The guards bring you to the cells. They are not for a lack of space compared to some holding facilities, but not immediately designed with a Togorian in mind. Kaede and Vaclav are directed into one, and Gael and the mysterious woman into the other. ”I’ll give you ten minutes, Captain,” Grames says stopping Gael at the door. ”See if you can’t get anything out of her, or at least make her more compliant to questioning.”
...
Chuba:
The rat-like creatures chitter and squeak as you peer into the crate, somewhat fearful, somewhat unsure of what you are. As you crumble the cookie over their cages, some of them pick up the crumbs in their fore-paws, sniff the morsels, bite, and decide the food is good. The the rest of them begin feverishly grabbing the crumbs. All the bits of the cookie are consumed in seconds. It is clear the rodents are hungry.
As you make your way around the ship, grabbing more cookies for bait and gathering gear to set your traps, you hear a skittering sound approaching again. Behind you, one of the rat-things scampers forth from its hiding place and approaches. It appears curious in you, or maybe just the food. It cocks its head studying you, and stands on its hind legs and holds up a clawed hand. ”Squeak!” it says, ”mm-squeak! Hmm. Chi-chi-chi-chi-mmmm. Squeak?” Its puny rodential eyes search your face for understanding and find none. It holds its hand to its mouth in a fist and makes small coughing noises, looking very much like a person clearing its throat. It takes a breath, then squeaks out in very poor basic, ”Mmm-excu-cu-use m-m-me. *pant* Eh, heh, hoo, who a-are you-oo? Eh, eh, eh.
Grames, who is clearly exasperated, and well out of his element, listens to your idea. He mulls it over and nods. ”Yes, yes that might not be a bad idea. Very well. Captain, I will give you some time with the fugitive. See if you can’t get her to tell us where she came from and why she was in your cargo, and maybe we can both benefit from this. My men will escort you to a private cell.” When he is done speaking, the Stormtroopers escort the four of you out of the hanger, down several hallways to a lift. The lift will take you to the detention level where you will be put in two cells: Kaede and Vaclav in one, and Gael and the alien woman in the other. You could have time along the way to communicate. You will be searched before you are put into cells, but you could try to conceal a small concealable weapon with a DC 17 stealth check. Otherwise, any visible weapons are confiscated.
Chuba:
From your hiding hole in the ship’s ventilation, you watch the scene with the alien woman, overhear the Imperial Officer and Captain Devarian talking, and watch as your friends and the strange woman are escorted out of the hangar by the squad of Stormtroopers. The technicians mill around for a few more minutes, opening crate after crate, searching them all. If you keep track, you can tell that the vast majority of the cargo is indeed feedstuffs: primarily frozen meats of many varieties. The rest - the crates with the strange holographic symbol - contain various plants laid in beds of loamy earth. There is also the crate that still contains the cages of rat-like creatures, and the now empty unit that housed the alien.
Curiosity draws your attention back to the rodents. As you listen to them chitter, your primitive ears pick out repetitious patterns of squeaks, growls, and vocalizations that sound not unlike the primitive dialect of your own people. Peculiar. Though you don’t recognize the form of speech, you begin to realize they might be speaking in their own form of primitive language.
Just then you hear a scampering somewhere in the ducts. One of the rats that got loose earlier must have found its way into the ship’s ventilation to hide. By now, the technicians have dispersed so it should be safe to investigate.
The technicians open up several of the other pods, most of which contain various stores of meats, and foods of a wide variety stored in the fridge-like containers, much like the one you opened earlier. One or two contain strange plants though. No-one seems to be able to make sense of this. They report this, and Grames appears relieved that so far no other slaves have turned up. However, Granes appears notably discomforted by the woman in the pod. He does his best not to look at her, which means he keeps doing it and looking away quickly. His neck begins to colour. ”Yes, well, clearly you had no idea you were transporting a slave, which begs the question of why she... it... is here.” He snaps his fingers. Immediately the squad of stormtroopers enters the cargo bay, surrounding you, 2 to 1. ”I’m terribly sorry captain, but I’m going to need to... confiscate her?” he shakes his head, his words sounding strange to him, ”She’ll need to be questioned. Unfortunately, that means I’m also going to have to impound your ship as evidence. We’ll have to wait until Moff drayden arrives before we can conduct a formal hearing, which means I’ll need you to remain on station until then. Even if you weren’t aware you were transporting live persons, it is our job to root out anyone who might be in the market for slave trafficking, and that means you are obligated to give us any information you might have on who your dealer was and where their base of operations is. Fixer!” the lead technician approaches again, ”get the fugitive up and on her feet.”
The technician takes one look at the woman and says, ”sir, I don’t think she’s in any condition to be walking.”
”Fixer, I said get her up,” Grames orders. When the technician doesn’t budge, he turns to him and sternly says, ”What exactly is it you are uncomfortable with?”
”Sir,” the technician says, ”I don’t feel comfortable touching it. It looks so... unnatural.”
Grames fidgets, exasperation showing on his face. Clearly he doesn’t relish the thought of touching the alien woman either. ”Do we have any adrenal stims? Check the first aid cabinet. Maybe we can get her up on her own.”
The technician runs out of the loading bay, clearly relieved to leave the alien behind for the moment. He returns a moment later with a medical kit and takes out an impressive looking spring loaded syringe, containing a clear liquid, and hand sit to Grames. Grames however doesn’t take the proffered adrenal injector, and nods at the crate, indicating the technician should do it. The technician quails momentarily, but then Grames gives him an intimidating look and the technician shrinks, moving over to the crate. With trembling hands he leans over the side, whimpering quietly as the lowers the syringe towards her arm. Clearly the man has never administered an adrenaline injection before, let alone on a foreign species. He takes a deep breath, jabs the needle into her arm, and pulls the trigger.
A second passes, then the woman sits bolt upright breathing rapidly. Her abrupt movement causes the technician to drop the needle which clatters on the deck. Her eyes are wide, staring straight forward, right at Officer Grames, who flinches noticeably.
”Euhh, well, there we are.” says Grames, straightening his cap and regaining his composure. ”Quite a rush I’m sure. My apologies for the rude awakening.”
The woman continues to take rapid breaths, her eyes fixed on some point in front of her face.
