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.

OOC: S.A.M.A.N.T.H.A appears courtesy of @wanderingwolf

Runnin’ dark, runnin’ silent.

Close as their new course had ‘em to Reaver space, Cap’n made all the right moves to turn China Doll into ‘bout as near as could be to a hole in the black. Cabin lights inside cut to just ‘nuff to get about and all her viewports was blacked out. Only ones left clear was the cockpit, and Boone was sittin’ up there all in the dark by hisself, even with the little blinkies on his panel shrouded.

The reactor and the main was still spun up just enough to keep ‘em breathin’ and warm, but the boat was gliding off her last thrust anyway. Wouldn’t need another push til they changed course, hit the brakes, or if Reavers actually did sniff ‘em out. Last piece of the puzzle was not to call attention to themselves. No broadwaves, and no radar pulses to pick up. With nary a peep to draw a curious ear, hope was them Reavers might just tend to their Reaver business while China Doll snuck past right under their noses.

Capn’s order to post lookouts…and the gorram whispers that set off twixt him an’ Yuri when Abby volunteered to stand her watch…damn near put her blood to boil. Honestly, she din’ know what notions folk was brewin’ in their minds about her these days. An’ Yuri…near as she could tell, he’s spooked ‘cuz she’s spendin’ her free time practicin’ the draw. What the hell’d he think? She’s gon’ go moon brained an’ start shootin’ up the boat?

“Abby.” SAM’s voice filled her helmet comm. “Status check.”

She give her wrist chrono a glance. Fifteen ticks exactly since the last. “All clear,” the deckhand replied. “Yew want another binoc sweep?”

“Ready when you are,” the AI said.

Abby hoisted the binoculars up before her helmet’s visor. Moving in a slow arc, she fed the stereoscopic image aft to forward in a roughly one hundred twenty degree arc of their starboard side view, facing the stars and worlds among which the most feared outlaws of the ‘verse skulked in wait for their prey. SAM would analyze those images, comparing them to previous sweeps, relentless digital eyes searching for any pinpoint of light that might prove to be something more threatening than a star or a distant planet.

Once she’d completed the sweep, Abby suggested, “how’s about a portside look-see? Wouldn’t want to get surprised by a wide patrol headin’ in.”

“Agreed,” the voice sounded in her helmet com. A moment later, as she’d set herself for a clear sweep, SAM spoke again. “May I ask you a question?”

Abby traced the black, her binocs movin’ slow an’ steady as ‘er hands could allow. “Sure,” she answered easy enough. “What’s on yer mind?”

“The Captain mentioned that you’ve encountered Reavers before.”

“Sure’n that’s true,” the girl agreed.

“Short of relaying the fact you’d dispatched some of them with your long rifle, he was a bit shy on the details.”

“Not much more’n that tah tell.” Abby’s eyes swept off across the empty black. Cal hadn’t asked, cuz the look in her eyes told a man of his experience all he needed to know…somethin’ for all her smarts, a computer like SAM just weren’t gon’ conjure…

“Surely,” the AI persisted, “there has to be more to it? One just doesn’t find themselves in a shootout with Reavers without cause or circumstance? Clearly, you were planetside when the incident occurred. Were you caught up in a raid?”

She could see ‘em…them boats, all done up in human gore an’ red paint, hoverin’ over the town. Church bell’s ringin’ like crazy an’ they’s gunblast echoin’ up the valley, along with screamin’. “Stay down, Chickpea!” Uncle Bob grabbed at ‘er pants leg. “Ye don’t want them seein’ us!”...

“I’s sixteen,” Abby found ‘erself spillin’ out the tale. “Year before I come aboard China Doll. My last boat, Mariposa, was on Downer’s Moon. We’d dropped supplies an’ part of our payoff was a case ‘o’ local corn liquor Uncle Bob set to soon’s we shook hands on the trade.” She shrugged. “Anyhoo, I ‘member it was a perty mornin’. Clear blue sky an’ townsfolk all dressin’ up to go sit for their Shepherd. Me’n Uncle Bob hired couple horses from the town stable. We rode up inta tha hills outside of town…they’s a rocky patch up there locals use to pitch scrap an’ burn trash. Ev’ry time we’s there, I always took tha Mosin up fer some target shootin’. Uncle Bob,” she added, “always kep me in plenty empty bottles tah pop off.”

“”Downer’s Moon,” SAM was already hard at work, cross referencing news accounts back dated to the time period when Abigail would’ve been aged sixteen. In a nanosecond, the AI had all reported information of the incident.. “The town was Three Rivers?”

“That it was.”

“The Alliance has declared the Three Rivers Massacre to be a terror attack by Browncoats.”

”Liánméng lǐ mǎn shì mǎ shǐ,”** the girl spat. “I seen what I seen that mornin’. Took five of ‘em…” (** “The Alliance is full of horseshit.”)

“Five?” SAM asked. “The Captain mentioned three…”

Abby bristled. “D’yah wanna hear what Ah have tah say or doncha?”

“Please.”

“As Ah said,” she turned slowly, her boots gripping the outer hull with each step she took, “we been up target shootin’....well, I was. Uncle Bob nursed a bottle an’ kep me comp’ny. We’d jus’ finished, ‘cuz it’s church day an’ Shepherd din’ like preachin’ with no gunfire soundin’ off. We’s on our horses, takin’ it easy on our way back to town…”

Uncle Bob had near on a full pint in him already. “Ye got tha eye, Chick Pea,” he’s startin’ to slur. Abby seen him hangin’ onta the horn with his gun hand, proof positive he’s ‘nigh on to reel out the saddle if they rode faster’n a walk. “I paced them last bottles off. You’s hittin’ ‘em on four hunnnerd.”

True enough, she’s feelin’ mighty good about her shootin’ this mornin’. The Mosin Nagant had been her rifle for just over a year now, and chances to dial it in and tune herself to it come few and far between. But this mornin’ just felt…right. Abby give a gentle pat to the shoulder of the bay mare she rode. “Good day for it,” she agreed. “No windage, and the sun comin’ up tah muh back made for easy sightin’.”

They’d just topped the last ridge above town when the morning’s peace was shattered by the roar of approaching engines. “Shepherd’s gonna be pissed!” Abby chortled as downthrust sent her hair flying about. The joke lasted all of two seconds as she took in the sight of Uncle Bob, his bottle forgotten and pouring out, slack jawed as he gazed upwards with eyes wide as saucers. “Wha…what’s goin’ on?” she asked, before takin’ a gander into the belly of a thing Shepherd must surely preach about…a phantom straight outta the hot place itself.

“REAVERS!” Bob shouted over the din. Now bolt sober, he grabbed Abby’s horse by the halter, dragging both the protesting animal and thunderstruck rider off the trail and into thick brush beneath a strand of trees. “Sumbitchsumbitchsumbitchsumbitch!” he swore under his breath as one by one, the macabre demon ships swept overhead and into the valley. “If they’s a merciful Buddha they didn’t see us,” his voice trembled as he watched the predators settle over the hapless town. “Don’t look, girl,” his eyes blazed a terror she’d never before seen as he gripped her shoulder.

And she obeyed. Abby obeyed her Uncle Bob, like she did her whole life. As he called the boat and told ‘em to spin up the mains, she could hear everything happening in the town below. Sounds of a hymn was stopped midway in the church, followed a tick later by the urgent ringin’ of the bell. She heard the first screams, the roar of engines goin’ quiet as them Reavers settled their bloody boats in for a long visit. Took a minute for the first gunblast; she reckoned that had to be the town marshal, squarin’ up all by hisself against a whole murderous band. Seein’ as most the townsfolk was likely sat in the pews and not strapped, even her sixteen year old sensibilities could conjure and apply the old adage “like fish in a barrel.” These good people were about to be slaughtered.

“Can’t we do somethin?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Uncle Bob replied, his expression grim as he watched the scene unfolding below. “We can hide here…git back to the boat. Stay alive.”

“But these’re good folk,” Abby persisted. “We trade with ‘em. They treat us fair! We gotta…”

“We gotta look after our own!” he glowered upon her. “It’s a terrible thing happenin’ to good folk down there, but we got no way to change their fate, girl! Not without gittin’ ourselves kilt in the process! Dohn mah? DOHN MAH?””

She could smell smoke in the air. ”Ku” Abby responded to her uncle. Down below, that church bell kep ringin’. She could hear menfolk hollerin’, women screamin, and somethin’ else. Somethin’ didn’t sound quite animal, but not really what she’d call human, neither. And there was lots’ o’ that, a lustful, gravelly sort ‘o’ howlin’ that lit somethin’ down inside her.

