Mossfoot's Tales of Woe...

[mossfoot]

Mossfoot? Mossfoot?

I’d been trying for days to contact him, and I hadn’t heard as much as a grumpy yawn anywhere inside our head.

I refused to accept the idea that he was gone, but there was simply nowhere for him to be. Right up until I was released the doctors said they weren’t picking up anything from the central part of the brain, and only mild readings from the cerebellum and brainstem. I couldn’t exactly tell them about me, given MF’s recent concerns as to whether or not I’d be deemed illegal AI tech. So I had to play along, and accept their explanation that perhaps the implant wrapped around the brain (ie me) was interfering with their readings.

But it was entirely possible that Mossfoot was gone. Best case scenario was that he was in a coma. The upshot of this was that I was keeping his body alive and in shape in the meantime. I had to hold onto that small bit of positivity.

I was faced with the possibility of having my own life again. I’d died before of a degenerative disease, my body is still drifting in my old Cobra MKI off the shoulder of Orion. This transplanted consciousness (or reasonable facsimile) had been MF’s way to survive being alone.

Now I was the one who was alone. I didn’t even have Dumbass anymore.

I’d always left the cat back at the station before going out on a combat run, and when I finally got out of the hospital and checked on it in our rented room, the dumb furball was nowhere to be found. Must have snuck out as I was leaving. By the time I tracked it down, it turned out Dumbass had already been adopted by a six year old girl who called it Mrs Piddles and dressed it in a bonnet.

I didn’t have the heart to take it from her. The cat had been through enough with us anyway. Humiliation aside, she’d have a safer and more stable life with a proper family. Dumbass didn’t have anything with me. Heck, I didn't have anything anymore. No family, no friends (I tended not to show up around MFs friends, too damn confusing after a while), just a ship and a body I didn’t even deserve.

Sure, I wanted a body again, to be my own person…but not like this. It wasn’t fair to Mossfoot, and when you got right down to it, it was my fault.

Scratch that. It was Javert’s fault.

That man had crossed the line. But revenge and obsession can go both ways, my friend. You’d best hope I learn forgiveness and soon, because unlike Mossfoot, I do not care if I end up being wanted in Gateway, or the whole goddamned Alliance. I see you again, Officer Dillon, I’ll show you how big a mistake you made. I’ll go straight up Wrath of Khan on your ass, and everyone who flies with you. And unlike Khan, I won’t monologue, trying to drag things out and savour it. My ship’s got high-speed recorders and instant replay for that.

If you hear or read this, I’ve got one piece of advice for you. Run.

[Diziet Sma]

Woohoo! One nice thing about taking an extended leave of absence.. several pages of new Mossfoot stories to read!

Good stuff!

[mossfoot]

Always nice to be appreciated

[mossfoot]

The story began with Mossfoot's Tales of Woe...
It continued with Mossfoot's Continuing Tales of Woe...

Now we have Violet's Tales of Whoa!

For those new to this, you can find my earlier collections here (nicely formated and easily converted for ebook reading):

Mossfoot's Tales of Woe: https://www.dropbox.com/s/l86aerg2q4rir ... e.doc?dl=0
Mossfoot's Continuing Tales of Woe: https://www.dropbox.com/s/0avbs5d8p2slt ... e.doc?dl=0

_________________________

Violet's Tales of Whoa!
Book Three of the Mossfoot Muckabouts


My name is Violet Lonsdale and I’m worried I might be dead.

Actually I am dead. Very. I can show you my corpse, it’s still in my old ship floating around a dead planet in a star system off the shoulder of Orion.

But I’m still alive, sorta, depending on your definition.

I’d been diagnosed with a terminal illness over a hundred and fifty years ago, and my friend was so distraught and unable to imagine going on without me as a companion that he asked this strange Order of medical monks to do the impossible.

Fortunately for him, these guys did the impossible five times a day. Unfortunately for him, four of those times also turned out rather disastrously.

My friend was one of the lucky one-in-fives. He’d been left for dead before, his Fer-de-Lance blown out of the sky by Navy Vipers that his own father’s second-in-command had sent after him…long story.

They’d recovered his body and managed to bring him back to life using some experimental technology. The Order Brother Mathias belongs to is big on experimental technology, especially when it comes to saving a life.

