Imani had worked up the remainder of the crew and was now left to do as she pleased, which was not a whole lot to choose from that list. But she did have her stash, a bottle of some type of liquor she couldn't bother to learn how to pronounce, much less spell. Pretty sure the real label was replaced and then the bottle resold, but that mattered even less. She was back in her private quarters standing in front of the mirror she had hung up on the bulkhead. A pair of scissors in one hand and a quarter-full glass on the other. She gulped down some of the drink, then stared at her reflection once more. There's no going back after this... It was almost as if she were trying to convince herself not to take the next step. But regardless, she did.

Little by little strands of her hair fell by her feet. Probably the second time ever she'd cut her own fringe. But Imani had done a whole lot of learning since, mainly in the form of observing how to go about it with the proper technique and practicing twice on someone. That someone—both times her friend's daughter, Catalina—was just about the sweetest little person she'd ever met. Of course she never minded when Imani would give her a haircut, and Imani couldn't help but wonder if Catalina would mind now. She was 12, growing and maturing like the rest of them despite her mother hoping otherwise.

Once the deed was done, Imani inspected her work. It wasn't bad, definitely not by her own standards. In fact, she was pretty impressed with herself, and that called for a celebratory shot. She put the scissors down and picked up the glass, heading over to snuggle with her comforter, which meant sitting up against the wall, her lap nice and covered while she messed with her datapad. Though this time, she'd be calling someone.

Settled in her spot, Imani called up her friend.

"Rosaline, hi."

The video feed came to life. "Well look who it is! You've gone and disappeared on me yet again. How long has it been now, six months?"

"Yeah, more or less," Imani laughed. Rosaline seemed to be cooking something, a section of her frame hidden by a large, white bowl. "I was just thinking 'bout you guys since I did this myself," Imani pointed to her new hairdo.

"Well look at that, Cat would be proud!"

"I bet she would, is she around?"

"Nah, she's off with her dad." 

"Guess you two never fixed the relationship?"

Rosaline answered with a sigh, "Nah, we weren't fixable, not anymore." Her voice had lowered, the subject no doubt a sore one. "But it happens, just a matter of getting over our many years together, though it's taking me longer to deal with than it took him."

Imani stayed silent, and eventually Rosaline spoke up again.

"But enough about that, I don't wanna sour this little chat of ours. How's your life? Any new developments, romantic or otherwise?"

Imani scoffed. "Just workin', flying through space doing medic stuff and serving this fine crew." Her statement sounded slightly sarcastic, however she didn't mean such tone.

“Oh you’re doing that again?” Rosaline asked.

“Yeah, sad story actually. The previous doctor onboard passed away, it was some tragic stuff. She was young and a really sweet girl, but when it’s your time, it’s your time... But other than, it’s the same old for me. Haven’t found anyone, rather inconvenient time given I’m stuck with the same faces out here in the black most of the time. Nothing wrong with ‘em, but none of them are my better half.”

Both women then continued their conversation for a little while longer, that which entailed recalling some shared memories as well as making vague plans for the future which would likely fall through, but the thought was there at least.

After saying their goodbyes, Imani tossed the datapad aside. She lingered in bed for a little while longer, then quietly decided to clean up the bit of mess on the floor. She headed out to gather the necessary supplies, and her plan for after the fact was to finish some more of the bottle.

He had been busy. More than some might appreciate, but thankfully less than they’d notice. Despite being large as he was, Elias had a way of being quite elusive about the place. Fuzzy pink loafers helped a lot to not make a sound, but thoroughly mapping the schedules of the crew helped more. Of course, it helped a lot less than he had hoped. This wasn’t the armed forces, the crew of the China Doll had a habit of… just doing stuff. Which he didn’t like. You were meant to organize spontaneity beforehand, such as appointed lunch-breaks. Briefly he figured he wouldn’t fit in with the crew to the point that he, they, or both would simply decide it was better to part ways. He wasn’t exactly married to the China Doll, but he somehow doubted he’d have an easy time finding another place to work like this. Anyway, he found himself slowly growing to the place. He became quite expert at recognizing the voices of each of the crew’s members even through walls, their gaits, the sound of their feat as he listened from his resting spot near the engines. And, perhaps they’d learn of his presence in their own subtle ways too.

Some things would be a lot cleaner or more maintained than they had been since perhaps the first year of the China Doll’s flight; coverings of lights would have all the spiders that made them their homes suddenly evicted. Rust would disappear from everywhere that it had begun to show, and old machinery would be oiled. Smoke detectors that no longer even beeped from a need of changed batteries would once more have a happy little green light to show all was well. Some things took him longer. Getting surety of all the hermetic seals in the event of a breach of the hull was much harder, especially since all the instruments and tools from the past mechanic weren’t configured as he was used to. But eventually he was able to finally get the concern out of his head that if there was a hole in the ship everyone would get sucked out like juice from a fruit because the vessel’s doors couldn’t hold as airlocks. What a long thought.

So many little things needed maintaining, and it was a nice way to busy himself. A clock he heard in a hallway had one out of every hundred or so ticks that followed each tock be missed. This added up to that part of the ship living in an entirely different universe that was minutes behind the rest of the galaxy! Thankfully, all that was needed was to bend a little spoke back into shape to fix this crime.

The truth was that Elias didn’t actually know what to do with himself other than work. Wealthy as his family was, he had somewhat gotten accustomed to expensive tastes from his youth, those which he just assumed couldn’t be fulfilled here even if he couldn’t elaborate much more beyond that. But musics, film, and all else really weren’t to his preference. He couldn’t really eat beyond chugging the admittedly appreciated efforts to make scentful meals for him, what was left to spend his days on?

Well, there were his personal projects he supposed. Picking heavy things up in a cyclic fashion at least gave him some calm, even if he had to chug a lot of those purees to try maintain any mass on a wiry skeleton that was more meant for a lean geek than his struggle to try to be a wall of muscle. There was the text to speech device. He appreciated the members of the crew that went out of their way to learn sign language for his sake, but it was clearly easier for them to hear his hastily punched out keys, especially since he didn’t need to have them be looking at his hands or even his chalkboard to read this. With just a little scrap electronics and maybe an alarm clock or two that people kept sleeping through anyway, his contraption was created.