“Naw, Jack, just you stay put,” Uncle Bob was orderin’ in his com. “We’ll track ‘round the town and get to yah. Don’t want to give them Reavers no call to light out after us.”

The screams Abby heard now were different, not the terrified wails of women under attack, but the high pitched keening of young children. Despite her uncle’s wishes, the girl lifted her head, peering out above the brush. She could see the town, with columns of smoke beginning to rise from structures set alight during the attack. Figures dashed to and fro in the streets; even at this distance, it was easy to tell the difference between the townsfolk in their sunday best and ragged nightmare scarecrows who were running them down.

Her eyes were drawn from the gang rape of a woman in the street to the sounds that had first drawn her attention. Just beneath their hiding place spread a farmer’s field, its’ plowed furrows sprouting a crop whose leaves of pale green stood at ankle height. Stumbling among the neat rows directly toward her were two tiny children, barely past toddler years. They did their best to run, concentrating on the uneven ground as their older sister, a girl mayhaps a couple years Abby’s junior, did her best to hurry them along. Judging by their clothes they’d somehow got themselves out the church. Now, they were running for their lives to what cover the woods might offer.

Their escape wasn’t clean, however. A whole passel ‘o’ Reavers had took sight, and was now howlin’ that garbled animal man roar as they come tearin’ across the field. “They gon’ git got,” Abby said to her uncle.

“I told yew not tah loo…”

“THEY GON’ GIT GOT!!!”

Before the old man could react, the girl had laid hands upon her rifle. She kinda heard ‘im, orderin’ her to put that gorram gun away as she slipped rounds into the magazine.

“ABIGAIL TRAVIS, I WILL KICK YEW OFF MAH BOAT IF YEW DEFY ME!”

She didn’t say nothin’, just laid the Mosin into the crotch of a tree to steady her shot. This was gonna be long…six hunnerd, easy. Angle wasn’t good, neither. She’d be lucky not to blow the pigtail off the older girl’s head tryna hit the fastest Reaver.

“AH’M GRATEFUL YER AUNT LUPE’S NOT ALIVE TO SEE SUCH A SHAMEFUL THING,” Uncle Bob sputtered.

What come outta her mouth in that moment was as shocking to her as it musta been to him. “Please be quiet,” Abby said as she concentrated, “so I don’t hit one of them kids by mistake.”

She waited…got ‘er breathin’ right…got them sights lined up…and squeezed the trigger. The Mosin Nagant barked, and the girl wasted no time chambering her her second round as she saw the fastest Reaver’s body recoil from the head shot, then fall flat upon its’ back.

“Well, Ah’ll be a son of a bitch,” Uncle Bob whispered.

The rest of ‘em…Abby counted four…was all together in a tight little knot. She took advantage of that, bringin’ down two more before the last pair caught wise an’ started zigzaggin’ after the children. “They’re crawfishin’ me. La shi, they’re crawfishin’ me,” the girl cursed as she tried swinging the barrel to get a shot. This wasn’t working. Unless she did something fast, they were gonna crawfish their way right up to them kids…

“Fast,” she muttered, climbing onto the Bay mare. With Uncle Bob shouting fresh disappointments in her ears, she put spurs to the horse, normally unruly red hair flying as she plunged down the ridge toward the open field. The mare cleared a fenceline with a breathtaking leap, setting off at a hard gallop toward the 3 beleaguered children. On the horse’s back, Abby got off her final shots with the rifle. None struck the pursuing Reavers, dodgy as they were and inexperienced as the girl was shooting from horseback, but she found herself thankful for the time they bought her.

“Can yah ride?” she demanded of the older girl as she leapt from the saddle. After the nod came, Abby ordered, “git on!” The two young’uns screamed just in time. She whirled to see the nearest Reaver coming at her, running full tilt with some kinds spike fer stabbing, His face was all cut up, but looked like he done it hisself. Funny, she thought, but sight of Daddy’s Colt pointed right at him didn’t slow him down none. She’d ponder that moment…wonder if deep down he was tryin’ to just run right inta her bullet.

“”C’mon…C’MON!!” One by one, she hoisted both littles up til they’s sittin’ before their older sister. “What’s the next town over?” Abby demanded.

“Miller’s Ford.”

“You ride there. Don’t stop for nobody or nothin! Tell ‘em Reavers hit your town! Now go! Go on!” She’d just slapped the horse’s flank when a powerful blow sent her pi gu over tea kettle. Abby tumbled to the furrows, knocked senseless for a moment. Rough hands grabbed at her, flipping her onto her back. A blow struck her face, harsh, but the taste of her own blood gave her head its’ clarity. She saw the knife, caked with dried blood and gore as it made its’ first pass. The pressure below her beltline caused Abby to think this Reaver was about to gut her like a fish…plunge that filthy blade among her innards and open her up from crotch to neck.

But no. That’s not what he had in mind. Leastways not first.

She heard the fabric giving way, felt the air upon exposed flesh. The Reaver’s eyes lit up at the sight of her beneath him. His face, a junkyard of scars and implanted metal, opened in a lustful smile, revealing blackened teeth that had all been filed down to sharklike points. He hovered over her, salivating with a tongue cut to fork at the meal to come, as he exposed foul manhood for yet another course of this nightmare feast.

She let him come, permitted his filth to land upon her. Hands, distracted by lust of flesh, soon set aside their knife. Eyes feasting upon what would be his to take in every manner of depravity he’d choose. He’d take this one back to the ship, to use again and again, at least until one of the Alphas took her away from him. But for now, she was all his, to touch, taste, and have completely.

He’d give her a bite; leave his mark at least. As he opened his mouth, the Reaver found the Colt’s barrel pressing inside it. He never heard the heavy report as the weapon took his life.

Over the years, Abby has chosen to omit that part of the story. She also prefers not to discuss the emotional fallout of shooting five Reavers, the weeks she spent crying and shaking in her bunk, or the nightmares that plagued her for months after the event. Instead, she opted for a different close to the story, one that even on this day, she would share with a curious AI.

“And so,” Abby concluded, “I sent them kids ridin’ off. Shot the fifth Reaver afore he could mess with ‘em. All that ruckus in the field done caught the ear of a bunch more Reavers, though,” she chuckled. “Uncle Bob had tah call Mariposa. They set ‘er down right there, picked us up an’ we hightailed it. Problem is, Reavers can’t resist a chase, so all them Reavers jumped in their boats and come haulin’ after us. “It’s their way,” she added. “Chased us fer three days. Yew can bet Uncle Bob was righteous mad at me for a good long spell,” the girl laughed.

SAM was silent for a moment, though Abby had become accustomed to such. Eventually, the Boston tinged voice sounded inside her helmet. “Lila Marie Hawkins was fourteen when you put her on that horse, Her siblings, Amy Sue and brother Clayton were four and five at the time. They made it to Miller’s Ford. Their alert got the first help and medical attention into Three Rivers just hours after the attack. There’s something else you should know,” the AI continued. “Though the Alliance disputes the story of a so-called ‘mystery ship’ that drew away the raiders, several eye witness accounts are adamant that it was none other than your Uncle Bob’s boat, the Mariposa, that led the Reavers away from their town. As a result, your uncle’s memory is highly regarded in Three Rivers.”

“Is that right?” A grin spread across the girl’s face. “That’s kinda shiny. I should ask Cap’n to get us to Downer’s Moon sometime fer “Uncle Bob Day,” she chuckled.

“I found something for you, too,” SAM continued. “Amy Sue is seven now. She’s in the second grade at her school, and quite the little artist. Here’s a picture she recently drew.”

The head’s up display on Abby’s helmet visor glowed to life. Though the characters were not much evolved beyond stick figures, the chalk artist in her could see just how much work and attention to detail a seven year old’s eye had attempted to place on the page. Taken from a mere second’s worth of blurred memory, the child’s picture was rudimentary, lively, and flat wonderful. She’d done her best work on the horse, which is a natural choice for all little girls. But the rider was familiar enough, with a rifle raised to shoot, and red hair flying free.

“It’s titled ‘The Girl Who Saved Us’...I’m sorry?” SAM asked. “I didn’t catch that?”

“You’re not s’posed tah make me cry in muh suit.”

“Whew!” A panting Yuri gasped. “Where did you learn how to do that? No…no. Don’t tell me,” he smiled as Edina collapsed onto his chest. “I’d have to hunt your teacher down and…”

“And what?” she lifted her chin, her tone comically seductive as she regarded him.