So he figured the Order might be able to do something for me. It turned out they couldn’t save my body but they thought they might be able to save my mind, and transfer it at the point of death to piggy back along on my friend’s.

It worked—after a fashion. It took a while for the connections to manifest themselves, and then there was this whole incident where we both ended up floating dead in space for a hundred and fifty years. Neither of us are clear on the details, but whatever lead up to that resulted in his face getting badly burned and scarred—and if you knew how vain this man was you’d know how much that ticked him off.

Lucky for him the technology that saved his life before was still holding up. No way his body should have been recoverable after such a long time, but it was. He was a medical marvel, and yet the doctors only kept him in a short while to run their tests and wonder about the weird organic circuitry that covered his brain like a wet napkin.

That’s me, by the way.

We were released and in time I woke up and became a part of his life again. It was an odd partnership to say the least, especially once it turned out I could control his body when he was asleep.

I also had my own share of existential crisis to deal with. Am I Violet Lonsdale, or just a reasonable facsimile? Am I sentient, or just a simulation? My friend told me that the fact I asked those questions should be enough to give me my answer, but couldn’t you program a simulation to feel angsty?

I don’t know. I still don’t. I remember dying, slipping away, even my last breath. I was plugged in at the time, and could also feel myself being elsewhere—both in my body and my friend’s. The idea was that everything that was me would be saved right up to the point where my brain died and the cord could be disconnected.

In theory, I am Violet. I’m just using different hardware. In fact? I dunno.

The world we woke up in was different than the one we left, and it took some time getting used to how things worked, but we did all right for ourselves, eventually earning ourselves a pristine Imperial Clipper right off the factory line…

…okay, so we stole it. Relax, the owner was a jerk anyway.

But in going about doing our business we ended up making some enemies, the worst of which was an Elite pilot working for the Alliance named Officer Dillon, who saw us as a thorn in the Alliance’s goals and held a grudge like nobody’s business.
Long story short—even though we were on the same side he blew us out of the sky. We managed to eject, but once at the station medical facility I soon learned there was no “we” anymore. Only I.


My friend’s name is Mossfoot and I’m worried he might be dead.

[mossfoot]

Adaptation

I actually wasn’t intending to continue these stupid journal entries, to be honest. That was Mossfoot’s thing. He just sucked me into it now and then.

At first it was a kind of therapy, I think. A way to vent about the unfair hand he’d been dealt in life. Then, when he noticed people were listening to him, I think he got off on the minor fame it gave him. By the end, I think he just forgot how to stop.

So why am I continuing it? Also as a kind of therapy, I guess. Maybe it’s like what they say about coma patients, that talking to them helps keep the brain stimulated. Maybe that’s what I’m doing. Or maybe it’s because when I’m doing these journals Mossfoot doesn’t seem gone for a while. I don’t know.

Let me start off with my own little whinge fest and just get it out of the way.

Now I’m not going to say that life dealt me an unfair hand. I had a good life, a good death, a second life I by all rights didn’t deserve, and now my own body that I truly didn’t deserve. I have no right to complain about anything.

But…

There’s no two ways around this. I’m a woman, and I’m in a man’s body. This sucks, for many reasons.

First off, there is hair EVERYWHERE. I mean, jeeze, if I shaved this body I swear I could make tiny toupes for a thousand gnomes. I’m not saying MF was excessively hairy. Far from it. Before the accident he was a handsome guy. It’s just compared to my old body I feel like I’m cosplaying as a Yeti.

Contrary to what you might think, the fact I’m gay does not help matters at all. Just because I’m attracted to women in no way means I ever wanted to be a guy. I liked my old body. A lot. I kept in good shape, and, while I’m not narcissistic like MF was, I did think I cut a fine figure in the mirror.

I often used that fact to my advantage in my work. Well, those days are long gone. I accidentally flirted with a guy I was pumping for information out on Eleu recently, and you should have seen the look he gave me. So, yeah, my love life? Fuggedaboudit.

The fact my face now looks like it was run over by a runaway barbecue doesn’t help matters. The luchador mask can only do so much. It’s gotten to the point where I blanked out my face on my pilot’s license. Fortunately you’re allowed to do that these days – genetic scanning right on your license has made picture IDs largely optional.

