Stars and Garters: The Payoff

Cargo Hold  -- The cargo hold is not especially large, only slightly bigger than a racketball court. Eyelets are welded to the floor, walls, and ceiling to help secure cargo. A catwalk runs from the forward hatch, across the front wall and along the starboard side, and across the back wall to the engine room hatch. Midway along the starboard wall, stairs descend to the floor of the cargo hold. On the port wall, the outlines of the two massive cargo doors make up much of the wall's surface. In the aft port corner, a ten-meter cyndrilical assembly rises to the top of the bay. Pipes sprout from its surface, disappearing through the aft wall. Just aft of the stairs, tucked underneath the catwalk, is the ship's airlock.

The locker of loot from the recent run is /not/, in fact, in here. --

Kestrel is, as she perhaps too often is, lying atop a cargo crate, staring ceiling-ward. The only marked difference from normal is the fact that she's tossing a fist-sized chunk of rock straight up and catching it every so often.

Finch emerges from the ladderwell and heads aft along the catwalk with a purposeful stride.

"Mornin' Finch," Kes calls. Toss, catch. Toss, catch. There's no pause as the Later greets the Sivadian. "Inna hurry, 'ey? What, th'engine on fire 'r somethin'?

"S'jus' a lo've stuff t'fix," Finch says, pausing and turning toward Kes. He leans against the wall. "Wo' wif d'ge'in' banged abou' by asteroids an' such."

Kestrel nods. "Th'side'a th'ship says 'Zero Gravi' now," she replies, chuckling. "Kinda like it. Gives 'er character." She catches the rock one last time and looks over. "Put 'at locker in th'engine room. Pretty heavy bugger when 'ere's gravity on, tell ya what."

"Was gonna pin' Zero Gravi onna ovvah side," Finch admits. "Y'know anyone wo's innerested in a bunch've reaw expensive booze? Mybie fin' an Ungstiri f'r sellin' wo'evah kinda vodka wo's in deh."

"Dunno," Kes replies, frowning a bit. She tosses the rock again, and of course, catches it again. "Seems like a lotta th'people 'ere's my sort, yeah? Might be we kin 'preciate good booze, but s'kinda like pearls an' pigs, y'know?" She chuckles a bit at that. "Might try Bri's daddy. 'E's got 'at bar/cafe thinger."

"No' a bad plan," Finch says, scratching at his chin. "On accoun' 've nostowja sewws be'ah d'n jus' liquah."

Kestrel nods and grins. "Yup. Betcha doin' alright 'ere. Most'a th'refugees least got -some- form'a income by now, th'way I see it, an' lotta 'em don' mind a li'l slice'a home now an' 'gain. Hear s'pretty good, really." She shrugs a bit and looks back over. "Hells, whatever's in 'at locker's gotta be good stuff ta be locked up like 'at."

"Y' 'ad a chance t'try an'--" Finch begins. He sneezes, then, and finishes, "--t'try an' open i' up?"

"Naw, I figured I'd leave 'er 'lone till I saw ya 'gain," Kes replies. "'At way you could see what was in 'er right off an' all." She blinks and looks toward Finch. "Ain't gittin a cold, are ya?"

"'ope no'," Finch says. "Y'wanna 'ave a go now? Knowin' wo' i' is we go' would be reaw nice."

Kestrel nods and sets the rock down, and hops down off the crate to amble toward Finch. "Was fun, yesterday," she comments. "I wanna go back, but I don' think Zuan'd do it."

"Fun?" the mechanic snorts. "Dunno if I'd go /da'/ fah. Profi'ab'w, 'opefully."

"Naw, I did, I had fun," Kes replies, nodding. "Lookin' back onnit, anyhows. Wasn't any deadlier'n a lotta th'things I done, an' hells, didn't hafta sit in one place fer two damn days." She snickers, already digging for something in one of her inner jacket pockets.

Finch heads for the engine room. "Spose I shoulda 'adja fing'r'd f'r'a friww-seekah," he muses.

Engine Room  -- It's difficult to tell how much space there was in the engine room before its modification, but very little remains now. The centerpiece is the reactor, mounted horizontally running fore and aft down the middle of the bay. Extra shielding has been retrofitted to the thick cylinder, and the reactor controls have been remounted to that--mechanical backups underneath touchscreens. Along either side of the reactor, there's maybe a meter of open floor, engine machinery beginning to rise from the floor and drop from the ceiling past there. By the heavy-duty hatch heading forward to the cargo bay, a wheeled toolchest has been firmly bolted to the floor. --

Kestrel snickers. "Gits to a point when s'all 'at does it for ya," she replies. "Reg'lar stuff jest... I dunno. S'borin', really." She works a well-kept roll of leather free of her pocket, and trots over to the crate, crouching down beside the crate. "...S'a nice lock. Betcha we could reuse 'is thing if'n we wanted. 'R hells, even trade 'er off too."

"You go on finkin' da' wye, an' I'ww keep on 'idin' from fings wo' 'as a good chance t' kiww me, an' I'ww sye nice fings 'boucha a' y'r funeraw," Finch replies wryly, heading aft to the space between the port engines and the reactor. "S'awwyes nice t' 'ave boxes wotcha can lock fings in, I guess."