“Shake his hand,” the first mate chuckled. “Buy him drinks!” His arms enfolded her, greedy fingers caressing skin as their legs entwined. “Pick his brain for all the details!”

“What makes you think it was a ‘him?” she grinned.

“Look at you,” Yuri laughed as he moved, tousled sheets gathering about as he now found himself atop her. “Bein’ all mysterious and stuff. Come here.” He gathered Edina into his arms, pressing his lips to hers in a slow, grateful kiss. “Whoever it was,” he traced an appreciative finger along her collar bone, “I’m in their debt.”

That stopped Edina’s inspection of Yuri’s frame in it’s tracks. “Not the usual male response,” she lifted an eyebrow as her fingers worked the hair on the back of his head.

“Oh?” he asked, his own explorations barely disturbed by the point she was making. “I gotta hear this.”

“There’s an old song I heard once,” she replied. “I don’t know; it might be from Earth-That-Was. A pretty funny tune about how to get women. Anyway, the guy talks his way through it, dohn mah? And he says…’Men have what I call a Columbus Complex. Other people may have been there, but we still want to feel like we discovered it.”

His expression was blank. “Discovered what?”

Her smile wavered. “Oh, you know. It….it”

“It? Uhhhhhh. Columbus was some kind of an explorer, wasn’t he?” Yuri asked, before the spark of humor in his eye gave him away. “Hey…HEY!” he laughed as her fingers made expert use of the ticklish spots on his ribs. “Okay, okay! Shiny! I surrender!”

“Gorram right you do, Mister Antonov!” Edina brought him back onto her for another soulful kiss. “What I was trying to say is it’s nice that you don’t get all puffed up jealous at the thought there might’ve been others before you. It drove my ex husband out of his mind.”

During their time together, Edina had rarely spoken of her husband, and as far as Yuri was concerned, with good reason. He knew the man’s name was Andres, and that he worked the fishing boats that plied the waters of New Melbourne. He also knew that when Andres was ashore, he made a habit of beating his wife with such force and frequency that she was a regular at the local clinic. Until one eventful day, when something inside of her cried “enough!,” and she found herself booking passage on a boat named China Doll.

He settled in beside her, draping a thigh over hers as his palm came to rest on the smooth flesh of her stomach. “Sounds like a good enough reason to call him ‘Ex,” Yuri observed. “We’ve both had people before. Doesn’t matter where you come from, but where you go means everything. The first thing we ever had in common was that this boat lifted us out of the worst times of our lives. “And here we are,” he smiled down into her eyes, “going wherever we’re bound together. I hope,” he lowered his face to kiss the tip of her nose, “that’s as good for you as it is for me.”

“That’s some mighty flowery language you got there, Shakespeare,” Edina rewarded him with a crooked smile.

“Would’ve been better if I’d worked in truss, exploding bolts, or navigation vectors. You’d be positively swooning,” he teased.

“That reminds me,” Edina’s expression grew serious. “How long do we have to keep sneaking around out here?”

Yuri cast a quick glance toward the source box on the desk. “It’s twenty-three-forty-five right now. We should be clear of Reaver space around oh-five hundred tomorrow. Normally we’d sweat the Miranda no-fly zone as well, but the planet’s currently on the far side of it’s orbit. I’d guess the Captain would declare all clear around oh-eight hundred.”

“And after that?” She nestled in against him, comfortable in the bunk they’d shared since the new folk had come aboard. As he spoke, she pleased herself by gently pinching at the close cropped beard.

Yuri’s hand lay upon her stomach, where from time to time his fingers softly drummed, or the palm doled out a gentle caress. “Two days’ run through the deep black. We find our asteroid. If everything works like it should, we’ve got about four days to hunt for anything worth salvaging…if we’re lucky.”

“Won’t three big cargo containers be pretty easy to spot?”

“If they’re intact, sure,” he nodded. “But you’ve gotta remember, thye Gossamer hadn’t done a deceleration burn or a course correction before they jettisoned those containers. Right now, we’re operating on two sets of gravitational calculations that both hope the containers were captured by the asteroid’s pull. But they were still moving at about twenty thousand KPH when Gossamer dumped ‘em,” Yuri continued, “which means they could be lost forever in the black, or they smacked that asteroid hard and came apart on the surface.”

Edina’s brow furrowed. “But wouldn’t we still see the wreckage?”

“Maybe,” he shrugged, “maybe not. The records say it’s a big asteroid with it’s own gravitational field. It’s been pulling in dust for over three hundred years since the crash. That’s why the museum hooked us up with the Snuffler.”

“You mean that big yellow thing you’ve got coiled in the cargo bay,” she replied. “Abby tried to explain how it works to me, but sometimes I don’t conjure Abby Speak.”

Yuri fixed her with a mischievous grin as he grabbed the bedsheet. “Here! Let me show you!” With a sweeping motion, he hauled the sheet upward, completely covering Edina from toes to chin. “The sheet is three hundred years’ accumulated dust, pebbles, and rocks that have landed on the asteroid. Because of them, we can’t see the good stuff underneath.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she quipped.

“We can’t just vacuum it up,” he continued, “because there’s no atmo. So we’ve got the Snuffler. It sort of…grazes up…the loose objects. Like this!” With that, he was beneath the sheet, offering a physical demonstration of “snuffling” to the woman who shrieked laughter and squirmed in ticklish delight.

“Hey!” Yuri’s head popped up from beneath the sheet. “Guess what I discovered?”

Edina tugged at his shoulders. “You gonna come plant your flag or what, Columbus?”

Trouble with Skyplexes is the walls got eyes.

Ears, too. And when Cal Strand decided to tell the approach controller he’s comin’ in with a load of cattle, those ears perked up, a chance at grabbing some fresh beef this far out in the black being a rare happenstance. So when China Doll’s cargo bay door flew open to reveal nothing but some ugly yellow contraption, there’s a good many folk felt a might disappointed.

Soon enough, that disappointment turned into curiosity…curiosity of a sort can get a man killed. Even though they played it low, China Doll and her crew were under a microscope the entire time they spent in dock. Didn’t take long to suss out that they were packing on some big grub, and the load of structural truss, chain hoists and hardware for “a mining camp” didn’t fool nobody.

It was clear to anybody had eyes that China Doll had a score. Trouble was, nobody could conjure just what they were playing at.

As cash cows like this go, word soon reached the ear of the local outfit, the Blackborne Riders. Their head honcho, Buck Sadler, could smell profit in whatever angle Cal Strand was working. Trouble was, he just couldn’t put two and two together on it. So that meant he’d have to put a tail on ‘em…let ‘em run their business first. Then, once their hold was full and they were somewhere in the deep black, he’d hoist the Jolly Roger. Reliable enough tactic, used time and again in a piece of the ‘verse known for Reaver attacks.

And so, he had a boat on the prowl. Scalded Dog was once a rich man’s racing yacht…leastways til he fell on hard times and tried making a run from his creditors. Ain’t no tellin’ where he and his mistress might turn up some day, but his old boat was now sporting a new name and a layer of hijacked Alliance Navy stealthcoat. Even if China Doll was using their radars, Scalded Dog would have to be running pretty durn close to show as more than a fake echo on screen.

Inside was cramped, built as she was for day racing with a crew of four. The Riders had tucked in berths for a dozen, fleshing her out to suit their purpose of a tracker/raider. And now, as her Captain watched their prey through his high gain telescope, he reported what he knew to the boss. “They’re still runnin’ quiet, Buck. ‘Cept for a lookout on the hull they’re all shut down an’ blind as bats.”

On the screen, Buck Sadler rubbed the stubble on his chin. “What the Sam Hill are they up to?”, a question he’d asked himself on more than one occasion.

“Damned if I know,” the Captain shrugged. “Tell ya what. We’re down to one day’s rations. They don’t show their hand right quick, I’ma have to fish or cut bait.”

“It’s gotta be a scavenger op,” Sadler ventured. “So many dead boats driftin’ about Miranda after that whole broadwave dustup. All that truss they built on their hull? Just makes sense that they’re tryna bring in some big scrap.”

The Captain shook his head. “Sure seems like a lot of risk.”

“Yup,” Buck nodded. “Either which way, I think once you’re both clear of possible Reaver attention, it’ll be time to run ‘em down, Chet.”

“Copy that.”

“Try’n take ‘em alive,” the crime chief ordered. “Try’n git ‘em to make the score for you. Then deal with ‘em…dohn mah?”

“I do indeed.”

