It was amazing how useful maintenance closets could be. Large enough for a person to fit comfortably, never surveilled, rarely visited, and with access to most of a stations system. Jocasta watched through a spliced fiber feed as marines headed to the bank and then to the Huntsmen, locking down the ship and beginning a methodical search. The moved crisply, rifles at high port, sweeping methodically and professionally. It was a sight to see, and one that made Jocasta's lips turn up in a sad smile. The day was not long coming when the UNSG would abandon this sector as it strove desperately to keep itself together in face of powerful nobles and fiscal cut backs. She carefully counted the number of marines at the ship and at the bank, then slipped out.
Another benefit of maintenance closets was they usually had some spare clothes, and no one paid attention to a maintenance worker dressed in slightly ill fitting coveralls and a construction helmet. She carried a tool box and moved with no particular purpose towards the docking arm currently occupied by the UNSG Cartagena. The destroyer bulked large beyond the view port, a slender dagger shaped vessel bulged out at the end to accommodate massive engine farings. It was a battered old tub, two generations out of frontline service but still being made to work out here in the bundu.
Jocasta bought a pastry from a street vendor and took a seat where she could unobtrusively watch the ship. A single marine currently stood guard, the rest of the compliment having been dispatched. Opening her tool box she watched the progress of the rest of the marines on a hand held flatscreen which she had repurposed from a multimeter. She needed a distraction, but given that a platoon or so of marines had just commandeered and impounded the Huntsman-come-Artemis, she was fairly sure that just such a distraction would arise very soon.
Another benefit of maintenance closets was they usually had some spare clothes, and no one paid attention to a maintenance worker dressed in slightly ill fitting coveralls and a construction helmet. She carried a tool box and moved with no particular purpose towards the docking arm currently occupied by the UNSG Cartagena. The destroyer bulked large beyond the view port, a slender dagger shaped vessel bulged out at the end to accommodate massive engine farings. It was a battered old tub, two generations out of frontline service but still being made to work out here in the bundu.
Jocasta bought a pastry from a street vendor and took a seat where she could unobtrusively watch the ship. A single marine currently stood guard, the rest of the compliment having been dispatched. Opening her tool box she watched the progress of the rest of the marines on a hand held flatscreen which she had repurposed from a multimeter. She needed a distraction, but given that a platoon or so of marines had just commandeered and impounded the Huntsman-come-Artemis, she was fairly sure that just such a distraction would arise very soon.