”Perhaps we’d best get you out of that freezer,” Grames continues, ”Maybe we can even find you some clothes, yes?”
The technician, who fell over from shock when she first awoke, gets up and retrieves the adrenaline syringe. As he moves, the woman snaps her head around at him her sudden and jerky movement not unlike a bird of prey, her eyes wide. He drops the syringe again, uttering a small, impetuous cry of alarm. The woman begins yammering at him in a highly accented Huttese, (uttering a slur of curses insulting his parentage, commanding him to lay off and never touch her again.)
Grames appears to be at a loss. Then one of the other technicians calls out something about another crate that has just been opened. Apparently the crate seems to contain a number of cages filled with live rodents. A squeaking, chittering sound confirms his story as the sleeping rodents wake.
The woman, hearing the sounds of the rodents, stands up, jumps out of the crate, and rushes over to the source of the commotion. She bowls right into the technician knocking him over on the ground. Reaching into the crate she pulls out one of the cages. Inside are 4 squealing rat-like creatures. The woman begins cooing at the rodents, making strange noises. You begin to realize she is speaking a foreign language, one which none of you understand. She is still shaking from the adrenaline as she fumbles with the latch.
”Wait, WAIT! Don’t do that!” Grames starts, but she doesn’t seem to hear him. The cage opens and three of the rodents spring forth, falling to the floor and scampering away into hiding. The fourth is caught by the woman, and the creature goes limp in her hands. She then pops the whole thing into her mouth and swallows.
The rest of the group catches up with her, and one of the soldiers moves to apprehend her, pulling her arms behind her back and pinning her on the crate. ”Move them to the holding cells now.” Grames says, clearly wanting to have the woman locked up before she does something else.
Officer Grames is shocked silent, stunned by the discovery. He stands silent, clearly as surprised as the rest of you about this new situation. Eventually the lead technician turns to him and asks in a hushed tone, ”sir, how should we proceed?”
Grames’ eyes flicker as he comes out of his stunned trance. ”Search the rest of the cargo. I want every crate opened.” The technician then gathers the rest of the scanning crew, who then set about opening the rest of the crates.
Grames finally gathers his wits and addresses the crew, or rather, Gael. ”Captain, you are aware - I should hope - that transporting sentient lifeforms as cargo is illegal under the statute of Imperial Customs legislature, article 14-A. Not to mention the submission of a false shipping manifest. Given your remarkably clean history I’m inclined to believe your story. However I must ask, and will remind you that given the gravity of the situation you are in, you are encouraged to answer truthfully: were you aware that you were transporting sentient lifeforms as cargo?”
Chuba buries himself deeper into the nooks and crannies that make up the ship's hard to access areas, fear evident in his small face, and shuddering at the memories of his time spent in Imperial captivity.
Stealth= 39
The Imperials do not investigate the ship any further than the cargo holds and none of them notice you. You can assume, if you wish, that you are hidden in such a space that you can witness the scene from here on out.
Gael:
”No? Well, shame that then.” Pressing the comm button again he says into the microphone, ”Take out the hardware then, see if you can’t get one open. I don’t want this station’s reputation sullied before Moff Drayden arrives. Do it by the book.”
The speaker answers ”Understood sir,” then chimes off.
”I’m sorry we have to intrude like this captain, but regulations demand we confirm the cargo of any vessel that passes through this sector. Don’t worry, we’ll put everything back the way we found it
on the ship:
The lead technician comes back a minute later with a complicated device that looks like a personal computer but with many wires and tubes sticking out of it. The technician moves over to one of the crates and sets it up on top, plugging one of the plugs into a port on the interface panel. The screen begins scrolling a diagnostics routine. The technician presses a few keys and a debug program begins. Lines of text scroll by on the screen for a few seconds. Then the panel on the crate resets, the security bypassed. He presses a button and the crate begins to open, steam issuing from the fissures in the durasteel plating as the top panels fold and slide back. The technician casually looks inside as he packs up his computer, then does a double take. His eyes widen. He fumbles with his comlink. Finally managing to get a hold of it he says, [b]”Sir... we have a situation. You’ll want to see this.” He then hails one of the other technicians who brings his scanning equipment over. The second technician, seeing the crate’s contents also blanchs. Stunned, he just stands there as the lead technician begins waving the scanners over the open crate.
All
Supervising Officer Grames returns with Gael to the ship, tailed by the retinue of stormtroopers. The troopers wait at the perimeter, while the rest gather in the middle of the cargo hold. The crew of the Morningwalker (minus Chuba) stands together at one end, surveying the open crate, while Officer Grames and the imperial technicians complete the circle. Laying in the open crate is an alien: a woman with green-blue skin and hair, partially submerged in a liquid bath. On the diagnostics panel of the crate, a pulsing sign shows her heartbeat - faint and slow - indicating she is alive, though unconscious. Just a few minutes ago she was suspended in cryo-stasis, the crate’s interior modified with a hydroponics regulator to cycle sub-zero liquids and maintain the perfect conditions for deep-space hibernation. Had the crate not been opened, it could have kept her alive well past her normal lifespan. As you reflect on it, it seems obvious the intent was for her to reach her destination ‘unspoiled.’
As Gael and the officer head over to the office, the technician crew moves their equipment into the ship’s cargo bays. Anyone watching them sees them make notes on the number of crates and their size, and then take out scanning equipment. After scanning several crates, the lead technician pulls out a commlink and makes a call. ”Sir. Preliminary scans reveal the electronics and hardware of the crates, but their interiors are lined with radiation blocking alloys. We can’t get any reads on the cargo itself.” A second later he says ”no sir, the crates are sealed with passkey entry.” He waits another minute for a response, then says ”understood.” and moves off.
Gael:
Gael Devarian wrote:
"A real tragedy of justice."Which is purposefully not the right word."Believe me, I don't want to shoot up anybody. Sometimes pirates don't give you a choice, though. It helps to have Vaclav - the Togorian - along then." Gael swirls his mug and finishes off the last of his caf.
Officer Grames just smiles back. Then the comm panel buzzes. ”One moment, please,” he says as he stands to answer the call.
”What is it?” he asks the comm panel.
A voice on the other end answers him, ”Sir. Preliminary scans reveal the electronics and hardware of the crates, but their interiors are lined with radiation blocking alloys. We can’t get any reads on the cargo itself.”
