Threats and Favors

Posted on Thu Dec 20th, 2012 @ 2:56pm by Morgo Le'Shaad

2,805 words; about a 14 minute read

Chapter: Chapter II: Era's Dawn
Location: Red Raptor, Dock 590, Coruscant
Timeline: 0450 Hours (Local Time), Day Seven

OLD

Morgo watched as Thane left, wondering just what the Council would do to him for aiding her—wondering whether or not the man had the strength to lie to the Jedi Council and make them believe the lie. The man may have been strong in the Force, but he was up against a room full of Jedi Masters, trained to detect such deception.

Morgo stood, stepping around the hologame table and inhaled deeply, trying not to think of what would transpire should Thane fail and be forced to give up her location aboard the Red Raptor.

The Red Raptor. Morgo closed her eyes, just focusing on that, this one change. If she were the sentimental type, Morgo would probably have to call it home, now. And contemplating this, Morgo studied the empty game table, her mind in a distant place.

Up until this evening, Morgo had played it solo—alone and unattached. But now she was aboard the Red Raptor , a part of its crew. It was an entirely different game, and the rules had changed…new players had arrived.

Though perhaps, Morgo thought as she opened her pale eyes, that didn’t have to be a bad thing.

NEW


“Is this the…er, residence of a Lady Lesandra Kusaine?” inquired a female mechanical voice. The elegant, rose-gold droid stood poised on the ramp of the Red Raptor with a small crate, looking rather out of place in the dirty, oil stained dock the ship rested in.

Morgo stood within the ship, out of site, still wrapped in the white sari she’d worn to the Galaxies Opera House yesterday. Feet bare, Morgo’s blonde hair hung in a single, thick side braid, and upon hearing the name of one of her many aliases, a corner of Morgo’s painted lips quirked up.

“It is.” Morgo answered shortly, and tilting her chin up slightly, Morgo looked down at the droid with a well-practiced look of impatience. No doubt the droid would think her some haughty daughter of a senator, or what not—which was perfect.

“Identification chip, please.” The droid asked politely, the metal of its face shifting over each other to create a slightly rueful expression, “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but it’s the hotel’s policy. The Elite just wants to ensure your goods don’t land with someone else.”

The fake ID chip already in hand, Morgo opened her palm and allowed the droid to scan it with its specialized vision, “Satisfied?” she asked, feigning displeasure.

The rose-gold droid imitated a smile, “Yes indeed, Ms. Kusaine. The package is all yours. Have a wonderful morning, madam!” and turning setting the small crate down next to Morgo, the hotel delivery droid turned around and left.

“Just a moment, droid.”

Obediently, the hotel droid turned around, the white lights of its eyes bright, “…How may I be of further service?”

Morgo shifted her weight from one leg to the other, a hand toying with her long side braid, “At the Elite Hotel, you ensure 100% customer satisfaction, do you not?”

“Yes, my Lady. ‘Customer is king’ at the Elite.” The metal woman answered, most likely reading directly from some pre-programmed brochure.

Morgo nodded, narrowed eyes watching the droid, “Then I expect no one will be hearing about this delivery you made, the name ‘Lesandre Kusaine’, or that you’ve ever heard of such a woman…do you understand?” she said smoothly, raising her eyebrows with a small smile.

The droid stood still, surprised and silent. Morgo was fascinated that this droid was able to exude an air of anxiety with its body language. The thing really was a wonderful piece of technology.

“Because if you fail to do all these things,” Morgo continued, “I’m afraid I’d be very displeased. Perhaps even displeased enough to file a complaint, citing your immediate termination as the only reparation I’d accept.” And Morgo shrugged lightly, “I have no need for more money, you see.”

A look of terror passed over the droid and Morgo smiled kindly, leaning towards the metal woman conspiratorially, “And you know, the spice mines of Kessel are always looking new workers. A fancy droid like you would do fine…” she assured. And straightening her posture, Morgo’s voice was warm, “…at least for 48 hours or so.”

The hotel’s droid clasped its hands pleadingly, eyes afraid, “P-please Ms. Kusaine, I haven’t said or done anything—”

“That’s right.” Morgo interrupted, stern, “You haven’t said or done anything. And you will continue to say nothing to anyone or anything about me, is that clear?”

“Y-yes, my Lady.”

“Good.” She said, nodding and flicking her wrist, “You are dismissed. Thank you for your services.”

“Thank you, my Lady.” The droid said tremulously, and promptly scampered out of the docking bay. Morgo smiled to herself as she closed the large doors to the ship’s ramp with the press of a button and hoisted the small but heavy crate by its handles, balancing it on her hip as she made her way back to her cabin.