From what Abby could conjure, the new woman, Penny, done took over the galley. Nobody said nothin’ about it, leastways not to her, but nowadays seemed like a whole lotta nothin’ but whispers was touchin’ her ears anyway. And most of that weren’t particular good, judgin’ by the eggshells the new galley hand tiptoed ‘round her on as the deckhand took her seat at the table.

She wore her usual sleepin’ rig, a pair ‘o blue men’s boxers covered in old ship’s wheels, compasses, swordfish and other seafarin’ la shi. Up top was a new tee shirt, rescued from a vendor’s cart on the Skyplex more for comfort than looks. She ain’t never seen Le Cabaret à la Montagne when she’s last on New Kasmir lookin’ fer her folks’ graves, but the big proclamation SOLSTICE EXTRAVAGANZA printed on the shoulders made ‘er think some day she might find ‘erself back down in them parts.

Her usual posture of legs folded up beneath her and an open book in ‘er lap was finished off with the same breakfast ever’ single day…a slice ‘o’ toast and a mug ‘o’ coffee. Long red hair, loosely brushed on a good day, hung wild and sleep tousled as she sipped and turned pages.

“Morning, Penny.” Edina made her way into the galley. She accepted a return greeting with a smile as she grabbed a coffee mug. “Good morning Abby. Quiet watch last night?”

“Yup,” the teenager didn’t look up as she answered. She thought to say more. She thought to tell them both about how she yearned for days when she could carry her chalk outside to decorate the hull. Or mayhaps even just talk about the peace of gazing out into all them stars. Her thoughts was comin’ a mile a minute these days. So much she had to suss out. Even things she’s dreamin’. Why did she keep hearin’ a voice tell her to “Feel the wind?” And now, right now, when she sure felt like she’d wanna run off at the mouth, folk was lookin’ at her like she’s gon’ coil up an’ strike. “Went off without a hitch,” was all that come out to staunch the silence.

“Good…good,” Edina made a valiant effort at brightness as she reached for the sanctuary of her cup. “I saw Yuri after his watch. He said it’s all shiny…speak of the devil,” she smiled at the First Mate as he entered the galley. “I thought you’d grab a few hours’ shut eye.”

“Not right now.” Yuri’d grabbed a shower and change of clothes since his dog watch on the outer hull. He looked none the worse for wear as he surveyed the galley and its’ occupants. “We’re close to getting past Reaver space, but we’ve still got the Miranda no fly zone to slip around. I’ll turn in after Captain gives us the all clear signal. Speaking of,” he cast a glance toward the deckhand as he reached for a mug, “have we heard anything from him?”

“Nada,” Abby replied without liftin’ her eyes from the page. “SAM’s on ‘im ever’ fifteen ticks. Starboard an’ sometimes a portside binoc sweep turnin’ up a whole lotta nothin’.”

The First Mate filled a mug with steaming black coffee. “I’ll take it. Did you get some sleep?”

“Some.”

“Good. After morning chores I want to stretch out the snuffler. We’re gonna make sure it’s running right and we’ve got to work out how we’re deploying and retracting it.”

She already knew the answer to that one. But instead ‘o’ openin’ her mouth to tell her First Mate that once they spooled that heavy sumbitch down there’d be no reelin’ it back without the hardware they didn’t have, she decided folk was lookin’ askance enough at her an’ her gunplay practice to question just what was sloshin’ about in her brainpan these days. Abby chose a simple “Sounds like a plan, sir” answer that with luck kep her off folks’ radar fer awhile.

“Ooh,” Edina piped up, grinning. “The snuffler. I’d like to see that in action. You need a hand?”

The inside joke might’ve been noticed by Penny, but Abby kept her head down throughout as Yuri smirked and answered, “the more, the merrier. The whole thing is a gigantic tube full of brushes and gears. Just securing it for flight was a chore, so we could use plenty of muscle to uncoil it.”

“Bout an hour,” Abby said to nobody in particular as she climbed to her feet. “That’ll gimme enough time tah git squared away an’ run a load ‘o’ towels. Ah’ll clean tha lav after we’re done haulin’ that thing out.” What she weren’t sayin’ was that’d give Izzy, the late sleeper of the crew, a chance to get cleaned up before. She knew they’s tension between mother and daughter about putin’ on the right game face fer Cap’n and Yuri. Seein’s how she looked to be gettin’ that wrong herself these days, weren’t no call for her to go foulin’ it up for anybody else.

Once her mug and saucer was rinsed and sittin’ on the rack, Abby made a quiet exit, her book tucked under one arm.

“You gonna talk to her?” Edina whispered to Yuri as the girl’s bare feet padded down the stairs.

The First Mate leaned against the counter to refill his coffee. “It’s been on my list,” he said. “Guess I’ll move it up a couple places.”

The Soft Bristle Tube Ingestion System (SBTIS) was designed for item recovery in hostile environments. The engineering minds who crafted it envisioned a basic serpentine structure through which extracted materials would be transferred from their resting places to the waiting hands of technicians or curators…a ‘tube within a tube.” The challenge of actual mobility through environments such as the vacuum of space was overcome by once again referring to the serpentine model. The SBTIS was fitted with rings of motorized brushes, all moving in a digestive syncopation to gently nudge their cargo toward those waiting at the far end,

Of course, the mechanical workings of the SBTIS made it every bit as bulky and awkward as it’s chosen name and acronym. In short order, users bestowed upon it the nickname “Snuffler” owing to the walrus like headpiece with two bulbous, rotating intake brushes at its’ working end.

Ever’ time Abby gazed upon it, she couldn’t help but think of Perfessor Marquina, him as she drew out that rare orchid for on the bulkhead. He’s still out there, in the jungles ‘o’ Greenleaf, sendin’ her waves about his expedition from time to time. Found two more orchids ain’t nobody seen afore and sent captures for her to draw. Also sent a pic of a big ole snake…looked to be ‘bout tha size ‘o’ what sat coiled on the pallet before her eyes. Most recent wave said he’s havin’ trouble with bandits pilferin’ his supply runs…

“Well,” Yuri appeared, startling the girl from her thoughts. “You ready to haul this thing out?”

She hoisted a pair of tin snips toward the first of the metal bands that secured the snuffler to its’ pallet. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” One by one, each of the tightly wound metal straps parted beneath the sharp tool, filling the otherwise silent air of the cargo bay with musical twangs.

“Those sounded like ricochets,” Yuri observed, in a poor attempt at conversation.

“Ah s’pose.” For a tick, Abby thought the liberated snuffler might unspool itself before their eyes. It didn’t budge…sign it was gonna be one heavy sumbitch. “This thing got some kinda handles on it?” she puzzled over the yellow rubber of the outer skin. They’s a powerful number of bulges she conjured was its’ inner workin’s. She weren’t no mechanic, but she sure as shootin’ didn't see an easy way inside to fix anythin’ might go South if they handled this contraption wrong.

Yuri eyed the ungainly apparatus. “I see handgrips on the very pi gu end of it. The museum’s tech honcho told me that there’s a cast eye every three meters. That’s how we’ll hang it off our I-beam,” he offered, “and we can use those eyes to drag it out with claw hammers.”

“Shiny.” The deckhand didn’t bother turning around or making further pallaver; she just pulled a pair of work gloves from her belt as she went for the tool bay. When she come back luggin’ two claw hammers, she could tell by Yuri’s stance they’s gonna be some conversatin’...of a sort she’s prob’ly not gonna like. Fortunate for her, he thought better of it and decided to start workin’ first.

The first mate nodded thanks, tucking his hammer into a loop on the leg of his denims before clapping onto one of the handgrips as the deckhand grabbed the other. “One…two…three…HEAVE!!!” They put their backs to the work, straining and grunting as the first ponderous coil slowly played out onto the deck. “Yeah…this bastard’s heavy,” Yuri panted. “One…two…three…HEAVE!!!” With supreme effort, the unwieldy mechanism slowly gave ground, as if resisting their efforts. Once four of the weighty coils had been unraveled, the pair stopped to catch their breath.

“Sumbitch,” Abby gasped as she wiped a sheen of sweat from her brow. “Hope that asteroid ain’t got no gravity to speak of.”

“SAM’s guessing about one tenth our normal,” Yuri replied as he stretched a complaining shoulder. “So…Abby…you doing alright?”

She done her best to hide the ”oh la shi’ look she knew had to be risin’ on her face, but she couldn’t be sure she cut the mustard on that one. “I’m shiny enough,” the girl answered cautious like. “Why?”

“Well,” he swallowed, looking to choose words that suddenly just didn’t seem to be in his arsenal, “you just don’t seem to be like your old self of late,” he said, immediately hating himself for the weakness of that response. “You seem…quiet.”