So, yeah, this body isn’t exactly my first choice for a replacement.

Then there’s the…equipment. Look, I don’t want to get into details, kids might be accidentally reading this, but let’s just say that when it comes to bodily functions you expect things to work a certain way. Getting used to having a runaway fire hose to deal with takes time. I also feel like I’d held my breath so hard that my junk went from being an innie to an outie, which is confusing on so many levels.

Upsides? Well, there’s no doubt that MF was in good shape. He’s stronger than I was, though I was more agile and could definitely run faster. When practicing martial arts I’ve had to adapt my style to take this into account. Not bad or anything, just different.

I think MF might have slightly better eyesight than I did. I didn’t need corrective surgery or anything, but I swear his vision is better than 20/20. Wonder if he got that worked on back when he still had a trust fund? I may have had better night vision, though. It’s hard to tell through memory.

Our reflexes are about the same, so my piloting skill is on par with what it was before. So at least once I’m in the cockpit I can feel like my old self again. Which probably explains why I’ve been spending so much time there lately.

That’s about it. Now that I got all that off my chest, I can move on. It’s time to accept my life for what it is and simply make the most of it. There’s just one last thing I have to do first. I’m not the most sentimental person, but I need to say this now and get it over with so I don’t feel guilty if I don’t repeat it every other entry.

I miss you, Moss. That won’t change. Remember that.

There. Done. Moving on. Next time: what happened after I left the hospital.

[ClymAngus]

Ah, it is good to see you out and about sir, it would appear that we merry few are fiction at this time. Which is fine. We are but place holders for greater fictions to come! Still it is good to have a differing style to bounce off! For many brush stokes make a picture. Long may this joyous folly continue.

[mossfoot]

Rise of the Troubadour

When I was let out of the hospital, I couldn’t help but think something was wrong. It reminded me of how Moss described what happened when they found and resuscitated his body, something that shouldn’t have been possible after a hundred-plus years, even if it was preserved in the vacuum of space.

Then, as now, the doctors performed a number of tests, were puzzled by the results, and then just let us go. I can only attribute it to the fact that given the thousands of different worlds with different technologies out there, and the trillions of people that make up the human inhabited bubble getting in different kinds of trouble, it gets to a point where you just stop being surprised anymore. It would probably take a Thargoid bursting out of my chest, singing “Hello, my baby!” to get a rise out of them—and only then if they’ve never seen Spaceballs.

Ah. I should point out, while Mossfoot was an English major, I dropped out of college to seek adventure, at first as a stuntwoman for the vid circuit. That got me interested in movies in general, to the point where you could call me a cinephile. So while MF often spoke with literary references or famous passages, the only way you’ll hear me quote Shakespeare is if there was a decent movie adaptation of it.

Truth be told, my time as a ghost in Mossfoot’s meat machine gave me time to correct that problem. In my downtime when I wasn’t looking through MF’s eyes I had a virtual “room” I could hide out in. Something Brother Mathias programmed in to keep me from going mental and suffering cabin fever from spending too much time with him. It looked like a 18th century library, filled with every significant book written up to 3200, and had a sun room I could sit out on and read in.

Obviously not every book occupied actual space in the library, otherwise the library would have been the size of a city. The way I figure it, the library was just for show. If I knew what I was looking for, I’d find it on the shelf in an instant. If I was browsing, the books would be random, but based on what I was in the mood for. There was also a catalog where I could search for things—again, no doubt interacting with what I thinking about. I think Google came up with something like this back around 2050, before they took over that third world nation.

I read a lot of books while I was with MF, but between you and me most of them were ones I’d already seen as movies.
I lost access to the library after the incident. It’s just not there anymore. I can’t mentally project my residual self-image the way I used to, either. Not that I’d want to. That was for Mossfoot’s benefit more than mine, though it was nice to see my old self again.

So no more ghost. I am the meat machine now. And I’ve got a lot of work to do.

*****

Getting a replacement Clipper wasn’t easy. After all, how do you insure a stolen ship? MF had taken steps to cover his tracks before we left on our last exploration trip, and by the time we got back our Clipper’s history should have been clean and untraceable.

In theory.

