Cancer has its own special language, and fluency is its own reward. Everyone's talking to someone else, and it's crucial to remain connected.
For instance, Katya knows that a liner-class vessel called the Lucky Nomad will have docked one deck below the bulkhead storage unit she and her companions have occupied. Belova stationsides, all four of them. The term is somewhat pejorative, as if they ought to be preparing to shoot at people from their ships instead, like the respectable types downstairs. The room's bare except for a few maintenance lockers, and that's not what they're here for.
"Noam and... whoever you are... take the doors."
Katya's distracted, thinking about the past few months. During the Aedolis military exercise near Libra, refugees and paramilitary forces aboard the station were calling for weapons by the cargo hold, and she'd done a brisk trade in intel as well. Then the ships mysteriously turned around and left, marking a notable downfall in business for anyone who'd invested in arms on Cancer.
In response, the Belova syndicate rented several dozen stationside pirates, turned them loose in one of the warehouses, and pushed their way into the casino permit industry. Today, when someone wants to start anything more than a basement poker game in Red District, they look at how much it will cost. This blanket term encompasses the actual rental of the space and the necessary permits and fees required to keep the operation running smoothly. Usually, it's a percentage of income, to scale for growth. Katya and the upstairs bureaucrats split this tax evenly.
That's where the casino liner comes in. Some enterprising individuals decided to put together a fund and purchase a nice, luxurious vessel with genuine Karidja leather upholstery, fancy card tables, maybe a dice game or two, but keeping everything classy. The Belova family's not quite sure who they are yet, but it's common knowledge that every once in a while they dock, take on a few new high-rolling passengers, and leave for another cruise. Katya, naturally, doesn't get paid. Neither does the station.
Bringing her attention back to the storage unit, she motions to the man closest to her, who shrugs a tall, angular backpack off his shoulders and unzips it. While he's working, she opens a hatch in the bottom of the storage unit. The ship has indeed landed in the private hangar below them. Definitely the right one, with the irresponsibly large glass windows.
"Shit," laughs the pirate with the backpack unprofessionally, eying its contents.
He removes a long, sleek-looking weapon with a titanium cone on the muzzle, a sonic pulse generator intended for crowd control and fragile component disruption. It's in late development, but Thanatos Arms has never had a problem with contracting out the field testing to Katya. It's part of a working business relationship. The others retrieve earplugs from the backpack, unwrapping them from their plastic shrink-wrap. Katya does likewise.
SPG Merc crouches beside the maintenance hatch, pointing the device downwards, closing the hatch as far as it will go. The gun has been preset to a very specific frequency. Merc slips a pair of very industrial-looking sound suppression pads over his ears. Everyone else steps back. The casino boys won't be happy about the new, unspaceworthy state of their precious windows, and Katya sincerely hopes they'll stop by her office to have a chat about it.
Her mercenary pulls the trigger, an unstable smirk on his face.
