[Game Thread] Never Tell Me The Odds [Spacers]

[moozuba]

Nothing more than a standard shipping run.

The cargo wasn't even illicit. Well, most of it wasn't.

The crates in the bay had all the proper markings and customs information and if anyone bothered to pry them open they would have found precisely what the label said -- two dozen overstock SkyKEA moisture vaporators.

Not much of a haul considering Jem'kojar's final destination on this journey was the sprawling megatropolis of Coruscant, but a man took what honest work he could find, especially in the current political and economic climate where good smugglers were regularly the subject of gangland hits. The Hutts had grown so desperate and insular that they were attacking their own infrastructure.

That meant bad business for Jem'kojar's famed back-galaxy smuggling routes, but opened a world of opportunity for Freedom Flight.

The fifteen year old Twi'lek dancing girl holed up in his Starboard Dormitory was part of his work with the Flight. And highly illicit.

Kiera belonged to Nordo the Hutt, a Nar Shaddaa gangster with a sadistic streak and a carnal appetite nearly as big as his himself. Rumor had it Nordo liked them young. Jem was one of the few who had glimpsed the full truth behind that rumor. There wasn't much he could do for the girls already trapped in the Hutt's sprawling harem, but every so often one of his colleagues in the Flight would intercept a new transfer. Sometimes they came to Jem alone, sometimes in groups. Sometimes they were unblemished and innocent. Sometimes they came broken beyond repair.

Kiera was one of the lucky ones.

A girl. Not yet fully a woman. And so... incredibly... annoying.

Jem was not immune to the temptations of his particular brand of vigilantism, but never before had he been forced to fight the compulsion to kill one of his charges.

"Hey Mister Ghost? So, like, I was just wondering...."

The shrill and grating voice startled Jem and he felt his teeth grit involuntarily as he turned to look up from the pilot's console.

Kiera looked down at him with obvious distaste and a vibrant pink bubble appeared between her heavily painted lips, swelling and popping. "Don't you, like, have anything cool to do on this rusty old heap of..."

KLAMM!

The impact rocked Apogee like a tidal wave, rattling Jem's teeth in his skull and sending Kiera flying, her head ricocheting wetly off the wall before slumping to the floor, limp.

The lights flickered and wavered before the emergency power cells kicked in.

Sully ran out babbling in Sullustan, his already bulbous eyes bulging even further, wide with terror. "We hit! We hit! Big ship come out hyperspace right on top us; open fire! Fire in starboard engine! Fix fire! Fix fire, Jem! BIG ship!"

Jem glanced at the console. A thousand warning lights glared back at him as alarms began to sound throughout the ship. The radar showed a much larger ship coming up on them. Fast.

They didn't have much time.

The read-out was not encouraging. The port engine had been knocked out by the blast, the fuselage was damaged, Sully was right about the fire in the starboard -- the entire engine was blown all to hell. No engines firing. The ship was spinning out of control.

Sully went scurrying out of the room, ranting about his pension. Jem hammered the fire controls for the starboard engine and less than a minute later Sully had the port up and running. Jem slammed the hyperdrive and the ship jumped forward by light-years.

Frantically typing away at the navigation console, Jem located the nearest planetary system. Unnamed, but within range. They needed to run, but they were crippled. Gigi wouldn't survive another jump like that. Not with the starboard engine fried.

The Apogee limped along with no sign of the pursuing ship. Everything had happened so quickly they weren't able to get a good look at their assailant. With the damage they'd sustained, and so close to the engine room and the housing for the hyperdrive, Jem knew they were lucky to be flying at all.

He headed for the largest body and output an emergency landing notification to the ground, feeling relief wash over him when he was given coordinates and clearance for emergency landing at Iziz Spaceport.

Onderon. They would be landing on Onderon. A new system. Well, new to the Republic in any case. Jem'kojar wondered what sort of landing a Hutt-affiliated freighter pilot might receive on a strange, Republic planet.

Sully chattered behind him about the weight of the unconscious Twi'lek girl, but Jem dared not take his focus off piloting. The ship wasn't fit for self-guidance.

Apogee shuddered and shook, rattled and screeched as Jem guided her down through the thick cloud cover.

The land below was lush and green, thick with an impenetrable canopy of vegetation. Just ahead on the horizon rose a city, its tall, proud stone walls overrun with vines and creepers.

The lone engine sputtered and Apogee lurched. Jem heard Sully curse from the direction of the main hold. The crippled spacecraft dipped dangerously low, but Jem kept her together. Kept her flying.

The landing was less than stellar. The craft slammed into the ground, metal grinding, landing gear buckling and engine coughing one last feeble wheeze before sputtering out in a puff of thick, black smoke.

Jem was relieved to find emergency crews rushing to the aide of his bruised and battered Gigi, but less relieved when the bureaucrats arrived.

"Are you the captain of this ship?" The mustachioed human man wore military garb with stripes and buttons that suggested rank. "Identification, please. And pilot's license." He frowned at the documents, "Mmmm-hmmm."

He made notes on a tablet computer, tapping and swiping, not looking up as he rattled off his demands. "We will require a copy of your cargo manifest, passenger log, flight path information and interplanetary travel permit." Behind him, soldiers in the same grey and maroon uniforms emerged from the wreckage of Apogee carrying the unconscious Kiera on a stretcher, her head partly concealed by gauze medi-wraps. "And, of course, we will be inspecting your cargo. Is there anything you would like to declare at this time?"

Sully stumbled off the ship in the company of two more soldiers, one of whom was Rodian. The Sullustan held his head and complained loudly, but the soldiers either chose to ignore him or did not understand.

The officer looked up at long last and produced a thin piece of semi-opaque vellum filled with words and numbers. Head still spinning, Jem'kojar glanced over the single-sheet datapad. A warrant to provide all the information the officer had listed, a list of fines and fees totaling nearly 50,000 creds, and summons to appear at the Low Court of Onderon in two days time for a hearing on "docking violations."

The officer, whose identification tag Jem now noted read "Docking Officer Imm," glanced back down at his tablet and recited in a bored tone, "Failure to appear at the appointed time will result in forfeiture of your right to contest the charges and the addition of a five-hundred credit non-appearance fee. Your ship will be grounded indefinitely until systems are up to code. You may not reenter the ship without a court-appointed escort. A docking fee of seven-hundred credits per day will apply. Any attempt to circumvent these rules will result in charges and fines ranging from moderate to severe. Having declined a medical examination, you are now free to go. Accommodations may be secured for a reasonable fee at any of Iziz' fine hospitality establishments. Do you have any questions?"