In fact if the insurance company wanted to look over the wreckage and make a fuss, they probably could have found plenty of reasons to deny the coverage. With most ships they probably wouldn’t bother—ships blow up by the thousands. The economy depends on it (MF has a theory of how the economy of the galaxy is in fact based on constant ship production).

The difference here is a Clipper is not a cheap ship. It’s also a very exclusive ship—only Imperial citizens of a certain naval rank are allowed access. So that means to get a replacement ship requires verification of owner and purchase. So that meant I was screwed.

Or so I thought. Turns out I had an extremely good bit of luck, as my request for a replacement Clipper came on the heels of the celebration over the Emperor's restored health. The old fart had been on death’s door for some time in an attempted assassination, and now that he was up and about again, people down in the Empire were going nuts.

One of the ways they were celebrating was removing the restrictions on Clipper ships—anyone in good standing with the Empire could buy one. As a result, the insurance company had no problem providing a replacement. And if I ever lose this one I won’t have to worry if there’s a fire sale going on.

I named my new ship The Troubadour. Kind of a round about way to honor MF’s English degree and literary pretentions. I think he always saw himself as a bit of a travelling storyteller, truth be told. And if I’m doing more or less the same thing, well, it just sounds like a good name to me.

The question now was: what was I going to arm it with to kill a certain Alliance officer?

Oh yes. I do indeed hold a grudge.

*****

When I was shot down I had been testing weapon loadouts on the Clipper for a weapons manufacturer. Most were useful, some not so much. I continued this testing on my own now, hoping to find the perfect combination of death and destruction I could rain down on Officer Dillon. All you random pirates, Mahon supporters in 39 Serpentis, or civil war scrubs that got in way at Gateway? Your sacrifices for science are duly noted.

Funny thing is, at the end of the day it just made sense to keep things simple. Class 3 beams and Class 2 multicannons. Burn the shields, shred the hull. When you’re in a dogfight you can’t waste time lining up for a perfect shot with a cannon, particle accelerator or railgun. You want to keep the pressure on, and your energy use low.

So while she might not have a fancy weapon loadout that impresses people with big explosions, The Troubadour is kitted out the way it should be: to get the job done as quickly as possible.

Unfortunately, my hunt for Officer Dillon would have to wait. That’s when the Cerberus Plague hit.

[mossfoot]

Three Headed Monster

Dajoar, 20 Ophiuchi, Eleu. Three systems, one plague. The media was calling it the Cerberus Outbreak, which I assumed referenced the three headed dog that guards the gates of Hades (learned that from the Harry Potter movies). Although it was referencing a strange three-pronged structure on the “head” of the phage-like organism, it could just as easily have applied to the fact it had hit three very closely connected systems.

And there was no way to save them all.

That’s what got me headed into that part of independent space. Not because it could be stopped, but because it seemed it couldn’t. If it had seemed like everything was under control and well in hand, I’d have let the space truckers who get off on ferrying crap from A to B handle it.

But when I saw the amount of supplies needed, and the amount actually incoming, my heart fell into my gut.

The Federation and the Empire both have warships the size of space stations. Either one could have loaded up one of those with medical supplies and helped out. But they didn’t. All the posturing going on between the two meant that neither side could afford to keep their battleships away from their assigned maneuvers. And the Alliance has no true navy or warships.

So it was up to the rest of us to try and make a difference, to stop it from becoming a pandemic, and we never stood a chance.

Hanging out in a coffee shop at Tellus, near Gateway, I overheard some traders discussing cargo strategy.

“The local systems are tapped. I’ll never load Bessie at any of them.”

“Asgaa is only a couple jumps away. I heard they still have plenty of basic meds and progen cells. Even tons of agricultural medicine.”

“Agrimeds? What good is that?”

“Hey, don’t ask me. They’re buying it all at top credit. I think they’re taking the agrimeds and trying to modify it at the base chemical level into something for humans. They’re that desperate.”

“Have you seen what Cerberus does to people?”

“They’re not even sure how it spreads.”

“I’d gladly take anything if I thought it might help.”

One of the guys got a sly look on his face at that comment.

“Say… maybe we could get something harmless, like sugar water, and...”

“You shut the hell up.”

“Dude, I will space you myself if you finish that sentence.”

“Sorry. I’m just deep in the hole with the Bank of Zaonce. Half a mill I need to pay back.”

