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If you are to land on Trafalgar base, then take a lift down to the maintenance levels, walk down the main shaft for ten minutes, then turn off down one of the many engineering corridors that branch off it, after another five minutes of twisting and turning through the station's bowels, you may see a door emerge through the omnipresent steam and smoke. This door is unadorned save for a key-pad and the spidery lettering of the legend 'Buccaneers only'.

As a part of their deal with the Junkers, the Buccaneers rented this part of the station and had put it to their own uses. Behind the door was the Buccaneer's Bay, a well stocked bar where the Buccaneers could unwind after a hard day's work, or catch some sleep in one of the rooms out back.

The Buccaneer's Bay was an exclusive club John Morris, the 'security' ensured that. He was a towering monster of a man whose head near enough grazed the ceiling. His face was a mass of scar tissue, and his skull was strangely malformed where he'd had a metal plate implanted after being shot in the head a long time ago on Leeds. Many Buccaneers believed there were more augmented metal parts on him now than living bits. In short if the Buccaneers had any unwanted or uninvited guests their stay was short and messy.

Behind the bar (which was made from stolen goods crates, which had been relieved of their contents and replaced with booze) was Charles Johnson, a wry businessman. He maintained a notice board where items of import could be pinned.- usually target priorities and memos. The bar's profits paid his wages, and Captain Morgan got the rest.

John Crown sauntered up to the door, punched in the code, then gave the aged wood a hefty kick. It was renowned for sticking in it's frame, hence the additional force. On the other side John Morris had his dustbin-lid sized hand on his weapons holster, which looked like a toy in comparison to it's owner. Someone was going to have to buy him something more appropriate sooner or later.

As security John recognised Lieutenant John, what was possibly a smile broke over his face. It was hard to tell through all the scars. "S'good to see ya 'gain King" the giant rumbled. King was a nickname derived from the surname 'Crown'. Not particularly witty, but it worked.

"Yeah, it is" John replied, patting him on the arm (which sounded suspiciously metallic) as he walked past. The giant wrinkled what was left of his nose as his friend walked past and disappeared into the cloud of cigar and cigarette smoke that seemed to perpetually smother the place. His Waran had developed a problem after docking and had spilt a bucket-load of fuel all over him as he'd disembarked through the cargo bay.

He wandered over to the bar to greet the bartender, Charles Johnson, who somewhat resembled a ferret. "Y'right John? I'll get ya a drink." John slouched onto a chair, glad to be off his feet. The bartender placed a large mug of something that looked like rum on the counter as John dropped a few credit chits on the bar surface. "Whew, you smell like the inside of a Gas Miner's cargo pod... Shower's out back."

After landing his vessel a few moments before,

Thomas John Anderson, wandered down the dark passage-way, and ran right into the door of the Buccaneer's Bay, "Bloody hell..." He mumbled as he placed his hand on the key-pad then typed in the number.

He pushed open the door and was meet by a giant, who was aiming his weapon at him. "Uhm...Thomas John Anderson, Prospect..." Thomas quickly said raising his hands. John Morris smiled, seeing as he always played the same trick on Thomas, since they left Leeds.

"Hope I didn't scare you." Morris said laughing as Thomas wandered by with his head down. "No, you didn't scare me...you freaked me out more then that lass in Coronado. When I was waiting for the Cap'n." Morris nodded and slammed the door shut.

Thomas wandered straight to the same place he always sat, the random table that's completely out of the way. His area of relaxation, he sat down and leaned against the wall. "Bloody annoying day t'is turned out to be, and it hasn't fully begun yet!" He grumbled, to himself.

John wandered out of the backroom that contained the shower before peering around the room. He could smell a Prospect around here somewhere. Over in the corner there was a man with his back to him, sat in the shadows so as to try and stay out the way.

"Oi, you!" The man looked over his shoulder, which allowed John to get a look at his face. Yep - that was a Prospect all right; Anderson if he wasn't mistaken.

"Me?" Thomas said.

"Yeah. Got something I need you to do. Run up to landing bay and find out if them Junkers have finished fixing the fuel leak on my Waran. I want ta blow stuff up" John roared. The Thomas hauled himself to his feet muttering darkly, just quietly enough for the nearby Lieutenant to be unable to pick up what he was saying of course.