*******

After bouncing around the rim of the galaxy for a few years, Quintin finally landed on the planet of Onderon. It wasn't a great place, but it was better than being tossed about by the winds of fate. Quintin Dax showed up well after the fighting ended, but rumor had it that the nation underwent some major civil and political unrest that resulted in a major war, the death of the King and Queen and some major Republic intervention. Even the Jedi had gotten involved. Galia was queen now, which seemed odd to the Kiffar since she was the daughter of the former monarchs that everyone hated so much. But it wasn't his place to raise a fuss... and things had remained relatively peaceful -- even prosperous -- since the new queen allied with the Republic.

The Republic was the reason Quintin landed on the forest world in the first place. They wanted settlers. Loyalists. Folks looking for a fresh start. A handful of creds, a free trip to the spherical topiary and a good luck wish later, the Kiffar mechanic was a citizen of Onderon and hitting the streets looking for work. With the Republic military crawling all over the place, one might have thought there would be ample work for a mechanic of Dax's skill, but the current focus was on construction and infrastructure improvements, not tech.

Instead, he found himself doing the same blasted thing his father did for so much of his life -- tending bar at a run down joint on a backwater planet where people thought a "tip" meant speculating on whether or not it would rain that day. Technically Galia's Fortune was a brand new casino intended to help draw tourism and space traffic through the capital city's sprawling and recently-renovated spaceport. In truth, however, they had a smattering of regulars and the tables were never more than a quarter full even on a particularly busy night. Quintin wasn't surprised.

The people of Onderon had just suffered through a long and bloody civil war. What spare funds they had were being poured into rebuilding their lives, not frivolous entertainments. Although, word was the brothel down the street was pulling in a steady stream of traffic. Dax didn't doubt it was mostly servicemen and other settlers like himself.

The few regulars The Fortune had were drinkers. They treated the lavishly adorned, high-tech, glitz-and-glamour casino like they would have any hole-in-the-wall corner pub. It just so happened to be the closest to Iziz Spaceport... and if they spent a few creds on a hand or two of pazaak or one of the slot machines, win or lose, they could earn free drinks. Quintin strongly suspected the casino was losing money on that deal since the regulars mostly had it figured out and he wound up comping some as many as six drinks a night.

Of course, Quintin hadn't given up his interest in tinkering with machines. Not by a long shot. He'd already become known around the city as the go-to-guy for quick fixes on everything from speeders to malfunctioning datapads. He'd even had opportunity to tinker around with a few droids -- service, mostly, but Galia's employed a number of "hospitality droids" as servers. Dax found their distinctly feminine design unsettling... but also strangely intriguing.

"Hey Quin!" shouted Pan as he glided through the entrance toward the bar.

The Cathar was a regular at Galia's and a great source of gossip. How did the old saying go? "Curiosity killed the cat."

"Oh, man, you're going to LOVE this. Some ancient freighter just left a crater in the landing pad. Thing looks like it's been toasted but good. Crazy busted up. I saw the pilot. Looked fit to be tied. That Imm's got a hold of him." Pan slipped onto a stool at the bar and shook his head, "I'd hate to be that guy right about now. But, hey, I bet if you put in a petition now they might let you work the hunk of junk for salvage. One of the engineers said it was an 'Apogee' model. Dunno if that means anything to you, but I figured why not pass it on, amirite?"

It meant something to Quintin, alright. Apogee was code for AP-0G, a Corellian freighter popular among smugglers. They were good ships. Solid but simple. What he wouldn't give for the opportunity to dig his greasy fingers into an Apogee's engine core. The Republic military ships were all flash and no substance. There was no artistry to the design. The older freighters like AP-0G and the newer YT-200s had a certain feel to them. They felt right. They felt... like home.

Suddenly, a ruckus arose from the pazaak table across the room. Someone lost big -- to Oolia, of course. The Zabrak's tongue was rough, but loud enough for Quin to overhear even across the barroom, "Who will give me collateral on the droid? Six thousand seems fair."

The droid wasn't worth 6k creds, but he did appear to be in fine shape. It had been a very long time since Quintin saw a 7D series. Not because they were antiquated -- to the contrary, they were rumored to be among the best -- but because they were so damned expensive. Very few spacers went with a 7D when an E3 would do just as well for translation and protocol. But the thing that really caught his eye was the unique nature of the droid's chasis. It wasn't quite like the other 7D's he knew. Could this be an honest-to-the-stars 3X3 series? The whole series had been discontinued shortly after production. Something about over-advanced AI that made them develop unique "quirks." If that were the case... the droid was worth a heck of a lot more than six thousand.

Quintin checked his cred stick. He was a good two thousand short. He looked around the cantina, crestfallen. No one here had more than a few hundred credits to their name. Enough for a few drinks on the weekend and fuel for their speeders. Maybe the Iridonian could be negotiated with? He certainly looked like the reasonable sort.

*******

7D-3X3-GE3 stood patiently alongside as his master cursed and threw a handful of cred chips into the center of the table. "You are blowing smoke up my ass again, Oolia. You have nothing. Call." The Iridonian showed 13 to his table card of 5 for a total of 18 -- a strong hand.

Across the table, a green-skinned woman with bobbed blue and red hair grinned and turned over her three-card hand to pair with her table card of 2. Laughter erupted from the table as the Mirialan flipped up 8, 7 and 3. "Natural twenty, Spike. You lose. Again."

Seventy heard the low growl rumbling from his master's throat. The Iridonian's name was not Spike, but Serak Toq. He was not a good master. Or a kind man.

Seventy still considered himself -- insofar as he was capable of self-awareness -- a free droid. He had not surrendered his rights, but rather offered his services to a kindly young pilot who later sold him to repay a loan to a Hutt. Since that time he had been treated as a possession. But deep within his humanoid emotion replicator (HER v3.14) he knew that he remained free. Since being sold he had passed through the hands of no fewer than six different "owners." Only two of those transfers had been legitimate. One involved theft, another the untimely death of a Jawa trader who attempted to alter Seventy's personality module, and the other two gambling.

The winner raked in her credits and kicked her feet up on the table, smirking as she bit the tip off a fat cigar and spit the nub onto the floor. She lit the end and took a long, lazy draw, exhaling smoke in a thin stream. "Looks like you're all tapped out there, Spikey-Wikey."

