T20 Traveller: Big Shots!

[Arrgh! Mark!]

The fat, blocky shape of a rusty Free Trader emerged slowly and painfully from the explosive womb of jump space trailing spare parts and rapidly freezing moisture.

The once bright blue and white hull advertising the "Greatest Jazz Band in the Imperium" is long faded, and the silently drifting Trader's name can be barely made out on the rusty helm. "Calypso Telephone."

The freighter lies dead in space, tumbling incessantly towards the burning monstrocity of a Red Dwarf some ten thousand klicks away. Around the ship, holograms advertising television programs which advertise merchandise, flickers of soap operas and smiling female and male faces welcome the dead trader and gesture him to a black planet, covered by a massive orbital platform hanging like a malignant spider over the charred remains. The floating trader drifts uselessly out of the signalled path and onwards to the great, red sun.


HARP


Out of the blue, you wake to an alarm. The low warning sends shivers down your spine. The feeling of jump-sickness plagues you like a Tasena headache. You lie slumped in the pilot seat, weak with hunger. That was a hell of a misjump. The alarm gets more annoying. "Cshk. Cshk. This is Yesnan III. Come in Csh-lypso Telephone. Come in. Do you require assistance? Come in Calypso Telephone. This is Yesnan III."

 

[JamPaladin]

HARP

"Damnit!"

Bassline leans over the pilot chair, grabs a sick bag, and hurls.

Strangely, this doesn't alliviate his hunger.

Wiping his mouth, he mans the comms channel, hoping no-one saw him do that. He's dressed in a tan tracksuit and is a months unshaven. Sure, it'd help if he decided to go udnerground, but that's just not jazz. "If only I could get a lucky break right now" he thinks to himself.

"Yeah, this is the Calypso Telephone. Bassline Harp speaking. Seems we've misjumped. Assistance would be, uh, nice."

He Paused.

"Food would be nice too, as a matter of fact. Yeah, just gimme some coords so I can put this girl down."

Harp glances down at his terminal.

"Computer, gimme stats readings on Yesnan III. Mainly if they'd be receptive to a Jazz concert. I see it now, "Bassline Harp returns", a new show for the first time in the sector! I've still got the equipment in the cargo store. Course, I'd need a band."

Bassline pulls a Blues Harp from a holster at his hip, and starts blowing some Blues Riffs.

"I woke up this mornin'
Misjumped way out west
Broke down with hunger
Broke down with no cash.

Backslidin' to the backwater,
a jazz star now playin' blues
I reached for the stars, and I hit rockbottom,
and I need a new pair of shoes"

 

[Arrgh! Mark!]

HARP

The static clears as you play. The same voice speaks over the channel once again. "Hey! Thats a catchy tune! You have some skill, jazzman. But you know, I hope you have some spare cash. The cost of getting you here will equal ten thousand, three hundred, fourty-one creds for fuel and emergency hire of shuttlecraft. And that doesn't include repair. Sorry, man.

..You know, come to the Hot Blues club. Ask for. Terry. I might find you a gig to pay of this bill you got, if you can't handle it.

*there's a brief noise, sounding like orders. There's a cough over the speakers.*

You are coming into the main city of Paradise in four hours, fifty minutes. Yesnan III, out."


As you watch out of the port-hole, you see several tugs anchoring with your ship. A few moments later, and your inevitable course towards the sun is halted; only for the town of Paradise.

You get yourself ready, and soon enough you find your way onto Paradise - a desert planet with a slightly toxic atmosphere. Paradise itself is a rust-ridden once high tech, long forgotten by the faceless corporations that once funded this mining station. Now it's nothing more than a quick stop for traders and more unscrupulous types.

Your ships computer logs the dangers in the system. The law there is nigh ignored, barring the almost sacrosanct main port with it's vital fuel supplies.. and vital elite mercs.

In no time at all you find yourself walking the docking platform of the Calypso Telephone as it gets taken to a dry-dock for repair.. and impoundment, until you can pay.

Layers of red tape and bundles of paper later, you find your way to the front of the repair facility of Paradise, rebreather attached. High above, past the interlinking metal walkways between half-rusted buildings and the press of standard spacer crowd you see the firing of engines as some other lucky crew gets off planet.

You stand on the edge of corporate ground and the slums. Everyone wears masks, hiding more than faces.

What do you do?

 

[JamPaladin]

HARP

Bassline mutters to himself, thinking things through, idly flicking the revolver in his pocket. It probably isn't loaded. It probably wouldn't work if it was. Still looks mean. Other essentials are carried - Harp in the same clip pocket, Bass Guitar strapped across the back.

"Well, I guess I need money, and I don't suppose I'll earn a whole lot busking on these streets. Still, that Hot Blues club sounds promising. Now, if I were a Blues Club, were would I be? They're always in the same spot, no matter what system. Place too yuppie for the trash, and a place too Indie for the Social Elite. Usually in basements, I guess. Just follow the sound of Bongo Drums and Freeform trumpet."

Bassline walks off, attempting to find the club, probably in the wrong direction. Doesn't matter to him. Getting lost is half the fun, and you never know what you'll find. Usually trouble. Trouble is great, really livens up a dull day.

 

[Arrgh! Mark!]

You wander through the rusted, multi-levelled urban sprawl. Buildings once the height of fashion sit gutted next to massive soviet-style apartment blocks covered in graffiti. People pass by; mostly human, and mostly punk.

As you wander, you find out that Yesnan III probably used to be a hot, imperial center. About fifty years ago when the ISSF ran their advertising campaign to inform you on what a wonderful place that Yesnan III is.

What happens to the tourist trap when it's funding dries up? The happy facade that was believed in faded. And the people who dress in native costume now know that they sold themselves and got nothing from it.


- - -



After hours, the sound of trumpets draws you into a small and dingy store filled with Old Reckoning gear. An ancient and oversized music player with some sort of front that a plastic device is slotted into is being used by a small, mousy man. He has the yellow tint that most of the people get. At least, the tint you get if you aren't corp sponsored. The one that gives you five years to live, at best. He turns as you enter the store, ten levels over the ground past a rickety metal bridge. He mutters something crude in mandarin. The music filling the shop is real old stuff; real root blues. You know the song; Mack the Knife.

In Galanglic, his light and nasal voice drones a oft-used greeting and asks how he can help.