Aboard the Orrax Claw
Checking the scanners of the Orrax Claw reveals nothing of note. Torrin looks outside the cockpit windows of the ship to see the blue lines of hyperspace passing by his cargo pods clamped tight in the mandibles of the ship. He takes a long draw from his pipe and breathes the smoke directly at the circulator in the cockpit to keep the air clean, even though he is the only organic lifeform aboard.
"Axel," he takes another drag from his pipe, "TOA for Milagro. That salvage contract should be lucrative."
Axel whistles and beeps the reply.
We are only a day away. We can slow down a touch. He thinks.
"Bolts, tune our drive down prematurely. I want to come in slower so the Imperials can catch easily. Crowbar, gather the usual documents to pass over when they hail us. I'll be in habitation."
Torrin glides through the ship without needing to open any doors. He keeps all the blast seals open in Imperial space—no reason for the added inconvenience. He walks into the habitation deck. A custom insert where normally separate crew spaces would converge into a small sitting and eating area. Instead, Torrin has a single large room, featuring an eye-catching circular couch with a center table as the main piece. The table has a lower refrigeration unit with spirits, refreshments, a few dozen different shaped glasses and bacta. Set on top is a premium-looking hookah and a cedar box full of various hand-carved pipes, cleaners and tobacco. These were all for his clients while he entertained. Near the rear of this area are a few doors leading off to his bedroom, office, and guest restroom.
He glances at the hookah and eyes the water level. It seems appropriate. He nods to himself and blows another smoke ring into the nearby circulator, then walks over to the Sabb Racka table. He rolls a few of the hard clay balls along the brown leather tabletop. They glide along the shallow ruts formed over time into one of the netted corner pockets. It's old and probably needs to be refinished, but Torrin knows it's servicable according to his near-daily use. He goes to check the holochess set and powers it on.
Hmpf, still works. He thinks. I need to learn how to play that sometime.
Torrin continues through the living area, puffing away into each circulator like clockwork. He walks down a narrow hallway, checking seams and gaskets for pliability and spacing. His trusty calipers, always on his belt, were out and carefully taking in the tolerances.
He smears the sweat on his oily skin. His large yellow eye closing the distance on a scratch.
"BOLTS! Fix this!" He fiercely rubs the scratch after wetting his thumb.
Bolts comes rolling down the hall as his manipulator arms get to work.
Torrin nods to himself.
He continues to the engineering bay where he begins monitoring each wire, tube, and dongle that lies in synchrony. The cabling in this old ship is immaculate; everything has a place and everything is clean. This particular vessel has around one hundred and sixty thousand parsecs on its hyperdrive and still handles smooth as a fresh-hatched frepdings underbelly.
That wasn't always the case. Torrin recalls his old missions and shakes his head as if that would remove the thoughts.
Without the daily checkups and scratch remedies, this ship would be in shambles. Torrin peers down the hall at the working droid. This ship is old, discolored, and its parts are from different places, but it all comes together in a symphony of class. A gentleman's ship.
Torrin finishes his circuit back in habitation, where he types in his code to enter his room. The door whirs open and he steps into the front office, separated by a low wall from the sleeping area. He takes a seat on the short leather couch opposite his own desk and reaches up over his head behind him. He slides a glass door open to grab a pouch of tobacco to stuff his pipe. He stretches his legs up onto the small ottoman and leans back, staring at the ceiling while he puffs.
I wonder what my old crew is up to. He puffs a slow breath. Cherry and walnut. It's warm and comforting.
Torrin smiles to himself briefly.
If only I could share this ship with them. Torrin smiles again. Maybe one day.
Continue
Previous Kuat Drive Yard