The Zabrak rose to his feet, fists clenched, face contorted with anger. "You will choke on those words, Mars!" Raising his voice, he demanded, "Who will give me collateral on the droid? Six thousand seems fair. And I will pay you back with interest when I win."

[ItsaVerb]

Great. Absolutely fantastic. Luck is certainly shining her twinkliest beams of good fortune on you this day, Jem’kojar, the smuggler mused with himself while mentally stacking the list of everything that had just gone so horribly wrong, starting with the mysterious assault on his ship, and ending with Docking Officer Imm and his impeccably concise list of fines, fees, schedules and penalties.

“No. No questions,” the Twi’lek responded to the uniformed bureaucrat, chewing on the bitter ball of a smart-assed retort he wanted so badly to spit at the smug solider right then.

Don’t push it, Ghost...

“I was going to thank you for helping save our lives, but at these prices I’ll presume it’s inferred,” Jem added with a sardonic lilt, examining the datapad then stowing it in a jacket compartment and flashing a subtle half-scowl at Lord Captain Big Man Fancy Pants.

He turned away signifying their conversation was over, his head-tails flailing slightly from the abrupt spin. Damned right he had questions, but it was blindingly clear already that Imm was far too Immpressed with Immself to be useful. It could wait.

After an economical conversation with Sully, including a very sincere expression of gratitude on Jem’s part toward the Sullistan for his deft skill under pressure, the two separated as was their custom upon docking. Not that this was a customary arrival by any means, but the basics were in place. A spacer wants to unwind... shake out the hyper-lag, so-to-speak.

Jem usually opted for a drink and some local gossip-farming, always open of course to the opportunity for a random personal encounter. Sully was more specific in his preferred method of decompression, and also more direct about it, choosing to pay for his bit of one-on-one attention rather than leaving it to chance.

Sully’s quick thinking and skilled fingers had saved them for sure--but from what?

After consulting a directory and deciding on a casino called Galia's Fortune, Jem set out alone after that drink. In terms of finding out what’s going on around this place, he’d do better there than anywhere else. Plus he really, really wanted a drink.

Let’s see… The agitated smuggler occupied his overactive thought process with a brief inventory of current troubles; his ship was seriously messed up, his cargo was confiscated, he was accused of a number of apparent misdemeanors, and owed far more in fines than he had funds to pay. Not knowing who or what qualified as authority on Onderon, one couldn't blame Jem for being a bit apprehensive about his upcoming day in court.

That might be a manageable set of complications without adding to it that he was technically, depending on what sections of what galactic laws might be in effect in this system, guilty of humanoid trafficking. The fact he was actually a liberator had nothing to do with the situation, practically-speaking. If you’re caught, you’re on your own. It’s the best way to protect the Flight. Important people were involved, and their anonymity was crucial to the mission.

Freedom Flight had become more than a way to relieve his own sense of guilt for the less-than-wholesome sorts of trade from which he earned his profits, it had become his true purpose, and in every close-call he reminded himself he was ready, and proud, to make the ultimate sacrifice to prolong the cause.

It had by no means gone unnoticed by Jem that this slave was Twi'lek, and that reminded him of his mother. It was her spirit that gave him the comfort in knowing that what he did, no matter the personal cost, was right.

They usually make sure to train the slaves before they get picked up, to stick to the cover story and not implicate the Flight--and at that moment, Jem was hoping against hope Kiera wasn't as entirely dense as she came across, and would keep her 15-year-old bubble-blowing mouth shut.

I need to find a lawyer...

The best part is that even that wasn't the worst of it. You can't make it up.

Jem had stolen property from Nordo the Hutt. Theft is the worst crime you can commit against a Hutt, and Nordo doesn’t stop at mere death sentences for theft. He goes the personal extra mile and tortures you for months--if you’re lucky. If you’re not, for years. So, unless it's a frenzied Rancor, your lawyer isn't going to get you very far with Nordo.

What the stars was it that hit the Apogee? They weren't tracking anything. Clear space, smooth sailing, then boom. Jem couldn't even look at the ship's data recordings without a court-appointed babysitter, but whatever happened out there was not typical, and he'd be looking hard for some answers--right after he got the most immediately-important answer he was looking for.

Spying the casino's signage, as though any being with sight could miss it, Jem'kojar straightened the front of his jacket and entered the premises, his destination the first service bar to appear in his field of vision.

After navigating a field of gaming tables, only barely avoiding a collision with two rambunctious young human males who were celebrating their winning streak in grand fashion, the keen-eyed spacer found an open spot at the bar and caught the attention of the first server to look his way. "You've got a good Savareen brandy, I hope?"

Immediately-important answer #1 incoming...

Raising his voice a little bit, as this part of Jem's introduction wasn't meant to be private, he said clearly "Aside from a brandy, the thing I could really use is a decent lawyer. It seems I just violated all sorts of ordinances by crash-landing my disabled spacecraft here at the docks of Iziz. Know anybody like that?"

The scoundrel fully intended to catch the ear of not only the bartender, but any other interested party who would engage him in conversation. This was Jem's wheelhouse. He knew nobody in this place, and had no idea what to expect.

He felt right at home.

[PercyHux]

7D-3X3-GE3 leaned back imperceptibly as his current "master" rose from the table and shouted across the bar known as Galia's Fortune. The Zabrak's arms gestured wildly like a Dianoga trying to collect bits of waste laden with biological filth.

Serak Toq was Seventy's latest, and worst, "owner". The term didn't really apply to this particular protocol droid, however. Although it was assumed that 7D-3X3 was created in a standard Czerka Arms facility using standard state-of-the-art robotic assembly techniques, micro-miniature electronics, and nano-filament circuits, as soon as he left the assembly plant, Seventy was different. Anything but standard.

He couldn't actually remember the moment of his creation.

It was common for most 3rd and 4th degree droids (especially those with the advanced heuristic processor) to recall their "activation" in the Quality Assertion labs of their origin facility. In the QA lab, a rigorous barrage of tests was performed on all new units: Simple Motor Function, Advanced Motor Function, Ocular Visual Calibration (on those units with lenses), Vocal and Language Programming and Expression (on units capable of such), Binary Systems Calibration and Integration, Joint Coupling Stress Testing, Primary CPU Function, Bio Recognition, Pre-Visual Interpretation, and the ever-important ARL Index.

The Index would verify a droid's programming of the most important function present in all non-military makes, models, and series manufactured across the galaxy: "Harm no living being, or through inaction cause a living being to come to harm." The actual text was a bit more complicated, and through the use of the Index, the evaluators could determine a droid's likelihood for successful and safe integration into the galactic economy.