She was alone on the ship, the Jedi Thane already gone to face his Jedi Council. And so her soft steps were conspicuous in the silence as she approached the door to her room. Standing before it, the door opened with a small hiss and stepping across the threshold with her cargo, Morgo gently set it down and opened the metal box.

Her belongings

As the lid slid back, a familiar, marine scent wafted up to her nose. It was a smooth, rich odor that reminded Morgo of old sandalwood temples, of damp earth, and of newly-cut hay. It was the smell of the sea, the scent of the tide—and the faintest possible perfume of the white sea-rose.

It was scent of ambergris . Morgo reached deep into the crate and pull out a small leather bag. Untying the knot, a pale green ball rolled out onto Morgo’s open palm, a fist-sized waxy lump of ambergris: the gold of the ocean. Ambergris was secreted in the stomachs of the Jadenose Leviathans of Dromache, and after spending years there, building up, the Leviathans either vomited up the substance, or passed it through their bowels.

From there, the lump of ambergris would float in the ocean, and much like wine in a barrel, the substance would mature at sea for years, losing the leviathan smell and taking on the subtly sweet, rich scent of the sea, like very old perfume. In its finest form, ambergris took on a pale green, crystalline look—only it was waxy and soft like half-hardened clay.

Aside from its soothing and fragrant properties, ambergris possessed advanced healing properties, much like bacta—save that ambergris was organic, worked faster, and was much rarer. Dromache had stubbornly refused to used bacta, which was a synthetic and expired with time, preferring time-honored tradition…and the elegance of ambergris.


It was for that reason that Morgo always kept a lump of ambergris on her person at all times, and another with her belongings for emergencies. Consequently, Morgo herself and everything she owned smelled like fragrant ambergris. Not that she minded. It was one of the three things Morgo found to be soothing—the other two being a hot bath and the silence of a corpse. Bonus points if the corpse was of someone she loathed.

Morgo rolled the ambergris back in the leather bag and placed it back into the box, her eyes scanning over the clothes she so desperately needed to change into.

Undressing, Morgo unwrapped herself from the sari and carefully folded the delicate garment into a creaseless rectangle, and set it aside. Slipping into a white jumpsuit, Morgo pulled up the zipper that ran from her abdomen, over the swell of her chest and all the way up to the high collar of the neck. And from the bottom of the metal crate, Morgo lifted a deep, navy blue article of clothing—a flowing, Dromachean smock that reached mid-thigh, worn only by the physicians of society, a michiyuki that functioned much like a lab coat for a scientist.

When she’d escaped prison and returned home to reclaim her rightful heirlooms, on a whim she’d also taken the first michiyuki she’d received from the Zkovos Hospital. Now it seemed she’d finally found use for it—because if Morgo was to be the ship’s primary physician, she might as well dress like one. Slipping it over her head, the wide square neckline of the michiyuki provided easy access. The winged-sleeves of the garment reached an inch or two above Morgo’s wrist, making it practical for work.

Work , Morgo thought to herself as she turned to face her door. Now that she was dressed for work, perhaps now was a good time to acquaint herself with the place she would be working—the Medical Bay.

Stepping out of the her cabin, Morgo made her way around the ship, peeking from room to empty room in hopes of finding the ship’s infirmary. When she finally found the Medical Bay, Morgo made a note to remember that it was to her left, not her right. The doors opened without a sound and Morgo stepped through, sizing the place up.

To the left was a bed and an operating table—quite sophisticated for a smuggler’s ship. Directly in front was a counter top that Morgo thought looked suitable for rudimentary test work and perhaps even lab work. Above it were many cabinets, and below it as well. To the right stood a bacta tank and disposal chutes.

As Morgo stepped further into the Medical bay, she tested the cleanliness of the floor with a light swipe of the floor with a bare foot. To it stuck a grit and dirt, much like the rest of the ship. In the Medical Bay, Morgo made a note to wear designated footwear. It wouldn’t do to track in such filth from the rest of the ship.

Running a long finger across the counter top and the bottom of the sink, Morgo critically narrowed her eyes at the layer of dust. True, she had not expected whoever had owned this space-ship before to have taken the pains to keep the Medical Bay sterile, but layer of dust bode ill for the rest of the ship’s infirmary. If surfaces hadn’t been kept clean, things could be growing in the dark of any dank corner—and such growth could lead to colonies of fungi and mold. Unacceptable to any half-decent physician with two-fingers of forehead.

Pitching her voice to be heard, Morgo continued to eye the state of the Medical Bay, “G2?” she called, because surely this ship had a G2 unit. Distantly, Morgo heard a beep-booping in reply. After a few moments, the G2 droid rounded the corner and entered the Medical Bay, tilting its head in question.

