Chapter 5 (part 1): On Haggling

Ennings gripped the wheel of his shanghaied hatchback like the delicate outer shell of a precious egg made out of gold leaf and uranium. Weaving through traffic with all the grace and majesty of a lion on ice skates, he made double sure that no scratches, dents, or unwanted explosions befell this car.

A low moan oozed from out the back seat, sending a cold chill down Ennings' spine. He had told Philo to distract the driver with "the move I used on that guard back when we attacked the prison on the Jingoistic Duchy of Elmo-07", which, in Ennings' mind, was a swift blow to the back of the neck with a tire iron. He shot a quick glance into the back seat, watching the man and the man-bot grapple with all the passion and fury of two rabbits reunited after a stint in the Navy. He quickly averted his gaze, focusing on the imposing quadriplex of towers that marked Sikking City's capital district. Definitely didn't remember using that move back on Elmo, Lord no.

Parson and Gizmo wandered into the lobby of Crazy Ivan's Spaceatarium with all the nonchalance two men walking away from the smoking ruin of a hovertruck can muster. The first thing Parson noted, scraping the toe of his boot across a thick coat of dust on the worn tile floor, was that Ivan clearly didn't suffer from and cleaning-based flavor of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. Inexplicable bits of machinery and cracked ceramics lay scattered about every surface that wasn't used for walking or sitting, most of which was either faded from exposure to the long rays of afternoon or concealed under the aforementioned dust.

The first thing that Gizmo noticed, however, was that Ivan had a penchant for relics. Hawking Radiation suppressors, Inertial Dampening coils, Pulse Beacons of various magnitude and accuracy, the functional half of a Capissen 38 wormholer, and a set of well-loved entry couplings for a planetfall-scorched primary buffer panel.
Wasn't a damn thing hadn't seen use this side of a decade, Gizmo figured, mustache twitching all the while. Clearly, Ivan was a man to visit when you needed something the eraserheads over at Galactic Average Manufacturing couldn't provide.

A girl no older than 14, clad in a filthy set of coveralls, popped her head up from behind the front desk.

"Can I help you?" She asked cautiously.

"Yes, we're looking for Ivan." Parson replied. The girl cocked an eyebrow.

"Ivan's dead." A look of shock crossed Parson's face.

"I'm. . . I'm sorry." Parson ran his fingers through his hair. "I knew Ivan from way back when, the Clockwerx Rebellion back on NPH-IV." He smiled at the girl. "You couldn't have been older than two or three at the time, your papa just wouldn't stop talking about you." Parsons gazed off into space, a wistful smile playing upon his lips. "He was a good man. I promised him, I ever need a ship in the area, I'd come to his shop, said he'd hook me right up." He shook himself out of his reverie, slowly walked towards the front desk. "I'm sorry to hear that he's gone. I should have visited sooner, but you know how life his." He rested his elbows on the desk and smiled as charmingly as he could.

"I'm not Ivan's daughter." The girl replied. "I never even met the guy. The place was abandoned when I found it, so I cracked the lock and set up shop here." She tapped a finger against her cheek. "Good effort though. If I was his daughter I probably would have believed you, if that's any consolation."

"It's not, really." Parsons snarked. "So, dispatching with the theatrics, my companions and I are in dire need of a ship.

"I had gathered as much. " She said as politely as possible. Gizmo enjoyed a hearty chuckle at his superior's expense. "What kind of ship would you be in need of?"
"Something cheap, with a Sub-Aether drive."

"Ooooh. Mmm, no." She flipped through the crisp pages of a formidable tome, reviewing her stock. "I can do cheap, or I can do Sub-Aether drive." She tapped a pen against her chin thoughtfully. "How many people in your crew?"
"Three, and one robot." Gizmo interjected.

"Industrial? Repair? What sort of robot?" She asked.

"General purpose, he's about as big as Parson here." He said, crossing his arms across his chest satisfactorily. "Built him myself, I did."

"So why not just call him an android?" She asked, absentmindedly itching her scalp with the back of her pen.

"He's not part human."

"No, you're thinking of cyborgs." She corrected. "Androids are just human-shaped robots."

"Wait, what? Are you sure?" Gizmo asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"I actually think she's right with this." Parson added. "I remember reading something about this the last time I went to get my teeth cleaned." Gizmo was clearly confused.

"You're sure? I've been working a fair bit longer than you've been drawing breath, little one, and I've never heard it played out this way before." Gizmo said, mustache twitching.

"Well, there's the odd chance that something may have changed since the development of the internal combustion engine, gramps." The girl said, refocusing her attention on the binder. "You should keep up with emerging developments, some pretty interesting things have happened here in the present." Gizmo opened his mouth for a rebuttal, but was quickly cut off by the girl's revelation. "Oh, found something. Five man crew, Sub-Aether drive." She pursed her lips in thought. "Cheap, too. Not more than a few thousand Pentacreds." Parson's face lit up.

"How much?" He asked. The girl continued to consult the book.

"Looks like it's a modified corvette. Confiscated from a pirate hauler, it's a scouter with a midrange burn, enough to check out an environment, make sure it's safe for the capital ships."

"That's nice, how much is it?" Parson began rapping his fingers against the desk anxiously.

"Huh, all original tech, too. That's nice."

"But how much does it COST?" Gizmo asked, growing swiftly irate.

"Let's see, it is. . ." The girl flipped the page, running a finger down a long list of numbers. ". . . Sold. Whoops." She smiled sheepishly. "Sorry, looks like it left not more than an hour ago." She leaned back in her chair and kicked her feet up. "Hell, you could probably still catch them at the spaceport. Record says that it's a Geller-class, whatever that is. Can't be many ships taking off on this side of the mudball," Gizmo's ears perked up.

"What did you call it?"

"A Geller-class, probably one of those antiques from before Galactic Average restructured." She shrugged. "Why, had one when you were younger?" Gizmo frowned the sort of frown only old men with hairy lips can frown.

"No, I'm just now catching up to my mid-life crisis." He turned and walked for the door, drawing a communicator from his pocket. "Parson, let's hurry."

"Why?" Parson asked, looking up from the desk. Gizmo spun on a heel and donned his shades in one swift move.

"We've got a ship to catch." He said, as badass as possible. For a moment, no-one uttered a word.

"Right." Parson said, not so much defusing the situation as tearing it to shreds with his teeth. "Will you hop on your wrist communicator doohickey and tell Philo to bring the Captain to the spaceport?" Parson strode across the showroom floor and held the door for Gizmo.

"It's not a wrist communicator." Gizmo retorted sullenly. "It's a direct audio uplink. Totally different." He muttered, extending his watch's antenna.