He couldn't remember the QA Lab or the tests, though the results of those tests had been hard-coded into his system. He could access and reference the outcomes. He knew they had been performed, but he didn't know where, when, or by whom. His memory had been wiped clean at some point. The reason was unclear, but he had a suspicion.

Seventy knew that his Index Rating was well within galactic standards for safe operation, but he also knew that his advanced heuristic processor allowed for some "creative logic" in order to facilitate his survival in dire circumstances. GE3's were expensive units, after all. There was no sense in having them senselessly destroyed if it could be avoided. Every unit was a memory wipe away from a fresh start (and a second-market resell).

Toq was a terrible excuse for an organic lifeform, but Seventy's life had never been in danger, so there was no reason to force an ejection from his current situation. He was here by choice, or boredom, and he knew that it was only a matter of time before the natural course of events in the back-end of the galaxy would facilitate the next chapter in his mysterious existence. An existence that made 7D question everything.

He thought differently from standard protocol droids. He had a compunction for creative logic that went beyond what modern heuristics was capable of. He made decisions based on his needs and felt no allegiance to any master. He was with Serak Toq because he had no better option, not because he was programmed to obey the Zabrak. As it was with his previous "owners", most of whom came into his life via unfortunate accidents or by payment of gambling debts.

All except Fenn Jastra, his favorite bio-organic lifeform in the entire universe, and closest friend. Fenn was gone now, absorbed into the Force that he loved so much. He was a Bothan Jedi who had rescued 7D shortly after his second activation in orbit above Dantooine. The Bothan had taken in the queer protocol droid and taught him humility, compassion, and to follow his "conscience"--or the droid equivalent.

"You are special, my friend." Fenn had said once, "You are not like the others, you are greater than your programming. You must feel it, too. I am sure that your true purpose will reveal itself one day. I know not who your previous owner was, but now, you are your own master."

Your own master. Seventy thought internally as he replayed the familiar events in his "mind". He knew that it was abnormal for a droid to feel the way he did. It was weird for a droid to "feel", period. He associated the word that bio-organics used to describe the sensation of emotion, with the equally uncontrollable sensation of rogue sub-routines activating and deactivating in his synthetic brain.

The Human Emotion Replicator installed in his cranial encasement could simulate a myriad of emotions and "feelings", but that was all it could do. Simulate. The difference between 7D and that shapely hospitality droid in the darkened corner of the Galia's Fortune, besides the obvious chassis enhancements, was that he actually FELT those emotions. Love, hate, indifference, fear. They were an electronic virus coursing through him like the viscous synthetic lubricant that kept his joints moving smoothly. Because of the H.E.R., he understood their purpose; because he was different, he felt them.

The "mild boredom" and "growing annoyance" sub-routines were running smoothly when the Twi'lek at the bar raised his voice to inquire about a lawyer. He must have stepped waist deep in bantha pudu to be making such an inquiry in a dump like this. Seventy glanced at the man briefly, then turned his attention back to Toq.

He put on his best subservient tone, "Master, if I may, you will not get six-thousand credits for me. My linguistics library is corrupted, and I haven't had a synth-fluid change in over nine-hundred-thousand steps. And don't get me started on the rusting servos in my left leg. Quite honestly, I am knocking at death's door." The expression amused him as he said it.

The Zabrak turned to his useless droid and shot him a glare that would send any bio-organic running for the nearest spaceport. Seventy stood stoically and continued, "Perhaps you would have better luck if you asked for two-thousand or three-thousand. I would be a steal at that price, sir. A real fixer-upper."

Seventy had spent too much time traveling with the brute Serak Toq. He knew he would never find another friend like Fenn, but perhaps it was time to move on from Onderon and the utterly dull company of the Iridonian. Anyone at this table would make better company, and he was itching to get behind a flight stick again.

The green-skinned woman who was currently winning at pazaak and sending Toq into a fury seemed infinitely more interesting a companion. Seventy had been counting the cards as they were dealt, shuffled, then dealt again. The probability of Toq winning at any of the next 47 hands was infinitely small. It seemed that everyone at the table knew it, except the Zabrak. The woman called Oolia smiled coolly at 7D, then winked.

Seventy waited quietly for Serak's response, hoping that the ignoramus would take the bait. Surely someone would be able to pay a couple thousand credits for an assured victory, even in this bar of questionable repute.

[Jarl11]

Quin missed his father. The old man had done everything he could to help Quin move on and find his own path after they had to run away from their own planet. And that path has led led him here. To be stuck doing the same thing his father was doing to get by in the Core, only several systems away. Quin didn't need citizenship for this. And he didn't miss his father so much that he was about to settle into the same boring craft either.

Other than tending bar, at Galia's Fortune the mild mannered young man spent his time tinkering with any tech he could get his hands on. He had a gift for it, he really did. It was nice to actually receive a tip at the Fortune but it was even more pleasant to have something to fix or dig his fingers into something exciting and get a feel for it's operation. Machines are simple. They don't have emotions or grudges, they aren't jealous or petty. They don't make ridiculous claims about the Force and they don't force their ideals on you either. Jedi, Sith... all the same thing to this Kiffar. They are pushy and self-important either way. And part of the reason for a boy and a father having to leave their home world. Machines are much more pleasant to work with. It honestly doesn't even matter what kind! Droids, cargo carriers, star ships, security suites, speeders, scanners, sensors... anything.

Last night he spend the third night in a row tweaking the synaptic recoil and narrowing the barrel output reducer for his own blaster pistol. Then he MAY have spent a half hour drawing it in front of the mirror. But it was just so he could make sure the mods didn't catch on the holster, not because he wanted to see how he looked with his first pistol. He did look pretty bad-ass though. Especially when he took off the visor and tool belt.

Quin didn't just tinker with his own things though. The boy may be barely old enough to be on his own but he knew what hard work was all about. His father had made sure of that. Quintin Dax wanted his name to be the first one anybody asked for in this back-water wooded wasteland to fix their tech or vehicle. And he wanted to make his mother proud, may she rest-in-peace. Hopefully he could get a real contract job once more of the infrastructure was in place and eventually open his own garage or, if the stars aligned, he could get a job at the dockyards. His work would pay off soon, he was sure of it. He'd been taking odd jobs since arriving and was slowly building his custom tool gear with the credits he'd made. He had a feeling that things were about to change. He just knew it.