“Quiet.” Abby’s gaze swiveled toward him, real slow. “You sayin’ Ah cain’t be quiet?”

Yuri understood right then and there that he was not cut out to have this sort of conversation. He could diagnose a system failure, or spot a broken part to replace. The mechanic’s life was a glorious world of black and white. Even managing a crew of mechanics was simpler…like minds who thought and communicated on the same plain…held a clarity that right now had China Doll’s First Mate quietly wishing he were busily tinkering in the engine room instead of exploring the mysteries of an uncooperative teenaged female. “Not at all,” he replied from his back foot. “I guess I’m wondering if something’s bothering you?”

“Like what?” She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” he said earnestly. “You’re dead quiet, keeping to yourself all the time lately, except for when you go for fighting tips from the doc…”

Now Abby whirled an’ squared up. “Somethin’ wrong with that?”

“No,” Yuri kept his tone civil, ignoring the girl’s sudden shift in posture, “but I have to admit that when you ask her to actually hurt you in those practices? That’s a thing I need you to spell out for me. What’s up with that? Not to mention all the gunplay in your quarters?”

A hot flush of anger rose to her cheeks. “In mah quarters? Yah got SAM watchin’ me or somethin?”

“We can hear the target scan in the corridor, Abby,” Yuri answered.

“SO WHAT? YAH THINK I”MA GO ALL MOON BRAINED AN’ PUT A ROUND THROUGH THE HULL? she demanded.

“NO!” he found himself shouting back. “BUT WHEN THE CAPTAIN ASKS ME WHAT’S GOING ON I’D LIKE TO HAVE A GORRAM ANSWER, DOHN MAH?” Dammit, dammit, dammit, Yuri thought as he found himself nose to nose with a fiery eyed nineteen year old. This was not at all how he wanted this to go…

She done stopped shoutin’. “Here’s yer answer,” Abby’s normal high pitch was a growl as she said “Ah know muh job, and Ah do it without havin’ tah be told or looked after. Til yew see me actin’ a fool yah got no cause to come at me in mah bunk. Yer First Mate. Yah got a problem with me handlin’ a gun aboard ship then grow a pair an GIMME A FUCKIN’ ORDER!”

“SHINY!” Yuri gave in to the moment once again. “NO GUNS WHEN WE’RE IN THE BLACK! NOW BACK TO WORK!” Suddenly, the weight of the snuffler seemed mightily diminished before the anger of the two people who now set to work manhandling its’ bulk into place.

“Hey guys!” Edina called cheerfully from the after hatchway. “I came down to help and brought you both drinks…uh…” Sensing the thick tension of the cargo bay, she stammered, “oh, you know what? I forgot something….I need to help Penny in the galley. I’ll just leave these right here,” before making a hasty retreat.

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

137L. 309V.

2188, January 19: Though his report and calculations proving the deviation in Gossamer’s course had been delivered in supposed confidentiality, Professor Julius Berghauer soon found himself scapegoated, the center of a firestorm of hysteria in the aftermath of the document being leaked onto the ship’s public cortex.

Just as public was the carefully orchestrated campaign to discredit the man himself. The Gossamer’s Chief Engineer swore to the reliability and regular maintenance of the ship’s navigational systems. A hastily assembled panel of “peers” was called together to analyze Berghauer’s findings, though to anyone present in the hearing room it became apparent that their mission was clear from the start. After four hours of ridicule, character assassination and particular innuendo guessing at the academic’s amorous proclivities and precious little discussion of mathematics or astrophysics, the august members of the panel declared Berghauer’s work to be bunk, and the man himself nothing more than an attention seeking fraud. He was immediately handed to Disciplinary Services who, owing to the incendiary nature of the report, judged him a dissident and handed down a sentence of immediate reclamation.

The professor’s reclamation was broadcast via the ship’s cortex network. A hush fell over the entire vessel as thousands watched the security camera’s grainy image. Through her tears, fifteen year old Shaniqua Tyler watched as her mentor allowed two guards to lead him toward the chamber. He seemed so small, so frail, she thought, sobbing to herself for the two truths that she knew he carried to his death. One was known, yet denied by those in power. The other? That would be her terrible burden to bear alone.

He did not cry, nor bargain for his life. There was no raised fist, no defiant epithet. Julius Berghauer met his death with a quiet nod to his executioner before taking that final step into the reclamation chamber.

The resulting outcry was short lived. A few protest rallies were held, difficult affairs in the closed confines of a modified vessel packed with passengers and precious supplies. Equally difficult and also quickly abandoned was a graffiti campaign that sputtered due to a severe lack of available spray paint.

137L. 309V.

Life settled into its’ norm. C/V Gossamer held her ages old course. The society within had managed to more or less retain its’ basic order., with few notable aberrations along their journey. The year was now 2196. April, the month of Shaniqua Tyler’s birth. She was twenty-three. Though she’d continued to show promise in astrophysics, the urgings of her mother had eventually won the day. Now, here she was, outside the hull in a mech assist suit, welding a repair plate over a particularly harsh meteor strike, one of a host suffered when the great ship flew through a veritable torrent of stone. As maint jobs went, she was down for anything that got her outside…away from people. Just her, the blue light, and the bead…

“Dispatch to Tyler.” Beatriz’s voice in her helmet com. “What’s your status?”

Shaniqua keyed her mic without ceasing the weld. “About two ticks shy of finishing the outer seal over Hydroponics Three,” she answered. “You can get the interior team to seal and pressure test any time now.”

“Copy that,” the dispatcher replied. “Go to Three.”

Shaniqua knew that “go the three” was Beatriz’s code for “go the channel twenty-seven,” her own personal gossip hang out. “Ten-four,” she acknowledged, anything but enthusiastic to hear the latest buzz concerning who dissed who, or who was getting laid…since she knew without a doubt that neither of those boxes could be checked off in her regard. After taking the time to properly complete the weld, she switched her com.

“Jay-sus, girl, make me wait, why doncha?” Beatiiz demanded.

“Sorry,” Shaniqua replied as she shut down the welder. “What’s up?”

“Ooh, hermanita,” her friend swept into the news of the day, “Category five shit storm going on right now. We’re off course.”

Shaniqua froze. “Say that again?”

“We’re off course!” Beatriz exclaimed. “Bridge crew’s calling bullshit and pointing fingers at Nav. Nav’s swearing up and down they’re on target and it’s an Engineering fuckup. Engineering says everybody’s stupid…total circular firing squad right now, chica!...Shaniqua? You copy?”

“I copy,” she replied, moving across the outer hull as quickly as the mechanized exoskeletal suit would take her. “I’m coming in.”

Once she’d put the suit into its’ charge station, Shaniqua hurried into the main Engineering lounge. Here could be found displays in their hundreds, all the numbers, graphs, and metered readings relative to the life of the massive ship to be found in this single location. While overwhelming to the layman, Gossamer’s engineers and maintenance staff found the space a valuable location to meet and discuss their disciplines without losing sight of key functions. And there, atop all the myriad readouts and indications, Gossamer’s course heading stood out in bold, red LED.

138L. 310V.

“Fuck me,” she mouthed the words silently. Off by one degree lateral and vertical. She stared, slack jawed, at the alien numbers.

“Gotta be bullshit.” Rhodes had just come in from outside. “Anyway, it’s just one degree. That’s nothing…right?” He cast a nervous, sidelong glance toward her.

Shaniqua folded her arms. All those years ago, when a schoolgirl couldn’t make sense of what she was measuring through a viewport, she had taken her problem to the smartest academic who’d deign to speak with her. That man had not only been patient and kind. He’d embraced the problem, discovered its’ validity. And, beyond the reasoning of the child who had first puzzled over why the stars didn’t align properly, he alone had come to understand the potentially fatal flaw at the very heart of C/V Gossamer’s journey.

“It’s something,” Shaniqua finally offered. “It’s something.”

<<TO BE CONTINUED>>

After days spent flying through the empty black beyond the known ‘verse, China Doll arrives at Asteroid AN-3872. So far removed is this great rock in space that the light from Burnham, the nearest star, offers at most a a dim twilight which casts lengthening shadows and pools of darkness throughout the harsh, craggy terrain.

The Firefly moves in slowly, careful to avoid the numerous meteors and smaller asteroids that hover in a massive orbital belt with their destination. Belly lights wink on, the beams playing and dancing across the surface as they begin their search for any sign of the three hundred year old containers discarded by C/V Gossamer. To aid in their search, the crew have duct taped two pairs of binoculars to the underslung truss framing. The binocs’ optical pickups can be read by S.A.M.A.N.T.H.A. for a more detailed appraisal than what might meet the human eye.