“Yeah, well, you’ll make that back and more with the legit stuff. Don’t go to the dark side, dude.”

I smiled at that. MF and I might have different tastes in storytelling, books vs movies, but we both appreciate stories that stand the test of time. It’s fitting that George Lucas has a space station named after him. Just like H.G. Wells, I guess.

It was also heartening to see people join up and try and make a difference, even though the demand could never be met. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t help.

While the traders were far from organized, it seemed most of them had decided to focus their efforts on Eleu. So that’s where I went. The Troubadour might not go as far as some ships, stuck around 18 or so LY depending on cargo, but even in my current battle configuration she could carry over a hundred and fifty tons of cargo.

That battle configuration turned out to be rather useful. It wasn’t long before pirates started showing up, preying on traders bring medical aid. Some weren’t even there for loot—they had their own bizarre reasons for wanting the plague to continue and simply destroyed anyone they interdicted.

Ordinarily that wouldn’t be a concern to me. I was in a Clipper, after all. The only ship that could compete with me for speed was a Cobra.

One pirate in a Fer De Lance was left gaping as I boosted away from him. Guess some of Moss’s pragmatism had worn off on me. But the fact is if you’re getting stopped by a FDL, you can bet it’s armed to the teeth and isn’t looking for a fair fight.
Most of the time I danced with the pirates and showed them the error of their ways, but it didn’t take long for them to get smart. Instead of interdicting one-on-one, they formed up in wings. And instead of using slow ships with big firepower, they started taking Clippers as well.

One such group, calling themselves Triadius, just would not stop interdicting me—and with two Clippers working in concert, along with a Python for heavy support, managed to drive me off. I came back later and made my delivery, these guys being distracted by some other hapless trader long enough to break through. Ultimately they were more of a pain in the butt than an actual detriment.

In the end, I managed to drop off over two thousand tons of medical supplies at Eleu, and a few hundred tons at the other two hot spots, but I fear it was a drop in the bucket. On my last run I had to put my shields up while I unloaded the cargo—a mob had formed in the hanger, and I was afraid of what they might do.

They had that look in their eyes. The look of people trying to save their loved ones and with nothing left to lose. Eventually security came in and broke them up, so I was able to transfer the cargo over to the proper medical authorities. But seeing that mob eye the canisters being carted off? I wonder if the loaders even made it to the hospital.

Emotionally as well as mentally drained, I returned back to Gateway, dreading to see the next GalNet update on the plague.

[mossfoot]

Funeral Ship

I tried to ignore GalNet, but couldn’t. Reports of the spread of the disease only made me feel worse, like I didn’t do enough. Key facilities on most stations in the three systems were no longer available, and all signs pointed to things getting worse in the near future. I could have done more. I should have done more.

What am I even trying to do, though?

I used to be a hard-core dedicated bounty hunter. It was never just about the money, though. I made sure the people with prices on their heads deserved what they were getting. I justified myself thinking that if Cmdr A-Hole gets spaced, that means a hundred fewer pilots and passengers are going to get killed by him. It was all about the books and numbers, and I always kept my figures in the black.

When I met Mossfoot I kind of left that life behind. Double crossed by my employer (well, to be fair I double crossed him first… I’d been hired to kill Moss and didn’t finish the job. Long story, one which MF already talked about at length), we ended up working together and I started to think there was more to life that keeping my books in the black.

Mind you that doesn’t mean I don’t still enjoy showing off my combat skills, just that there is more to life. I’m just not sure what.

On the way back to Gateway I checked out an unidentified signal source near a star. Probably nothing. Usually just traders with temporary supercruise problems. Sometimes it’s a wreck. Heck, I stumbled on a wedding once. Not this time.

A massive T9 cargo ship loomed in front of my screen, flying in a wing formation with five smaller T6s. They were heading in normal space towards the star, on a course that would have them crest the corona if they ever reached it.

“From the stars we came. From the stars we return. We therefore commit these bodies to the deep.”

A white capsule dropped from the T9’s cargo hold. A small burst from a solid fuel rocket flared and just as quickly died, leaving the capsule to drift on towards the star.

“Captain Mellissa Spano.”

Another capsule dropped and flared.

