her person; in fact, she was replenished.

“Have you seen what we’re eating?” the galley mate laughed at Imani’s assertion. “Trust me, girl. If we get anywhere close to a decent payday off this run, I might spend all mine on actual fruit and vegetables. I could kill for a tomato.”

Imani chuckled. “I definitely know all too well what you mean… But, take pride in the thought that you do really well with what you have.” She took a few steps away from Edina to place the datapad down once the numbers were automatically recorded. “Well, that concludes my portion. Any side effects serious enough to cause concerns should be brought to my attention as soon as possible but aside from that, you’re all set.”

“Shiny.” Edina slipped back into her shoes, then took a moment to laugh at herself for all the things she needed to stuff back into her pockets. “Hey, so to keep our provisioning from drawing curious eyes I’ve broken our grocery list up until small orders for each person on the crew…except you,” she said as she collected her clipboard. “I conjured you had shopping of your own. Let me know if I can help?”

She chuckled. "I will definitely come to you once I got myself an idea of what I actually want. But yes, we can have a little outing together, maybe make it a girl's type of evening... What say you?"

Edina tucked the clipboard beneath one arm. “Sounds like a plan,” she met the doc’s suggestion with a delighted smile. “I should be clear fairly early tonight, seeing’s we have no passengers and most of the crew are apt to go for skyplex food. Catch you later!” the galley hand tossed the comment over her shoulder as she slipped through the medbay hatch.

The captain was a nice enough man to work for. Penny was pretty happy with how things turned out. She didn’t ask about wages, but in her predicament, getting paid wasn’t as important as getting away from the Skyplex. But she wasn’t out of the woods yet. Now she had to get her bags past “Big D” Ellingsworth and his son Jake.

Derrick Ellingsworth was a local crime boss who seemed to have his hand in everyone’s till. He liked to go by the name, “Big D”. Penny figured that if his name was Quinten, he would be Big Q. Since his name was Derrick, he was Big D. Whoever started that idea of nicknames was something Penny never contemplated. It was just the way things were.

“Come on Izzy, we need to get our stuff,” Penny told her daughter. “We don’t want to spend too much time with Big D and Jake. Let’s get in, get our stuff and get out. Do you understand?”

“Yes, mummy,” Izzy studied the ship from the inside as they headed down the ramp. Then she studied the ship from the outside. What she could see was certainly impressive to her 11-year-old eyes. Sure, she’d seen ships larger and cleaner than this one, but its smallish size attracted her to its aesthetics.

The pair walked calmly through the skyplex until they came to a metallic door, closed from the inside. Penny stepped up to the door and turned the door handle downward. It unlatched easily enough, and the pair were inside. Fortunately, no one was inside the door. They walked down a set of steps to a lower deck. Once there, they followed a steel corridor to the third door on the left. This door opened easily enough as well. Inside were their belongings.

“Take the backpack and the suitcase, Izzy,” Penny instructed her daughter. She needed to help carry stuff back to their new home. Penny picked up the handle on the oversized trunk. A handle extended out of one end and wheels were strategically placed to make it easy to roll along flat ground. She pulled the maroon and white zippered duffel over each arm, so it was neatly attached to her back. Then she pulled on the handle and began dragging the footlocker out into the hall. “Let’s go, Izzy,” her mother spoke in hushed tones.

The two walked quietly and hurriedly down the corridor to the stairs. “Grab the other end of the trunk. We’ll need to carry this up the stairs.” Izzy grabbed an end and struggled to get it up. “Take the lead and guide it up. I’ll take the weight.” Slowly they made their way up the stairs. Izzy had to stop a few times because the weight was too much. She understood the danger of getting caught or leaving. Her mother explained this in detail during the walk here.

Finally, at the top of the stairs, Izzy put the trunk down and Penny managed to get her end up and turned toward the door. She could almost smell freedom. As she was about to reach for the door she heard a familiar voice. “Where do you think you lot be off tah?”

Penny stopped in her tracks. At least it wasn’t Jake or Big D. “Where ye tink ye be off tah?” the irritating voice cut through Penny like a knife. “Ye, not headin’ out tah dur wittout a gud bah?” The voice originated with a massive woman named Patty, weighing in at over four hundred pounds. The woman sweat as a natural course; wet pit stains seeped through her blouse. The woman always smelled of urine. Her hair, a mop of blonde hair, and food stains adorned the front of her shirt.

Penny twirled about, “Patty, so nice of ye to show us off.” Penny smiled the most cordial smile she could muster. “Yea, we are leavin’. Please give mah regards tah Big D.”

“Ye kin quit ta play actin’. I knows ye kin tok raht, bein’ from da inner werlds.” Patty was not smiling. She would sooner throw Penny and Izzy to the wolves than give her a break. “But ah gots tings ta do. Git yer boney arse outta mah sight!” She spat on the floor.

Not one for looking a gift horse in the mouth, Penny quickly rushed Izzy through the door. She heaved the trunk out the doorway and didn’t look back as the pair headed off towards the loading dock. Somehow the encounter with Patty motivated Penny and Izzy to move quickly. “Mummy,” Izzy looked at her mother, “Patty scares me.”