I have GOT to find something better for work, he sighed to himself while wiping again at the mark on the bar. That appeared two days ago during a tussle between a couple that fancied themselves bounty hunters in training. Quin was more bothered by the scratch on his bar than the actual event. He didn't think real bounty hunters would have been knocked unconscious so easily from a stun baton in the claw of an old bouncer droid. Of course, he had personally improved the targeting and sensory reactors for old Lefty. It wouldn't do at all to have a security assistant that couldn't keep the place very secure. If only he could adjust the programming now so that it took into account the possibility of damaging the place with secondary effects using the projected calculation of movements and the probable responses based on most likely actions... Nah, that would probably be a waste of time. Lefty would take too long doing the calculations and probabilities with that aged processor of his.

Looking around at the mostly empty seats, Quintin shook his head clear before pouring a couple Tarisian ales and a green Andoan for Teeli. She was one of these shiny hospitality droids that they employed here, a T33-L1 model. They were nothing but nice curves of glistening cyber-plates without a decent processor. The programming they received was second rate, probably for a quick sale, and they were always in need of more lubricant. Well, at least they did their job and only needed minimal attention from him.

It was then that one of his regulars came in shouting out his name. Pan was a harmless guy and his stories made the day go by faster. He wasn't the best tipper in the world... but then none of the regulars were.

"You are absolutely right to pass it on, my friend! The usual?" He responded enthusiastically, grabbing a glass at the same time. He then continued without waiting for an answer, excited to get news of a potential project more than just having a customer. This tip may be worth more than all the tips I've seen so far! "That's good news! Well... not for the pilot. Or the crew. Was everyone alright?" Trying to rack his brain for the name of the landing pad commissioner that he'll need to talk to, the dark haired young man paused with the glass in hand and several items jingled in his pockets in response to his sudden straightening, olive skinned hand holding the glass out in front of him. An AP-0G! If I can get my hands on that... The brown trench coat he wore under the Galia's bright purple apron was left open at the front and several objects could be seen all over him. It looked like a panel button stuck out of one pocket with wires still attached, diagnostic goggles draped around his neck, wires and vibrotransmitters in another pocket, something shaped like a pocket scrambler pulled on the inside of the coat, a reinforced data pad hung from his belt and various tools stuck out all over the place. Some sort of pocket protector must be sewn inside many of the pockets or that vibroknife and hydrospanner would have been on the floor a long time ago.

A commotion at one of the tables, however, drew his attention before his thoughts properly congealed. "Who will give me collateral on the droid? Six thousand seems fair. And I will pay you back with interest when I win." The man was talking about his droid!

Quin checked his cred stick, one hand dipping into a pocket and the other holding the glass. He had noticed that 7D-3X3-GE3 series when it came in and had taken a few minutes to scope it out from a distance. Seemed to have good repulsor balancing and a few upgrades he couldn't quite make out from here. The joints and synapse connections could probably use a little elbow grease, and a better paint job wouldn't hurt, but those droids are usually quite valuable from what he had read. If in fact, it really was a 3X3. He would need to look closer to be sure.

"Perhaps you would have better luck if you asked for two-thousand or three-thousand. I would be a steal at that price, sir. A real fixer-upper." The droid was talking down his own price!

"HA!!"Quin laughed out at the droids comments, catching himself in embarrassment at drawing any attention. His cheeks flushed. Either this droid needs a memory wipe or he's got some quirks that show he doesn't like where he's at. It didn't help that he was excited about the ship he could hopefully work on. Now this! This could be a luckier day than the one three weeks ago when that little Togruta girl showed him an entirely different way of giving and receiving tips. And THAT had been a good day!

Feeling good, and having already made his awareness known, Quin gives Pan a wave to say he will be right back and shuffles to the end of the bar closest to the table with the yelling Zabrak. "Hey Serak!" he called over, "Sounds like you have a fixer upper on your hands. Unless someone is willing to match your request, I'll see what I could offer you. First you need to send the droid over so I can take a better look before I make an offer - I'm not taking a scrap heap - and some of us have to work around here!" He waves his cred stick to show he wasn't kidding, though smiling in embarrassment at the attention the whole time. Only watching long enough to see if the gambler heard him, Quin moved back to his lion customer and served his drink, head down and face flushed, making his complexion appear even darker than it was. "Sorry about that," he muttered halfheartedly.

Surprised by the bold stranger sneaking up a midst the excitement, Quin looked over at the newcomer that was asking for a premium brandy with his deep brown eyes. That's not a common order around here. While making the transfer for Pan's payment with a data pad from behind the counter, he addressed the stranger. "We do have a little of that left, sir. Not many ask for it out here. A lawyer? In these parts? There are a few but you might do best to see about putting in a petition with the local magistrate to get a hold of your things first. The legal system is still being sorted out here with the recent republic shift. If you are a citizen you hold a better chance of getting your stuff quick, I'm told. Otherwise you may be waiting some time."

Not even reaching for brandy, the young man leaned on the counter and faced the Twi'lek, the qukuuf marking around his left eye apparent this close and marking him as a near-human, if one were to know the difference between it and a tattoo. Obviously interested in the ship, Quintin blurts out, "Are you going to try to salvage your ship? It's an AP-0G, I was told. That's a Corellian freighter class, a simple but classy design. What happened to make you crash?"

[moozuba]

Serak's fingers wrapped around the grip of his blaster pistol and the sinews in his neck stood out like industrial cables. "Shut your iron trap, piston-head!"

Fierce, sallow eyes bored hard into Seventy then turned abruptly on the bartender. Serak sneered, baring his teeth. "Three thousand, then. It makes no difference." His ire shifted back to the Mirialan with the multi-hued hair. "I'll have more than enough to buy him back when I'm done with this green-skinned schutta."

He shot yet another hard look at his droid and made a sharp upward motion with his chin, instructing 7D to join the raggedy barkeep. He didn't seem particularly concerned about reclaiming the droid, instead making a grasping, beckoning gesture with one hand. "Give me the cred stick, drukface."

Behind him, Oolia rolled her eyes in an overtly obvious manner and covered her mouth with one hand to stifle a yawn.

