<a class="link link--external" href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/67/ba/d6/67bad6b09e26897151727e29ffe811e3.jpg" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">Thomyris “Riz” Heroux</a><br/>Location: Kohlberg Station<br/>Tagged: Iona Knutedottir<br/><hr class="bbc-hr bbc-hr--3"/><br/><b>“Yay, me.”</b>Thomyris remarked under her breath, thick with skepticism. She knew the Captain only meant well, but she didn’t see how this little exercise fitted overall in this strange dynamic the Captain was building for her. The phrase<i>never be fit to stand in front of a ship’s crew and lead them</i>still weaved in her mind, giving her anxious flutters in her gut just pondering the implications. Thomyris? In charge? Of others? She didn’t feel she deserved it, barely able to take care of herself by her own perceptions.<br/><br/>She killed the power as told and watched intently as the Captain pulled them in. At least next time she would be able to do so on her own. Thomyris supposed she should be considerate and thankful of what the Captain was trying to teach. She had come to the St. Anne possessing none of the skills she had now, especially that administrative eye that the Captain admired in her. She had learned, but more importantly she had been given the opportunity<i>to</i>learn. And the more skills she acquired, the greater her own value could become.<i>We are only worth as much as we know</i>. That had been life as Thomyris knew from experience. She figured it was the same on the St. Anne. If you were useful, you could stay. If not, like their unfortunate cook, you would be gone.<br/><br/>Following the Captain, she unbuckled herself from the sled and locked on to the ship’s hull via her grav-locks on the soles of her boots. Using her datapad, she dropped a nav-point where the sled was docked, its location visible on her small readout and to anyone else with the right codes to ping it.<br/><br/>Alongside the Captain, Thomyris shed her own hard suit and was soon back in her regular garb, an orange jumpsuit above her civilian clothes, helmet dangling at her hip, the stun-baton on the other, with her mopey hair bundled in a bun upon the back of her scalp, though a few strands framed her slender, gaunt face. On the corner of her left forehead was a small budding bruise, yellow at the edges but a deep purple upon the centre, where she had bumped herself. The Captain had similar bruising and Thomyris could only smile apologetically.<b>“You asked for it, Captain.”</b>She said in response to the Captain’s outburst, covering her face to shield against the puff of fine powder that came off Iona’s own garments. Thomyris took little concern as to her own throbbing face-painting she had indulged them in.<br/><br/><b>“I’ll see if they have an open systems access point here and get us a basic layout.”</b>Thomyris said with a nod, using her datapad again with one of the open terminals that dotted the space station. Here one could connect with the station’s main computer, if accessible. Most usually were, in some form, to travelers like her seeking information. One could contact the authorities, make inquiries, access basic information like services and utilities. One of the services available was a station map, at least the parts open to travelers like them. Downloading a copy and using her<i>stylus</i>, she marked the location of the station’s central area of commerce and proceeded to lead the way. She kept her eyes mostly on her own datapad, listening to the Captain and only occasionally looking up to avoid collisions. It was almost as if Thomyris was trying to hide herself.<br/><br/>Well, she only half-listened to the Captain, already understanding much of it. Then a strong hand was slapped on her shoulder and she was whipped about, a soft gasp on her lips at the unexpected gesture, so caught up in her datapad. Her lips then sealed and she fixed the taller woman with a resolute stare, already rejecting the notion before the Captain even had to explain or spell it out for her. And there it was again…<i>your ship.</i>What was with the Captain today? She felt like this remark was directed more at her. Not that Thomyris would ever dream of it. But the Captain hadn’t really asked her an outright question and the one she did was answerable only with a nod of acknowledgement, which she gave, never taking her eyes away from the taller woman’s stern expression.<br/><br/>It was the same moment that the bug hit her side, worming into the folds of her jumpsuit, crawling through the small tears to lodge within Thomyris’ garments. She didn’t feel it, focused upon the Captain and what she was saying.<br/><br/>A short distance later they came to the sprawling<i>souk</i>, the commercial centre, of Kohlberg Station. It was a multi-floored, spacious chamber, enough for a small freighter to fit within. Clustered in rows and groups were a panoply of various stalls, rudimentary store-fronts, and men of mercantile interests. A dozen languages could be heard. Some had their wares on display, trying to offload or sell it to whoever they could. Everything seemed to be in abundance, exotic foodstuffs, aromatics, weapons, technology, and simple consumer goods to name a few. Some advertised their needs by the old fashion method; shouting their demands and requests aloud, in outright competition with others. The more civilized sort put up bulletins, physical or electronically.<br/><br/>Though she had no notion that the Captain might want<i>her</i>to find them their next consignment, Thomyris still browsed the requests eagerly, never having seen such things before. She was never involved in the preliminary stages of a consignment, only when it was finally authorized for loading and unloading to and from the St. Anne. Here she saw many business offers and requests, arranged by such analytics as load size (some were indeed listed by ship classification, such as<i>single-Dogged, double-Dogged</i>, etc.), product listing, destination. She recognized a few names of the bigger conglomerates and contemplated the smaller, unknown ones.<br/><br/><b>“We can approach one of the traders looking to move cargo…or we can put up our own offer to move goods, with our tonnage and metrics listed.”</b>Thomyris noted to the Captain, as they stood in the centre of the busy, bustling commercial zone.<b>“I suppose usually we would…approach someone with an offer ready to go, settle the details, and get started. Though, since you given the others some shore leave, putting up our own bulletin and weighing up the various offers we might get could be a better alternative, I reckon.”</b>Thomyris said, raising her head to glance around her, staring for a moment towards a downtrodden droid, with a skinny neck and a binocular-shaped head, from which it peered into the world with two visible lens. They were looking right at Thomyris. She had no idea it was activated. And recording.<br/><br/><b>“Looking over the lists, I do see a few offers that could meet our classification, <i>single-Dogged</i> loads. There’s one for salvaged machine parts from derelict ships, to the metalwork plants on <i>Cheutune</i>. Crates of high quality potash from the volcanic world of <i>Brarvis 1F</i> to <i>Zienus</i>. Another, if you want to drive your crew to mutiny, for…bovine fetuses actually, also for <i>Zienus</i>. And one more, a consignment of power loader energy supply batteries, to…”</b>Thomyris read out, all from her datapad without looking up, though her voice trailed off on the last one.<i>To…Ruplade.</i>Her homeworld, where she was a wanted murderer and owing some sixty large to various creditors. Like hell she was going back there, not for any amount of credits.<b> “Never mind. Yes, just those three actually. Though I can keep looking? And I suppose you’d want to meet and talk with the offering parties as well, to get a feel for their business practice and ethics…”</b><i>Great, the last thing she wanted to do…</i>