Woke up with a derva-syth band is playing bad droid covers at volume 31 in my head. I’d rather have my goodie sack set between the charging leads of a Athlena Series 777 engine core, but it’s not meant to be. All I could find is some really old CateHtenNorOO. It’s as thick as crash chair gel and doesn’t taste much better, (okay when spiced with a hit of juice, it’s….tolerable).
A wall of fur has us penned up in an “interview room”. For two chronos (it was really 11 mikes) I’ve been listening to this vomit-crat prattle on about how he’s gonna get these charges dropped. On the upside he’s got a joint (or seven) that we can dock at and get our bearings. He’s a bit of an entrepreneur (like eighty-four failed businesses on this gutter dump of a rock and none of them making any hard currency). No wonder he’s selling his bitch ass out to the cred-suckers. So he’s offering some sweat equity to get the Griffon flying again, I’m sure there are strings.
We head out to the landing site. My baby is broken. She’s sixteen kinds of hurting and I don’t have the parts to make her right. I’m pissed as a Telrattvian viper in a Vertrex cube. No way to fly and only ground pounders to get the blood pumping. That’s the only reason I took the walking rug’s offer. I walked her hull and it pained me to the bone. I was so tempted to just hit the jets full burn and glass a mile of desert, but then what?!? I can’t land her again, can’t dock her in orbit…if I could do something I would.
I grab the privateer and we test out the truck (maybe it’s got some go fast gear I didn’t see). A quick trip around town and I’m feeling a little better. The land lubber looks green again. Seriously, he’s gotta shake off that weak assed stomach. If we ever get into real trouble with a gun ship, I’m gonna make that couple of turns on this trip look like a fucking afternoon in an old repulsor chair.
We get back to the Griffon, there’s some excitement in the city and apparently some asshole is tearing up the town making a mess of things. I hope he wrecks. Kids these days just have no respect for the civil peace of these little shithole towns.
The doc says she’s doing better, but we need a lot of patch and some good lifters to get her flying proper. The flea motel is actually pretty useful in this regard. He’s got a guy (not exactly, but we figured that out pretty quick) who’s got a scrapper that we can hit up pretty cheap. So we head over.
Holy fucking stalled engines…I thought the good father was going to shit himself. “The Guy” was a gimp of a deader name Dresh. His ride is a little broke down and it was looking to do a short term contract for one of the fine specimens that would be my crew. We were able to work out a deal for the docs body (should he die unexpectantly on this rock) for all the patch we can carry and a lead on some Hypes. All he wants is some cargo and we can have the engines. That’s a bargin and Dresh is a riot. He’s just idles a bit too much for my tastes. And I think he give the padre the willies, which is hilarious, if you ask me.
Nub the Yeti…is actually pretty decent. He’s got a quarry out a ways and says we can salvage the engines from the ore orbital lifter platform. It takes us a few to find that damn thing, half buried in sand and grit. But we get her hovering and get the engines to drop. About mid way thru the load, a bunch of the local critters decided to see if we’re tasty.
I’m pretty impressed, the boys, not much to look at, can shoot shit when their asses are on the line. They might work out after all…