But then of course, there was his magnum opus, or at least for this flight. The grand piano, everything from the strings to hammers to frame crafted by his own. A ramshackle mess, one that needed tuning. But in the quiet of the night, if a person went out for a glass of water or a call of nature, they might just hear a wistful tune.

There was the matter of identity to take care of, of course. He photocopied his fingerprints, refrigerated samples of his blood and hair and everything else. He’d written out complex letters detailing his situation that he’d use to help recover his name. The man had even considered making a chart to compare his mutilated features with those of old pictures of himself, but he figured eventually that the people who cared would figure this out themselves, walking around with a picture of a young man and his own disfigured portrait probably wouldn’t go down well.

However, if everything went right (as rare as such a thing might have been), then maybe Elias Riemen would finally have a bit of paper with a barcode that finally told the whole world that he was who he said he was. Such flimsy little things, all shiny and laminated these IDs. Yet so much meaning was assigned to them, meaning that he suffered because he couldn’t assign it to himself.

Happy thoughts, he had to think happy thoughts. Well, first he had to think of some, before he could think them.

“It’s not pretty,” Yuri agreed with McKenna’s estimation. “But it’ll do the job. How soon can you deliver?”

The truss before him was stacked onto three pallets. Each joint bore the dents and scars of many uses before. McKenna hadn’t bothered sprucing it up; bonding plates were scarred by the ragged traces of old welds, and the last two coats of sealer paint were chipping away. But Yuri didn’t care. If the job went according to plan, the blemished structure wouldn’t be seen by anyone but China Doll’s crew. With luck, he’d be right back here to sell it to McKenna for half what he paid…unless they could scare up another buyer.

“What’s your berth?” the merchant asked.

“Three-Oh-Nine.”

“Eh,” the old man’s lips twisted in displeasure. “You’re right on the main drag. Way too much foot traffic for my haulers to run it down there while all them businesses are open. Twenty-one hundred’s about as early as we can come without squashing folk. That gonna work?”

The first mate tossed a short nod. “That’s fair.” His eyes trailed over the rest of the equipment order. Hinge plates all stacked and strapped to a pallet. Another held his chain hoists, their housings dented and careworn from use…yet each bore a fresh inspection tag proclaiming its’ fitness. The final pallet held a pilot’s chair…a very large pilot’s chair. Though the dyed leather of the seat and armrests had seen better days, Yuri gauged them durable enough to bear up under Boone’s weight. The two slider tracks were a welcome surprise. “Didn’t think about those,” he chuckled.

“Part and parcel,” McKenna replied. “I threw in a bag of ten millimeter bolts for the deck mount.”

“All looking good,” Yuri agreed. “Can you walk me through those EB7’s?”

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

Little Moriah Skyplex was identical to all of her sisters, differing only by name and the types of merchants lining storefronts on the main thoroughfare. Yet, even those differences were illusory. There was always a bakery pumping out somebody’s trademark cookie, umpteen sandwich shops, places for pho and noodles, and usually three choices in saloon ranging from high toned to downright disreputable. Add to that the hundreds of street vendors pushing their own recipes and brik-a-brak, and you had a proper hullabaloo to echo throughout the station’s pressurized hull.

But, as he wove a path among the swelling humanity, Yuri found honest surprise in the sound of a piano.

He couldn’t see it; the place was simply too crowded for that. Instead, he let his ears suss out a bearing. Like a hound trailing a scent, the first mate nudged through knots of oblivious shoppers and gawkers. For the cacophony around him, Yuri could not recognize the tune, but only the presence of one, hanging above the teeming mass like an old ghost struck funny. In the distance lay an open court, an intersection sprouting vendor kiosks, some distractions for children, and the ubiquitous ‘YOU ARE HERE’ locator screens. As he stepped into the plaza, the piano’s voice became clear.

“Garner,” he muttered to himself. “Errol Garner.”

The piano, an old upright model, had seen better days. Though marred by graffiti and years of coarse paint to cover its’ blemishes, the instrument seemed in reasonable tune. Propped before it on an equally rough looking bench was an old man. As he came near, Yuri studied the man. He wore a charcoal suit jacket, its’ wrinkled sleeves having long ago found congruence with those upon his face. Given the midnight hue of his flesh, one might assume that man and suit were one and the same, had it not been for the thin sliver of shirt collar which peeked out above the jacket’s lapels.

He knew that profile. Despite the ravages of age and poverty, the razor straight jaw cut down toward ivory keys, an aqualine nose bending in perfect time as one hand managed the work of two. Eldrich Bernard, in the flesh, and right before him.

No one but the first mate took notice of the master in their presence. Awestruck as he was, Yuri had lost all sense of the crowd. Here was a man who’d managed to reach through time itself, not only to strike a series of recorded notes on the page, but to revive the spirits of men like Garner, Duke Ellington, Art Blakey, and Thelonius Monk. For a time, Eldrich Bernard took his place in the epicenter of a Jazz Rennaissance born out of a handful of seedy bars in the Eavesdown district of Persephone. As their notoriety took hold across the ‘verse, growing fame and wealth soon carried him and his chosen cohorts on the sound stages of Pacquin and other major destinations. His music, both renditions of the greats and original works, found their way across the black and into the ear of a disaffected young teenager.

Yuri idolized the jazz musician, dreamed of learning the piano. When news came of the fiery shuttle crash that cost Bernard both his wife and his left arm, the boy wept and grieved as so many avid listeners did. His parents were befuddled at this; his older brother openly scoffed. But Yuri kept the music, absorbed each subtle touch of the keys into unfailing memory that would immediately recognize “the Bernard method.” And now, here sat the man himself, his left sleeve pinned up, the right hand magnificent upon a rough old barrelhouse upright, playing unnoticed in the middle of a gorram merchants’ bazaar. It was insulting…yet, as he allowed his own temper to cool, he realized that the old musician had no more concern than the need to play. There was a slight upward curve to the narrow lips. Despite his station, despite all that Yuri could see the ‘verse had brought down upon him, Eldrich Bernard was enjoying himself.

As the song wound to a close, the young man might’ve made a gushing fool of himself, were it not for an aptly timed cortex message from the captain.