Grames thumbs the response button, ”Are you able to open the crates for a visual?”
The voice answers ”no sir, the crates are sealed with passkey entry.”
”Hm-hmm” Grames hums to himself as he thinks. Then he addresses Gael, ”I don’t suppose your supplier gave you the keys for the cargo? It seems my men are unable to scan your shipment due to radiation blocking seals inside the crates. To your credit, I understand that radiations seals are important for refrigeration units so as to ensure the complete prevention of heat loss.”
The officer gives an emphatic ”Aha,” though he doesn't seem really all that amused. He says “If you’ll follow me, I have a place where we can speak in moderate comfort and privacy,” He turns and leads you away from the ship. The stormtroopers remain where they stand, and you pass between the parallel lines of white-clad soldiers.
If anyone other than Gael is going with, just let me know. You may respond however and wherever you see fit within the following “conversation”.
Supervising Officer Grames leads you to a small office off to the side of the hangar. The window, as you come to realize, is reflective from the exterior, but allows you a view of the ship and the rest of the hangar once inside. You can see the technicians unloading their equipment and moving between the crates, taking notes on datapads as they go.
Inside the office is a simple desk and a few chairs. A comlink panel is built into the wall to the left. On a counter by the door is a caf dispenser and a number of mugs. Grames pours two mugs, and hands one to Gael. ”Please, take a seat,” he says, and sits down on the far side of the table, sipping his caf.
”Let me apologize again for catching you at a bad time. For a galaxy so large, space often seems too small for such commodities as privacy. However, I can assure you the mass-inhibitors are a necessary precaution to make sure ships on the hyperspace lanes do not crash with our station. I’m sure you can appreciate our desire not to have ships tearing through our superstructure at faster-than-light speeds.”
He pauses to take another long sip of caf. ”Your manifest shows your destination as Eepu Narga on Nar Kuuna. I take it you do business with the Hutts then?”
”We’ve been trying to get a station set up in Hutt space for some time now, almost a decade in fact. As you may have heard, this station has only just become operational, and indeed our activity is not yet wholly recognized by Hutt authority. Be that as it may, the Hutts do pay tribute to the Empire, and negotiations are finalizing this station’s legitimacy. I feel confident that by the time Moff Drayden arrives in three weeks, all will be taken care of, and we will be the first Imperial station in Hutt space. 'Tis a truly momentous time to be an Imperial.” He stares off momentarily in patriotic reverie.
Pulling himself back to earth, he changes the subject. ”Judging by your approach vector when you dropped from hyperspace, and given your destination, it looks like you were last in the Hutta system. Did you have any business on Nar shaddaa by any chance?”
“A million ships leave that port every day, for worlds all over the galaxy, the vast majority bound for the outer rim and other worlds in Hutt space. Imperial customs has a few offices there, but our influence is mostly superficial. No, no its true. We can hardly hope to control a world so thoroughly ridden with crime and violence. How the Hutts do it is beyond me, but somehow it works for them. As you can imagine, keeping tabs on every ship that comes and goes is nearly impossible, and most of the locals resent even what small influence we have. So when I say that more than 30 ships were apprehended for illegal smuggling of goods in the last week alone, you might be surprised, but really, those are only the ones we were lucky enough to encounter without resistance. There were over a hundred cases of resisting arrest, and still more who simply refused to be inspected at all. Most of those encounters end in bloody fights. So when I say that we try not to waste Imperial lives needlessly, what I mean is that in most cases we let vagabonds and swindlers go free, simply because the loss of life would not be worth the effort to bring the criminals to justice. ‘Tis sad, really, but this galaxy is a cruel place.”
You wait a few tense moments as the Imperials review the data. The Imperial cruiser continues to approach, pulling up alongside you. As it does you get a nice look at its starboard cannons. Then the reply comes. ”Everything appears to be in order, Morningwalker. You are cleared for docking at bay 24. Submit your vessel for goods inspection and then you can be on your way.” The console shows a locked approach vector, as well as tractor beams tracking your position.
...
As you approach the docking bay you feel the gentle tug of the tractor beams guiding the ship into place. As the ship enters the hangar you see a number of personel milling about the hangar; a group of junior officers are gathered in one corner in some sort of discussion, a number of technicians scurry this way and that prepping equipment and moving loaders, and a squad of stormtroopers waits by the door. The door opens and a more senior-looking officer walks in. The stormtroopers fall in behind him. Then the ships sets down.
The officer and his retinue are waiting at the bottom of the ramp for you. The officer surveys those who greet him, and seeing as Gael is the only human in the bunch, addresses him first. ”Captain Devarian, I presume? Supervising Officer Grames, Imperial Customs. Pleasure to meet you,” he says, sticking out his hand in a cordial gesture of greeting. ”Good to see a fellow spacer so far from the core worlds. Though I must say,” he adds, raising an eyebrow to the Togorian, ”you keep some interesting company.”
As the cargo bay lifts extend, the technician teams move up with equipment. Kaede would Identify them as a scanning teams, their equipment carried on loaders. The group of junior officers files out, taking their conversation with them. The officer gives a signal to the stormtroopers who separate into two lines flanking the ramp. ”If you don’t mind,” officer Grames continues, in a friendly manner that just barely conceals his expectation that you will comply whether you mind or not, ”I just have a few questions for you while the inspection crew does their job.”
Gael turns the comm back on, figuring he'd better stall before the Imps get too impatient. "Uh, yeah... hold on a moment. Gotta grab my datapad from my cabin. What're you guys doing out here anyways? Never heard of this hyperlane being any big deal." Gael injects a hurt tone into his voice. "I could've had everything ready if you'd let us know about this place, 'stead of finding out with alarms while my pants are around my ankles, y'know?"
”We apologize for the inconvenience, captain. However, you are mistaken. The Empire has a great interest in Hutt space, and is working to bring Imperial sovereignty to this corner of the galaxy. Omicron station is our flagship operation in this sector. Indeed, the station has only been operational less than a fortnight. We are still engaged in trade negotiations with the Hutts, but we soon hope to move the station into the more prominent Hutt trade lanes.
"As you may be aware, there is a great deal of contraband trade ongoing in the Hutt cartel. While the Empire has turned a blind eye so far, it is still in our power to apprehend free- loading traders and independent smugglers. We had the mass-inhibitors installed to monitor ships that would otherwise fly under our radar." The poignant note of scrutinizing sarcasm does not escape your notice.
