Freelance Traveller

Snake Oil Salesmen

by Thomas Barclay

This article originally appeared in the July/August 2024 issue.

Your crew land on a frontier planet with the most spartan of ports. To call it a port would be far better than it deserves; a flat corrugated sheeting shack, an outdoor privet, and a flat area of compacted earth does not constitute a port by any formal measure.

To your surprise, another small trade vessel landed here (a 100 ton vessel).

When you head into town (another exaggeration... village, thorpe, hamlet, whistle-stop… all would be more accurate (except whistle-stop would require trains)) to deal to pickup some reasonably worthwhile agriculturals and botanicals that this otherwise unremarkable place produces, you notice a couple of fellows in very fancy duds (like ‘last decade’s finest from a frontier Court’ sort of finery) and note that they have a self-propelled wagon setup with fancy billboards and lots of glitzy marketing.

You think nothing much more of it as you have to meet the individual farmers, haggle with them, arrange drop off at the ‘port’ on the morrow (and convince them they don’t need to gouge you on delivery), and then you have to talk to the ‘customs inspector’ (a.k.a. the village Reeve) to find out what sort of ‘customs fee’ he will want to not somewise interfere with the orderly movement of perishables onto your ship.

That night, the other ship lifts off. You, tired with the depleted freezers aboard, decide to head to the local pub (the one and only anywhere nearby) for dinner. The food is passable (the cooking not so much, but the fresh aspect is nice and the ‘Traveller’s Aide’ pill you took before coming here is bound to cover most common threats) and some locals get up to provide some music and singing and that’s surprisingly good compared to reruns of four year old holodramas on the ship.

About 9 pm, someone comes in looking very serious and aflutter and they head over to the bartender. Then said bartender appears to be pointing the new body towards you… you stand up as he begins to walk to you, just in case this situation is going to change contexts suddenly from ‘local colour’ to ‘fend off a beatin’’.

The individual is a young woman, as it turns out (hard to tell in a cloak), and she looks distraught. She seems both intentioned to approach you and reluctant at the same time—perhaps the latter from local mores.

“Sera, how may we help you this fine evening?” you ask.

The question seems to break the dam and she tells you that she knows you are busy and that the town has no call upon you, but that it is known that you folk from elsewhere that ride the fire have advanced medical capabilities.

That seems ominous. “Continue, Sera. What is the trouble?”

She explains that the other trader that was in town earlier, that lifted from the planet just before supper, had provided some ‘medicine’ that he indicated would cure gout, restore vigour, increase manly performance and a lady’s ardor, and that would help address many deficiencies of many vitamins and compounds that would lead to extended lifespans. He had charts, and pictures, and even a fancy floating picture that showed very erudite medical people in masks explaining the great benefits of this tonic.

“I see, Sera. And?” You are pretty sure how this is going, but details matter.

She says that many people shelled out top dollar to purchase this wonderful, new tech tonic. However, it must have been a bad batch, or perhaps our regular diet could be a cause of the problem, but almost everyone who has sampled it has been getting sick and runners are coming from all over the village and surrounds that call for the doctor and there’s only him and two assistants to deal with this. And being as this is some sort of new tech elixir, perhaps you might be able to help? Some folk are getting really, really sick very quickly.

You know your ship’s medic is likely better than the local doctor and you know the ship has some meds and some diagnostic tools and that a lot of your party have some first aid experience. And you know damn well that unspeakable grawlix sold them something horrible that’s making all these villagers sick while he and his cronies float on to the next backwoods planet, of which this sector has a vast surplus.

What do you do?

Do you take some patients to the ship for examination and treatment? Do you send out your crew with med skills to try to help the locals at their homes? Do you negotiate for a payment? Or do you head off in pursuit of the no-good grawlix and his rustbucket of a ship—you’d need to find out where he was headed next or be able to guess, but there’s only a choice or two and if he’s not staying anyplace longer than one day, he’ll be harder to find.

If you choose to stay, it will take some time and resources and you may not be able to save all of the locals.

If you need payment, the locals will offer up agricultural product (they have that).

If you try to chase the grawlix flim-flam man and his crew, you can maybe ask some locals if they overheard any names of places the showmen might be headed to next.

In the long run, one might expect a PC group to help the locals, do what they can, be upset at the hurt and any deaths, and feel like the ought to go after this travelling menace and his ‘new tech elixir’ (both with the notion of putting them out of business and of seeking redress for time and materials expended, lost revenues from decaying agroproducts in the hold, and so on).

Or, you can just push off and ignore the locals’ plight. More will die and get lasting injuries if the PCs do that, but it’s their choice. You might not be welcome here anymore thereafter though.

If you do help, you’ll get preferential treatment and pricing on subsequent trips. If you catch the guy and bring him to justice, you’ll drink free at the pub and Imperial authorities might reward you (you did deal with an interplanetary public health concern and that’s something they do care about).