Destination Reached: Pit Stop 1612sh
Distance: 278 light-years
Brass shot out of the space-time wormhole and sped across space with the extra-dimensional aura wicking off her towards Pit Stop 1612sh—one of many space stations with a communication control centre that was a protruding box on top of the station with three antennas of various sizes and shaped like half-open umbrellas. A high-grade cloaking system hid its dodecahedron shape. Their service of criminals, battlemongers, and the like, was illegal in the galaxy. Unfortunately, the proliferation of such facilities was difficult to eradicate. The galactic authorities had challenges in enforcing the law effectively, giving multiple organisations the chance to have branches serving hundreds of thousands of beings regularly.
Some ships came out from a hangar bay in Pit Stop, including a starcraft with a slender design and moderate-sized boosters named Bill. He was old but not worn out, from his paint to his overly mechanical engine from a time gone by, or even his landing gear that was always out by default, he was well taken care of due to his position. Bill and those that accompanied him were here to escort them inside.
Like this one took some serious damage. Her hull has so many dents. A ship called Suggasen could make out some of Brass’s damage. He was rather big and aged—even more so than Bill— with his trapezium outline and wings that went backwards, not sideways, as if someone held their arms behind their back while running. One would think this would make him fast, but he was never fast; he was never designed like that. Copious efforts to make him more agile in Pit Stop only led to marginal gains. His form became Frankenstein-like, at least as much as a ship could be.
Bill was curious about what happened to her as he did to all that came here. Oftentimes, innocuous damage could have odd origins.
The space station had already scanned Brass, and after some interrogation to make sure they were who they said they were, the space station opened up for them to go inside.
She proceeded to come in hot with her landing gear for a harsh but successful entry. Once stationary, she opened up for her passengers to roll out before breaking apart for each to wallow in agony.
The hangar bay had many starcraft of various models and accommodated species that towered over most to ones quite small. The walls and roof had an intricate layout of pipes carrying key substances both in and out. There were holographic numbers and letters on the ground in a forty-four-letter language called Umensh that was simplistic and curly.
Brass had landed not far inside one of the four hanger bays. This was the largest of the set, called Hangar Bay Number One. It encompassed over a kilometre from end to end. The one at the rear, which was slightly smaller, had the name Hangar Bay Number Two, and the two at the sides of equal size were titled Hangar Bay Number Three and Hangar Bay Number Four respectively.
Knowing they were well-paying customers, the assistants were delicate with them. All four were placed on floating stretchers to be brought to the medical station. Most would prefer to use flat-back medical vehicles to transport them, but they hadn't arrived yet from outside the facility to replace those already run down. They manoeuvred around several ships and organisms to reach the large ramp, of which there were two on opposing sides that connected to a singular platform. From there, they rushed to the medical area where regeneration pods, scanners, and other medical equipment populated it.
The first thing was to scan them to see what was wrong. The results were presented on an upright screen that came from the ground through a tiny slit. It showed the number of injuries they had, which were numerous.
Pink sticky nodes were applied over their bodies to monitor their condition.
None of the small regeneration pods was available. Therefore, they were dropped into one bigger than all four combined.
Its cover popped open and hung from its hinges at the back to allow them to lay on a platform that was square and slightly raised. Once closed over them, it commenced filling up with a thick blue substance mixed with very minute black beads specific for healing injuries.
Within the platform were many circles radiating outwards from the centre where the liquid flowed through. The substance stopped filling up at around ten per cent—enough for them to swim in. They didn't want to waste too much on beings their size, for the body-to-healing liquid ratio would be way off.
A quadrilateral control panel with touchscreen capabilities was propped up by a slender piece of metal. It took note of a spike in anger and stress after Zazavin gave Durin a vengeful stare.
Patients, please be more civil to one another. Taking into consideration your current physical state, the high levels of stress being built up can negatively affect the effectiveness of your treatment. A doctor typed the paragraph and the words went directly into their minds via the nodes.
He managed to behave, sealing whatever animosity he wanted to release. But that was quite short. Even with the inability of verbal communication, their drifting apart said so much.
