Vega Rillius: 144,80
Loman’s Moon Base

Boz, Yssk and Nexbo stood at the foot of Yardbird’s boarding ladder as steam poured off the vessel’s warming exterior. “Thisss isss mossst interesssting,” said Yssk, gesturing to the worried rush of activity in the hangar at the moon base. “Sssomething dissquieting hass occurred.” Boz grunted in agreement while Nexbo fiddled with one of the barrel-sized pods attached to the ship. “Light touch, Nekssbo,” cautioned the Thrynn.

The trio elbowed their way through the confusion, watching as crews pushed, carried and rolled supplies onto their ships. More than a few hushed voices carried theinfamous word: Spemin. After a short walk and a ride on the lift, they arrived on the atrium deck where the Jova Lounge was tucked into a dim corner. The entrance was decorated with imitation palm branches and bamboo shoots. The group ducked inside to find the lounge nearly empty.

“Something’s really up,” said Boz, scanning the lounge for his contact. As usual, the young Elowan was sitting in a booth by the panoramic arc window that provided a stunning view of the furious gas giant that Loman’s Moon orbited. “Nexbo, Yssk, this is Rlln my contact with the Core—sorry—Future Plowshares project on Elan. And likewise.” They sat down in the booth. “What’s the deal? Can we make this work?” Boz brought his own translator to interpret the shifting and swaying of the Elowan’s leaf-covered vines—Loman’s translators were lousy.

“We believe so,” said Rlln. Nexbo gnashed his jaws at the uncertainty. The Elowan continued, “there’s a gap in the patrol screen along the upspin Thrynn border. We can calculate the gap with seventy percent accuracy, but sometimes they fill it in with an auxiliary patrol.” Boz stuck his hand in the air and looked to the grass hut bar where the bartender recognized the interstellar distress call for a stiff drink. “You should be able to penetrate the border—you must: we’ve been monitoring Thrynn communications. Things are quickening. Have you completed the modifications to your…vessel?”

“Yesss. We have attached the illegal commoditiesss to the Yardbird and labeled them ‘sssenssor nodess.’ Asss if anyone here isss even paying attention,” commented the Thrynn, a hint of distaste in his voice. Native to Thoss, and a recent exile, he was still amazed by the laissez-faire attitude that prevailed outside the Confederacy. Especially in the Windward Passage, inspectors, regulators and G-men of all stripes were generally laughed out of town if they made a fuss. “What isss the route into Thrynn space?” The bartender arrived with an assortment of drinks. And baddick stalks.

Deep Space
Leghk Sector
Cargo Tug SS Raulo

“Shady Dave” Marino had the angles all worked out from start to finish. See, he was using an orbit-surface droid plantation to pull huge quantities of high-grade metals off the honey pot rock on the outward end of the Downspin Route. Shady Dave’s ship, the Raulo, was a mid level superphotonic tow truck of a ship that could dock with the droid plantation and haul it across space. The metals wouldn’t fetch squat in Leghk space, but take it through the flux—Dave called it the “cash hoop”—and the Earth space market would pay a premium. The best part was that while the droids mined and refined, Dave and his crew cut deals in the backwater worlds off the Downspin Route. It was a sweet deal.

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Next: “Pythagoras”

Captain Huxroxy Zeep (of “hive calling Gonnastompaslug”) is known to voluntarily patrol the edges of Spemin space in hopes of tormenting the gelatinous nuisances that dare venture beyond their domain. In a frenzied whirl of panic, Zeep informs disconcerted Spemin commanders that their vessels are about to be "hit with whoop-ass club by the you-alien’s heaven-sent guardian angel from heaven.” As the Spemin laugh nervously, Zeep corrects himself: “oh, much the sorriness—not guardian angel...just my reflection.”

Hilsfar & Company: The Merciless Bane of UPN
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