“Please transmit your registration and shipping manifest on this channel when you are ready. We will assign you an escort until you are cleared for docking and goods inspection.” As he says this, you can see one of the smaller gunships breaking formation and moving to intercept you.
The voice that responds over the transmitter has a clipped Imperial accent. "This is Imperial Commerce Station Omicron, Hutt Space Relations. Nothing to worry about, captain, just a routine goods inspection. Maintain your current heading and transmit your cargo manifest and destination on this channel.” The light on the comms array flashes indicating awaiting code reception.
For reference: Your shipping manifest:
SHIPMENT OF PREMIUM GRADE FOOD STUFFS
DESTINATION: Eepu narga, Nar Kuuna
SHIPMENT FEE: est. 14,000 (5% gross sales; EVA.)
Under code 31147 of imperial shipping legislature, refrigerated shipping containers are not to be opened except by trained handlers upon receipt of trade goods.
Kaede:
From your recollection of the sphere of Imperial influence, last you knew, Imperial Commerce did not have a station in Hutt space, though they have for a long time been trying to establish a presence here. Their presence so far has been limited only to cursory outposts on high-traffic planets, like Nar-Shaddaa. Hyperspace monitoring stations exist in the core worlds and mid-rim territories, and there may even be one or two in the outer rim, but the Hutts have been fairly resistant to their established presence. That said, Imperial Commerce had been pushing to get one established for a number of years.
From what you know of commerce protocol, the next thing will likely be that the station instructs you to dock so that the ship and its contents may be inspected. If you are lucky they may be busy enough to just do a visual. If not, they may bring scanners.
The rest of the flight passes uneventfully, so you will have plenty of time for downtime activities.
...
On the ninth day, the main terminal chimes an approach vector. It is a day early. However you don't have much time to ponder this as the failsafes kick in and the ship drops out of hyperspace. As if bursting from a bubble, the cockpit window is suddenly filled with the view of a massive space station. Along its giant ring you can see hangar bays filled with fighters and cruisers. Several giant spurs reveal themselves to be Imperial Star Destroyers. At the extremes of the central tower are large spherical structures, which the computer scans and reveals are “mass shadow” generators. These must have triggered the fail safe forcing the ship to drop out of hyperspace early.
Not more than 10 seconds pass before your coms light up. Your scanners indicate that the station is hailing you.
The crate runs the same diagnostics as the last one, and for all intents seem to be identical to the previous one, save for the holographic imprint on the casing. You get in past the security override and access the containment roster. This crate's inventory reads: "BOTANICAL ARBORAGE SPECIMEN CUCURBITA LUMINEN; 8 seed-bearing pods." Opening up the crate you see something rather different from the last. Where the previous crate had been loaded with shelves of meat, this one is filled with a bed of dirt. LEDs line the paneling providing an off-white light. Planted in the soil are 3 plants with wiry stems that hang low to the ground, sprouting broad, deep-green leaves. Near the ends of some of the stalks hang several gourd-like pods, that look like clear bottles filled with fluorescent green liquid. The pods give off a faint greenish light. There are 8 pods in total.
Can I get a perception check as you are attempting to open the many crates?
Perception, over many crates DC 20:
As you survey the cargo something about the surfaces of the crates seems off. Sweeping your eyes over the anomaly again you can identify that some of the crates have markings “imprinted” in the metal, that are only revealed when viewed from a certain angle and with proper light. Effectively a “holographic stamp” like on some old vinyl records, or trading cards. You don’t know what the symbol means, but it is clear some crates are marked and other are not. The crate you have just opened is not.
The Morning walker’s engines roar as the ship sails skyward. 5 minutes after departing the hangar you reach planetary orbit. From far away the massive shipyards of Nar Shadaa appear as no more than glistening, metal ant-hives; the ants being colossal frigates and cruisers, capital ships and opulent space-yachts. The scanners do not register any approaching ships, and your visual scope is clear. A moment later the nav computer chimes, it has calculated a safe route through Hyperspace. Chuba punches the throttle. Stars blur into streaks as the ship accelerates past lightspeed and slips into hyperspace.
...
Now that you are in hyperspace, safe from any pursuing vessels and dislodged from all communications, you figure it is safe to finally “inspect” this cargo you’ve taken on. Captain Devarian (and those who wish to inspect the cargo) head down to the starboard cargo bay. Standing on the ramp, Gael leans over the railings and shares his misgivings about this mission, to which the others submit their belly-aching and cautious nay-saying. (or not.)
Perception, anyone who is in the room: DC 25:
As you survey the cargo something about the surfaces of the crates seems off. Sweeping your eyes over the anomaly again you can identify that some of the crates have markings “imprinted” in the metal, that are only revealed when viewed from a certain angle and with proper light. Effectively a “holographic stamp” like on some old vinyl records, or trading cards. You don’t know what the symbol means, but it is clear some crates are marked and other are not.
...
Examining one of the crates in detail you can see that these long, heavy, grey, metal boxes have no visible latches, hinges, or handles for opening them. The only interface you can find is the diagnostics display on each crate’s “face”. The display cycles between temperature readouts, and shipping information: the same as what is on the shipping manifest the Bluebird gave you. The exterior metal plating of the crates is slightly cool to the touch. Attempting to access any controls on the terminal only gives you back a message on the display: ACCESS DENIED. SECURE KEY CARD REQUIRED. The same is true of any other crate you try.
Perception, carefully examining one crate: DC 20:
You are able to find an identification stamp of the crate’s manufacturer: Korvo Engineering. Reduce the DC of the Knowledge check below by 10, and you may make the check untrained. You also gain the information in the above spoiler.
Knowledge (Bureaucracy or Technology) DC 20:
You recognize the crate’s manufacturer: Korvo Engineering, a high-end cryogenics producer from the core worlds, known for its cutting-edge technology, and also its experimental processes.