"Ain't dead yet!" Kes replies cheerfully. She selects a few long, flat pieces of metal out of the wide variety of picks she's got there, and starts poking at the container's lock. "M'daddy says s'cause Mikage loves fools an' kids, though."

Finch picks up a flashlight from the tool tray next to him and sticks it between his teeth, levering open an access panel with his hands. "Sho wo' 'oesh 'e 'ink've, uh, e'libera' 'n caufshuhs m'kaniks?" he asks.

Kestrel laughs. "'E leaves 'em ta Saint Mayson, I reckon," she replies. "Saint'a Technology. 'E's th'one what invented th'wossname... psionic suppression grid, 'at's it." Cue more work on the locker, those few flat pieces being slipped into place, and then a few more retrieved.

Finch tilts his head, face screwing up as he reaches into the access panel with one arm, clearly stretching. "Bloody ... fing wif d' ... damn freads ..." is faintly audible, amidst a string of grunts and occasionally profanity more severe.

"I fit inta small places, y'know," Kes offers cheerfully. "If'n ya ever need help with anythin', I mean." She finishes getting those flat pieces into place, then withdraws something else from her jacket pocket -- a small electronic device of some sort that she clips into place on the ends of the metal bits.

Finch takes his flashlight with his other hand, looking over his shoulder as he searches in the engine. "Y'ain' smallah d'n my ahm, unless deh's some reaw weihd pehspective stuff goin' on, an' I can just behly reach as i' is. Onna ovvah 'and, fanks--if I evah need someone wo's jus' a li'w bi' smalla t'craw into a plice, I'ww letcha know."

Kestrel nods. "Can't see whatcher doin', but thought I'd offer since I kin hear ya cussin," she replies, chuckling quietly. There's a faint, electronic hum, and the combination lock disengages. "Hah. Now 'at wasn't so bad." The Later pulls the device free from the lock, then pushes the lid of the box up, peering inside.

"S'jus' frustri'in' when i's a li'w nu' d'size've me fumb wo' I 'ave t'--" there is a faint click, and Finch grins. "Wo' I have t'mike mike da' noise, in fac'." He snakes his arm out of the access panel and turns around. "'ow's i' look?"

"Dunno, you tell me," Kes replies, blinking at the contents of the box. "...Think 'is stuff's way outta m'league, chief." She picks up a bottle and inspects it, whistling low between her teeth. "We already knew it was good stuff, but 'is's like 'too 'spensive ta drink' good where I'm from, I reckon."

Finch snags the bottle from Kes, reading the label aloud: "MacCannon's Own Sing'w Mawt Scotch Whisky." He nearly drops it as he gets to the bottom. "Ayged foh'y eigh' years. Bloody 'eww."

Kestrel nods, and chuckles, again looking into the box. "'Is's the stuff 'ey sell ta high-rollers, prob'ly, 'ey?" she replies. "Looks like 'ere's a few'a 'em ones. Some vodka 'ere..." She scoots forward to snag one of the bottles of clear liquid, holding it up to the light to contemplate it. "Betcha you could drink 'is stuff like water."

"Defini'ly. Dis bo'w's wehf mybie six, seven fousand credi's," Finch says, putting it reverently back into the locker. "Know much abou' vodka? Me dad wasn' much f'r'anyfin' wo' wasn' mide on Sivad."

"Know 'is's th'stuff 'ey kept locked up inna Saucy Rockrat," Kes replies, shrugging. "An' only ever kept one bottle 'round what I saw. Didn't sell much. Mostly ya find 'er offa Ungstir. Seen 'er in Caral Irit's, thinkin' onnit." She grins sheepishly. "I notice stuff, 'ey?"

"No' a bad 'abi' t' 'ave," Finch says, grinning. "Pu' da' back awye, an' lock d'fing up again, an' I'ww see abou' 'avin' a li'w cha' wif wossisnime."

Kestrel nods, slipping the bottle back into the box, and activating the lock again. "Nice thing is, lock still works, an' I don' gotta set up m'little helper 'ere 'gain," she says, waving the little electronic device. She looks up at Finch again then. "What'd 'at thing say yesterday 'fore we run from it? I dunno H'keyan at all."

"Buncha big long wehds wo' sounded aww technik'w, an' den 'not triggahed f'r'ten minu's', an' den sumfin wo' mide Zuan go aww 'Medlidikke! Run awye!'," Finch says, lifting a shoulder. "D'detaiws was kinda los' on me, I 'afta sye."

"...Huh," Kes replies, nodding a bit. "Well. Medlidikke's th'only word I know in H'keyan, but seems like s'a good one ta know if'n ya gotta pick one, 'ey?" She chuckles at that, and starts cleaning up the lockpicks.

"Qui'," Finch says, nodding as he ducks down to look at the lower engine.

Kestrel pockets the rest of her gear, gets up, and stretches. "Mebbie I'll go see if'n I kin find Mister Majors," she muses thoughtfully. "Tell 'im ya wanna talk to 'im, 'ey?"

"Sounds like a plan," Finch replies, nodding even though he doesn't look up.

"A'ight, I'll tell 'im if'n I see 'im," Kes calls back, boots already pelting on deckplates heading out into the cargo bay.