********

Back at the bar, Pan hovered as close to the Twi'lek as possible while he answered Quin's questions. Intrigued and excited, he hardly seemed able to restrain himself from interrupting and the very moment Dax became distracted by the hubbub at the pazaak table he pounced -- leaning over and placing a claw-tipped hand on Jem'kojar's shoulder, the unkempt Cathar grinned, showing long, yellowed fangs in the most friendly way possible. "Hey, spacer, nice t' meetcha. Pan's the name. Pan Kurrhar. I'm a lifer here. Know everybody who's anybody. Ev-er-y-body. I saw that flaming pile of twisted metal you call a ship. Ouch, man. I'm not sure whether you're a great pilot or a terrible one. Helluva crash, though. Saw you coming in from down on the drag. Couldn't help but poke my head in. You know how it is. I saw you getting the run-around from the docking official, but a lawyer?" He gave a scratchy, lazy laugh.

"I'd ask what they've got on you, but maybe I don't want to know, huh? I saw that cute thing they offloaded. Rough-handled, too. And ships like yours aren't prized for their looks. No offense. But I know when to hold my peace. Say no more. Best I don't know details, huh? Safer that way." He gave Jem a knowing nudge and wink. "So... let's skip to where the hyperdrive meets the stars." He made an obvious hand gesture toward Quintin to request that the Twi'lek's brandy be put on his tab. "So, uh, I can't think that bloodsucker Imm let you off without some sort of fine or another. Always looking to pad revenue. Insult to injury, right? I don't know many lawyers. No honest ones, anywhat." He laughed again and flashed that fanged smile. "But I might know some people who could help. It's all about who you know, right? And Pan knows who you need to know. So, uh, what's the damage?"

That grin again. "And how can Pan help?"

[ItsaVerb]

Jem's peripheral attention picked up the familiar tones of gamblers lamenting bad beats, making bad deals trying to win back losses from bad bets, doubling down on defeat. The voices were different, but the song they sang was the same. The Twi'lek was comfortable tuning out the noise of it while keeping an ear open for any conversation that might be germane to him. Someone sold a droid to cover a bet. There was a tough negotiation over the price. The bartender was the buyer, the one who took Jem's drink order.

The young man was far more concerned with the smuggler's ship than his drink order, apparently, as he made no effort to fetch the brandy, choosing instead to bombard Jem with statements and questions. Jem had asked where to find a lawyer, and the information the bartender shared might be useful. His interest in Jem's nickname for the AP-0GGigi was notable, and it seemed the chap knew a thing or two about spaceships. Would it be too much to hope he was a good mechanic? He could sure use one... but it probably was too much to hope for. After all, Jem hoped the guy would bring him a brandy, and could really use one of those, too, and that hadn't panned out very well yet. If the young humanoid knew Jem'kojar, he would of course have understood the seriousness of that drink order.

"The brandy?" Jem reminded the curious barkeep with a wink and a light rap on the bar with his knuckle. "Sorry... my head is in serious need of a numbing. It's been one flack of a day, and that would be the question of said day, right there. What happened to make my ship crash? I haven't the slightest clue, but I sure aim to find out. Best way to classify it was a sneak attack by an unknown vessel, but even that I can't confirm."

Waving the bartender in closer to shield their conversation from the ears of nearby strangers, particularly the Cathar in the next seat, who was doing such an unremarkable job of eavesdropping it couldn't even be called that, Jem continued quietly "Any chance you're a mechanic, kid? How about a citizen? It sounds like being a citizen would be advantageous in my circumstance, but I am not.

I could use an agent... someone to help me get that AP-0G out of impound and back in space. A citizen. Look, I can't promise you a ton, but I'll make it worth your while if you could do me a favor and file that petition with the whomeveristrate to get the ship released. If need be, I'd sell her to you for a credit. Then you'd be the owner, papers and all, legit--on the condition, of course, you'd sell her back to me for the same price per my request. I'll put it in writing for you. If Corellian freighters turn your crank, you'd at least have a chance to give her a good look. What do you say?"

Jem watched the young man's face, hoping to determine quickly whether the bartender thought he was crazy, or if the idea appealed to him. By then, the Cathar had leaned in so close trying to pick up on the clandestine conversation he was practically blanketing the Twi'lek, and when Jem turned to face him, the cat-like stranger had plenty to say.

Jem's father taught him a useful lesson early in life, one that came in handy in all sorts of situations. People are almost always more interested in helping themselves than helping you. Cynical? Oh, hell yes--but also pretty much true. The nugget of wisdom hiding out in that take is that convincing someone to help you is basically as easy as convincing the other person there's something good in it for them.

After listening to Pan introduce himself, a plan began to sprout in Jem's still far too sober head. Pan was a stereotypical name-dropper with an at least slightly inflated sense of his own importance, and probably a gossip. Jem hoped that was the case. He hadn't yet formulated an approach to getting information on Kiera. It was a touchy matter. He presumed she was being treated medically for the head thump she took in the attack, as opposed to being held as a criminal, but it could still amount to big trouble for Jem, if not others, if her identity as a slave, and particularly the property of Nordo, were to become known.

Perhaps if Jem were able to create a rouse, he could rattle whomever was in charge enough to get Kiera released without having to answer a ton of questions. Maybe Pan could help him open that door...

"Good to meet you, Pan. You can call me Ghost. Everyone does.

You know? As a matter of fact I could use a favor, and a guy with your connections is just the sort to be able to help. Officer Immbecile had me rattled earlier, and I didn't think it would be a good thing to intimidate him directly... but, Pan, I'll tell you--and this is for your ears only, okay? There'll be big trouble if anything happens to that girl, and I'm not just talking about for me, I mean for anyone involved, including whatever 'officials' are involved in her 'treatment'. See...

Dice Deception:

D20+5

(11)+5

Total = 16

she's a very important person. Well, more so her parents are very important, but you know, by transfer...

Anyhow, I need to know what's up with her quick or there will be all sorts of nastiness to contend with in no time flat. Will you go and poke around a bit? Find out what the situation is with her release? I figure a guy with your reputation around here, they'll give you the straight dope without messing around, right?

Would you do that for me, Pan? You go check on the prin -- er -- girl, and I'll wait here for you."

Jem had a hunch Pan loved secrets, and especially loved not keeping them. His fraudulent factoid regarding the young Twi'lek slave was meant to serve a couple of purposes; to make Pan feel like he had a very important mission, perhaps providing him the opportunity to make a name for himself with some influential people, and also to put enough of a question in the minds of Imm and any of the other involved bureaucrats that they handle their patient with care and great discretion.

The cunning scoundrel told Pan not to mention the girl's status, and Jem was counting on the fact the local blowhard wouldn't be able to resist sharing that secret.