The storage units have an attitude of hostile without the presence of a designated access card. To attempt to access any information you will need to improve the attitude of the computer to at least Indifferent. To attempt to issue a command, such as “open storage unit” you will need to improve the attitude to at least Friendly. You need to make a Use Computer check for each stage of improved access (Hostile > Unfriendly > Indifferent > Friendly > Helpful). You take a -10 penalty on any checks while the computer is Hostile, -5 while Unfriendly, -2 while Indifferent. You gain a +1 bonus on checks if the computer is at least Friendly. The DC to improve access on the Storage units is 16. See Core rulebook pg 76 for more details.
Access information: DC 15, requires 1 minute to access and computer must be at least Indifferent before attempting:
The diagnostics display scrolls up, refreshing the readout. This time the readout comes back with an itemized inventory detailing the contents of the crate: 24 Bantha steaks, 16 Bantha flank steaks, 16 Bantha burgers, 6 dozen Shyrak eggs, 4 jars pickled Squib livers, and 1 Orgamunthon.
Run command: “Open crate”, Requires attitude of at least Friendly:
The storage unit open with a *hiss*, wafts of sublimating ice vapours pouring out of the opening lid of the crate. The face splits in two and folds outward, sliding down the sides of the crate on hidden tracks. Once the vapours clear you can see inside the crate. A meaty smell greets your nostrils, as the freeze packed meat becomes exposed to the ship’s air currents. You see racks of cuts of meat - still red, but frozen - several cartons of eggs the size of softballs, and 3 jars of what look like pickled eels. There is also something that resembles a skinned 6 legged pig with the face of a monkey crammed in one of the shelves. It’s about the size of a dog.
For Astrogation DCs, please refer to the rules posed in the Core Rulebook (p. 237) and Starships of the Galaxy (p. 12). The information used in the Core Rulebook describes basic scenarios and provides preliminary rules for hyperspace navigation. Starships expands on these rules accounting for a greater breadth of situations.
What this infers for navigation DCs is that unless you have made the jump yourself at a previous date, all Astrogation information you require to make a successful jump must be acquired from an external source via the Holo Net. The DC of the Astrogation is then determined by the age and reliability of the data. Archived data is available from the Imperial Space Ministry for a small fee (150cr) and requires a valid Piloting license and ship's operating license. Alternatively, Astrogation Data may be obtained from local authorities through the use of bribes. Barring the use of proper data, the DC for any route is 30; if access to the Holo Net is unavailable for any reason, this check is made at a -5 penalty.
For the purposes of travelling in Hutt Space, the Hutts have their own version of 'the Imperial Space Ministry', which we will call 'the Hutt Archives', that is affiliated with the Hutt Cartel. They exact the same fees for the use of Astrogation Data, but treat all routes in Hutt Space as 'less than 1 week old (DC15)' and all others as 'less than 1 month old (DC20)'. They also are less scrupulous about their pilots and do not require valid licenses, however they do require you to have good standing with the cartel.
Travel through hyperspace takes 1d6 days x the ship's hyperdrive modifier.
This information will be added to the Campaign Information tab for reference.
Any potential hyperspace mishaps will be waved for this jump, as attention was not drawn to these rules before the jump was made.
Your trip will take approximately 1d6 ⇒ 5 x2 = 10 days. You may interact with each other, with the ship, or with yourself as you see fit during this time. The ship's nav computer takes over all flight during hyperspace, so there is no need for Chuba to make further pilot checks or remain in the cockpit (though he may of course choose to do so if he wishes).
As you head back up the ramp, a voice blares out over loudspeakers throughout the hangar. ”HALT. THIS IS IMPERIAL CUSTOMS. YOU ARE UNDER INVESTIGATION AND ARE COMMANDED TO POWER DOWN ALL SHIP SYSTEMS.”
As the voice continues an armored transport pulls up at the rear hangar bay doors, flanked by several armed Imperial security personnel. Seeing the armed soldiers approaching, the loader droids form a line and draw their concealed weapons. ”THIS IS IMPERIAL CUSTOMS,” the voice continues, ”STAND DOWN OR WE WILL OPEN FIRE.”
The droids ignore the order and open fire. The security officers are cut down. Those that aren’t dive to cover as the armored transport opens up revealing a dozen imperial Stormtroopers, who spill forth and begin returning fire.
The Morningwalker begins to lift off, and the pintle-mounted turret on the armored car begins tracking it. Then the roof of the cargo tram folds back revealing an automated assault turret. The turret swings around and pelts the armored transport with a bursts of heavy laser fire, instantly demolishing the cab and sending sparks showering forth.
The Stormtroopers advance, cutting down the droids one by one, bits of scrap metal sent flying by the torrents of laser fire, as the Morningwalker’s main thrusters roar into life, and the ship punches out of the hanger mouth. The last thing you see is the cargo tram exploding in a series of fireballs, hidden explosives detonating the fuel tanks. The explosions destroy any remaining droids and most of the Imperial troops.
The Pilot droid speaks up. ”Captain Devarian, mission parameters dictate the secure departure of cargo is of utmost importance. Mission parameters also stress the necessity to avoid Imperial entanglements. We recommend you prepare to depart immediately. We will hold off any intruders.”
Each of the combatants is wearing light combat armor, except the Whipid, who is bare-chested and hairy, though he does have a bandoleer with several (3) stun grenades. The three humanoids have blaster carbines and combat knives, while the Whipid had a vibro-ax and blaster rifle. Going through their pockets, Vaclav also scrounges up 1d100 ⇒ 37 credits in loose change. He then dumps the bodies off the edge of the docking bay, which fall down into the depths of the city below.
The guard droids stow their weapons, sliding them into internalized compartments of their chassis. They then get to work carting crates on the repulsor lift over to the ship’s cargo bays. They work in two teams, carting crates from the two cars into the two cargo bays. Despite their seemingly slender forms, they exhibit a surprising lifting capacity, two droids being able to lift and maneuver a single crate with ease. They are not fast, but what they lack in speed they make up for in efficiency. The entire loading process only takes about 30 minutes.
As the last of the crates are being loaded the pilot droid comes to find Gael again. ”Captain Devarian, all cargo is accounted for.”
Immediately, a prompt comes up on the ship’s holo-communicator. Answering it you recognize The Bluebird’s frequency, accompanied by the familiar vibrating static line on the display.
