Foroan (0101) C59A366-9 Ni
The aqueous moon of a gas giant, host to a small colony of political dissidents, exiles, and jelly harvesters from Pavat (0104). Toxins in the atmosphere required the use of a filter mask. Of the few thousand inhabitants, most live in the single starport-city, or on isolated seasteadings and jelly harvesting rigs.
Prad Nadja (884798, Rifle-1, Shotgun-1. Air/Raft-1, Cr1,000) is twenty-two years old. The last four years of her life, she has spent in a skullduggerous line of work she does not often speak of. Currently, she is stuck on Foroan, with dwindling funds.
To alleviate the problem, she has engaged herself with a certain clerk (who did not give a name) on the promise of some Cr5,000 for delivering a package to a remote seastead. The job was negotiated over drinks at scummy bar—the kind the jelly harvesters frequent after a long spell working the rigs—amidst flickering holographic phantasmagoria and thumping music. Into her charge went a sealed courier bag and the keys to an air/raft, parked in Bay 18.
Wasting no time, she left the bar, shrugging off the wispy illusions as she stepped into the fluorescent lit corridor. It was midmorning, local time, and she’d promised to be prompt. But first, she decided to look into some protection; the business seemed a touch risky, better to be on the safe side.With less hassle than she’d worried, she bought a shotgun and box of shells (wildlife attacks were not unknown on the moon, apparently).
[-Cr160]
She arrived at Bay 18, with the shotgun underarm, wrapped in waterproof cloth, and the courier bag in hand. The bay was a private garage, of sorts. An attendant gave her a cursory nod, and directed her to the air/raft after she showed him the keys. It was an older model, salt-scoured and open to air. Hopping in, she stowed the courier bag and shotgun, buckled up, and ran her hands over the controls.
The vehicle thrummed to life. She eased it gently out of the bay and into the open sky. The weather was fine; cloudy, but with shafts of sunlight breaking through, and rents giving view to the ruddy gas giant looming above. Flying low, then climbing, the starport quickly dwindled away behind her, becoming a vague greebled sprawl floating on the calm ocean.
The air was sticky and dense, the filter mask dug into her cheeks and made her breathing loud. Settling in, she cracked open a thermos of coffee and sipped it through a straw-port in the mask.
[encounter check: negative]
After a several hours easy flying, the sun and gas giant having made their stately progress across the sky, she picked up the seastead’s radio beacon, and began her descent.
The steading jutted out of the sea like a stalk, surrounded by a halo of lesser structures: docks, storehouses, generators, and the like. She circled in and touched down on a landing pad, where two women were waiting for her. They were heavyset, white-haired, and could have been twins save for the scars. One patted her down while the other searched the vehicle, lingering on the wrapped shotgun, but making no comment. They led her inside.
It was a relief to doff her mask, and breath in the seastead’s crisp, conditioned air. The two goons took her along an enclosed walkway, which connected halo to stalk, and into a sumptuously decorated room. She ran her eyes over the wood panelling and upholstery, feeling out of place. There was a snort. A furry, dog-like creature sprang off a couch and came bounding toward her. She tried, awkwardly, to fend it off with the courier bag, while it snuffled and drooled. Its face was grotesquely human.
A man entered. At his command, the dog-thing heeled. He wore a loose silk robe, with nothing on underneath, his lithe, angled body on full display. Like the two women, he had a shock of pure white hair, but his face and body were unmarred—as if he had never known a blemish in his life.
She tendered over the bag, which he took without a word, like she wasn’t even there. He opened it, pulling out a thick sheath of paper, and immediately began to pour over it, spreading documents out onto the wet bar.
Nadja waited patiently, then impatiently. Her stomach gurgled. This, at last, caused the white-haired man to look up. He examined her for a moment, then turned back to his papers. A wave of his hand: Feed her. The goons escort her down a ladderway, to a kitchen, where one of them began to slapdashedly fix her a bowl of rice and squid. She ate thankfully.
An hour later, they were summoned back upstairs. The papers had disappeared and the man stood, waiting, with the courier bag in hand. He smiled at Nadja. Do you know who I am? To which she shrugged, and answered truthfully: No. He laughed and said, mostly to himself: Good, good. Then he handed her the bag, newly heavy. Take this back to the clerk. And with that the two goons escorted her out.