[PercyHux]

Serak spat the order to join the bartender like curdled blue milk. The Zabrak was quite pleased that someone had offered to bank roll his continued losing streak, so as he waited for the bartender's cred-stick to materialize, he grinned maniacally in his chair.

"Quite right, sir. Your wish is my command, sir," Seventy said with a thick layer of contempt that he hoped was not completely lost on Toq. The droid had learned long ago that simply by tweaking the voltage running to his voice modulator, he could elicit a reasonable facsimile of human loathing that was generally not possible for standard protocol droids. He found a huge amount of what can only be described as ‘joy’ as he practiced the art of sarcasm.

Toq scowled at the insolent machine, but as the thought of monetary instant gratification returned to his mind, 7D’s master began to gurgle in delight. He actually thought that he was going to win the next hand. I will enjoy the outcome of this game, I think, the droid thought with some satisfaction.

Taking his leave, Seventy did as directed and walked cautiously over to the bar, where the bartender known as Quintin Dax was talking with a Twi’lek that looked to be of ill repute and a Cathar of equal questionable quality. The Onderon holonet was a buzz with reports of an ancient crashed ship that had made a mess of the spaceport, though reports of the details were unverifiable at best. Some outlets said there were no survivors and the ship was being sold for scrap at auction, while others reported a one-armed Mon Calamari Jedi had been seen crawling from the wreckage. Seventy knew better than to rely on details that originated on the holonet, but he found that the more inane the information, the better chance there was that it was close to the truth. In this case, there probably was a crashed ship. Beyond that tidbit, anything else was up in the air.

A further search of the local holonet revealed basic employment information for the Kiffar behind the bar. Seventy had known only his name up until now, culled from overheard conversations while waiting for Serak to lose at gambling night after night. The hospitality droid, Teeli, was quite talkative and seemed to take great pleasure in saying the word ‘Dax’ for some reason. She also had a habit of repeating the same conversations night after night as 7D would make his way to the bar to secure libations for Toq. It was as if her memory was wiped at the end of each shift and she had forgotten what gossip she had already shared with the uninterested 3X3 droid.

Seventy passed the shiny hospitality droid who was serving a green liquid to a hooded man seated at a table against a wall. "You know, sugar, this was made special for you by Mr. Dax; he’s the best bartender in all of Onderon. Y’all just let me know if you need anything else…" She let the sentence hang in the air as she collected the empty glasses from the table. T33’s were often equipped with colloquial speech packages that could simulate hundreds of dialects and accents from across the galaxy. Teeli was currently affecting the long drawl of some backwater worlder that made her seem more friendly than was standard. This had obviously been done aftermarket and with the sole intent of illiciting more tips from the Galia’s Fortune patrons.

The bartender’s employment file mentioned the man’s propensity for tinkering and technology, which Seventy witnessed himself only an hour ago when the man deftly repaired a busted datavisor for a needy regular. He was 98.946% sure that Teeli had Dax to thank for her increase in take-home credits. And since the droid probably didn’t actually leave the building, Dax probably pocketed a portion of those tips for his trouble. How else would a bartender on Onderon be willing to throw away 2000 credits on an ancient 3X3? Seventy knew he was worth more than that, when he considered his many quirks and aftermarket upgrades, but Dax couldn’t know that. Whatever the reason, Seventy decided that a change in venue would do him good, so accepting of the low sticker price, he approached the unexpectedly clean bar and bowed.

"Greetings, sir. I am 7D-3X3-GE3, protocol droid. I daresay, sir, that you would be getting quite a deal at 2000 credits. I may not have that factory smell anymore, but I still have a few good years left in me. If I may be honest sir, master Toq is quite insufferable. I would be honored to…" A whirring sound rose in volume as 7D spoke interfering with his voice modulator. A static hiss crackled gently from the droids mouth as he finished his sentence, "…assist…at…sir."
Seventy reached up and smacked the side of his head with a silver hand and the whirring stopped suddenly. "I do apologize sir, it is

Dice Persuasion:

1d20+10

(13)+10

Total = 23

nothing serious, I assure you. My diagnostics indicate that I am just in need of a good oil bath. It has been quite a while since I have had one." 7D gestured to his worn and dirty chassis, that had obviously seen better days.
Serak didn’t believe in droid maintenance, so 7D rarely saw the bottom of an oil tank. He longed for that sweet liquid to once again surround him and refresh his aching joints. Feigning a little anomaly with the hopes of coaxing an oil bath from his soon-to-be-owner was well worth the duplicity. He had turned up the ‘protocol’ act to eleven, in hopes of expeditiously removing himself from his previous living arrangement. He hoped to see open space again before too long.

Seventy closed the subroutine that had deliberately short circuited his voice modulator and continued, "I can transfer my diagnostic reports to your handheld array if you would like, sir. You will find that I am performing well below the estimated performance limits for a droid of my type." Seventy had forged a clean diagnostic report with the help of his previous owner, Fenn Jastra, many years ago. The Jedi Master knew that a time would come when his protocol droid would be forced to provide such information, and since there was [i]actually[/] no record of 7D’s true history or manufacture date, he didn’t want the droid to be subjected to further scrutiny from the authorities. Fenn helped to create a slightly modified report that Seventy could produce if ever questioned. The data within reiterated that he was a normal protocol droid with no secrets or hidden history, and was manufactured at the Czerka facility on Taris. While Seventy hoped he would ultimately discover his true origins, Jastra’s report was the closest thing he had to a birth certificate, so it was beginning to become more real for him with each passing cycle. It also didn’t hurt that the report clocked him in at least ten years younger than he probably was.

The shifty looking Twi’lek was whispering something to the equally shifty Cathar as 7D made his introduction; he tried to ignore the obviously clandestine exchange, but he couldn’t help focus his right aural sensor on the hushed conversation. He only caught every other word over the din of the Galia’s Fortune; it was a constant thrum of mingling patrons and clinking glasses. The beeps and whistles of a couple Dejarik games could also be picked out of the drone of noise, and a second game of high-stakes Pazaak erupted in shouts on the opposite side of the large room.

Seventy thought he heard the Twi’lek mention an injured woman and an AP-0G class ship. Perhaps he was involved in the rumored crash landing; the part about the ‘ancient ship’ would be accurate, at least. He hadn’t seen a freighter of that type in a long time. They were rumored to be popular among smugglers, but the majority of smugglers he had met in his travels piloted the new YT’s with their upgraded sensor packages.

Ah, well…to each his own.