Sister’s hired us on a couple extra mouths to feed. You might want to head back and rethink our provisions for the run.

Yuri blinked. There was quite a bit to blink at. Then again, Captain’s sense of humor seemed to walk the edge at times. Two extra crew aboard meant quite a bit more than just provisions, and he knew his first mate now had a “whole passel” of rethinking to do on the matter. He tapped out a reply. On my way.

“Thanks,” the old man said to the ten credit coin dropped into his up ended bowler hat.

“My pleasure, Mr. Bernard.”

Dark eyes lifted from the keys to meet the younger man. “You know me? What’s your name?”

“Yuri Antonov,” he smiled. “Been a fan of yours since I was fourteen.”

Eldrich nodded, a hint of satisfaction on his features as he offered a handshake. “Fourteen,” he repeated, savoring the word. “Don’t hear that one a lot. What brings you ‘round here, Yuri Antonov?”

The first mate shook his head. “I heard your album “Monk Meets Garner,” and I was hooked. Bought everything I could get my hands on after that…’Blue Midnight, ‘Uptime Uptown’, ‘Songs For Loretta.” He paused, cursing himself for a fool. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bernard. So sorry.”

The old jazz man met this with a slow smile. “I still play her music ev’ry night, son. Keeps her right here with me. She’d be please to hear a young man like yourself speaking well of her music.” He cast an eye toward the bowler hat. “You dropped coin. Got a request?”

“I would,” Yuri shrugged, “but my boat’s calling me back as it is. Sir, is there any chance you’re playing a show here on the skyplex?”

Bernard stood up. “See down that alley?” He pointed out a narrow corridor lined with vendors’ stalls. “Little spot down there called Bert’s. You can’t miss it. We got a little trio plays in there at night for drinks and tips. Come on around ‘bout ten and you’ll find us.”

“That,” the young man nodded enthusiastically, “is a plan. See you tonight, sir!” With a wave toward an idol he never thought he’d meet, Yuri turned to set off through the milling crowds of the skyplex. From behind him, the old piano spoke again, the recognizable chords of “Misty” carrying over the unceasing murmur of an oblivious crowd. Doesn’t matter he told himself as he threaded his way beck to China Doll. Tonight…Eldrich Bernard…I’ll be right there! He’d let Edina know they were headed out. Maybe even Elias, given his own piano talents. But first, he had to see about these two new crewpeople.

As Cal entered the bridge, the pilot turned in his chair to look over his shoulder. With a nod, Cal crossed and situated himself in the Captain's chair. Setting a brand new brimmed hat on the console before him, Cal announced to the bridge, "Elias gave us the green light. You good?"

The massive pilot gave his customary high-octane cheer, belayed by the man's sinister tattoos.

"What about you, SAM? Everything buttoned up?"

A cool lilting accent filled the bridge, "Abby just closed up the cargo bay, Cal. We're ready for the next stop before our dog-leg." The speakers crackled slightly, distorting the electronic tones of SAM's last syllables.

The pilot looked up at Cal, his brow furrowed, mouth forming a question.

He raised a hand to interject, "We're gonna set up the trussin', get our ducks in a row before we haul out," with the other hand the Captain punched in the clearance code for undocking, raising the traffic controller to seal the deal. "Little Moriah, this is China Doll; we're loaded up and shippin' out. Thanks for the warm welcome."

The view cam on Cal's console sprung to life as a uniformed figure with short-kempt, brown hair issued a few short phrases, "China Doll, you are cleared to disembark. Come back soo--" The last was cut off as Cal flipped a switch and palmed the comm to his crew. "This is your Captain speaking. We got a couple new faces aboard; Abigail, why don't make your way over and strap them in. We're on our way to a pit stop where I'll need all hands to suit up; fresh-faces included. Hope everyone got their fill of society; won't see such for a while, and Tiānxiǎodé we're plum out." (God knows)

The comm barked as Cal let off the thumb hold, hanging it back on the bulkhead. "Take us out," the Captain bade his pilot. Boone went to work at his console and the China Doll sprung free from the Skyplex, drifting for a moment. The large man's hands edged the equipment and the Firefly's engines warmed, the thrum permeating the ship as the main engine came to pace. Leaning forward, the pilot took them out and away from their berth slowly, until they passed the floating satellites which denoted the safe distance to burn.

After a moment, the Captain strapped himself into the chair, the viewport filling with the emptiness of space.

"Do we have everything?" came SAM's query in her Earth-That-Was Bostonian accent.

"Dāngrán, fǒuzé wǒmen jiù xiànrù kùnjìngle," came Cal's reply. (Of course, or we're up a creek.)

"Xiàng qián!" SAM replied, the smile almost visible in her voice. (Onward!)

Cal turned to Boone, "You heard the lady" His view swept back to the viewport, "bring me that sky."

The new folk, Penny and daughter Izzy, seemed square enough. Didn’t take more’n a quick gander to suss they been livin’ on the dodge a spell. Prospect of three squares and a bunk was plenty to put light in their eyes and a genuine need on Momma’s part to make known she wanted ‘em earnin’ their keep right pronto. “You’ll getcher chance,” Abby said as she followed Cap’n’s orders an’ made certain both of ‘em was strapped in right. Leavin’ a Skyplex was apt to knock a body off balance every once in a blue moon, but t’weren’t nothin’ like the G force shakedown of breakin’ atmo. Still, orders was orders and ‘til we had a read on the new folk, best to strap ‘em down. “See that door right there?” the deckhand pointed toward a double width slider. “That’s y’all’s. Bunk space for two. I’ma stow yer stuff in there right now so it doesn’t rock about durin’ departure.”

Without another word, the deckhand scooped up their loose bags. Once the little family’s personal effects were secure, she stopped once more. “Lav’s right there. If yah need soap an’ shampoo I’ll hook yew up. Name’s Abby. I stay right up there,” she pointed up the narrow aft corridor, “last door on the right. “Cap’n oughtta sound the ‘all clear’ about five ticks after we push back. ‘Til than,” she gave a glance toward the young’un, “kindly stay buckled up.”

With nothing left to say, the teenager made her way up to her own cabin, the tiny bunkspace tucked in among the shelves in the supply locker. “SAM,” she raised the cortex to her lips as she settled down onto the bunk, “let Cap’n know his new kids is all buttoned up an’ ready to ride.”

