Docking AreaOutland Area B
A small spacecraft hovered low, its engines humming softly as it eased down and came to a careful stop just above the frozen ground. Pale vapor curled beneath its hull, disturbed by the heat bleeding from the thrusters. In the pilot's seat, Master White lifted one hand and formed a series of precise signs, fingers moving with practiced ease as he signaled their assigned docking number.
Despite the layers upon layers of security, landing on the ice world was still a drawn out ordeal. Scans overlapped scans, signals cross checked and delayed, every procedure stretched thin by suspicion. There was reason for it. Smugglers still found their way through the cracks, and this world had learned the cost of being careless.
"Docking area B234. After docking, prepare for inspection."
