[img]https://i.imgur.com/TZzuejG.jpg[/img] [img]https://i.imgur.com/wWxbsOD.jpg[/img] Joint Post from [@wanderingwolf] and [@sail3695] Hopefully, the meds would kick in soon. The mild vertigo was back, another of the more recent symptoms, forcing her to clutch the handrail to steady herself as she climbed the stairs to the upper deck. The right turn at the aft corridor came as second nature, muscle memory. She’d worked on a number of Fireflies over the course of her life, though primarily two’s and threes. Her last had been a Class IV, a regular behemoth with double cargo hold capacity, increased crew and passenger cabin space, and larger all-things-mechanical. Yet, despite the mods and upgrades from class to class, a Firefly was a Firefly was a Firefly. And regardless of the slow motion death sentence she carried from that Class IV, she still loved them all. The galley, and its’ adjoining lounge space, were both active. Abby was in the lounge, offering crackers and a bottle of cola to a man whose face matched the grey in his beard. “I feel that” she mused, before offering a smile to the three young folk who lounged at the galley table. “The source of the late night music,” she stifled a chuckle before continuing on forward. As she climbed the cockpit stairs, she thought for a moment she’d heard three voices. Yet, as she tapped on the open doorframe, all that met her eye were the captain and his pilot, Penelope. “Excuse me, captain,” the woman spoke up to draw their attention. “Could I get a few minutes?” Cal’s eyes swung to meet their stand-in mechanic, Ms. Baker. “Howdy, Sister,” he began before a whirring and ticking grabbed his attention at the console. Reaching out a hand he tapped a screen and held up a finger to the nun. “What’s that now? You seeing this?” Cocking an ear, the Captain waited for a reply, but the pilot by his side listened just as intently. “That’s not it, Cal,” a velvety, disembodied accent replied, “This one is a passenger. Seems somebody is doing their homework on New Melbourne. Thankfully, Penelope filled me in on all the ‘sea critters’ there.” The voice’s mirth was audible. Baker froze, her eyes swimming about the space until they fixed upon the impossible. [i]There it is,[/i] she fought to avoid any tells upon her face, as all the while she could feel the color draining away. She’d seen it only once before...heard that voice but a single time. “For an already risky jaunt,” she observed in silence, “this run just got all kindsa worrisome.” “Um….captain…” she tore her eyes away from the SAMANTHA prototype, “I really need to show you something...in the port shuttle.” Captain Strand sighed in relief at Sam’s proclamation, a second call may have meant bad business, indeed. Straightening, he ran a hand over his face before turning back to Baker, “What, did it catch on fire again?” To Penelope’s wide-eyes, he offered a pat on her arm, and added “only kidding.” Over her shoulder, he arched a brow at the hooded nun, hoping dear God for that curt nod. The robed figure turned, lifting her voice to the pilot. “Hey Penelope, we’re gonna run the shuttle out on it’s rails for a minute. We’re not lifting off, but the balance shift could offset your trim.” She didn’t wait for acknowledgement. Baker exited the cockpit, a veil of silence over her as she entered the upper cargo bay hatch and turned toward the port shuttle. A moment later, they were enveloped in the close environment that was the portside shuttle “I’ll button her up,” she offered as she sealed the hatch. “Hold on a minute, Sister. Why do the pair of us need to run the shuttle out?” Cal’s eyes narrowed as the air lock pressurized and the nun turned to face him. He’d seen her just about bend backwards to make sure the Doll was right and ready for the trip, but he didn’t know a lick about this mysterious woman of the cloth who’d somehow landed in his lap with a wrench. The woman lowered her hood, revealing a mane of black curls which framed an olive toned face. “Cuz nobody hears what I’ve got to say.” She turned hastily toward the controls. Tapped the “deploy” button, followed with a deft reach for a switch labelled “Umbilical.” The shuttle glided out on its mounting rails, its’ electrical connections now detached. Her task complete, she rose to face Cal again. “Nobody...especially SAMANTHA.” That face… It was like seeing a ghost he couldn’t quite place, a visage in the fog. She knew her way around the controls and in moments they were outside of earshot of everyone. The Captain’s frame went rigid as Baker mentioned Sam by name. If she knew how it ended up in his hands… Maybe it was her call they’d intercepted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Baker, and you’d do well to keep your nose out where it don’t belong. Now hook us back in before I start gettin’ the wrong idea.” He did a cursory scan of the woman’s robes, but the kasaya’s folds belayed his scrutiny for a weapon. Baker lifted a hand. “It’s not you I’m worried about,” she held his gaze as she spoke. “I’m pretty sure we got Feds on this boat. I came to see you about changin’ up the plan for my crates….but now...SAMANTHA, too….” she turned her head. [i]”JesuCristo.”