“He’ll ask about the welfare of his deckhand,” the AI responded in an accent she’d been told come from a place called ‘Bah-ston.’

“I’m shiny, too.”

“Have you installed those safety straps on your bunk?”

Abby rolled her eyes. “I’m nudged up against an aft bulkhead…best place to be when Boone puts the hammer down…right?”

“Technically correct, given a standard departure.” At that moment, the sense of motion was almost indiscernably felt through the heel of one boot. “I will remind you that if we were forced into sudden maneuvering, you might be at risk.”

“And Ah’ll remind yew that…” Her hackles were coming up, and for what reason? Because Cap’n’s little black box up in the nose of the boat reminded her to do a gorram job? Catching hold of that outburst, Abby finished, “I got it on my ‘to do’ list between here an’ the relay station.”

“Thank you,” SAM responded, the tone of her voice ever cordial.

Just as well they were leavin’ the Skyplex; the place put her into all manner of troublesome ruminations. To think what set her off…something as silly as a trading card…wouldn’t make no sense at all. But Capn’s’ talk of “making your mark”...well, when she looked about all them folk called the skyplex their home, what she come away with left her most unsettled in her thoughts.

Everywhere she looked was an ocean full of dead ends, from the shopkeeper tried to Shylock three times price outta her for a rifle scope in a dusty box, to the bitter old man slapped a bowl full ‘o’ pork noodles down before her, try as she might all she saw was folk just scratchin’ and scrabblin’ for the most meager of scraps this ‘verse might leak their way.

What really drove it home was a young couple sat in a booth next hers at the noodle place. They’s on their lunch break, fillin’ time with a round of ‘slap an’ tickle.’ He’s all done up in grease streaked coveralls, smoochin’ an’ pawin’ on her as she tried to keep her maid’s uniform clean and right. Abby, who done her best not to listen, finally gave up an’ left. A quick glance over her shoulder showed the worst. Hell, neither one of ‘em looked close to her nineteen years. And the rise of the poor girl’s stomach told just how much they’d be growin’ up real soon.

Though she’d never been with a boy, it was sights like that made her right curious about chastity vows Sister mighta took. She always knew what futures lay for girls like her out here in the black. “Housekeepin’ or whorin’,” Uncle Bob used to slur when he’s in his cups. “You find yourself a boat. You stick to the black….only shot you’re gonna get for somethin’ else.”

Well, she done that now…heeded that advice almost without fail. And where it got her so far, she conjured, was your basic housekeepin’. Just weren’t that many jobs on a boat. ‘Less yah could doctor, fly, or turn wrenches, most like you’d find yourself doin’ just what she’s up to. Good work, she told herself. Good boat. Good folk. And that was all true. She knew for a fact long as she carried her weight and kept the lip to a minimum she’d have a place here on China Doll. A good place.

A dead end.

But if makin’ her mark was the goal, she didn’t rightly see how. Never had proper schoolin’...just what Uncle Bob taught and what she picked up from books and folk along the way. So, scratch anything called for a sheepskin.

Refinement’s out. Mr. Eleanor had other ideas about how she’d clean up, but Abby’s nigh on certain she’d never stand in a room with a Companion the likes of Quill Cassidy and not come off the bumpkin in that pair off. Then again, she mused, even Quill’s high fallutin’ trade brought with it a healthy degree of whorin’...same basic function; just done purtier and more expensive.

She felt a small push, her shoulder blades pressed against the bulkhead. China Doll was making her first move toward a busy exit channel. Meanwhile, Abby pondered her next move, if such was to be in the cards.

There was always crime. She had two standing offers. Lorraine would take her on. Also, she was a sworn and bound sister of the Headhunters MC on Greenleaf. Both offered promise of some high old times, sure and true, with nary a mop or a bunk to turn out. Still, they was crime…of the sort could put her face up next them grifters on the postal station wall. Cap’n did crime, too, she reckoned, but he handled it in the way of ‘naughty men slippin’ about,’ without the roar and fuss of a palms up biker gang or a merry band ‘o’ thieves.

“So,” she said to the captures on the opposite bulkhead, “where’s that leave me? All I know is boats.”

Her family smiled down from the captures. Momma and Daddy, both in their browncoats, holdin’ a curly haired three year old terror what only wanted down. She could see Daddy’s Colt on his belt, the one she owned this very day. Lots ‘o’ pics of her growin’ up alongside her Aunt Lupe. Lupe was the oldest of three sisters; her momma was the youngest. They’s another aunt out there, also fought as a Browncoat, that Abby ain’t met yet.

Her eye found one shot. Uncle Bob, when he was younger. A fierce, proud looking man with a pair of pistols on his waist and a reputation by which he earned his keep. “The Fastest Gun in the ‘Verse.” She grew up believin’ it…the book said so. Sure, couple years before he died she was outdrawin’ him, but that was just the drink slowin’ him down…

She was outdrawin’ her uncle. Hadn’t really givin’ that any thought before.

Uncle Bob had trained her. Taught her how to handle a pistol. Taught her to look for tells of an enemy committin’ to the draw, and also how to hide her own. He showed her the balance, made sure she had the steps, understood that accuracy wasn’t near as important as intent. Most important, he taught her The Code. She never woulda conjured a profession like gunslingers would have ethics…

Abby’s eye came to rest upon the Colt, hanging secure in its’ belt holster. She hadn’t practiced in awhile. Now, with the eyes of her Uncle Bob upon her, she reasoned it might be time to consider taking up the family business.

Part 1 of a JP/Collab from @Xandrya, @Gunther, @Bugman, @wanderingwolf, and @sail3695

For any whose course might err upon it, Cortex Relay Station K-29B was a formidable looking sphere, roughly the size of the Grand Stadium on Osiris. K-29B is unique; her sister stations are all rather unremarkable small asteroids fitted out with the necessary datacom transceivers and positioning thruster systems to hold them fast in their far flung postings. The reason for this stark difference lies in recent history. The original station K-29 was discovered to have been remotely accessed by the hacker known as “Mr. Universe.” His administrator link permitted an upload of the now infamous Miranda Broadwave which 29A’s corrupted systems propagated throughout the entire network, much to the embarrassment of the Alliance.

