Aboard the racing pinnace - Slipstream - En route to Pallas Station "Pallas TC this is the Slipstream, requesting permission to dock," Rachel spoke into the microphone built into the crash couch. It extended up and slightly over the couch but not over any of Rachels body, being a racing ship, the G-forces would turn the tiny piece of plastic and metal into a knife given enough thrust. After she finished transmitting, it slid back into the couch with a click. The Slipstream was an impressive ship, Rachel wondered just how much the had leased it for considering its capabilities. She had lived a comfortable, albeit lonely life since leaving the Jovian system, the vessel still had that "new ship" smell before people changed the scent from living in it too long. Everything was shiny, even some of the plastic films hadn't been peeled off some of the displays. The radio crackled for a moment, a burst of static before the tight-beam from Pallas decrypted itself. "Slipstream you are cleared for docking bay 45-CS2. Don't see many of your types docking here, picking up some parts for a race?" She rolled her eyes at the casual conversation of the traffic controller, but played along. Pinnace racers loved to gush about their ships and she wasn't about to break her disguise several days into her new mission. She activated her comms laser, the small microphone slipping out of the couch with a metallic slither. "Pallas TC...Yep, got some custom components being made up, decided to come pick them up personally Say, where's a good place to get something to eat once I dock?" As she asked the question her stomach grumbled hungrily. She had enough sustenance, but the recyclers were so new that the protein paste they pumped out still tasted a little artificial. "Lets see uh...if you like Belta food, then there's The Blue Bottle on the Medina...if you're more into Inya...then theres a bar that does decent vat steak on the concourse, called The Saloon." The radio clicked off. Rachel was hunting for Protogen staff. Protogen never employed belters...well...except to experiment on. They would prefer inner food, and had the money to spend. "Taki taki kopeng. Slipstream out." The mic clicked away again, and Rachel watched as Pallas grew from a tiny glimmering pixel on her display to an almost spherical rock, covered in lights from the shipyards and docks. Steadily she guided the nimble ship into one of the gaping maw's of the stations huge docking facilities, letting it slowly fall into the docking waldo's that waited for it. As the reached out and latched the magnetic clamps onto the ship's ports, the vessel trembled. The crash couch pivoted slightly and she once again felt the light 0.3g that most belter stations were spun at. Rachel climbed up the ladder to the airlock, but not before stopping by her quarters. She looked in the mirror there. Her hair had grown longer over the months, she never really paid much attention to it considering how chaotic her life had been since her old Captain had died. She mulled it over in her head for a minute, before stepping into the compact head that joined her quarters and pulling out an electronic hair clipper. Several minutes later, much of her hair below the base of her skull was gone, the rest cut into a sharp bob clearly displaying the OPA tattoo on her neck. She nodded, satisfied then turned her attention to her clothes. As much as she loved her well worn yellow and black bomber jacket, she was aware how unique it was to her. Any pattern matching or recognition software would notice it and she couldn't afford to be found way out here on her own. Fishing around in the cupboard she found something that raised her eyebrows. A jumpsuit, white black and blue with the words Slipstream down the left sleeve, on the right side of the chest and on the back. It was made from a high tech polymer, soft yet vaguely stretchy. She undressed and pulled it on, after a zipping it up the suit made a click and tightened to her form, fitting her perfectly. That was something new...self fitting clothes. She pulled a black faux-leather jacket from the cupboard and threw it over, before strapping her belt back on, and slotting her hand cannon into the holster. Before leaving the ship, she checked the container of precious cargo she had brought with her. It still sat in its hiding space, rigged to detonate the ships reactor if anyone other than her touched it. She left the ship and ascended the step ladder into the dock, before locking the vessel behind her. --- Pallas was a busy station, considering its distance from the rest of the system. At two points during its orbit around Sol it passed through the belt. During this time the majority of its business, shipping and commerce was done. The rest of the time it swooped far below and above the solar plane, during this time the station worked on its primary exports, vessel construction, reactor bottle construction, uranium enrichment and the usual businesses that sprung up around hubs of commerce; brothels, casinos, bars and hotels. There were two main civilian zones on the station, one was the Medina, a middle-income area that primarily served the local belter population, and the Concourse, a up-market suburb that served the more wealthy segment of the population, inner corporate employees, executives, tourists and the like. Rachel knew she should eventually head towards the Concourse, however right now all she wanted as some red kibble and a beer and so she walked through the throng of people going through their shift change. Some were bright eyed and rested, heading off to work, others were tired, worn out or just in need of a meal after finishing their shift. Another third of the population wasn't visible, getting what sleep they could, or partying in the stations many nightclubs. Rachel turned into food joint, The Blue Bottle, recommended by the traffic controller on the way in. Walking towards the back she slotted into a booth and ordered her food and drink before leaning back on the plastic faux-leather seat and taking in the atmosphere of the place.