[/i] The woman’s stance was non-threatening, but Cal wasn’t born yesterday. A found-out Fed could be just as likely to disperse suspicion with a misdirection like this. “Yeah,” he assented watching her eyes, “we know there’s a Fed aboard, too. It’s thanks to Sam we picked up their wave.” If she was the Fed, knowing her communication had been intercepted might produce some sign, and Cal stared as if it were high noon. Her eyes narrowed. “You really don’t know what you’re carrying, do you?” Baker folded her arms before pacing to and fro. “If I’d known, I’d have never...alright. We are where we are. You’ve got SAMANTHA. I’ve got what I’m escorting...and we’ve got at least one, possibly two Feds who trailed me aboard. Time for a new plan.” She ceased her movement, standing before the captain as she looked up into his eyes. A fleeting sense of deja vu settled upon her, before she brushed it away. “Chances are,” she began slowly, “they don’t conjure SAMANTHA is aboard. That’s good...you can hide it. They’re watchin’ me an’ the crates.” He liked to think he was a great judge of character. Hell, he hired Abigail on a whim and she wasn’t half bad at scaring up a fare. But this Baker woman? He was having trouble placing her. Not a thing about her was what it seemed, from the passage via Badger, these hot crates she mentioned, and now, how she knew about Sam had him scratching his head. “Alright, ‘Sister,’ I’ll bite,” Cal said, with a sinking suspicion that he didn’t hold the cards he ought to. “If the Federales are chasing you and these crates, that makes things simple from my perspective. I can get by a belligerent Badger, but burning the Feds… Now that’s another story.” His fingers went to his cigarette case, holding the silver clasp between thumb and forefinger. “Why should I stick my neck out for you against the law?” He smirked, “Did that once; took a bullet for my trouble. As a rule, I can’t recommend it.” “I remember.” The words just tumbled from her mouth, a truth uttered yet not realized by a mind waylaid of other concerns. But there it was. She looked up into his face with new eyes and the dawn of an old connection...and she knew. She’d met him before, this lunatic whose actions pulled her out of the darkest day in her life...only to assure that she’d live to see darker. And he wasn’t lying about the bullet he earned for his efforts, either. They stood, squared before one another, the captain and his passenger, sharing a moment of stunned cognition. It seemed as if the air had left the shuttle, coaxing their silence. Finally, having sought inspired words and finding none suitable, the woman demurred to the obvious. “How’s the shoulder?” Then, the fog of war rolled out from between his ears, and Cal was left with a clear picture of the woman before him. Suddenly, he was a younger man, the world was dark, and his shoulder tingled with the memory. A hand smoothed the muscle which had knit again as he replied, “Well, I get the forecast in aches, now, so there’s that.” This recognition changed the timbre of his voice, the look in his eye. Where once stood a nun of questionable repute there was now a comrade, a confidante, and a person driven by a singular purpose. He was stunned, too, because if he’d have guessed, her chances at a ripe age were ever against her. To that end, the surprise was audible in his voice as he added, “You look good.” “Thanks. Likewise,” she offered a tired smile. “But the mileage...” “So,” Strand scratched the back of his neck, “You wanna let me in on what’s got the Feds hot and bothered about the crates you got and what it’s got to do with Sam?” “Sam.” Her smile faded. It had been awhile since they’d lost SAMANTHA. Aside from the blur of a hastily recorded capture, she knew nothing beyond the fact that Alliance operatives had intervened in a handoff. The resulting gunplay created enough confusion and corpses to muddy the AI’s disappearance. “We thought,” the woman began slowly, “that they’d gotten their hands on ‘Sam’ again. So I took personal command over moving the chips.” “Chips?” Cal’s brow furrowed. What connection there existed between the two still escaped him. “I’ve heard ‘her’ rattle off what she was made for, but the history lesson didn’t make things any clearer.” He paused, watching her features harden, the way they did when she got bossy and down to business. Baker took a breath. “SAMANTHA’s a prototype. Those chips,” she continued, “are the first production run. The day we hit Blue Sun’s RESDEV unit, we were lucky. We trashed the etching templates and the design files all the way back to version one. But when we found them,” her gaze intensified, “all packed up and ready to ship out for field testing, we knew what that was about. Your friendly little black box,” the woman could feel her skin tightening as she spoke, “is the command and control system for Plan B.” She spoke. He listened. Occasionally, the captain would halt her for a question, or to argue against an assertion. But, as he learned the things she’d discovered, the seeming insanity of her acts shone in an altogether different light...one that could prove lethal for his crew. “I owe you far too much to lock horns over giving up SAMANTHA,” she finally offered a shake of her head, “but for ta ma de’s sake please get that thing hidden? Mount it in your avionics or down in the generator bay...both kick up enough RF to mask it.” Strand’s unlit cigarette hung in the corner of his mouth. This whole conversation had led to something much larger in scope than he had a taste for. “Now that ain’t a bad idea,” Cal said of her admonition, leaning against the bulkhead opposite the woman. “Listen, you’ve seen this before; not a thing we can do to stop the Alliance. No offense, but this is one Goliath David would run away from.” She took her seat at the shuttle controls. “That’s what they want. I’m not stupid...I know we prob’ly just set ‘em back a year or got ‘em to green light Plan C, but,” Ms. Baker folded her arms, “if we can keep those chips outta their hands, that’s three thousand more folk don’t suffer their ambitions.” He shook his head, her efforts may have spared a few, but it was like bailing out a sinking ship or plucking flies from a web. The inevitable outcome would be worse than the former, in his mind. “You got a plan for these chips now that you got ‘em?” Way he saw it, the China Doll was too hot to set down. “Yeah,” she nodded. “We’re destroyin’ em. Got folk lined up to carry ‘em off, Plan was to turn ‘em into corium. But Feds chasin’ me down complicates things an’ puts a whole lot more people at risk. They get you on approach radar for Pensacola, they’ll have a reception committee all strapped and ready. And I don’t conjure how to keep those crates from them,” she shook her head. “Can’t space ‘em...they’ll just backtrack your course and scoop…” That sparked a thought and Cal turned to face the clever Ms. Baker, “Don’t conjure they much like salt water, do they?”