The Rodian, once released, scrambles to his feet and takes off. Just as he does so, a large grey hover-tram pulls into the open bay doors at the back of the hangar. The tram consists of a freight cab and several large, covered cargo units. Neither the cab nor the cargo compartments bear any identification markings, and each are finished in a shiny chrome coat. The tram and the Rodian nearly collide as they pass each other at the door, but the Rodian scrambles out of the way, and books it down the corridor away from the hangar. He look over his shoulder once and disappears from view.
The freight tram pulls up next to the ship and floats down gently; the low dull throb of repulsor lifts slowly dying as the vehicle settles to the floor. A hiss of pistons signals the opening of the freight doors, as the plasteel plating of the two, large cargo compartments folds up revealing their interiors. Inside each compartment are a number of large, sealed, durasteel crates, a repulsor-lift, and 4 droids, each equipped with a blaster carbine. The droids stand ready and at attention, but do not move.
The cab of the tram opens up at the same time. Out steps a service droid, not unlike the ones in the cargo units, but unarmed, and designated as a pilot unit by the blue stripes on its head and shoulder plating. It disembarks, scans the immediate area with its optical receptors, then approaches Gael. ”Captain Devarian,” its speaks in clipped, synthesized basic, ”your cargo is ready. Shall we begin loading?”
Cargo:
Taking a look at the cargo, you can see that the crates are all nearly identical. Each crate is roughly 1.5 meters tall and wide, and just over 3 meters long. The “crates” themselves appear to be refrigeration units: each has its own control panel, diagnostics display, and internal power source, (probably a micro-fission generator.) The storage units appear to be standard issue hardware, but none of them are marked with any identifiers. Their display screens read “premium-grade food-stuffs: keep refrigerated”.
The Rodian trembles at the sight of the Axe wielding Togorian. ”Choota! Mo booki na chooska!” Pleading he hurriedly rambles to Gael, ”Boonaki chiisa, shoo toona rompo. Bonaski Lorgrub choopa naya, ee boska, toonaki bo. Me no boska crispa. Me tu naka dingo. Ne chutta!”
Just as the Rodian says this Kaede spots a cargo hover-tram headed down the corridor towards the hangar. It is hauling large, grey, plasteel, cargo-storage cars. Both the cars and the tram are unmarked.
”Me choota baya na!” the Rodian pleads, ”Doobee coopara! Chiipa! Me tooba naya!”
Huttese:
”No! Not my arm!”
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on here. Lorgrub got payed for someone to use his hangar, but got no details, so Lorgrub asks us to find out. Lorgrub tells us to find out who uses his hangar and why. That’s all I know.”
“Please, I won’t say anything! I hide - find new gang! I never see anything!”
The speeder lurches backwards, wrenching the Axe from the grip of the Whiphid. It continues roaring maniacally ”Blarglarglarg-!” until Vaclav shoots it in the chest, at which point it abruptly stops.
The four combatants are down. The one human is still moaning, holding his smoldering arm. The Rodian is still whimpering in Huttese. ”Choota yo! Ma’a ma m’aki chiisa. Panooka yo’d.” He looks up at Gael, the one approximate humanoid he can see. ”Choota ne cripso me. Me bayan ne goonta rombo. Booto ne juta boyo, me gusta!"
Huttese:
”Please don’t kill me! I don’t want to die. I don’t even want to be here.” ”Please don’t shoot me. Listen, I won't cause you any trouble. I won’t tell anybody I saw you, I swear!”
I do not speak Huttese. I apologize if I have unintentionally offended anyone with my attempted gibberish.
Chuba gestures with the crossbow, indicating that the Rodian should lie prone on the ground. Once he has done so, Chuba sits on the Rodian's head and watches the rest of the fight unfold.
The Rodian whimpers pitiful prayer-like words in Rodese as he trembles under Chuba's furry hindquarters.
Gael Devarian wrote:
Grimacing as the Whiphid's vibroaxe passes uncomfortably close to him, Gael draws his blaster pistol. Setting it to stun, he snaps off a shot in return.
The Whipid howls, being flashed by the stun beam, but takes another swing at the cab. In his blinded, rage induced state, his axe embeds itself in the doorframe with a loud *Crunch!* and remains firmly stuck there, buying Gael another moment.
Vaclav Ygar wrote:
Vaclav turns and eyes the spot where the blaster blot hit the door. "You shooting at me?" He turns back towards the Twi'lek. "You stupid Twi'lek, drop your gun before I take you down like I did the Zabrak."
Kaede Hayate wrote:
Realizing that he might be overly exposed, Kaede goes for the nearest available cover.
The Twi'lek appears somewhat shaken by Vaclav's imposing demeanour, and shouts obscenities back at him in Huttese. However, he makes the error of standing up as he does so, and Kaede's shot takes him by surprise. He spins around falling on the stack of crates.
Gael starts up the thugs' speeder and the thugs turn around in surprise. Caught off guard, the Zabrak takes Vaclav's shot full in the chest and is tossed backwards, smoke streaming from the wound. Kaede's shot clips the arm of the human to the right. He grabs his arm in pain and drops his blaster. The Twi'lek dodges out of the path of the oncoming speeder, rolling behind some crates. But the big Whipid brute notices none of this. He turns just in time to see the rapidly approaching speeder before it crashes into him. Gael slams hard on the brakes as he does so, to prevent the speeder from also crashing into the ship.
Gael's ramming maneuver knocks the Whipid down, under the speeder, but the hairy brute isn't finished. Still partly under the speeder, the enraged Whipid begins hacking at the speeder door with his vibro-axe. Two quick swings shears the door off its hinges, bits of metal and sparks flying in its wake.
Meanwhile, Chuba pops the hatch and points his crossbow at the Rodian. The unarmed technician, sitting on the ramp, sticks his hands up as high as they will go, his bug-eyes wide in fear of the little angry fur-ball standing over him, spitting at him in his Ewokese tongue. He winces at the barked words.
The Twi'lek takes a shot at Vaclav, but the laser strikes the doorframe.
Back to the party.
Now that you are in position you are able to see the thugs. There are 5 all together; a human, zabrak, and twi’lek stand guard. Each is wearing light combat plating and armed with a blaster rifle. A rodian has a tool kit out and is trying to bypass the controls for the ship’s loading ramp. The last is a big, hairy Whipid holding a menacing vibro-axe. He stalks to and fro under the ship’s nose. None of them seem to notice Gael as he sneaks around the armored car. The door has been left carelessly unlocked.