"And hurry up! If you ain't back before I've finished my drink, there'll be trouble, understand?"

Thomas shook his head as he walked out of the bar. "Back before he finishes his drink, the bloody fool will be out of it by the time I do get back." He mumbled as he headed down the corridor to the door, and the waiting John Morris.

"Leavin' already?"
"Nope. Lieutenant want's me to do something, check with the Junkers," He placed his hand on the handle and pulled hard. "Check with the Junkers to see if his ship was fixed to operational conditions."

Thomas proceeded out of the Buccaneer's Bay and down the long corridor to the shaft, hearing the heavy door shut behind him. "Gah, I forgot to tell him not to aim the pistol at me. Bloody hell."

Hangers...

"Oi! Lads, that Waran patched yet?"
"Who the 'ell are you?"
"A Buccaneer. Now answer my bloody question, is it patched?"
"Eh, hard to say, maybe if yo--"
"Get the bloody thing fixed." Thomas said annoyed and pulling out a credit chip, handing it to the Junker, who smiled and nodded. "She'll be ready before you come back."

"Bloody better be." He mumbled turning back and heading, back down to the Buccaneer's bay, again...

Trafalgar had once been larger, with habitation domes and commercial rings stretching out from the main spire. A shipyard and a smelting facility, everything a growing empire needed to scrape its way to ascendancy. Everything, that is, except for space. The Bretonian Bucaneers had the misfortune of setting up shop far to close to the Great House of Bretonia, and this was the same weakness as it was a strength: they had no need to go far afeild to draw in their lifeblood, but neither did the BAF have any sort of logistical problems reaching them.

In 565, the Bucaneers touched off a war with Bretonia by killing King William I, and by 589, the last of their people had been captured. A few fled to other nations, one family in particular to Crete, where they established the Blys Estate.

Trafalgar didn't stay long dead, of course. The combination of proximity to jumpholes and tradelanes made it too rich a spot for an outpost. Soon, beside the hulks of two Nessie Class Battleships, the Junkers would pressurize one concourse after another on the old hub. There were, perhaps, histories, buried somewhere here.

Catalina A Blys hoped so, as her gladiator scraped slivers of steel off the landing bay. She'd never been particularly good at setting down.

"You're going to pay for that, Ma'am" Station control said briskly, after outlining their depressurization schedule.

Soon after Anderson had come back with the news his Waran had been repaired, the two had left the bar (Thomas most unwillingly - he still hadn't had his drink) and prepped to fly out towards the Leeds system. a few minutes later they had undocked from the station and were gone for a fair while.


John staggered back down the maintenance corridors with a slight limp and blood seeping from a cut on his forehead. He stank of fuel again. Anderson was drifting along behind with a massive grin on his face. Kicking open the door again, John fell through the door, and was caught by one of Security John's massive paws.

"What happened to you?" He said peering shortsightedly at the gash on John's head. "Hur hur, if you get any more smacked up you'll end up looking like me." John managed a small smile that could have been grimace then righted himself and staggered on towards the bar before falling into a chair.

Charles put a bottle of spirits and a wad of cotton wool on the counter so that John could clear up the cut. "What happened to you?" He enquired, pouring a drink more out of habit than thirst. John glowered at him as he pressed the wool to his head to mop up the blood.

"Well, where to begin? It was that bloody Hunter! He's tried to get me before, with no success, but this time the little weasle had the odds stacked in his favour. Me and the Prospect stumbled across a transport without escort, so we grinned and got ready for some plundering. Of course, a little while later, still no cash and one of it's bloody escorts rocked up in a Roc bomber. We had a right little stand off going on.

"Things got worse however when that bloody Hunter turned up..." John stopped mid rant to gingerly poke the wound to see if it was still bleeding. Satisfied it wasn't he continued. "At this point, things got really tense. We weren't going to be able to escape, so all hell kinda broke loose. Both sides tried to engage the other first, at the same time, so it got a bit confusing. Needless to say we scragged the transport as a lesson then tried to make a break for it. Didn't go so well.