In the timeless tradition of men in power, the Alliance reacted swiftly, bombarding the cortex with misinformation and conspiracy theories concerning the Miranda drug trials, explaining away the resulting Reavers as merely a bogeyman created by Browncoats to mask their terrorist acts, and culminating in the public arrest and execution of a number of said Browncoat “Reavers.” Station K-29B was constructed as a symbol of steely resolve, its’ state of the art data management infrastructure and firewalls impervious behind an equally hardened outer hull that none would dare approach, let alone attempt to breach.

Of course, the designers weren’t counting on S.A.M.A.N.T.H.A.

China Doll hovered in the great sphere’s lee. Occasionally, her thrusters would fire, just the lightest touch to offset the gravity of the larger station. At the current phase of her truss build, she resembled a large insect, six legs angling down from hard points on the hull.

Suited figures moved about, busy at their tasks. Elias and Cap’n had already begun welding. Thanks to the mechanic’s suggestion of adding pipes as stiffening cantilevers, they’d been able to simply bolt the truss joints to their hinge plates and then weld to precut pipe lengths…a move that was going to save them a full day’s labor. For his part, Elias kept true to form. It would be annoying perhaps, the constant droning of his text-to-speech device or his frantic hand signals and scratching of his whiteboard. Constant demands to make sure the parts were clean almost to the level of hospital sterility to ensure impurities wouldn’t become vulnerabilities, and he inspected every supposedly complete bit to ensure the weld had gone deep enough to make sure the integrity wasn’t compromised. If it was, he’d immediately demand the job not be half-assed.

Imani finally left the med bay in its previous state prior to her arrival and some routine work; pristine and ready for patients should someone require her services. It was Yuri the first body she came across with a clipboard, so it was he who would advise what needed to be done, or at least, that's what she thought.

"Anything I can do to help expedite the process?" She walked up from behind Yuri, and Imani could have sworn she had startled him from the slightest movement on his part. With a smile, she circled around the first mate. "I'm all caught up on my end and would rather not sit around twiddling my fingers.”

He’d been in the bulky EV suit for hours, gliding relentlessly through the black from one side of the boat to the other to oversee the skeletal fingers of truss which were now beginning to curl downward and beneath her hull. Fueled by Edina’s breakfast and at least four cups of coffee, Yuri’s excitement over seeing this part of the job come to fruition had overridden not only his better judgment, but the capacity of his bladder, to boot. Now, after a desperate rush back inside, he stood outside the lav, wrestling his way back into the suit.

“Oh…oh,” Yuri gave a mild start at the sound of Imani’s voice from behind. He turned, his smile a mix of sheepish good humor. “Shiny, Doc. We could use your hands on a socket driver. Come on, we’ll get you suited up.”

“Izzy, stow your gear. We should check out the ship. I'd like to meet with Edina in the galley.” Izzy was slow to move, lazing about with a cortex playing some mindless game. “Izzy! Move!” Her mother stared at her. The girl looked back in contempt. She laid the cortex on a small table. With a shrugged, slumped shoulder she trudged toward the hatchway. Her mother preceded her heading to the galley.

The couple walked in, “hello, anyone here?”

“In here!” A muffled voice cried out from behind the pantry hatch, followed by a resounding crash and clatter of all make and manner of tumble. “I’m okay!” Edina shouted next, before appearing with very heavy, very deep skillet. “Hey,” she laughed, “it’s Protein Paste Taco Tuesday. Broken bones are extra!”.

“Well, now that was quite an introduction,” Penny stated smiling. “My name is Penny. Penny Abernathy and this is my daughter, Isabella. But everyone calls her Izzy.” Penny motioned toward her 11-year old daughter, then held out her hand to shake.

“Edina Wyman,” she returned the smile as both women clasped hands. “It’s a pleasure. You too, Isabella.” The galley hand’s gaze fixed upon the standoffish girl. “How would you like to be addressed? You can call me Edina or Eddie, whichever one you like.”

Izzy looked at Edina and stated sheepishly, “Izzy.”

“Do you need any help? I know my way around a kitchen, or in this case, a galley.”

With an energetic nod, Edina moved toward the cupboard. “Sure can.” She produced a large cutting board and a rolling pin, before turning toward the icebox. “Time to make the taco shells. The masa’s all ready,” she said, pulling a sizeable mixing bowl into the light. “If you guys can roll ‘em ouit, I’ll get the oil hot.”

“I believe this is something we can handle,” Penny replied. “Izzy, wash your hands and get some flour.” Izzy and Penny both scrubbed their hands at the sink with soap and warm water, then dried them off with a nearby dish towel. Izzy hefted a canister filled with flour. Penny laid the cutting board out on the table and then grabbed a scoop of flour from the canister Izzy had carried. She spread the flour over the board with her hand. “It is best to spread dry flour out on the board first as it prevents the mix from sticking to the board. It makes the process of rolling it out so much easier.”

Izzy watched her mom set up the board and spread the flour. “Can I roll the mix?” Izzy asked her mom, wanting to get more involved in what they were doing.

“Yes, of course you can,” Penny smiled at her daughter. She was happy she volunteered to do it. The girl had appeared off since they came aboard ship. Penny was sure it was because she was in a new place and didn’t know anyone. She just needed to meet some of the crew. It would be great if there was someone her age on board, but even a younger woman, closer to her age would do nicely.

Penny watched her daughter as she rolled out the taco shells into usable sheets. She looked up at Edina, how long have you been aboard this ship?”

“About two years,” Edina replied before laughing softly at herself. “First time I’ve given it thought,” she shook her head as she watched tiny heat bubbles form at the bottom of the oil. “Guess I just kinda settled right in there. How about you?” she asked the newcomers by way of making conversation. “Got a destination in mind, or are you a pair of free spirits?”