“Lieutenant Commander Sasha Zuma.”

I’d stumbled on a funeral, for a number of pilots it seemed. Nothing to see here. I turned my ship away as discretely as possible, not wanting to disturb the service.

“Commander Richard Finch.”

I didn’t want to jump right away, though. Better to get a good distance first.

“Lieutenant Itsuki Koizumi.”

So why was I flying so dang slow. Why was I still listening to the comm channel?

“Petty Officer Frederick Booth.”

Why was this bothering me? Why hadn’t I jumped to supercruise yet?

“Petty Officer Danielle Davidson.”

Why was I having trouble looking at the displays? Why were they all blurry?

“Petty Officer Moe Atwal.”

I noticed one of the T6s break off formation and bank right. Missing man.

My jaw was so tight by now it was aching. I was angry. I was sad. I felt helpless. I wanted to punch something.

At that moment a Vulture appeared and opened fire on the convoy.

“Die, heretic scum! Blasphemers! Followers of a false god! Die!”

I had drifted far enough away that I probably didn’t appear on his radar, but mine were top of the line.

Without thinking I turned and boosted back towards the funeral ship. The T6s didn’t stand a chance in a fight, and the T9 was an only slightly better armed sitting duck.

“Break formation. Return to base! Abort service!”

“Negative on that, Funeral Ship. Leave him to me.”

The Troubadour’s beam lasers burned into the Vulture’s shields, giving him something serious to worry about. It broke off picking on one of the T6s and was forced to turn its attention to me. I checked this guy’s rating: Dangerous.

Dangerous. That’s cute. But in a past life, I was Elite.

“You dare side with the unbelievers? You can burn as well!”

I wasn’t the only one with dual C3 beams, it seemed. He peeled off a ring before I could drift behind him, turning off my flight assist to get a better angle of attack.

“Do you want us to call for assistance?” the funeral leader asked over comms.

“Negative. You show your respect to the dead. This guy won’t bother you much longer.”

Twin multicannons added what they could to the damage output—I could afford to waste the ammo—and I had his shields down before he could pop a shield cell to recharge it.

The fight didn’t last long after that.

Funny thing was, I never found out what this guy’s beef was, or what kind of civil war was going on in this system that had his panties in a bunch. I didn’t even know if the other guys were stand up citizens. For all I knew they were slavers or working for an oppressive regime.

But at that point in time, it didn’t matter. Respect was due, and by God respect would be given. For those of us who had spent most of our lives in space, we all knew we’d end up like this someday. In the end, we all die alone. But we deserve to be remembered, if only for one brief moment by a handful of people.

The Vulture popped, but I noticed something unusual. The ejection seat was still in the debris. I’d hit the cockpit, and the remains of the pilot rolled gently among the wreckage.

“Thanks for that,” the T9 pilot said. “We owe you.”

I flew in closer and opened the cargo bay, scooping up the dead pilot.

“Request permission to join formation.” I said.

“Pardon? Wait. You don’t intend to…”

“I do.”

“After what he tried to do?”

“I’d like to think we’re better than that, sir.”

A pause. “Request granted. Form up on the port wing.”

I did so. Once there I opened the cargo bay again.

“From the stars we came. From the stars we return. We therefore commit this body to the deep.”

I accelerated a bit, dropped the ejection seat, and slowed down back to formation, letting it drift on ahead like the others.

“Pilot Dumbass,” I said.

It’s not like I knew his name, and my sense of respect only goes so far.

The formation turned away from the star and started heading back to the local station. I stayed with them for a while, saying nothing until it was time to jump to supercruise, at which point I rolled The Troubadour side to side in a salute and jumped away to the next star system.


(image)
https://forums.frontier.co.uk/attachmen ... 1437667412

[mossfoot]

Deep Thought

The encounter with the funeral ship had affected me deeper than I realized. I didn’t feel right behind a combat ship right now. I didn’t feel clean anymore.

I’d always tried to live by a code I thought was honorable, to do good in my own way. It’s like the Old West in some parts of the galaxy, and without people willing to do what it takes to keep people safe, a whole lot of innocent people get hurt.

That’s how I justified my life as a bounty hunter. Justified being the key word.