"Course, the Hunter has some kind of vendetta against me, so he made a bee-line for me while Anderson squared off against the now jobless escort. I tried to make a break for it, but the Hunter got me in a lock and squeezed off more missiles than I thought you could fit in one of their ships. Hence my current state. The Waran's a bit of a wreck as well... Anderson saved the day though. Single handed downed the Roc then forced the Hunter to bug out. I guess I owe him a drink or five for that..." John peered over his shoulder, searching for Thomas. He was back at his table minding his own business

"OI! Prospect, get over here!" He got up and wandered over with a resigned look on his face. "I owe ya a drink. Give him the most expensive one you've stolen Charles." Thomas looked a little surprised.

"Oi, it wasn't bloody savin' the day."

He said walking over and sitting down next to Crown. "Pirate Code number four, If any Buccaneer falls behind, shall be left behind, no exceptions to this." He grunted as Morris slapped him on the back roughly. "Was only tryin' to stay alive if you ask me. Good thing I did aswell, probably the first ship I've downed in my entire life. With that blasted Schimmy."

Schimmy, was his nickname for the Scimitar, the Light Fighter he was flying. Johnson slide one of the strongest ales down the table and Thomas grabbed it.

"What house?"
"That's from Gallia. Good wine if you ask me."
"Wine?"

He placed the mug to his lips and leaned it back, taking a sip. "Bloody 'ell that's good."

Captain Henry Morgan made his way down to the Buccaneer's Bay. After he punched the code in, he gave the door a hard shove, since it was sticking again. He made a mental note to get one of the Prospects to fix it. When he walked through the door, the Security guard put his hand on his sidearm, then quickly removed it when he saw who it was. Captain Morgan was one of the few people capable of looking John Morris directly in the eye, and was quite fearsome in his own way, with his tall stature, broad shoulders, wild black hair and full beard. Despite the full-length maroon leather coat, and tricorne hat (which some, quietly, considered an absurd affectation), he was clearly not someone to be trifled with.

"Welcome back, Captain!"

"Glad to be back. It was quite the day out there."

With that, Captain Morgan walked up to the bar. As he went through, every Buccaneer in the Bay treated him with deference and respect. The bartender quickly came over to where the Captain was.

"Glad to see you back, Captain! Good haul this time?"

"Indeed it was, Charles! Other than a Coalition pilot sending me a copy of the "Communist Manifesto", as if I'd be interested in that, and some bloke in a GMG bomber waving his manhood at me, it was a good day. My hold's full to bursting, though!

I wasn't in Leeds for five minutes when an IMG transport drops out of the lane. I gave him the usual chance to drop half his cargo if he cooperates, which he negotiated for credits instead. Since I figured that credits just saves us finding a buyer for his cargo, I asked for a million credits. At that, he tried to cut and run, but it was no use. He kept trying to run and fight, though, not recognizing that he was defeated already. Ended up having to blow up his ship. I managed to tractor in some of his fuel and the cargo that survived the destruction of the transport, and still managed to fill my hold. The boys up at the dock are unloading it now, and I figure that our usual fence should give us nearly the million credits I originally asked for.

Just as I was dealing with the transport, though, some Corsair lady came onto the scene. Didn't say much, and seemed content to mind her business. Just as I was going to see what she was about, that BPA bloke, Constable Dibley shows up on my scanner. Naturally, I cut in the cruise engines right away, leaving that Corsair to cover my exit. And a fine job she did, too!

This calls for some celebration. Drinks for everyone!"

"Aye, sir!"

As the bartender busied himself preparing the drinks, Captain Morgan had a look around to see who else was in, and maybe to see if he couldn't get himself a wench or two for the evening.

John was perched on a bar stool, chain smoking cigarettes and holding an ice-pack to his head, which was throbbing and now had a nasty looking blue bruise on it. An untouched drink from the Captain's celebratory round sat on the bar surface in front of him. He was in a fairly vile mood seeing as he had a headache that was giving him hell, and his Waran was going to be unflyable until Friday. And that was if he paid through the nose for premium technical service from those thieving Junkers! He decided he'd probably take it out on any Prospects that were hanging around. Anderson had probably earned a break though.

Wincing slightly he slid off the stool and hobbled over to the Captain. His leg was seizing up now. "Hey Captain. Dibley was back, eh? I wonder how many of his ships we're gonna have to chew through before he leaves us alone." The Captain looked like he was going to say something, but John continued anyway. "Also, that 'Sair woman. Want me to give the Junkers a kick and see if I can find out who she is?"