“I’d say we were a little of both,” Penny responded, not thinking about where they were heading. “We were in a bind at that place the captain picked us up at. We needed leave, like yesterday.” Penny looked down at the work Izzy was performing. “Spread it out more, sweetie,” she said to her daughter then looked back up to Edina. “I guess I need to figure out where we are heading. For now, this will have to be home. I guess I'd like to get back to the inner planets one of these days. I have some business to attend to eventually, but that can wait.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Part 2 of a JP/Collab from @Xandrya, @Gunther, @Bugman, @wanderingwolf, and @sail3695

"A socket driver you say... I may know what that is," she playfully feigned ignorance as she followed Yuri. Imani hadn't been out in the black in what seemed like an eternity, and if she was being honest with herself, she was growing slightly anxious, though that was something she'd keep to herself. "Been a while since I've confronted the vastness out there, better time than ever.”

Yuri led the way up topside. “Abby,” he spoke into the suit com, “Imani’s headed outside. We have a suit that’ll fit her? Okay….okay….okay…..shiny. I’ll let her know. You’re in luck,” he smiled over his shoulder his shoulder as they made for the airlock. Abby’s got her own suit prepped and ready to go. She said you should find it a fair enough fit.” Sure enough, upon arrival the pair found an EV suit, freshly charged and just awaiting an occupant. “You said it’s been awhile,’ Yuri offered. “The only things you have to take off are your shoes and the lab coat. After that I’d say anything that you think restricts your range of motion. Then, just step inside.”

He turned his back. “Let me know when you’re in and I’ll make sure you’re all buttoned up.”

She nodded in response, shrugging off her coat before neatly placing it on the ground against the bulkhead. Imani then stepped off her shoes as well, pushing them adjacent to the coat. At first glance, one could almost compare her lithe figure to that of a dancer were it not for Imani spending years pursuing and maintaining a toned fit.

The medic then worked her way into the EV suit just like she had done all those years ago, adjusting accordingly as she went.

"All set!" Imani held out her arms in front of her, palms up then palms down, figuring out her range of motion.

The First Mate stepped behind the doc. “If EV suits run from ‘Wow!’ to ‘You Gotta Be Kiddin’ Me,’ these are closer to ‘That’ll Do, Pig.” His hand pushed it’s way along her spine, telegraphing the sensation of the atmo seal membrane working into place. “Edina calls this the Zip-Lock…and no, I don’t like it, either,” he teased, before securing the opening with a heavy poly zipper. “Suit controls on your left forearm. Battery and O2 levels should give you six hours’ time, but nobody goes longer than four.”

He watched her as he spoke. Imani had a butterfly or two, but she wasn’t gone pale or clammy with panic. Her eyes tracked with his lecture; she was following, working it out for herself as he covered the basics. “Yeah, you’ve got the comm headset part. Now, the helmet Turn it forty-five degrees left and it’ll drop into the track…perfect. Now pull it straight until you feel the click and then the hiss…that’s it! You’re pressurized!”

Yuri sealed the airlock hatch before cycling the CABIN DEPRESS valve. “First part of our trip will be a walk down under,” he turned, an action hardly graceful in the bulky suit. “The boots have magnetic soles. Power ‘em up,” he said as he took the first rung of the ladder. “Ready to go, Doc?”

She was no rookie to taking these sorta walks, but Imani did listen to Yuri as he went on, eventually activating the magnetic soles of the boots to follow him out, the butterflies in her stomach fluttering a little more intensely. She gestured for him to go on and she'd be right behind him, gripping that first ring for dear life. "I hope Abby doesn't mind me taking her suit," she joked, a light-hearted comment to quiet down her anxious mind. "It's comfortable enough in here that I might keep it for myself."

“Abigail,” The Captain called into his suit comm, “do you have another cut to the last size for the port side? This one’s in place. Once you and the Sister have it ready, get Elias to bring it back out.” Abby and Sister Lyen had been working with Yuri to cut pieces of the truss to order according to the specs they’d settled on prior. That Elias was a sharp fellow, and his tuning of the plan was a mighty boon to their getting onto the next journey as quick as they could. Cal surveyed the bead of his last welding line under the bright shoulder light from his suit. With a nod, he reckoned it would pass Elias’ muster. Clipping the mobile welder into place at his belt, Strand began making his way to the port side, picking his way among the growing skeleton stretching out from the China Doll.

Heading back to the way inside, Elias would stop, having remembered he had to be here. The China Doll didn’t have as many windows as some more… leisurely vessels. Which ultimately, was all well and good. Windows were a structural weakness, and Elias was far too literal of a man to think the beauty of space was diluted by the screen of a camera pointed at the void. As if the vast dark emptiness had any beauty to begin with.

Regardless, he tore himself out of these musings. The reason he even went on this train of thought was because his text-to-speech device wasn’t actually useful where it wouldn’t be hurt. Thankfully, friction still existed in space, and thus at least chalk on blackboard still worked. But a window, he needed a window. Greeting the arrivals planning to exit from the airlock, he would be a sight either pleasant or unwelcome as he held up a brief sentence. “CLEAN THE AIRLOCK OF DEBRIS.” he would be glad, when he was seemingly obeyed.

“What?” Abby asked. Despite them earmuffs, she’s near deafened from the racket of the gorram rip saw. “Yeah, yeah, near got the port side pieces notched an’ ready. Lyen’s here waitin’.” She had to give Elias credit. His idea of just notchin’ pipe an’ weldin’ it instead of trying to overthink it the way Yuri had in mind was makin’ for serious quick work. But of course, they’s a down side to that, too. Seemed like ever’body’s workin’ in the black ‘cept her who got to spend the day rattlin’ her teeth loose cuttin’ all this pipe. Now Imani’s gonna be prancin’ about in my suit, she groused inwardly. Ain’t that some purty la shi?

The saw bit hard, sending a shower of sparks flying across the cargo bay. Their light reflected and danced in the girl’s safety glasses as she pulled the blade down to the yellow hash mark. A quick turn and a side cut later saw the required notch cut into the pipe. “Alrighty, Sister,” Abby called out after wrapping the two finished pieces with bailing wire for easier transit. “Cap’n wants these on the port side.”

Lyen nodded as her gloved fingers set the helmet into position, the neck seam snapping into place with a satisfying pressurization. She closed the distance to the neat bundle the deckhand had prepared and, though it took both hands, the nun held the pipes fast as she made for the airlock. Hammering the button the close the airlock, Lyen slowly turned toward the aft of the ship, careful not to knock the pipes against the tight space. In a few moments the blackness of space would open up before her. No matter how many times she went out, it was always accompanied by those butterflies in her stomach; the ones that hinted that the infinite unknown was closer than you might think.