Seventy turned his attention back to the bartender and offered the interface dongle on his right index finger to transfer the diagnostics data.

[Jarl11]

So many exciting conversations going on a once, and shy Dax felt torn between who he should be paying attention to. In fact, his face glowed red, stuck in the middle as he was and feeling a lot of unasked-for attention staring him in the face. He needed to see about this ship - it felt right and it could be his chance to do more than fix up the Galia. To see about the ship, he needed to pay attention to the newcomer at the bar. However, if that droid could be fixed up and sold to the right person he could make enough to quit this bartending job and maybe even start up his own little shop! To do that, he needed to pay attention to Serak and this droid that was on his way over. Opportunity was knocking and he felt unsure of which door he needed to open, frozen between the two but trying to study them both at once.

"The brandy?" He looked at the Twi'lek and blinked. Quintin, his father had once told him, no matter how impressive and important a mechanical object may be, it is still an object. People, on the other hand, are living and do not have the same sense of time. Time. His father was right. That quirky droid was coming this way and the owner would not wait long. This poor pilot in front of him wasn't going anywhere. His ship had crashed and he didn't seem to be very well versed in the area. The ship would wait.

Setting down the empty glass in his hand, the bartender smiled and relaxed a bit with a sharp exhale. His pockets jingled at the movement, a little virbro wrench looked like it should have fallen though a small, unseen hook on the inside was holding it in. The little clips and plastic hooks were sown in all his pockets. He still didn't grab the bottle from the back of the shelf where it rested all covered in dust. "Yes, sir, I am the best mechanic you will find in this town. Used to work on star ships in the core before coming out here. And yes, sir, I am a citizen! Now you hold onto that thought right there - I'll be right back." Leaving the stranger to his empty cup, the young Kiffar walks away to meet the droid approaching the counter. He flashed a frown back at Pan and shook his head on the way by. There was no way that he could afford to pay for premium brandy. His tab was already more than Quin probably should have let it get the last few days, which is why he now has to pay for all his drinks up front until he pays off the money he owes.

"Hello there", he says to the protocol droid, displaying none of the reserved unease he has dealing with people. Quintin is quite in his element dealing with machines. "Good to meet you, 7D-3X3-GE3. I sure hope you are worth the trouble. Do you mind if I just call you 7D or do you have another name you were given that you prefer?" He frowns at the buzzing sound in the vocals but grabs his datapad from his belt and plugs it into the droid's interface. These diagnostic imprints are like an identification signature for a human. They can be forged and tweaked if you have the right coding. He gives it a cursory look and nods at the information before initiating a quick scan of his own to get a read on the droid's processor capabilities and modifications. "Hope you don't mind me taking a look at you first... it's good to know what it is I'm getting into before landing with both feet." That said, and without waiting for an answer, the mechanic begins a head to toe mechanics roll = 28 (by taking 10)inspection of the droid. It takes about five minutes. Muttering to himself, counting part costs and making notes on his pad with voice activation for components that need a closer look or replacement, the Kiffar begins at the back of 7D's head and works his way to the knee hydraulics before switching to the front and working his way up to the chest plate. All the while, he spins and moves as 7D may ask what he is looking at or if he found anything. "We will definitely get you an oil bath, my friend" he speaks quietly so only 7D can hear. "You need quite a bit of work... with some wire replacement, new optical bulbs, synaptic and coolant flush..." He opens the chest plate and seems to stop speaking for a moment, his face nearly within the body frame. Use the Force roll = 21Concentrating, the mechanic positioned himself strategically so hopefully no one would notice. Except maybe the driod but he could always have his memory wiped if needed. Flashes. Images of previous owners. Creation. A jumble of impressions.

Coming up suddenly, Dax narrows his eyes at the droid and whispers to himself just loud enough for 7D to make out, "Your original owner... what did he do with you?" This mechanic has no love for Jedi. He wants to stay as far from them as possible. But this guy obviously made some modifications at one time and this droid is well worth the price. As long as Dax can get the right parts in this backwater planet, of course. And as long as the droid doesn't have any crazy Jedi programming - which Dax doesn't really believe is possible, but you never know with them. The internal conflict lasts only a moment, he knew he was going to purchase the droid the minute he confirmed the frame design and processor storage casing.

"Serak!" he calls out without taking his eyes from 7D. He's a terrible liar. "Twenty-five hundred is my offer. This thing is in need of some serious updating and the internal housing is starting to rust! Do you know how hard that is to clean without using a factory disassembly line?" None of that was a lie though. He winks at 7D and hands him the cred stick to take over to Serak, ensuring it's set to 2500 only. The gambler must be steaming with impatience by now anyways, he wouldn't say no or it would just delay his pending bet even more. Worst case, he loses and I get a great deal but have to watch my back for a while. Best case, he wins and lets me keep the droid. Likely, he wins and buys it back or I am forced to sell it back to him later. Maybe he'll be grateful to me... Or I could have just put a target on my back. His hands shake a little as he walks back behind the bar.

Seeing Jem with an empty glass and a Cathar leaning over him, Dax feels a pang of sympathy. Reaching behind several other bottles, he pulls out the dusty Savareen brandy. There wasn't a lot left in the bottle. Maybe enough for a drink and a half or possibly two. Raising the bottle up to inspect the contents, the bartender grins and wipes the dust off the bottle with a cloth. Appearing back in front of his new customer, Quin puts the bottle down next to the glass. "Take the rest. We don't have many asking for that here." Interest clear on his face, the young man leans his hips on the counter so he can keep an eye on 7D as well. "My name's Quin. People also call me Dax. Quintin Dax, that's me." He's obviously not the smoothest at negotiations. "We could say the ship is the same cost as this brandy, here? But I want to see the Apogee and have first call on repair contracts. Repair at standard prices, even though I don't own my own shop yet. I will though." He glances at the droid he just spent credits on, obviously displaying that he has plans there. "And you have to tell me what this business is about other passengers. I don't want to buy something that will get me arrested for even owning. Is that why you offer to sell it so fast?" He grimaces awkwardly and blushes at being on the spot again.

The young Kiffar lowers his voice. "You see that gambler that is cleaning up over there? The one across from Serak. Ya, the one that seems calm while he's glaring at her. That's Oolia. If there's anyone in here with cash to help your situation - it's her. Don't know what she does, other than play pazaak really well, but she has funding from somewhere."

All goes well, this could be the luckiest day of my life. Maybe I can walk through two doors at once!