Chuba’s sudden banging and audio message startles the rodian who drops its tools in surprise, but the rest of the thugs turn to face the ship. The Whipid stops pacing and shouts up at the cockpit, brandishing his axe as he does so. ”You! In there! You come on out! You in Lorgrub territory! Come out and talk! You come out, or we come get you!” The three thugs with blasters point them at the hatch. The rodian gathers its tools and resumes working, moving faster.
You show the chip to a valet at the door, who takes it without a word. The four of you get in a speeder like the one you flew in earlier, and the valet takes you back towards the hangar. You pull up to the hangar and see two swoop bikes and an armored speeder car parked outside the doors. You can hear at least 3 voices coming from within speaking Huttese.
Huttese:
”The door locked tight, but nobody home.”
“Well, just get it open. Boss want to know who been parked in hangar.”
“You think boss cares about the ship? Looks like junk.”
“Not the ship, the ones flying it.”
“They went to Gorba’s. Won’t be back yet.”
“Hurry up anyways.”
Chuba
The four figures move around the ship. None of them seem to have noticed you, though you see a couple of them looking around the hangar as they approach. You hear them trying the hatch, but they find it locked. One of them says something, and another, a rodian, heads back to the speeder. It retrieves a tool kit and makes its way back to the hatch. The others spread out in front of the ship, all four of them have their backs to you.
"Thanks." Gael pockets the chip. He meanders back over to the sabacc tables, seeing if the scuffle with the Weeaquay and Rodian has been resolved yet. He tentatively sips the Pulsar, bracing himself for whatever exotic concoction it may be.
There is no sign of the Weequay or the Rodian. The Sabacc Table is now occupied by several Togruta, who seem to be engaged more in a private discussion than the game. The Pulsar is stingingly bitter. It tastes something like gin and tonic, with a hint of lemon or some other citrus flavour. You have no idea where the little sparkly silver flakes come from, though they don't appear to have any taste. You realize the floating strobe light is probably a gimmick employed by the baristas to reduce the amount of liquid needed to fill the glass, as there is disappointingly little actually there.
The same gaudy protocol droid opens the curtains to the booth, and you sense that your transaction is concluded. You have time to interact with the Casino in any way you choose. The platinum chip, when shown to one of the valets, will signal you are ready to depart, no questions asked.
Chuba:
Captain and the other big-talls have not been back for some time and you are getting restless. As you scurry about the ship (or whatever you do) you hear the rear hangar doors open. Looking out the cockpit view-port you can see a number of figures approaching. Most are big-two-legs, but one is very big and very furry, though not so charming as big-fur Ygar. Most of them are wearing some form of armor and have blasters. They are approaching the ship. An armored speeder car and two swoop bikes wait outside the door. So far they don’t seem to know you are on board. You can hear them talking back and forth in Huttese.
Chuba, Perception DC 15:
The big-ugly-furry one has a vibro-axe on his back.
At the doors you are greeted by exotically clad Twi’lek serving girls, backed by Gamorrean thugs. Inside more of the sights and sound customary to a casino assault your senses. Bright lights and gaudy clothes, the smell of lho-sticks and strong liquors, and high-trilling music from a live band broadcast over loudspeakers.
You make your way up to the mezzanine. Here a curved balcony overlooks the gaming floor below. A dimly lit lounge with a bar is on the side closest to you, a dance floor and stage on the other, and a ring of curtained booths line the perimeter - some open some closed. All manner of species can be found drinking, dancing, and otherwise wasting their hard-earned credits on fleeting moments of pleasure throughout the establishment.
You order your drinks from the bar, tended by a spindly, 6 armed alien, whose multiple limbs work like clockwork - mixing, pouring, serving, cleaning. The pulsar is a clear drink with silvery sheen. A small strobe light floats in it, pulsing like a neutron star - obviously a more gaudy drink. It smells faintly acidic. Crossing the mezzanine you take your position by the railing, overlooking the Sabacc tables below. Currently a Rodian is betting in a high-stakes game against a Weequay.
Observing the Sabacc table, Perception DC 15:
1d20 + 5 ⇒ (5) + 5 = 10
You see the a server slip a card to the Rodian.
The round goes to the Rodian, but then the Weequay jumps across the table to throttle him. Guards quickly rush in to break up the pair and a fracas begins with the Weequay swinging and kicking, and shouting obscenities in several languages. Your attention is drawn from the ensuing brawl when a bronze-clad droid decked in a feathery collar and ridiculous hat approaches you. ”Captain Devarian. Your booth is waiting. Right this way please.”
The droid leads you to one of the private booths. The lighting is dim, a cool evening blue. Inside a shadowy figure greets you.
"Thanks again, pal." Gael flips him a small coin and makes his way into the casino.
"I'm not sure I like all this cloak-and-dagger stuff. Seems a little much for a simple smuggling run on a world like this. Either of you getting the same feeling?" he mutters to his crewmates.
[dice=Use the Force]1d20+4 Using Search Your Feelings to see if following those instructions will be immediately favourable or unfavourable.
Your feelings do not give you anything terribly useful. You feel apprehension, but then again you are doing work for someone who doesn't want to be caught. Gorba's doesn't seem a bad place, and you can be reasonably sure there is no imperial presence at the least. Nothing to be worried about, but then nothing to be known.
Perception:1d20 + 3 ⇒ (6) + 3 = 9
The Bith is somewhat startled when several nuts and bolts start raining down at him, some of them striking his hat and knocking it askew. Looking up he spots the furry brown ewok scampering around the ships antennae. If his already furrowed brow could furrow any further, it does so only momentarily, before he turns to lead the rest towards the waiting speeder. The speeder is a standard cab speeder, with a pilot’s chair and passenger chair in the front, and a passenger bench in the rear that should hold 3-4 people. With the Togorian though it will accommodate somewhat less. The cab is full once you are all embarked. The Bith takes the wheel and pilots you down a corridor, then into an open sky-traffic lane. From here you can see more of the opulence and squalor that is Nar-Shaddaa. Flashy holograms advertise to all forms of exotic entertainment, while clouds of smoke and steam swirl about the lower levels.