During their second orbit, the AI spots a promising lead. China Doll hovers over a small valley, caked with thick dust. Objects protruding from the dust layer appear manmade, jagged edges revealing a crash landing at high impact. Chances are they may have found the remnants of a shipping container. Is payday finally at hand?

“The smaller the boat, the bigger the clock.”

Abby learnt that one young, when Aunt Lupe commenced showin’ her the ropes ‘o’ deckhandin’. From her readin’ she conjured that big boats had large crews ‘o’ deckhands. Work would be doled out ever’ day. Aside from bein’ expected to know yer basics an’ show up on time an’ sober, the deckhand gig on a big boat involved perty much doin’ what you’s told an’ not runnin’ afoul of anyone can give orders.

Small boat’s another animal altogether. Boat like China Doll what has one “official” deckhand an’ mayhaps one-two more or less willin’ helpers puts chores on a couple tracks. First, they’s always ORDERS. Cap’n and Yuri had their tells, and Abby knew perty much when to be line ‘o’ sight to jog a mem’ry an’ catch whatever part ‘o’ their plan they had brewin’ called for her hand. Likewise, she conjured Cap’n did his best thinkin’ afore he turnt in for the night, and would drop some fresh into her clipboard. Yuri was a mornin’ man who had a druther to spell out what he wanted over coffee.

‘Cept for the past couple days…after she let her alligator mouth overload her canary pi gu. Now, his orders was comin' on the clipboard, too.

Second was MAGIC, all the really boring day to day la shi ain’t nobody s’posed to notice ‘cuz it’s just…done. A clean lav with fresh towels. Corridors mopped an’ smellin’ fresh when folk wake up in tha mornin’. No loose objects layin’ about in case the boat’s gotta roll some maneuvers. Baskets out fer Laundry Day. Ain’t none of it glamorous, but most important part is if it’s bein’ done right it NEVER. GETS. NOTICED.

That’s the most important part…the part she tried to teach young Izzy. But, the eleven year old had about as much interest in learnin’ how to deckhand as she did steppin’ through an airlock. Kid had filched a cortex reader from their travels somewhere. Try as she might, Abby couldn’t coax the child’s nose away from it….or an hour’s honest work.

A puzzlement, she conjured. Mayhaps a failure on her part to train a new deckhand? If push come to shove with the Cap’n or Yuri that account she’d just as like own up to her shortcomings as a teacher. But for sure they’s two things she ain’t gon’ do, the first being putting hands on a child to bend her to will. The second was a code as old as time. No way in Hades would she talk about it. Abby ain’t never turned rattus norvegicus this far in her life; no way was she ‘bout to start over somethin’ so gorram petty.

So, here she was, sittin’ on top ‘o’ the washin’ machine, makin’ the ‘magic’ part happen. Washer had a bad habit ‘o’ bangin’ an’ bouncin’ durin’ spin cycle. Elias knew what needed fixin’, but wouldn’t be able to git to it til China Doll was on tha backside ‘o’ this run. Til then, Abby found that if she sat on top, knees drawn up and arms wrapped about ‘er legs, she could anchor the bucking washer into place and keep the lid from flying open to spew clean clothes an’ such all about.

It give her a legitimate purpose, and also kep her outta sight for a spell. Cap’n was in the cockpit, watchin’ the asteroid come up close. She could tell by little G pulls they’s slowin’ down and maneuverin’, so he an’ SAM must be havin’ a look-see by now. Yuri was in the cargo bay with Edina and Sister Lyen. She knowed he was walkin’ them through the whole plan for cleanin’ and packin’ up whatever Earth-That-Was stuff might be found. Til they had surface work, it’s likely best she stayed outta his sight, anyways. Leastways til she could arrange a proper reckoning.

The washer thrummed steadily, its’ rhythm carryin’ up through her hips and right to weary shoulders. Soon enough, Abby’s eyes closed, her head lolled forward and tucked against her knees as she commenced another important adage of deckhand life…the catnap.

The dream was back. She knew she was up high, but she never looked down. Above her, two angular peaks rose into a knife sharp blue sky. The air was crisp enough to set a tingle on her flesh, as her hair lifted in the breeze. Abby heard laughter. She couldn’t suss where it come from, so she turned all about. She didn’t feel a threat. The laugh was slow, a steady cadence in the voice of an old woman…mayhaps the way a grandma would greet a young’un.

“You feel the wind.”

An angry mechanical growl and a sudden lurch beneath her announced that the washer had begun “spin cycle rodeo.” Abby latched onto one corner, extending a sneakered foot to the opposite bulkhead to secure herself for the current ride. She pondered the dream. So far, tryna match her waking thoughts to what she seen there was comin’ up a fat zero. Most times she’d just put something like that aside. She’d read one fella who said dreams was the brain’s way ‘o’ takin’ out the trash, and that was somethin’ could fit with her view. But this…”feel the wind”...she’s gettin’ more an’ more curious that mayhaps there’s something’ else happenin’ here. Not that she’s gonna start believin’ all that mysto-crypto-heebie-jeebie. Maybe there’s something else? Somethin’ she ain’t figured out?

As the bucking appliance did its’ utmost to pitch the girl from it’s top, she resolved to raise the issue with the Sister…after they’d finished this job.

The cargo bay was transformed.

A large expanse of the deck had been covered in poly sheet, bunched up on some spots to allow for China Doll’s belly hatch to be used. More of the sheet was hung, forming shimmering walls to enclose the central workspace within. Inside were a sprinkling of work tables, knocked together from the boat’s arrangement of saw horses and reusable ply decks. These too were wrapped in the plastic sheeting, which was meticulously duct taped about their bases. Perched on deck beside the hatch was a rough looking metal basket whose obvious purpose would be movement of people and supplies to and from the surface.

Hovering above the space was the Snuffler, swagged from its’ hanging eyes. As she surveyed the scene, Edina was reminded of the great dragons at the heart of every New Year’s celebration. “Well,” she smirked, hands upon her hips, “I don’t know if I should get a prom dress or if this is your ‘Serial Killer Coming Out’ party?”

“How about both?” Yuri met the joke with a smile he intended to be unsettling, though in her presence he could never quite carry it off. “It’s all about the dust,” he defaulted to his natural self. “Since we don’t have a clue about what’s been accumulating on that asteroid for the past three centuries, we want to make certain that all we take away is in specimen bags.”

She nodded her understanding. “I read the snuffler instructions. Pretty straight forward stuff,” she said as she moved toward the bulky serpent’s receiving end. “Did you and Abby learn anything new while you were putting it together?”

“Yeah…don’t run it faster than Medium,” he cautioned. “We fed it a claw hammer at high speed to test? It shot out like a cannon and flew the length of the bay.” He recalled the moment; despite their anger of just minutes before, the sudden shock of the flying hammer prompted an exchange of wide eyed glances, followed by laughter. He’d known then that despite what had passed between them earlier, they’d find time to settle that hash. “So, medium,” he repeated. “That’ll give it just enough horse power to drop objects onto the filter screen.”

“...Where we’ll hand brush ‘em and bag ‘em,” Edina completed the process. “Unless we find whole containers intact.”

His smile was one of genuine appreciation. “You did your homework,” Yuri chuckled. “After all the work we put into building those three truss bays under the boat? I hope find at least one that’s intact. If I’m fantasizing,” he shrugged, “we find all three adrift in the field near the asteroid…but those are even longer odds.” He paused over the cargo bay’s machine controls. “Did you read the report from the museum’s astrophysics consultant?”

“I skimmed it,” her brow furrowed. “Enough to know that he believes something about ‘deceleration impacts’ slowing the containers to allow the asteroid’s gravity to hook on?”

“A nice way of saying,” Yuri interjected, “that those containers were likely torn to shreds by collisions with larger meteroids and smaller asteroids in the field around AN-3872. The unwritten hypothesis, and the reason we have Smaug here,” he delivered a pat to the snuffler’s control box as he spoke, “is the hope that three hundred years was enough time for all the contents of those containers to be pulled onto the asteroid’s surface.”

Edina’s head tilted, an eyebrow lifted as she nodded a fresh understanding. “Yeah, that tracks. Do we have any idea what we’re searching for?”

Yuri grinned. “We do…no thanks to the museum.”

“Oh?”

“SAM had a field day digging up information about Gossamer. Thanks to her, we’ve got the vessel’s flight log, passenger lists, and a cargo manifest that cites ownership of the containers they jettisoned.”