Once the nun had stepped into the forward airlock, Abby checked the clipboard. Elias was looking for a pair of eight footers on the starboard side. That meant Cap’n would need some on port when he caught up. The girl sighed, sending a stray wisp of hair skyward afore gettin’ right to work.

“Shiny,” Cal called into his com, nearing the apex of the China Doll. Standing there, stradling the ship, he couldn’t help but feel pride well up. This ship and crew all worked their parts, each one important, each one pullin’ their weight. There was a meditation to it. He tilted his head to better see a galaxy spread out above his right shoulder. If he were a man of faith, he might wonder at the artist who’d set those brilliant pinks and browns and blues in the sky. But he had work to do. With a grunt, Strand continued down the port side of the Firefly to meet the Sister there.

As Elias retreated further to the safety of the China Doll, he would have to stop and write again another thought that came to his mind. “ANYBODY WHO IS HEADING OUT, MAKE SURE->” the arrow was added to indicate there was more to come, as he flipped over the bit of blackboard. “YOU HAVE A HARNESS. DON’T DISAPPEAR ON ME.” If this was an asteroid or the like, he might have been more tolerant of substandard safety measures. But, this relay station wasn’t even an asteroid, a wrong step and somebody would thus be lost to the eternal nothing.

“That’s a copy, Elias.” Nobody was apt to have a chat with the mechanic about the sound of his ‘text-to-speech’ application. A man’s chosen voice was, after all, a matter of his own expression, and some with a string of academic letters trailing their names might argue an extension of his very psyche…a personal matter indeed. No matter how off putting, the First Mate cut his mic, stifling a chuckle as he cycled the upper airlock hatch shut.

He and Imani were stood atop the Firefly’s galley dome. The sight around them was enough to take the breath. The black was a grand tapestry of glittering stars in all directions, but for the massive sphere in whose lee they now took shelter. Ahead lay the upper viewports through which could be seen the new crew, Penny and her daughter, apparently at work with Edina to put together the evening’s supper. Oh yeah, he remembered her worried thoughts about “Taco Tuesday” and whether she was taking it too far with the protein paste…

Imani was studying him, her gaze inscrutable. “Sorry,” Yuri gave a quick smile. “Derailed train of thought. So…Elias reminded me I should give you the safety talk. It’s pretty simple.” he began. “When you walk, take it slow. Put your right foot down solid. Feel the magnets engage…then move your left. Foot down heel to toe…magnets..good! It’s a stroll, not a race. Next,” he stopped before the medic. “The harness Elias mentioned is actually woven into your suit. You’ve got safety hooks at belt height left and right.”

He paused, allowing her to find the two hooks. “When you’re climbing truss to bolt on new sections, your mag boots won’t be useful. Out there, you want to clip onto the structure. Each of those hooks has a two meter retractable safety line. You can test them now while we’re standing here.”

"Seems simple enough."

Imani proceeded to fasten herself onto the structure, then slowly took some steps back until she felt the tension. That eased her mind a little. "You weren't lying."

She then stepped forward to undo the hooks.

“Shiny,” Yuri nodded, the movement of his head not translating through his suit. “Now the serious stuff. If you get a puncture, you’ve got a quick patch in your right pocket. Sing out and slap on. And finally…” This time, Yuri took a step closer. “If you get disconnected…if you’re free floating and can’t touch the boat. I don’t care if the tips of your gloves are brushing metal…there’s nothing more serious. If you can’t clap on, you cry ‘Overboard!’ Dohn mah?

Imani nodded, looking him in the eyes. It was inevitable when certain images creeped up in her mind. She saw herself casually floating off into nothingness after losing her grip and struggling regain it, only to fail; her efforts faster depleting the oxygen in her tank.

"Trust me when I say I will not deviate from that plan if I just so happen to be unlucky enough.”

Yuri handed over one of the two kit bags he’d clipped to his own suit hooks. “Thanks for helpin’ us out here, Doc.” With a gesture for Imani to switch her suit comms to a private channel, Yuri said, “not to speak ill of anyone on our crew, but I’ve had the feeling that Abby’s off kilter somehow. I’m not about to put her in a suit til she’s got her feet under her again. But for now,” he cracked a thin smile, “you’ve got your choice. You wanna bolt truss for the Cap’n, or Elias?”

She grew concerned at his mention of Abby. "Oh, that's unfortunate. Wished she would've come talked to me..." Imani didn't mean to sound disappointed, but she'd hoped Abby was feelin' comfortable enough to open up to her about her troubles. She had, after all, offered herself to be a listening ear. "But she's a big girl, I ain't worried," her smile was convincing enough. "Now, let's focus on work. Given the options you've presented, I'm gonna take my chances with Elias... What's all in here?" Imani looked down at the bag.

“Your socket driver,” Yuri extracted the tool from his own bag, an ordinary looking battery powered hand drill. “You’ve got a fresh battery. Also, nuts and bolts for the truss,” he finished as they set off down the starboard side. “Sister and I will supply you with pipe and truss when you call for it. There’s your work partner now.”

Ahead could be seen Elias, legs splayed out into the black, one hand clutching metal as the other held a flickering welder to the task. “Man,” the First Mate breathed, “he’s not wasting time.”

“You can say that again,” Lyen remarked, returning for another line of pipe. Abigail was a veritable force of nature with the speed at which she was producing these pipes cut to angle. The cold of space kept them cool, but had this taken place planetside, the nun knew she’d be sweating to keep up. With a nod to Abby, Ly took a freshly cut pipe and turned tail back to the black.

Seeing the rest of the gang getting out, Elias would twitch a little to observe them. It seemed they were doing just about enough, there wasn’t anything at the surface level to complain about. He’d simply give a curt nod of acknowledgement to them, though there was a somewhat pressing issue he did have to finally bring up. Sighing, he put his tools away. Again he began to scratch on his blackboard. “BACK ITCHES. CANT REACH IT IN SUIT. ANNOYING TO TAKE OFF.” Then he’d flip it over, with a single word written on the other side. “HELP.” It didn’t matter who did it, he just hoped

"Thanks for the help!"

