<strong>Mortimer - Bernadette - the docks outside New Paris</strong><br/><br/><br/>The problem was not that ships couldn't find fuel.  On the contrary, storage tanks at the fuel farms were filled to overflowing, just like the cargo holds on most of the ships.  The problem was the tax.  The politicians on Londinum had passed a fuel tax to pay off various debts incurred by the war, and the tax hurt everyone.  Of course it hurt the border worlds and rim worse - the philosophy being they're the ones responsible for the war - but everyone felt the impact.  The one thing that did make sense was this particular tax expired after one year unless it was specifically renewed.  The smart money was on the Parliament renewing the tax.  Still, hope springs eternal in the human breast, and as the deadline approached, a lot of people were holding their breath (and holding off on those big fuel purchases) just in case.<br/><br/>Then it happened:<em>The Miranda Broadwave</em>.  The press had already started referring to is as "the week of the pax and the tax" -- but it was clear any talk of the tax took a back seat to assigning blame for Miranda.  To some, it was just another incident where someone was accusing someone in government of behaving badly.  It didn't affect their efforts to put food on the table  To others, it was the scandal that could bring down the current government.  As the talking heads pontificated and the politicians scrambled to cover their own asses, the fuel tax was forgotten.<br/><br/>On the night the fuel tax expired, ships and tankers were lined up at every outlet on Bernadette (and probably every other planet where fuel was bought and sold) to fill up with the precious commodity.  Cargo that had been sitting in a hold for a week could now make its owner rich -- IF it was the first shipment to arrive.<br/><br/>Yes, people are that fickle.<br/><br/>While most ships sat motionless, there had been<em>some</em>activity.  People smart enough to know if they delivered the right cargo to the right place at the right time and beat out those hoping the tax would expire, they would make more than enough to cover the extra cost.  The business was a gamble.  A regular guy could make a living hauling cargo, but to try to make a killing wasn't for the weak of heart.<br/><br/>Twenty four hours after the expiration of the fuel tax, practically every cargo ship in the 'verse was en route to somewhere, and very few could be found planetside.  One ship that<em>could</em>be found on the ground was the<em>Andromeda</em>.  It had been undergoing a complete renovation at the New Paris Shipyard when the ship's owner suffered a financial setback completely unrelated to either fuel taxes or Miranda.  The bottom line was that<em>his</em>bottom line could no longer allow him to pay for the work done on his ship.  A few hours of legal work later, the shipyard offered the ship for sale, and for a good price.  They weren't in the business of selling ships, and had no desire to enter into it.  All they wanted was to get paid for the work they did, and the ship was priced accordingly, for a quick sale.<br/><br/>The shipyard manager also didn't like ships cluttering up his yard, so a condition of the sale was that the new owner had until close of business the day following completion of the sale to get the ship out of the yard.<br/><br/><div align="center">---------</div><br/>Mortimer Morrison would know about the tax and the Miranda scandal that was building, but he wouldn't know how difficult it would be to find a ship heading out to the Rim after the initial surge.  As a journalist, Mort Morrison would be paying more attention to current events affecting society in general, to the detriment of his personal agenda.  His personal agenda was to get off Bernadette and out into the black.  To experience life at its most basic.  Life on the Rim.  Send its stories back to the news outlets in the Core.  And maybe write a book about it.<br/><br/>"Nothing?  Nobody?  I can't believe that."  He was at the Yardmaster's Office of the New Paris Dockyard, which was eerily silent and virtually empty of ships.<br/><br/>"You saw for yourself on the way in.  Only ships out there are either broke or impounded.  Give it a couple more days and they'll start drifting in from other places -- trade goes both ways, you know."  Trouble was, sitting around for two days waiting for a ship to come in wouldn't do him much good.  There would be no cargo for that ship to take anywhere else.  Not for several days, anyway.  And Mort didn't want to sit around New Paris for several days plus two.  He'd been to Bernadette before.  Several times.  He'd seen the sights.  Several times.  He had no desire to see them again.  Not any time soon, anyway.  He was heading for<em>the black</em>and he was anxious to get there.<br/><br/>"You can always try one of the Hiring Halls" the government man suggested.  Mort gave him a quizzical look.  This wasn't Mort's world, so the government man went on to explain.  "It's one of them places where people go to get work - on one of the freelancers, or maybe handling cargo.  Sometimes the big boys use 'em, too.  Most of them got regular crews though.  Gotta be a member of course.  To get work I mean.  It ain't official, but everybody knows they exist.  Know what I'm saying?  Course you ain't gonna get hired on, but they might tell you if they know of any ships goin' out.  A paying passenger is usually a good thing."<br/><br/>"Okay, where can I find one of these ... halls?"<br/><br/>"Cain't tell you that, son.  If I knew where one was, I'd be obligated as a government official to report it to the proper authorities so they could shut it down."  What he was saying without saying it was he understood the value of the system that subverted the official process but got things done more efficiently, and he wasn't going to be responsible for shutting one down and putting people out of work.<br/><br/>"Ever drink green beer?" the customs official asked as Mort was stepping out the door.<br/><br/>"Green beer?  No, why do you ask?"<br/><br/>The older man just shook his head and wished the reporter good luck finding a hiring hall.<br/><br/>Green beer?  Green beer.  He'd heard something about green beer once upon a time, but he didn't remember the context.  Thank god for the cortex.  He dug out his hand held access terminal to discover green beer meant St Paddy's Day, a traditional Celtic celebration.  The taxi driver denied knowing anything about hiring halls.  After all, the man asking looked like he was either a reporter or a Fed, and either one meant bad news to anyone who talked too much about things they weren't supposed to know about.  Celtic bars?  The driver had never heard of a Celtic bar.  He didn't even know what a Celtic was.  Scottish bars?  The driver didn't know of any Scottish bars, though he knew most bars sold scotch.  Welsh bars?  He wasn't sure what a welsh was, except for a guy who didn't pay his debts.<em>Irish bars?</em>Oh yes, he knew of several of those.  Taking pity on the young man (against his better judgement) he dropped Mort off outside Flanagan's ... beer and darts and songs criticizing the English in the front, and a mysterious door with a little one way window at eye level leading into the back.  Mort figured he didn't need to go into the hiring hall (if that's what was beyond that door) and trying to gain entry would be counterproductive.<br/><br/>The bartender should know of any ships departing the planet any time soon, so Mort asked him.<br/>