“You gonna keep me waiting here?” Edina fixed him with an impatient glare.

“All three,” he said slowly, as if to torture her anticipation, “were listed is items of cultural significance. Looks like two of them were parts of larger shipments that didn’t make it aboard the Arks…Louvre 25 and Vatican 17. The third,” he continued, “was from some native American museum. I forget what it was called. Something about the United Peoples…”

Edina’s mind drifted back to her own reading. “The Louvre and the Vatican,” she said absently, before her mind snapped back to crystal clarity. “Not to be paranoid or anything, but if we hit paydirt, how much do we trust the museum folk not to have a reception waiting for us on our way back somewhere?”

“That’s a fair question,” the First Mate agreed. “I’ve got a feeling Captain’s already sussed out an answer.”

“Well that’s shiny and all,” she folded her arms before her, “but if SAM can dig up that sort of word, so can others. Folk begin to figure out the meaning of ‘Louvre’ and ‘Vatican’, they’re gonna start seeing lots of pretty. I’m just saying wherever we put in to hand off better be someplace among friends we can trust.”

Yuri stifled the smile that wanted to rise to his lips; likewise a smart response about her taking his job. Edina was being deadly earnest, and her thinking in the matter was spot on. He’d already fouled up one conversation recently. No need to add a second to the growing pile of his social inadequacies. “You’ve just given me an idea on that,” he replied. “I’ll run it by the Captain.”

“Share?”

“Not yet.”

“You’re a very bad man,” she scowled.

“Possibly a serial killer,” he smirked.

“So, did SAM find out anything else that was cool about the Gossamer?” Edina asked.

Yuri nodded vigorously. “Somebody should write a book,” he exclaimed, “if the Alliance ever declassifies the records. They figured out the inadequacy in their navigation system…the reason they had to jettison all those containers and cast off so much weight for the extra turns. And,” he smiled, “there’s a story that one of our containers had a stowaway aboard when it was jettisoned.”

“What?”

“Yeah yeah,” he laughed. “The native American one? If the story’s true, there was a guy onboard, great grandson of the museum curator. He snuck aboard the container to stay with the artifacts. Nobody really knows for sure,” Yuri added. The guy…John Blackfeather or something like that…just stopped showing up for his work shifts. They searched for him and never found him, so…” the Mate waved his hand, “a ghost story was born.”

“The Haunted Asteroid,” Edina smiled. “Creepy…like you.”

Yuri took the laughing woman into his arms. “Just you wait til tonight, Little Missy.”

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

138L. 310V.

“It’s quite simple, really.” In response to the growing unrest over Gossamer’s stunning course deviation, the Captain, at the urging of the ship’s Passenger Council, had directed the Chief Engineer and the ship’s Chief Navigator to hold an informal ‘town hall’ style meeting with a selected audience. The Engineer cleared his throat and continued, “Gossamer was originally designed to conduct commerce within the Sol system, primarily the harvesting of ice and minerals from the rings of Saturn. Her bridge and navigation systems were well suited to this task. What we were not aware of,” he offered, “was the potential for deviation.”

The screen before him glowed with a transparent overlay. Two planets hovered at opposite corners of the image, with a yellow line moving to join them. “Here you see Gossamer’s projected course between Earth and Saturn. If we zoom in, you’ll note a thinner, black line that is the true course heading.” As he spoke, the yellow line grew in size and thickness until at it’s center could be very plainly seen a crisp black line. “Now,” the Chief Engineer said, “we’ll fast forward that course all the way to Saturn. Watch the black line.”

The image moved, indicators placed to aid viewers’s comprehension raced past as the course line closed in on the ringed planet. The large yellow line, Gossamer’s course, seemed to hold steady. Yet, the narrow black line within began to shift, moving slowly downward. “And we’ve arrived,” the Engineer proclaimed. “You can see that, even in a Sol system run, the ship’s Nav equipment tolerated some deviation from true course…but they still arrived at their destination. Now, let’s look at our journey.”

The onscreen image zoomed out to reveal the entire Sol system. As viewers watched, the yellow line snaked away from Earth, moving at the same fast-forward speed as it raced past Saturn toward the far end of the system. The bottom of the screen revealed a closeup of the course line, replete with overlaid yellow and inner narrow black lines. This time, the graph indicators denoted the years spent inflight. As the years raced by…2120…2150…2170…2190…the thin black line continued an inexorable march toward the edge…”until 2196, just over two weeks ago,” he concluded. “We saw this sort of deficiency in the navigation systems of other vessels, early on in the migration. That it took ninety-five years for us to realize the flaw in ours is a testimonial to the attention paid Gossamer’s original construction and outfitting.”

“Or to the short sightedness of her owners when they did a rush turnaround on her for this trip,” a voice shouted from the assembled crowd.

“I’LL REMIND YOU…” the engineer shouted to be heard above the sudden hubbub. As the crowd fell silent, he started again. “I’ll remind you that Gossamer and her sister ships were being refitted for passengers during a time when the Alliance was dismantling cities for raw materials to complete the Ark fleet. I can’t speak from personal recollection; I’ve only got the captures and what my grandparents told me, same as you. But I do know for a fact that the people who were readying Gossamer as a generation ship had to fight for every nut and bolt, every bunk, every scrap of food and drop of water they could load.” He looked over the attentive faces. Any more questions?”

“How do we get back on course?”

The Engineer took a breath. “Our challenge has always been to preserve enough fuel for two pivotal events. The first is a course correction burn that we expect to undertake once the arks have landed and begin beaming flight telemetry. The second, and most important,” his eyes swept the audience, “is the atmo entry and landing phase. It’s to those ends that we’ve all been working so hard to conserve our fuel, and,” he grinned, “why you’ve all got such toned legs from pedaling bike generators. We’re looking at the best ways to effect course restoration using little or no fuel. Once we have our correction course, we’ll keep you posted.”

Another hand shot up. “You don’t have a corrected course?”

The engineer turned, casting a glance toward a nervous looking young man seated on the high stool behind where he stood. “I’ll let our Chief Navigator speak to that. Jay?”

The navigator lurched to his feet, his face a study in panic barely contained. “We…um…what we’re doing…is analyzing data,” he stammered. “As Patrick said, the system works great for…a shorter range. We’re trying to…teach it…to handle the longer distance.”

A hand shot up. Against his better judgment, he haltingly agreed to the question. “Y…yes?”

Shaniqua Tyler stood up. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why teach that old dog a new trick?” she asked. “We’ve been out here ninety-five years. Thirty more to go. Even if you tack on a year getting us back on course, the current rig should put you in the ballpark if you feed it the right heading.”

Heads were bobbing; a murmur was rising in the crowd. This woman was making sense to the great unwashed. “It’s not that simple,” the Navigator attempted to take control. “We can’t just punch in a new heading on the bridge and make this go away. There’s a thing out there, thirty years ahead of us, called a marshaling point…”

Pity, she thought, that even now in the year 2196, mansplaining was still a thing. “Yes,” Shaniqua cut him off, “that’s the way point by which you’re hoping to make the final turn and lock into Ark telemetry. So now, instead of teaching your navigation system, why aren’t you plotting the new course?”

A flush of anger was rising to his cheeks. “In order to do that,” he said dismissively, “we’re developing a method of observational navigation…”

“You’re looking out the window,” she said flatly.

This raised a swell of laughter, which the moderator soon had under control. “Chief Navigator Morris,” she gestured with an open hand, “would you like to expand upon that answer?”

“I would, thank you,” the young man’s eyes seemed to glance everywhere but toward Shaniqua. “Looking out the window,” he forced a chuckle, “is exactly what we’re doing. As we know we’ve got a course deviation, but can’t truly answer just how much…yet, we’re studying the surrounding stars in relation to our own movement, and working to develop a calculus by which to make reliable course corrections.”

Shaniqua had not returned to her seat. Now, her hand was up once more.

“You have another question?” Morris asked, his tone less than enthusiastic.

“Yes,” the young woman spoke clearly. “Have you consulted the report submitted by Dr. Julius Berghauer in 2188?”

This was met with a few audible groans, some muted laughter, and in this moment, the navigator sensed that this woman had just lost whatever hold she might’ve had. “Sheer quackery,” he smirked. “That nonsense was peer reviewed and rejected out of hand.”

As a derisive laugh rose around her, Shaniqua’s face was set in a pleasant smile. “Well, Navigator Morris, let me share this much with you. I’ve been looking out the window, too, every day for the past ten years…charting the stars and using Berghauer’s calculations. His numbers work, sir.” Again, laughter drowned her out. She saw by the way the Navigator seemed to take refuge in the crowd’s support that exposing herself thus had been pretty much a fool’s errand.