It was a rationalization. I was a thrill junkie, I was a damn good pilot, bounty hunting pays very well, and I hate bullies. Note that what you might call morality is at the bottom of the list there. I talk about what’s right, but in the end I did it because I got off on it.

In the end, I killed people because I enjoyed it. Deserving it was a secondary consideration.

Flying alongside the freighters, honoring the dead, I remembered my own grave floating near Orion. The paint on my Cobra MKI had been bleached white, making it look not unlike the caskets launched by the T9. And my mummified corpse looked out over a dead world it would never touch.

Before this I had been somewhat dormant in Moss’s head, only able to break through in his dreams or times of severe stress. Moss had trouble remembering the past up to that point. But seeing what was left of me there allowed him to remember, and for me to finally break through.

I guess you could say it was when I stopped being a memory, and came back to life.

And what do I do with my new life? Start looking for reasons to kill people again. I weaseled it into MF’s life on the side, assuring him he’d be safe, that I needed the practice, and, of course, that the people I was gunning for deserved it.

What a way to blow a second chance.

I had to try something different. I had to find meaning in my life beyond fighting.

I brought The Troubadour back to Dublin Citadel and docked her. It was a good ship, quite possibly a great ship, but it wasn’t the ship I needed to be behind right now. This was a war machine, and if I kept flying her, I’d keep finding reasons to shoot things down in her. She was part of me, but we needed some time apart.

“Put her into deep storage,” I told the dock worker. “I’ll be back for her soon.”

I brought up the station’s ship registry and searched for a familiar name. The ship Mossfoot and I had shared together for close to fifty thousand light years.

Viaticus Rex II.

[mossfoot]

A Low Down Dirty Fuel Rat

Viaticus Rex II is a Lakon T6 transport retrofitted for exploration duty. Mossfoot had her kitted out to reach 28 light years in a single jump, and still had enough spare room in the cargo hold to outfit some home-like comforts. One of the Class 5 cargo bays had been converted into a gym, while the other was an entertainment center. He made it downright homey considering this is essentially the space equivalent of an old Earth 18 wheeler.

We’d taken the VRII on a couple of expeditions – the first of which landed him some unwanted notoriety with Lakon and a startup terraforming/colonizing corporation called Odyssey Expeditions. Moss had found a series of star systems close to one another with massive amounts of easily plucked resources and inhabitable worlds—several earth like, and a half dozen more easily terraformed.

Odyssey Expeditions bought this information from Universal Cartographics and noticed it had all been found by one man, and Lakon noticed that this had been done in one of their most basic no-frills ships.

And it wasn’t long before the two tracked MF down and threw a crap load of cash his way, with an idea to use him as a spokesman for exploration, especially to appeal to the next generation of budding pilots. His face was a problem, though, so they came up with the idea of using a luchador wrestler’s mask (it scored well with the 13-19 demographic) and a catchy nickname: Ranger M.

Moss had a brief but colorful career as Ranger M, having spoken at some conferences and banquets, press conferences, and consultation on a potential Ranger M cartoon series meant to help inspire school kids to become pioneers.

Of course, he blew it.

High on his own success he got drunk, bought himself an Asp with his new fortune, kitted it out to the gills, then followed some merc to a warzone and got himself blown up. Good thing the ejection system is automated and no longer based on pilot reflexes, otherwise the dumbass would have been spacedust, and me along with him.

I hated the damn mask, though, and refused to wear it, but if I was going to go exploring, I guess I owed it to Mossfoot to put it on for a little while. He really loved the Ranger M persona, while it lasted.

*****

“Mossfoot! How ya doing? Long time, ya bastich!”

I’d been travelling down through the bubble and was currently in Imperial space. I had a quarter mill accumulated in bounties with the Empire while hunting pirates in the Alliance, and I figured now was as good a time as any to cash it in.

I’d just docked Viaticus Rex II and was heading to the pilot’s lounge when I was pounced on. I hadn’t expected to meet any familiar faces, however. Space is big—unbelievably big. The odds that I’d run into a familiar face should have been close to nil, and in fact kind of still were, because nothing about this guy was familiar.

The man looked like he’d stepped out of an Anarchy world in a war machne built from the wreckage of other ships. Black mohawk, handlebar moustache, and a small tattoo over one eye. He looked happy enough to see me, but his face told me he was more prone to scowling.

