Back Before, nobody came to Roshu for their health.  It was a poisonous planet, the atmosphere full of sulphur, chlorine and arsenical compounds, the ground heavy with selenium and cinnabar.  The external temperature could cook eggs even near the poles, which was where all the habitats were.  The initial Roshu colony had been a small mining concern.  After Earth, a lot of refugees ended up there.  They lived out of their failing ships for a generation, while people built makeshift shelters on the ground or in orbit.  Some ships failed, some shelters did too, yet people kept arriving.  Roshu had been one of the few colonies that hadn't needed to encourage refugees to leave, but it was never going back to being a little mining colony.  Enough people stuck from the Polyaspora, and the same Throughways that brought the refugees also made Roshu a stopover for merchants and haulers.

The Vulture God erupted out of unspace, close enough to set Roshu's traffic control systems complaining, and Idris began bootstrapping the ship's systems and waking the others.  Roshu wasn't his favourite place in the galaxy, frankly.

Just about all human colonies had an AI kybernet to standardize legalities and trade within human space.  At Idris's request, Roshu's version confirmed docking privileges at the planet's single groundbound spaceport, Roshu Primator, and he began their approach.

Rollo strolled in, wearing nothing but white long johns and munching on a stick of something purple-flavoured.  He scratched idly at his paunch.  "You ###### up the approach again.  Careless, boy, careless."

Heritage had hailed them by then, wanting to take the Gamin out of the Vulture God's claws.  Money changed hands in the ghostly ether where the computer systems meshed.  Job done, and Idris was happy to be rid of the wrecked freighter and all its grisly contents, even happier to count the Largesse added to the Vulture's account.

Some of the older colonies still ran their own currencies but the Polyaspora had wrecked any wider human economy.  The entire fugitive culture had been living from day to day for decades on a barter-economy.  Largesse had started when people began swapping skills and services for whatever necessities could be gleaned.  Colony kybernets had formalized it into a credit system, at least nominally backed by Hugh.  It remained rough around the edges, intentionally shadowy, a cobbled-together system for a cobbled-together civilization.

"Well now, my happy little family," Rollo announced to the crew, as they levered themselves groggily from the suspension pods.  "I would love to tell you all we just got rich, but take docking fees, repair costs and the usual bribes out of it and we're all just very slightly better off.  Kit, Kris, Barney, Medvig: shore leave, one day.  Idris and Uncle Rollo are going to see a man about putting bread on the table.  Mesdam Olian, dearest of all my surrogate daughters, has drawn the short straw.  She will be minding ship for the first day, during which she will doubtless attend to various niggling matters of maintenance.  Those that do not require Menheer Barnier's technical acumen."