“Well then,” the Navigator smiled as she took her seat, “now that we’ve heard from the conspiracy theory sect, does anyone else have a question?”

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

“That went well,” she thought glumly to herself as she tried to make as inconspicuous an exit as possible from the auditorium. There was a service exit just five meters ahead. That’d lead to a back corridor staff elevator that was largely unused at this hour. She’d make her escape, spend the rest of the night gone fetal in her bunk, and then hope for a shift in an EV suit all day tomorrow…

“Tyler.” A hand closed firmly upon her shoulder. She turned to find Patrick Claiborne, the ship’s towering Chief Engineer, standing there. “Are you trying to get yourself busted down again?”

“No, sir.” She shook her head. “I like my job. It just…I know what works…”

The big Irishman rubbed his jaw. Yeah, you held your ground in there. So tell me, Tyler,” he asked casually, “when you ‘looked out the window’ every day for the past ten years, didja bother to record your work?”

“Every single day, sir,” she nodded.

For a moment, he only nodded, his lips pursed as he worked on his own thoughts. “Tomorrow,” Claiborne ordered. “My office, oh-six-hundred. Be prepared to explain it to me as if I were a child.”

>>>TO BE CONTINUED<<<

JP with @wanderingwolf and @Xandrya

As SAM reported her findings to Cal, he kicked on the ship comms to relay the report to the crew.

“We’re here,” his gruff voice announced with a hint of anticipation. The months that it took to get to this spot had been filled with too many hands of Tall Card, protein-powder-dishes, and one-sided games of hoop-ball (every team Elias and Boone played on always seemed to win) for his taste. Now, finally, hovering above their paydirt, the feeling of being in the saddle again made Cal stand a little taller as switches flipped.

“Yuri has assignments for all crew part of the excavation party. We’ve been through this and the plan is simple: we go down there and suss the situation. If we find what we came here for, we crack open the container and feed up what’s good. We’ll be taking it in shifts. This ain’t new news to any of you, so suit up!” He let go of the comm and shot a look at Boone which said to take them in closer, to the spot SAM had pinged.

“Any idea if it’s intact?” Strand said to the ether.

The Bostonian voice of SAM replied, “There is a sixty-seven percent chance that the exterior hull of the shipping container sustained major damage upon impact, though whether or not the damage penetrated the shipping container’s reinforced alloy, you won’t know until you reach it.” Her voice disappeared for a moment before re-articulating, “‘Til you ‘lay eyes’ on it, Cal.”

The Captain let out a chuckle. He’d been coaching the AI on a more familiar way of speaking; so it didn’t sound so uppity. In truth, it just kept repeating what he said, obviously still unsure of the synonyms. “Keep practicin’. I’m headed to the infirmary.”

With that, Cal tread his way through the halls of his ship until he reached the medbay. With a knock on the open door, he announced his presence to those inside.

Imani had been sitting down with one elbow propped up on the counter as her hand supported her chin. She was deep in thought with her gaze subconsciously fixated on the white finish of the bulkhead. There was a sudden knock, that which startled her back to the present. Imani swiveled around in place, seeing Cal standing by the entrance. She stood and wiped her hands on her slacks, almost out of habit.

“I heard your announcement, Captain.” She had caught on to what he said just a few minutes prior over the intercom, but didn’t get a move on as she should have. “What set of instructions do you have for me?” Her face more on the solemn side rather than joyful.

The tenor of his acting-medic’s voice gave him pause. “Somethin’ on your mind, ‘Doc’?”

Captain Strand was wearing his usual trusted and stained brown leather boots, mauve chinos, wrapped in his carbon fiber gunbelt. The butt of his pistol shone through the holster at his side. The button down shirt Cal wore was buffalo plaid in varying hues of green and brown, and it terminated at a loose unbuttoning around his throat. There was a tired bandana wrapped around his neck, something worn near threadbare by the looks of its freckled white stars on navy blue background. But the look in his eye, that was a touch softer than the rest of his exterior, and those eyes were trained on Imani.

Sure he could rattle off the laundry list he’d been writing in his head for what she could do to pull weight for the job, but something about the way she asked, whether in tone or content, had him on a back foot for a moment. It felt like, and he weren’t much a man of feelings persay, the woman before him might be less than keen on the job ahead, or her role thereabouts.

Cal approached Imani, then leaned on the exam chair. “I gotta minute afore we need to get settled.” He watched the stoic woman for a response before adding, “Or, we can get the boxin’ gloves out if that’s more your shine.”

“Nothin’ of concern, just been thinkin’ on some stuff lately,” she admitted without going into further detail. Imani wasn’t opposed to the idea of having a chat with Cal, or anyone who cared enough to listen, really. She was human after all, and humans were social creatures by nature. But now wasn’t the right time to do any chatting, especially since that would mean tying up the captain with her personal problems, and Imani would rather be dropped off in whichever corner of the universe than hinder the work of the crew. “I’m fine, honestly,” she went on, finally cracking a smile, “I appreciate you askin' but there’s work to do that ain’t gonna get itself done. Maybe later once the dust has settled I'll fill you in on a few pages of the book that’s my life...only if you’re up for it, of course.”

The simple gesture that was his reaching out had bettered her mood. She had been honest with Cal; her mind being elsewhere was only because she was concerned about her future, concerns that were discussed only once before with the man she assumed she would spend the rest of her life with.

“That’s a lotta ‘nothin’’ and ‘I’m fine’ outta you, but I cotton to your work ethic. Once this business is all buttoned we’ll have a long haul back to civ. I could pull out a bottle of somethin’ I’ve got tucked away.” He placed a hand to one side of his mouth, “Not even SAM knows where I keep the mango wine.”

The comm on the wall crackled for a moment of static before SAM’s voice lilted into the infirmary. “I heard that, Cal. And you have three-point-five bottles stored in your quarters under the sink. ‘Squirreled away,’ as it were.”

"The jig is up," she smirked, keeping a mental tab on that mango wine. Imani knew the captain well enough to attest to the fact that he was a man of his word, and so if he mentioned a "wine and chat", then it was safe to assume she could look forward to him sharing the bottle.

Cal nodded and chuckled, “You’re getting better at talkin’, I’ll give you that.”
“On the score of things need doin’, I’m gonna need some extra oxygen tanks asteroid-side, just in case. I figured you’d have something ‘squirreled away,’” the Captain made air quotes for the invisible company in the room. “Also wanted to pick your brain on any other kit we might need, of the medicinal flavor, while we’re excavatin’.”

"Oxygen is one of our priorities, so we got tanks available. There are also a few vials of promethazine I can hand off along with the standard med kit." Imani headed off to get some of the mentioned items from the cabinet. "While we're not runnin' low on the promethazine per se, I do ask the user to be mindful with the dosage.”

The Captain nodded along, attempting not to appear visibly baffled by Imani’s Latin, “Uh-huh. Got anythin’ to help with nausea? Sometimes lower gravity can trigger folk, and dependin’ what we find dirt-side, might be a spell before we can ride back up here.” He scratched his stubbled chin, “We could use a little stimulant, too, I reckon. Caffeine pills or somesuch maybe?”

With a vial in hand, she held it in front of her to show Cal. "That's what this is for... Nausea, vomitin', motion sickness, etc." Imani put it down on the counter to grab some additional items from the cabinet. "It has other uses too but it'll keep you on your feet." She then turned around and reached for one of the kits, inspecting what was inside. "I can add some stimulants to the inventory as it seems there are none in here. But I have to emphasize—and not because you don't know better but for my own peace of mind... IF you happen you double up on the stimulant, you will be left shakin', on edge, and in some extreme cases, you may experience hallucinations."

Yes, the chances of that happening were extremely low, but nonetheless a possibility.

“Darlin’, shakin’, on the edge, and seein’ things is my sweet spot,” Cal replied, before meeting Imani’s unamused expression, to which he arched his brows and he added, “Yes Doc. You got it. Drugs are bad.” Straightening, the Captain squared with his medic. “You know you’re comin’ too, right? I need your boots on the ground in case we need you to do your stuff. Suit up, and meet in the bay.”

Your smartassery remains unmatched, Captain, she smirked to herself. Imani wouldn't make such a statement out loud, but she wanted to. Instead, she opted for the more civilized response. "I wouldn't miss that party for anythin'. Actually, I'd be insulted if you left me behind." She turned away from him to get her stuff done. "I'm gonna check my list once more and I'll see you down there."

You're dismissed.