He angled his ship towards the specified landing bay and tuned his comm frequency to that of the station. "E-4973A-NBWF requesting clearance to land at Bay 573A."
The scruffy man, who clearly had a problem with having to come to work today. He scratched his backside for a full minute before realization hit him in his drunken stupor.
He flipped the automated response program on and gulped down his beverage.
"E-4973A-NBWF, you are cleared to land. Enjoy your stay at Astral Astoria."
While the ship was timidly looking for an area to land that did not draw notice, the garbage pile in the northern corner seemed to move about, as if some animal was shuffling through taking advantage of the 'out of service' garbage detail.
He heard the snap hiss of the generators that kept the separation field in place dividing vacuum with the comfortable atmosphere within the hanger.
The switching from thruster to repulsor caught the ear of the one shuffling about and a snub nose poked out of the garbage and sniffed around.
A ship was landing!
The ship touched down softly onto its shields, resting on them for a moment before Jaxon decided it was safe to shut them down. The ship slowly settled onto its landing legs. Jaxon looked around once more before opening the canopy of his fighter. He lifted up the seat and pulled out...
But Ritchy had seen enough!
He scampered into a hole torn into the durasteel by something that never concerned the runt before. Whatever had done the damage was long gone and served as one of the many routes he used to rummage througout the station.
While Typhoid 7 was not generally recognized by those they considered their peers, like the locally famous and enigmatic Mr. Z, they laid claim to alot of areas (mostly by graffiti).
*
Scratch looked down at the squeeling Ritchy. "Are you sure?" he grunted in his Ugnaught language.
He turned to the other piggy nearby, "You know what this means?"
Preacher closed his black book and stood straight as if giving an audience the very damnation of the Ugnaught god itself, "It means the Golden Rule applies!" He paused for dramatic purposes before enlightening his listeners, "Those with the gold.."
"Pay a hanger tax!" Scratch gurgled back through his tusk tips and Preacher preened slightly as if hearing a pupil recite the 10 Suggested Rules of Appropriate Ugnaught Behavior.
Scratch was the leader of Typhoid 7, comprised entirely of Ugnaughts. These however, were not like their elders who worked tirelessly on Bespin. They were the rejects. They were 'freaks' of Ugnaught society, too small to interact with their own and yet too smart to be put in the retarted pens on their hidden homeworld, they were cast out by the hundreds to take their chances among the stars.
Some races might find such an act appalling opting to instead waste their government's resources in feeding, bathing, and generally housing such degenerates not suited for living among society in general. As it turned out, however, the act was completely Ugnaught in nature and saved their culture billions of buku which immediately went to supporting programs to help the lesser species of the galaxy to find out what they could do to obtain needed cosmetic surgery to transform their hideous noses into a proud, strong snout the 'piggies' sported.
Ugnaughts were short as it was without the birth defects Scratch and his brood lived with. And so, in light of their even smaller stature, the members of Typhoid 7 had to watch out for all types of dangers from the creatures dwelling in certain dark junctions to simply pest control droids that mistook them for real vermin.
The piggies moved quickly behind the walls that served as their own private corridors down and around levels to emerge from the same torn hole and into the garbage pile.
Their beady eyes stared out at the parked E-wing fighter.
Ritchy squeeled again and Snitchy looked nervous, bringing up the rear. "A droid is guarding the ..." he stared unsure.
Preacher took it in stride. "Two Ugnaughts the lord placed in the front of the Garden of Garbage with a flaming dagger spinning.."
Scratch looked at the Shifter and grunted. "Not a flaming dagger but .."
The piggy scampered to the shifter knowing from experience the state of equipment in this mostly deserted part of the station. He gave the shifter a swift kick and the lights suddenly went down effectively putting the machine out of order. It'll be hours till a tech comes down to look at it.
Now all they had to do was wait for the hanger caretaker to arrive to collect his fee for parking the fighter. With space at a premium even on a large station like the Astral Astoria, nothing came for free. Parking was paid for. And if one didn't want their craft broken into or 'jacked' they'd pay extra.
People used to living 'out of sight' most of the time understood this and had no problem paying.
Those that expected life to hand them stuff for free on a platter usually ended up dead and in trash piles like the ones the piggies were hiding in.
At that particular thought Scratch wrinkled his nose.
Was there a body in here?
He turned to Snitchy who's eyes suddenly widened. Snitchy looked nervous and gave Scratch his most honest smile which only made Scratch scowl distrusting the other piggy more. He suspected Snitchy's handiwork in some of the body's they run across and with the credits that he always seems to get but trying to prove anything was like trying to grap a piggy covered in hydrospanner grease. It just couldn't be done.
Every new visitor was a prospect for Typhiod 7 to make credits or enhance their reputations and connections. Usually they just took the credits.
"Snitchy, go get the rest of the gang. Preacher, make sure Cas (the hanger caretaker) adds our tax to the bill. Ritchy? You and I are going to ensure payment."
Ritchy rubbed his dirty mits together and squeeled a noise that meant nothing. Or at least the other piggies thought it mean't nothing. You never knew with Ritchy.