The speeder pulls up to a landing pad. from the exterior, Gorba’s pleasure palace appears to be one of the less flashy establishments in the sector, situated near the top of its stack with apartment rows rising above it. It is on the periphery of the Casino sector; you can see many more opulent structures dominating the tops of other nearby stacks, filling the sky with lights and sound. Judging from this, you can infer that Gorba’s is less likely to be populated by tourists and more likely by locals. That means it is almost guaranteed to be a cartel front, but then again most casinos on the moon are.
”Your contact is waiting for you inside,” says the Bith as you disembark. ”Head on up to the mezzanine. Stand by the railing overlooking the Sabaac tables and order a pulsar but do not drink. Your host will know to find you.” The Bith remains in the cab ready to depart the landing pad, but will answer any final questions you may have.
"Indeed" he replies. Looking over your shoulder he asks, "is this everyone then?" You can see that while he appears to be in no particular rush, he is pushing for punctuality. He is well dressed with a suit and cap, bearing insignia in Huttese.
Huttese:
The insignia belongs to members of the casino staff.
Your ship glides down through the cloud layers, and past the peaks of a sprawling metal mountain range, the jagged skyscrapers of the city rising up through the stratosphere like the quills of a porcupine. The nav computer guides you to docking bay 34 in the Duros sector spaceport. The hangar is mostly empty save for a row of security lockers, a refueling rig and a cargo lifter. Looking out the cockpit window, you see the rear hangar doors open as the ship touches down, and a figure approaches. A speeder is waiting just beyond.
The figure waits for you at the bottom of your loading ramp. When you step out of the ship you can see he is a short but portly Bith. He addresses you curtly. ”Master Devarian, I presume? I have your shuttle. The house awaits the arrival of you and your entourage.”
I'll need to know who goes and who stays with the ship. Obviously Gael is expected, and I’m assuming Chuba stays with the ship?What about the others?
The terminal doesn’t show any visual response, just a static line that vibrates subtly. After a few seconds the buzz of white noise gives way to a voice, heavily distorted by some sort of modulator. ”This is bluebird to morningstar... I have vectors for your approach. Proceed to docking bay 34. A taxi will be waiting for you... Make sure your ship is clean. Customs is doing a sweep of the docks in the Duros sector...”
K(Bureaucracy) DC 10:
The Duros sector is one of 4 city sectors near, and with direct access to your destination, Gorba’s palace.
The empire has long had established connections on Nar-Shaddaa, though their role is mostly superficial compared to the Hutt cartel’s control.
K(Bureaucracy) DC 15:
The Hutt cartel controls all of the sectors near the casino, though they give permission to the empire to run customs in the Duros sectors, and search for illegal activity therein. All other sectors would be fully controlled by the Cartel.
K(Bureaucracy) DC18:
Given the reputation of the Cartel, the Duros sector would be the safest to dock in, provided one has no reason to be detained by the imperials.The cartel would almost certainly detain any ship without known affiliations.
The Galactic Republic of Coruscant has been dissolved, and the Empire has risen in its place. Supreme Chancellor Palpetine seized power during the Clone Wars, becoming the first Galactic Emperor. His rule has caused a great amount of distress for those civilizations who previously clung to democracy and equal rights. Palpetine’s strict rule has seen the marginalization of most non-human races, and some have even been taken by the Empire as slaves. The dissidents and non-conformists and general malcontents have been displaced. Ostracized by the empire, many have been forced from their worlds and left to the cruel fates of the galaxy. Many of these outcasts have fled to the outer rim: the worlds most distant from the galactic core, where the Empire’s influence is least felt, and now struggle to eke out a living on worlds both strange and beautiful, hostile and lucrative.
On these fringe worlds, petty galactic fiefdoms arise, and crime syndicates take what they will. The Hutt cartel, once an ancient and formidable power now reduced to a shadow of its former glory, is one of the prominent powers in these fringe systems. But as cruel as it may be to live under the gangsters’ oppression, there are still other worlds where law and civility are but a distant memory, and where protection of any kind would be better than living in perpetual fear of raiders and privateers.
Among those who resent the empire, a group of aliens and humans alike have banded together to form the Rebel Alliance. A thorn in the emperor’s side, this group of extremists seeks to liberate the galaxy from the Empire’s tyranny. But not everyone appreciates their methods as they have earned the label “extremists” for good reason.
To be a man among the distant stars, is to be one with the scum of the galaxy, constantly looking over your shoulder for the ‘big man’ and struggling to make ends meet. A ship brings opportunity for work. A gun will help you keep it. And so a crew will gain a reputation, and reputations do not go unnoticed. Reputations bring contracts, but also bring enemies. The crew of a ship becomes tight like family, constantly living on the edge. Risks are taken to keep food on the table, and fuel in the engines. The object of the game is to come out as the richest son-of-a-gun this side of the universe, and to live long enough to enjoy it. The name of the game... is smuggling.
Meet Gael Devarian, Captain of the Morningwalker. He and his crew have been all over the outer rim, from Sullust to Kessel and everywhere in between. His co-pilot, Chuba, a furry little creature, has been the longest running member of his current crew, and is, as the captain would say, “the best damned pilot this side of the galaxy.” With them are Kaede Hayate, an ex-Imperial intelligence officer, and Vaclav Ygar, a Togorian brute. Their team is tried and true, but a string of bad luck has forced them to work in less profitable sectors, and take jobs from some unsavoury sorts. Their ship, while it has saved their lives on countless occasions, is still little more than the junker it was when the captain bought it from a Rodian boatswain in a backwater scrapyard. Captain Devarian hopes that this is all about to change...
The crew has picked up a contract, sourced from a friend of a friend of someone’s brother who worked in the cartel. The job is just a cargo run, supposedly little more than a milk run, but the contact - known only as “Bluebird” - specifically wanted a crew who was not affiliated with the cartel and who had a clean record with imperial customs. Captain Devarian happened to have the closest ship with a crew that matched that record. Just now they are arriving at the spaceport on Nar-Shaddaa, with directions to meet the contact at Gorba’s Pleasure Palace, a somewhat more opulent casino in the city’s upper-middle district.
We pick up just as the Morningwalker pulls into orbit above the sprawling city-moon...
***
An alert pops up on the Morningwalker’s holo-communications terminal: PRIORITY ALERT: INCOMING MESSAGE FROM BLUEBIRD. The message flashes several times indicating a waiting call.