This group certainly has some...issues. The doctor stared at them with passive curiosity.
* * *
Brass was being inspected to calculate the cost of repair. Beings entered and examined each room onboard from her small, but well-tooled kitchen, to the electrostatic hygiene pods—which were more sophisticated than the ones at Tallas—to the warp drive containment area, to the flight control room or cockpit, as it was more commonly known, and the living quarters. The rooms were filled either with ammunition or half-finished renovation jobs. These were the remnants of her forced conversion to be a true war machine. Once their thorough examination was complete, they tallied the cost to Brass.
"The total cost of your crew's treatment is thirty-four thousand bits." said a worker covered in flesh sacs.
Brass was a bit surprised by the number. However, if she was honest with herself, she expected a larger price tag.
"Is the currency drive in the usual place?"
She was certain of this.
They went to the kitchen only to see nothing. They wondered if they were being tricked, but she reassures them it was there. A second look led to the same blank result. Brass implored once more it was there, but this was to no success.
“Is it somewhere else?" The flesh sac worker was flustered from what she felt was Brass’s refusal to pay.
"I don't know. You can look somewhere else if you want."
They dug up everything from kitchenware to Teinova's clothes to equipment. Sadly, they were unable to find the currency drives. They were beyond frustrated by this search.
"We're not seeing them. Do your crewmates know where it is?”
"Yeah, they should."
Hearing this, they decided to wait. The repairs were held off until Brass's compatriots were fully recovered. As they waited, she thought about them with the hope they were fine. This became so prevalent, she ended up talking to herself, but one sentence stuck out—a sarcastic one: "How did I get here?"
"You forgot to pay up," Bill was within hearing distance.
"You don't need to remind me."
"No, I don't. All you have to do is pay off your debt and you'll be fine."
"You're a mean one, aren't you?"
I'm just stating facts. I'm never mean."
"Whatever." She didn’t like him already.
Not a good second impression.
Bill, a ship is coming in.
What kind?
A Vangen.
Must be badly damaged. Those normally hold up well.
"Who are you talking to?" Brass wondered if that was his superior.
"The lifeform we call the announcer."
Brass grasped what he said. Beings like this provided an essential role in these types of illicit space stations in the place of artificial intelligence.
"I'm in charge of the escorting of ships to Pit Stop."
"So you're my boss?"
"Yes. But I have a boss too, so in a sense, I'm no better than you."
"Who's that?"
"The Manager... She's a gnarly being. It's best to do what she says. Next to her is her Deputy Manager named Riz. Together with the guards, they micromanage as much as they can to keep us in line. So even though we have positions, whether security, food and drink, hygiene or healthcare, they're only mid-level. It would be even worse if it was a larger one from what I heard."
She understood but she didn't like having to be submissive to someone.
Dang it! Look at this mess I have to clean up!
Are you the supposed announcer? By speaking, Brass indicated that what she just said wasn't private.
Yes, I am. I spilt my drink over the controls and must've touched something by mistake. I thought only Bill can hear me. She rushed to wipe the liquid off her controls.
Wait, Bill? That archaic name? She broke out in laughter to the point her audio was scrambling.
The announcer chortled. She often got along with starcraft since she was a kid.
Ha. Ha. Ha. My name is not that old. Bill didn't like it when beings laughed at the name his original owner gave him. If anything, he thought it was exotic and badass. Bill tried to ignore them, but this did little to halt his internal shame.
No. That name makes you sound like you come from a whole different era. said Brass.
It is. You're vintage. Suggasen dropped the ship lingo word for being really old. Even though he had an older manufacture date, his name was still relevant up to now. As he relished in Bill’s embarrassment, he recalled the times when he guided him through the difficulties of Pit Stop. Bill had certainly adapted well and obtained a respectable position. He couldn't help but admire that.
Despite the laughs, Brass was worried about her crewmates. To be a slave in a Pit Stop was a demanding job. What prevented her from bursting into panic was their likely tolerance to slave labour.
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