The weather had taken a turn. The wind plucked at her hair and clouds were gathered on the horizon, blotting out the setting sun. The waves had begun to roll, making the seastead bob and putting her off her balance. She got back in the air/raft, stowed the bag, cracked her knuckles, and prepared for the flight back.
An hour in, and the winds were even worse. Below, the ocean heaved. The air was humid and heavy; a storm impending. It was taking all Nadja’s concentration to keep the vehicle on course.
[surprise: none; range: medium]
That, at least, was the excuse she gave herself for not noticing the other air/raft until it had dropped suddenly from on high, in the clouds. A loudspeaker blared out: Halt and heave to. The other raft was enclosed, maybe even armoured. It certainly looked heavy. There were police markings on the side.
Nadja slowed, allowing the other raft to catch up. Then, just as it was above her, she accelerated and shot off!
[roll of 11 +1 vs 9]
She was away, racing low and fast, almost skimming the wave tops. Lights were in the red across the controls. Then a clunk. One of the impellers faltering. The raft veered, nearly going into a spin.
[roll 2 +1 vs 5]
She crashed through the crest of a wave, swamping the vehicle. Worse, she watched helplessly as the courier bag came loose and was swept overboard.
Sodden, suddenly freezing, she managed to stabilize the raft and bank around. She searched the heaving sea for a glimpse of the bag while cursing herself for not securing it better. Then she spied it, bobbing and tumbling, mercifully afloat. At the same moment, the police air/raft appeared in the distance, sirens flashing.
Hesitation. Desperately trying to think up a way of retrieving the bag without wrecking the raft. Then resignation. She chose flight, abandoning bag and police behind her, and zooming off over the open ocean.
It was night, by the time she made it back to the starport, and landed in Bay 18. There was a new attendant, who looked at her askance, as she got out of the waterlogged raft shivering and swearing. She threw the keys at him and trudged off, down the city’s labyrinthine corridors, to her hostel. She left her wet clothes on the floor, the shotgun on the on bed, and took a hot shower—some relief to her sore, taut body—then passed out.
The next morning, she muscled her way through a knot of tryworkers fresh off the night-shift and into the back of the dimly lit bar, to the booth where the clerk was waiting for her. He had her money, but was confused as to the lack of a return package. Wasn’t given nothing, she lied.
[+Cr5,000]
With five-thousand in her pocket, she quit the scummy dive and bought herself a nice, fancy lunch on the upper level, from the starport’s only restaurant. The administrators and managerial types looked at her askance, as she sat at her table, wolfing down imported Kareenian beef.
[-Cr50]
[encounter check: positive; bandits]
[surprise: no; range: short]
While walking home, Nadja noticed she was being followed. Her awareness came too late, however, and as she ducked down a corridor she found her way blocked by several men and women in rubberized coveralls and rain jackets. Behind her, an equal number had filled up the corridor, preventing escape. Knives and lengths of pipe appeared.
The foremost thug smiled at her, not unkindly, and parted his jacket to reveal the butt of a pistol. With a sigh, Nadja surrendered herself into their keeping. They lead her down twisting passages and gangways, deep into the bowels of the starport, somewhere below the waterline, so that the tramp of their feet mingled with the groaning and creaking of old metal.
They ushered her into a disused airlock—murky water on the other side of the viewport—where a woman was waiting, sitting on a plastic chair, smoking a cigarette. She was dressed like the thugs, in the heavy coveralls of a jelly harvester. There was a union badge pinned to her collar.
Luciette. She introduced herself, offering a hand. Nadja. Nadja replied, not bothering to shake it. You were supposed to deliver a package back to the clerk, where is it? Nadja considered her reply, then said: Give me another five-thousand and I’ll kiss and tell. Luctiette shook her head. Oh no, you’ll tell me, or they’ll find your body floating in the surf at sundown. She put her cigarette out on the viewport for emphasis. Oh well, it was worth a try; Nadja explained what had happened, in detail. And you didn’t see the police pick up the bag? No. Luciette seemed satisfied. Well, be seeing you.
Before Nadja could ask any questions, the thugs had maneuvered her out of the room and away down the echoing corridors…
+++++++
Was bored the other day and played a little solo Traveller game. Didn't note down all the little places I rolled reaction rolls to determine things like "how's the weather" or "are these thugs going to jump her or be polite." The whole exercise ended up very noir.
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