by CLL-MT9 » Mon Oct 08, 2018 1:41 pm
While a speck on the map compared to a never-sleeping coreworld ecumenopolis, lot of work got done at the spaceport before Noventa's long dawn. Ships arrived and landed with little direction from ground control and even less reference to the local time that governed work shifts. Worn-down infrastructure forced incoming traffic into a smaller number of convenient or viable landing spots. Attempts to re-establish the port’s former glory focused on security before efficiency -- your ship probably wouldn’t be robbed while it waited to be unloaded, but it would have to wait. All told, there was normally a backlog of cargo going to or from a dozen or more vessels by the time the earliest shift of stevedores showed up.
Larger and more established shipping outfits who made regular runs might have a corresponding crew of port-rats they worked with. Everyone else, ship-masters and workers alike, showed up every morning to the same dingy hall, once belonging to a Trade Federation-affiliated workers’ Local. It was marked by decades of both neglect and graffiti, some advertorial, some political, and some merely idle, and was lacking appointments save a few benches and spots for enterprising vendors to wheel in caf-stands and peddle breakfast to hungry or hungover working-beings. There people who needed cargo moved on or off ships haggled pell-mell with people who would move it, with the definition of “people” being wide enough to include a few droids, both freelance and being offered for hire by their owners.
Clementine caught a few jobs in a row, mostly from captains who frequented Noventa often enough not to be off-put by him, and the streets were fully light by the time he decided to give his servos a break and maybe try to find a public charging port (even machines tended to break down when worked without rest or care, much to the annoyance of some organics). While plodding down the streets between warehouses and landing pads and fields, Clementine looked around him, seeing if anything has changed -- a distinctive ship, a newly condemned or renovated building, an alien strain of music coming from a cantina.
While a speck on the map compared to a never-sleeping coreworld ecumenopolis, lot of work got done at the spaceport before Noventa's long dawn. Ships arrived and landed with little direction from ground control and even less reference to the local time that governed work shifts. Worn-down infrastructure forced incoming traffic into a smaller number of convenient or viable landing spots. Attempts to re-establish the port’s former glory focused on security before efficiency -- your ship probably wouldn’t be robbed while it waited to be unloaded, but it [i]would[/i] have to wait. All told, there was normally a backlog of cargo going to or from a dozen or more vessels by the time the earliest shift of stevedores showed up.
Larger and more established shipping outfits who made regular runs might have a corresponding crew of port-rats they worked with. Everyone else, ship-masters and workers alike, showed up every morning to the same dingy hall, once belonging to a Trade Federation-affiliated workers’ Local. It was marked by decades of both neglect and graffiti, some advertorial, some political, and some merely idle, and was lacking appointments save a few benches and spots for enterprising vendors to wheel in caf-stands and peddle breakfast to hungry or hungover working-beings. There people who needed cargo moved on or off ships haggled pell-mell with people who would move it, with the definition of “people” being wide enough to include a few droids, both freelance and being offered for hire by their owners.
Clementine caught a few jobs in a row, mostly from captains who frequented Noventa often enough not to be off-put by him, and the streets were fully light by the time he decided to give his servos a break and maybe try to find a public charging port (even machines tended to break down when worked without rest or care, much to the annoyance of some organics). While plodding down the streets between warehouses and landing pads and fields, Clementine looked around him, seeing if anything has changed -- a distinctive ship, a newly condemned or renovated building, an alien strain of music coming from a cantina.