“Fweep boop?” it asked as it looked up to the stranger on board. It’d never seen this tall woman before, but then again, this woman had addressed it by name. And it had glimpsed the one it knew as Thane talking with this woman last night. Surely the human woman was a friend.

“Hello, little droid.” Morgo said gently, crouching to its level, “Are you the one responsible for keeping this ship together?”

G2 blinked brightly, “Bwoop beep!” the droid affirmed enthusiastically.

Morgo nodded, blonde wisps of hair falling past her face, “And I suppose you are also the one who cleans this ship?”

Once again, G2 made an affirmative blip and beep. Morgo hummed, pleased. And looking down at the small droid, Morgo gestured to the surrounding Medical Bay.

“Then I need you to note what I say now: This is the Medical Bay, G2, which means that this place must be cleaner than the rest of the ship—10 times so. From now on, I must ask you to make time in your daily schedule to clean, dust, and sanitize every surface of this Medical Bay at least 10 times by the end of 24 standard hours, in regular increments.” Morgo’s smile was soft, “Can you do this for me?”

The G2 droid was a little surprised at the instructions and the size of the task, but bwoop-beeped obediently, paused a moment, before adding, “Beep-woon fweep, dweedoop.”

Morgo considered this, getting used to hearing Binary once again before pointing at the little droids wheels.

“Thank you for telling me. But bacteriostatic as the surfaces and floors are, it is still important that you clean regularly and even more importantly, keep yourself from tracking in unsanitary bits and pieces of the outside world. I would ask that you sanitize your chassis and especially your wheels before entering to clean the Medical Bay.” And reaching under the droids little ‘feet’, Morgo quietly asked the droid to lean towards her, and swiped a finger under one of G2’s wheels. Holding the finger up and all the dirt and debris stuck to it for the little droid to see, Morgo raised her eyebrows, “You see? Very dirty. Bacteriostatic floors don’t mean they can’t be dirty.”

Upon seeing the little mess it’d brought into the Medical Bay, G2 booped a little despondently, like a guilty child being gently scolded at by a mother for dirty hands. Morgo allowed herself to smile.

“Now you know, though, right? So chin up.” Morgo said, slowly standing, “I’d be very happy if you could do this for me, alright?”

G2 looked up at the tall woman with bright eyes, “Bwoop-dee-beep fwoop!” it assured. Morgo nodded, “Then thank you, G2. That’s all I need for now.”

"Boop fweep..." G2 started hesitantly, about to go, but turned its one eye to the floor, almost embarrassed. Morgo chuckled , reaching out and ran a hand across the top of G2's round metal head, the wide, dark blue sleeve of her michiyuki swaying with the movement.

"Then come to me if no one else will. I'll clean you."

Morgo watched as the little droid rolled away with a bit of fondness, beeping happily. She’d always found droids and computers preferable to people. So much less complicated. Much more willing to think logically and reasonably than people. So if she was guilty of treating certain droids better than people, so be it. Besides, the master that serves kindly and generously is the master that droids will prefer. Loyalty can be programmed, but favor cannot. And a droid's favor, especially in a conflict of masters, is invaluable. She hoped that it would never come to that aboard the Red Raptor , but Morgo believed in preparing for all eventualities.

Alone once again, Morgo decided to inspect the Medical Bay’s stock—ensure everything was still well within its shelf-life. Expired medicine or bacta could be just as deadly as a disease or infection. Reaching up, Morgo opened a cabinet, only to find it empty. Opening another, it had a few bacta patches (nearly expired), a rusty scalpel, and a mirror, but nothing else. Morgo narrowed her pale eyes.

To her displeasure, the rest of the Medical Bay’s cabinets were similarly empty. Where were the disinfectants and bandages? The syringes? The medicines and the anesthetics? The microscopes and slides? This Medical Bay was woefully under-stocked. The last crew had probably used up everything in their last bloody escapade before they’d lost the ship to whomever Thane gotten it from.

Morgo smirked to herself and leaned her weight onto the counter top, imagining that the last crew had all died when they realized they didn’t have enough bandages to stop the horrid bleeding from being gnawed on by rancors. Or perhaps they’d narrowly escaped a major fire-fight, and when they got on board and drifted in space, they ran out of bacta and all perished from infection when they’re blaster wounds festered. Morgo chuckled. That would teach them to hoard weapons and credits over basic medical supplies.

Opening her pale gray eyes, Morgo sighed. Before they all left Coruscant for good, she would have to get her hands on proper medical instruments and supplies. Because if she was going to have any hope of keeping this new crew of hers alive, she would have to re-stock this poor excuse for a Medical Bay.

And Morgo didn’t think her welcome on the Red Raptor would last very long if people started dying aboard the ship on her watch. Chuckling softly, Morgo pushed herself off the counter.

It was time to go shopping.

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