As the Fed climbed aboard the shuttle to make his transmission, the rest of the crew discarded their rescue suits in favour of the utility suits from the nearby rack. Akane’s suit in particular was in pretty bad shape, but they all wanted to get as far away as possible from anything that Carver had issued them for the time being. The crew tried not to look too hard at the state of the shuttle’s interior as they climbed aboard.
“Here goes nothing,” Jonah said, nervously gripping the shuttle’s control yoke. With a shudder and a metallic screech, the 20-ton shuttle disengaged from the Breaker Morant and moved towards the smaller freighter nestled up against its underbelly. Jonah was far from an expert pilot, but he was able to maneuver the small craft close to the vacant shuttle docking assembly, which was partially plated over by a piece of sheet metal molded into a vague approximation of the shape of a standard shuttle. He nodded to Worth, who squeezed his considerable bulk into the utility airlock.
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Crossing through the airlock connecting the two freighters, the Doc and Jonah wheeled the mortally wounded woman into Shenmue’s secondary cargo bay where they had set up the portable surgical unit. Carver emerged from his cocoon-like command pod, wheeling his chair about to get a better look at her.
“Who is she?” Carver asked.
“Hell if I know, she’s not on the crew manifest, that’s for sure.” Jonah said as he and the Doc transferred the woman onto the operating table.
“I managed to get her stabilized, but fixing her’s going to take some doing,” The Doc said as he hooked the woman up to the infirmary’s vital signs monitor. “I’m not going to be much help on the Breaker Morant now.”
“Fair enough,” Carver said, taking the crew manifest and handing it to Akane. “It’s time to get this salvage operation underway, now that you’ve got all that shooting out of your system.”
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Jonah, Worth, Tulsa and Akane busied themselves with their load-outs for the salvage operation as YJ brought Shenmue into docking range with the stricken vessel. Linking up airlocks was going to require some tricky maneuvering, but Johnson was more than up to the task.
Meanwhile, the rest of the crew suited up in the special rescue suits provided by Carver, who inspected each one of them. He noticed that the crew had armed themselves, and told them to be cautious, as the chemical oxygen emitter was basically a large tank of unstable lithium perchlorate, to say nothing of the compressed hydrogen fuel in the mobile reserve tank he had brought along in case the Breaker Morant had simply run out of gas.
Docking belly to belly with the larger Dragonfly transport mean that everything going into Shenmue’s airlock was going to have to be rotated vertically before exiting Breaker Morant’s airlock and entering the bulk freighter’s cargo bay – a tricky proposition considering the bulky dimensions of much of the salvage gear. However that’s what Carver’s brutal training regimen had been preparing the crew for, so there were few complaints.
From his position in the command pod, Carver performed a series of checks of the audio-video units mounted on the crew’s helmets. Satisfied, he gave the crew his blessing to begin their work. They marched into the airlock, and the heavy doors sealed behind them. Johnson, perched on Shenmue’s bridge, manipulated the airlock’s artificial gravity and soon the crew were lazily somersaulting from floor to ceiling. Then he triggered the lock’s opening mechanism.
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The crew of Shenmue spent the better part of three weeks out in the Black making their way from Regina to Beaumonde, ostensibly to meet with Sai McKittrick’s representative, Wes Ferris, but also to take advantage of a docking bay that had been reserved for their former ship, Ironmonger. There were still a few days left on the reservation, and with some bluffing Johnson was able to make it past port control to land on platform 124. The accommodations were better than the crew was used to – the docking platform was an enclosed hangar with an on-site machine shop and front office.
Worth set about scrounging up the spare parts necessary to repair the shredded hover mule, which had taken an impressive beating back on Beylix at the hands of a Unified Reclamation anti-poaching patrol.
Doc Tulsa, acting as the ship’s purser, reluctantly doled out the money necessary to take care of the hover mule’s repair and to pay for two months of deferred maintenance on the Firefly. The crew was flush from their recent dealings with the Hornsilver Mining Company, but even so, Ying had to strenuously suggest that Tulsa authorize a topping-up of the fuel cells.
Ever the procurement specialist, Jonah ensured the ship was stocked with next month’s expected medical supplies and other sundries, in between trips to the nearest watering holes that the Atoll Plaza had to offer.
Johnson used the docking berth’s public terminal to advertise the fact that Shenmue was open for business, hoping to pick up new work and passengers, if possible.
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The plan was simple. The Doc would be meeting Hornsilver’s man inside the saloon. Jonah would go on ahead to case the joint and act as the Doc’s backup. Since he hadn’t been a part of any of the negotiations with the Hornsilver people, he wouldn’t be recognized. Worth would rent a room at the hotel across the street, acting as a lookout and covering the entrance of the saloon with his arsenal of weapons. YJ would prep Shenmue’s shuttle and pick the crew up after the exchange was made at the foot of Main Street. The crew set about preparing for the meet and then caught a few nervous hours of sleep before the rendezvous time approached.
Then it was zero hour, and time to get down to business.
Duffel bag in hand, Worth Evans strode into the lobby of the Hotel Southern, every inch the weary warrior. He gruffly asked for a room facing the street, and as luck would have it, one was available. Armed with the key, he mounted the steps to the second floor and walked down the hall, taking note of the communal bathroom at the far end, and the brightly painted door of the emergency exit next to it. Then he was inside his room. He moved to the window and eased it open a crack, just wide enough for the muzzle of his favourite assault rifle to poke through. Then he closed the curtains, turned around and went to work.