“Me too, sweets. Me too.”

When they arrived at the ramp of the China Doll, no one was around. They dragged their belongings up to the crew quarters and pushed them inside. Once they were in their room, they looked at one another and smiled. Then they both cheered, yelling at the top of their lungs. “We are free! We never have to look at those disgusting people again!”

“But mummy, what of the crew here? We know sister Lyen is nice and Captain Strands appears all well and good. I certainly admire Lucky, but what of the rest? Could we be settling into another bad spot?” Izzy was curious.

“Don’t you worry, sweets. Mummy will take care of you,” She hugged her daughter and then began to unpack. They set up the one bed they would share and put clothing into drawers.

Izzy saw something shiny on the floor and bent down to pick it up. “Look mummy, I found a Gold Doubloon!” she eyed the coin over in her fingers. “Shiver me timbers, Walk the Plank, Ready to Sail. Are we on a pirate ship? I wonder what the story is behind this gold doubloon?”

“I don’t know, sweets.” Penny smiled at her daughter. Let’s explore the ship and see if anyone is around.

OOC: Pardon me while I try to crank up the rusty old writing machine…

“She’s a beaut.” The sniper scope felt good, weighty and firm in her hand. The metal was smooth and precisely machined to the touch. Abby couldn’t help herself. Once more, the fine ocular came up to eye level, just far enough removed to avoid her lash touching the polished glass. The index finger of her left hand steadied the far end as she sighted down the length of the narrow shop. “Mmmm,” the girl hummed a quiet appreciation as she dialed the optics upon one of the myriad target bull’s eyes littering the back wall. “That is some kinda smooth. Could sight on targets ‘o’ diff’rent ranges without missin’ a beat.”

The shopkeeper’s study of her backside abruptly ceased. This little girley might just walk the walk after all. “Whatcha thinking to mount it on?”

“Mosin-Nagant,” Abby replied as she drew a tight bead on the target. “M-91.”

“What series?” Now he really was interested.

“R-3.”

“That’s a fine shootin’ iron you got there, little lady,” the gunsmith leaned over the counter. “Wouldja consider sellin’ ‘er? I’ll pay top coin. Best coin this end of the ‘verse.”

She didn’t bother with an answer, just a careful placement of the scope back into its’ package. “How much fer this?”

Caleb Brummy, Proprietor of Brummy’s Firearms and Munitions, clasped both hands in reverence as he spoke. “This is a precision instrument,” his voice nearly quivered with pride. “Got Kraut glass in ‘er. Don’t get no better optics than what them Krauts grind out. Four hundred.”

“Four hunnerd.” Abby fixed him with a dead eyed stare.

“Yes, ma’am. For that, I’ll even throw in a high quality no-drill mount.”

The deckhand folded her arms. While she was sure that Kraut glass was something mighty fine, no way was she about to drop what she conjured to be Hank Aaron money for a piece of hardware she knew damned well she could pick up on planet for two C’s, Kraut or not. “Box is powerful dusty,” she observed. “Cain’t be good holdin’ stock fer so long. How ‘bout I take it off yer hands fer two fifty?”

Brummy’s eyes narrowed. “How’s about you just walk your pretty little pi gu right out that door?”

Hot Tempered Abby woulda showed metal for that. Even Uncle Bob counseled to let her gun hand drift near the Colt when a man come crossways with her. But she had a new take on this. Lotsa voices, tellin’ her little bits ‘o’ wisdom all at once.

”Whole lotta ways folk horse trade, kid. Not all of ‘em good.”

Cap’n. Always Cap’n. One thing she’s just beginning to learn these past couple years was that there’s a whole lotta grey in the black. Cal Strand had a way of putting sense to it for her. As such, Abby now conjured this man’s slight toward her person, no matter how belittling, weren’t nothing more’n a move for the high ground to cover his counter offer. The next move was hers. “Shiny,” the teenager replied. With a decisive whirl on one bootheel, she made for the exit.

As Abby’s fingers twisted the knob, Brummy called out, “three seventy-five!”

“Still walkin’!”

“You stupid, kid?” he demanded. “That’s Kraut glass! You got any idea how good that is?”

She paused to toss back a wry smile. “Good ‘nuff to gather dust on that shelf another few years, I conjure.”

Brummy’s face was flushing red. “Three twenty-five. There…I metcha halfway. We gonna do this or not?”

”He’s a wannabe. Makes his living selling bullets and an occasional low end pea shooter. You would make his week.”

Mr. Eleanor, him as she suspected was some sorta confidence man…still teachin’ her to read the room.

“You heard muh price,” Abby said as the door shut behind her. He could stew. Odds were mighty long a man treated womenfolk like Brummy’d stoop to come runnin’ after her. If he did, she might just let herself get sweet talked up to two seventy-five…provided said talk was actually sweet. After all, it was Kraut glass…

”He got one thing right. You do got a pretty pi gu.”

“Shut up, Rex,” Abby giggled to herself as two passersby traded glances.