She then turned to Elias, mouthing the word "okay" with a quick nod. Imani pointed to her upper back, mid back, and then finally her lower back. What followed was a pause to allow Elias to indicate where he itched. Imani repeated the same with her left and right sides, pointing over her shoulders in order to get a more precise spot.

The pair stopped at the base of the truss tower on which Elias worked. “I’ll leave you to it,” Yuri lifted a hand before turning away. That didn’t work so well, he conjured of his shared thought with the medic. Word had it she’d been in the know on what it was might be behind the changes in their deckhand’s personality of late…but apparently if she was, she wasn’t of a mind to share those thoughts.

He stepped carefully, magnetic soles gripping the bottom of the cargo hold as he made his way across to the port side. Whatever was eating Abby, he mused, she hadn’t acted out on it. Since the Skyplex, she just hadn’t acted on anything at all. The girl did her job without being told or watched over; with that much in her favor she really was entitled to be left to herself if she chose to live inside her own head for a spell. The only part of that picture that had folk on edge was the sudden interest in her after hours pistol training.

Even then, the First Mate knew that the teenager was being safe about it. Her live rounds were all counted and boxed. The test slugs in her chamber interacted with the gunscan to determine speed and accuracy of her fire. Hour after hour, night after night, the practice app on her cortex would project targets around her quarters. And hour after hour, night after night, she’d jerk that pistol, working on her speed, refining her technique. Whine……whoosh….click. Whine…whoosh…click.

Yuri knew that for Abby, the quick draw of a gunfighter was her uncle’s trade. She’d mentioned being taught by him, but the girl had never boasted of her own prowess. Well, a sudden stone silence and a need to start waving a firearm about can damage folk’s calm, he reasoned to himself. I think it’s time we had a sit down.

He stopped at the base of a long truss tower, curving itself beneath the ship like a skeletal finger. Near the top could be seen a suited figure, welder glowing blue as he affixed the stiffening pipe to an angled truss joint. Looked like the Cap’n was ready for another stick of truss. After loosing a ten foot piece from the reserve bundle, he looped an arm through the structure and began to pull himself up the tower. “Heading your way, Cap’n,” Yuri announced over the general comm channel as he moved.

Cal’s torch cut out as he chimed back, “Roger that. This one’s set and I’m ready to run another. I’ll move fore, and you line up your piece aft here.” The Captain locked the welder in place on his belt as he looped arm around the truss he’d just set, and moved toward the bow. They were clipping along, and the truss was taking shape. In his mind’s eye, he could see where they’d slot in the supplies and booty that would keep them going through this haul. Elias and Yuri were making the plan come to life. He’d just about made his way to the other side, when he turned back to see Yuri’s progress with the truss.

Using his free hand and one foot, the First Mate crab walked his way along the curved tower. Even lugging a ten foot piece as he was, the trip in zero G was deceptively easy, forcing him to slow himself down on more than one occasion lest his momentum would rob him of the chance at a hand grip. After a moment’s deliberate climbing, both Yuri and his cargo made it safely to their destination, the current end of the tower.

Here, he had his bearings. Up was up. China Doll’s bottom lay just over four meters above his head. Four-point-three-seven, if my math was any good, he thought as he hauled the next piece of truss into place. This one was a straight joint; no hinge plates and stiffening pipes to lock a turn. Just four bolts to begin a span that would soon link up to the structure that Elias and Imani were even now building toward him. Like Earth-That-Was he smiled over the story of the transcontinental railroad, a great effort to lay track from opposite ends of a continent to meet at an exact point. And they came close, too…if close was measured in a deviation of yards.

He worked, careful not to set nuts and bolts adrift from his pouch. Once he’d gotten four bolts started, he was able to run the driver hard, locking each tightly into place. This task complete, he glanced about, taking stock of his shipmates.

Cap’n had moved forward, and was busy welding the first of a pair of pipes to lock a curve as Sister Lyen was hooked nearby with its’ mate. Across the void, Imani was moving, pulling truss outward to a waiting Elias. They were making excellent time. “Unless anyone needs anything,” Yuri called out over the comm channel, “I’m down to straight runs here. I’ll just keep bolting my way across.”

“Shiny,” came Cal’s reply over the mic as he looked up from his work. He noticed Lyen and nodded before bringing the torch to finish his bead. It took a bit of balance to feed the welder and make a good strong weld toe without going overboard. Too heavy handed and he ate into the pipe, too light and he had to fill in the gaps and waste material. Still, many things in life were worth mastering, especially if they made a body self-sufficient. Sure, he’d take credit for putting Elias’ coaching into practice, why not? “All set here,” he called into the com. Lyen met his look for more and started moving into position.

At that moment, Edina’s voice sounded over all the suit comms. “This is your galley crew checking in to remind you that it’s Protein Paste Taco Tuesday! Food’ll be hot and ready in thirty ticks and we need all y’all in your chairs at that time…ESPECIALLY YOU, ELIAS. It’s not all protein paste. Cap’n let me splurge on an actual avocado, too. Come and get it before it goes all brown and…crumbly. That is all.”

With her underside truss now complete, China Doll is all set to to make her intercept flight.

There’s just one small problem: The data supplied by the museum staff is pretty much all wrong. During their time at the relay station, SAM did ”that voodoo that she do”, gaining stealthy access to Alliance astrometrics and the equipment that supplied that information. In her usual nanosecond, she learned that not only was Asteroid AN-3872 much closer in its’ elliptical orbit than originally forecast, but also the speed of orbit would make for a much narrower window before that great rock was headed once again toward the depths of the black for another three hundred years.

The job could still be done, if they could get there on time. Putting the spurs to the Doll wasn’t the worry. What had furrows worn into Cal’s brow was the deep cut into the dog leg course they’d planned out. Now, to get outside the ‘verse past Miranda and catch AN-3872, they were gonna have to move fast, and on a heading that laid them right on the bleeding edge of Reaver territory.

OOC: China Doll is running silent, doing her best not to attract attention. I’m sure our captain will have some reassuring words for us as we cross this risky patch on our way outside of the known ‘verse. Feel free to write your characters going about their business, being paranoid, etc.