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Shenmue left Beylix, none too soon as far as the crew was concerned. They limped to Fuel Station A-21 and delivered their cargo of spare parts to Farnsworth, who honoured his end of the bargain by installing the port intake manifold free of charge, and also honoured a long-standing code between outlaw scrappers to not ask where the part had come from.
Then it was down to business – finding work to keep their new boat flying. They scored a job from the Hornsilver Mining Company to deliver a load of skid-steer utility vehicles to their operations in Frisco, an independent mining camp on the “rough” side of Regina, a planet mostly under the thumb of the Corone Mining Consortium.
For once, it was an easy ride from the station to Regina. They docked, met with Hornsilver’s representative to receive their payment, then Jonah got down to the business of supervising the unloading while the rest of the crew strolled into town to see what there was to see.
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Still nursing a few bruises and more than a few grudges, YJ manhandled Shenmue into the air and headed for the port city of Newhouse, a few hundred miles due east of the Taros settlement. He kept the Firefly transport in atmo, not wanting to risk another high-altitude tumble with his port engine still wonky.
As the ship made its approach, the crew noted the unending piles of discarded junk that stretched in every direction as far as the eye could see. Worth in particular felt a strong desire to not become a permanent addition to the scrap heaps.
Newhouse itself was carved out of the rusted landscape of debris and disused shipping containers. The bored voice of an operator from Port Control came online. “This is Newhouse Port Control. Unidentified Firefly transport, state your business.”
YJ keyed open the channel. “Uh, this is midbulk transport Shenmue requesting permission for landing. We are scheduled for a cargo pick-up and would also like to see to some repairs.”
“Roger that, Shenmue. You are cleared to land at docking pad D-20. Port fees must be paid before a departing flight plan can be filed.”
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“And why would Prentice have a beef with Worth?” YJ asked.
Jonah reached into his pocket and tossed one of the anti-Worth coasters onto the galley table. “Why don’t you tell us, ‘Worthless?’”
Worth grimaced as YJ picked up the coaster and examined the logo emblazoned on it. “It’s, uh, complicated.”
YJ spun the coaster back onto the table and placed a drink on it. “Well then, un-complicate it for us.”
Worth sighed. “A few years back I was working a grey-legal salvage operation under the nose of Unified Reclamation here on Beylix. Then they pulled the rug out from under us. I was set up by the authorities and a bunch of guys went to the lockdown while I was pretty much exiled and told never to come back planetside. I’m not a rat though, honest. It was a setup.”
Jonah smirked. “Look, speaking as one guy who’s been “set up” before to another-”
“Can it,” YJ interrupted. “So why didn’t you tell us you were the town pariah before we landed?”
“It’s complicated!” Worth repeated.
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With the treasure divided and vacuum suits patched, the crew made their way to Beylix, treasure trove of the Rim.
Worth, who was twitchy and paranoid at the best of times, was growing more and more agitated at the prospect of setting foot on his home planet, where he knew he was in for a cold reception.
A few years back, Worth Evans had been set up as a patsy during a joint Alliance-Unified Reclamation investigation that exposed the notorious Beylix Ring, a lucrative illegal salvage and scavenging operation that thrived even as Unified Reclamation tightened its security and began licensing scrap dealers instead of letting them just freely pick over Beylix’s bones.
The planet’s newsnets screamed the name “Wentworth Evans” far and wide as the insider who turned on his companions in exchange for immunity and he earned a planet-wide negative reputation as the “betrayer of Beylix” before the first news cycle came to a close. It got personal – a few of Evans’ cousins were implicated in the ring, and the tabloid press picked up on him as a homewrecker who would sell out his own family for a pat on the head from the Alliance. He fled Beylix a branded man.
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As the members of the Sundeen Seven limped or were dragged out of the storage unit, Rothsay picked up their discarded pistols and smirked at his humiliated former partners. He considered making them turn out their pockets, but he opted to let them go without adding insult to injury.
YJ, Worth and Rothsay made their way back to their ship to deal with the next headache – paying for fuel. The Firefly was running on fumes when it docked at the repair station, and it needed both refueling and provisioning. With YJ being dead broke, the Doc being of the stingy persuasion, and Rothsay a man of greed, the conversation took an interesting turn as the group bickered over dividing up the bill. Worth and the Doc agreed to pony up equal shares of the refueling cost, but that left the supplies…and all eyes turned to Rothsay.
“Well listen, unless I’m a member of the crew, I’m basically just a passenger, so why should I pay for your protein? Make me an offer to join the crew, and we’ll talk.” Rothsay said.
“Yeah right,” YJ shot back. “You join up with us and then you’ll run out with the treasure.”
“Please,” Jonah replied. “In the worst case, if I join up, stock your ship, then ditch you, what have you lost? Your pantry will still be full and I’ll be out more than 100 credits. Besides, I don’t see you offering to pay your way here.”
YJ bristled. “I may not have any coin, but unless you’re rated as a pilot for a mid-bulk transport, I think I can earn my keep.”
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