Okay, so this guy knew me but I had no clue who he was. I must have been asleep or reading when they’d hung out. So the question was how to fake my way through this and avoid a doppleganger-check from this guy. Unfortunately MF is the born fibber and flim-flammer, I just flub things up.

“Hi, uh… you.”

“Still wearing that Ranger M mask, huh? Well, it’s a sight better than your real mug, am I right?”

I decided just to be myself, hope things worked themselves out. “You’re not wrong. But I’m just wearing it until I’m out of inhabited space. Going on another expedition.”

“Nice. I knew you’d be heading out of the Bubble someday. You Ratted up?”

Okay, now he was just speaking gibberish. “Sorry, what?”

“For fuel, man. Never know when the Rat Signal might shine in the night.”

I’d reached my limit for bluffing, I needed a convincing lie instead. What did I know about Mossfoot that could possibly explain why—

“Sorry, man, you’re gonna have to forgive me. Last time we met I was really really drunk. I don’t think I remember a thing that happened. Can you refresh my memory?”

The mohawk’s man seemed to return to what I assumed was its natural scowl. “Ah, yeah, I should have guessed as much. You were pretty wasted.”

Whew! Playing the odds paid off.

His eyes narrowed. “Do you even remember my name?”

“Uh….”

A huff. He spat off to the side. “The name’s Badger, though you’ll find most people call me Surly.”

Gee, I wonder why?

“You and I hung out, after you’d dumped flying for the feds because they were a bunch of—and I quote—stupid heads with clipboards up their butts.”

Ah. Okay, I remembered that point in history. MF had just gotten himself on the Fed’s good books as a trusted ally, only to have it taken away from him two minutes later because of the alcohol he had on board—legal everywhere, except Fed space. They had a grudge against the planet it came from, it seemed.

That little stunt ticked him off, enough that he decided to start selling rare goods from Fed space and sell it in the Empire, making a tidy profit in the process.

“Right, I remember,” I said. “And we met…?”

“In Achenar,” Surly said, well, surly. Surlily? Suriallily? Never mind. “We talked exploration and you told me about the number of times you and other Bowmen you met almost found yourselves stranded because you’d stumbled across some badlands full of closed gas stations.”

Surly was using some of the explorer lingo MF favored. I’d never really bothered with it myself, but I got the gist of his meaning. Coming across too many unscoopable stars in a row could ruin your day, and potentially your life.

“So I came up with the idea of the Fuel Rats,” Surly said. “Load up a ship with an extra gas tank, some fuel drones, and provide a rescue service for explorers, or just greenhorn dumbasses who haven’t figured out where the bathroom is on their ships yet. You signed up as soon as I mentioned it. So did half the bar, as I recall. Makes you wonder why no one thought of it earlier.”

Okay, that was enough to work with. “Right. It’s starting to come back to me now. Wow, that was a long time back, though.”

“And we’ve been a hit ever since. Three hundred rescues and counting. Insurance companies offer us a small incentive since we’re saving them paying out for a new ship or compensating their families, but really we’ve found the pilots themselves to be more than happy to compensate. Not that we ask them to, but donations are sometimes…encouraged.”

That sounded like a shakedown to me. He must have seen it in my eyes. “Hey, it’s a volunteer organization. Most of us do it pro-bono. But I can’t control what terms each pilot sets out there with their clients. It’s like the motto says: We’ve got fuel. You don’t. Any Questions?” He paused for a moment. "I really need to clarify those terms. It just lends itself to misinterpretation."

“And I didn’t stick around for this?” It sounded like the kind of thing MF would have been all for—maybe he really had blacked out after their meeting?

“Well, you disappeared about a week later. Stole an Imperial Clipper, I heard.”

Ah crap. He wouldn’t turn me in over that, would he? “Hey, it’s not like it seems…”

“Relax, you think I haven’t heard of the buttmunch you took it from? ‘Baron’ Kingsman is a total tool—the Angels hate him, so you’re already in their good books.”

“Angels?”

“Aisling’s Angels. You know, Aisling Duval?”

I knew of her. One of the major powers down in the Empire. “Anti-slaver, right?”

Surly nodded. “Right. That’s why I work for her. Dirtbags like Kingsman use their loan companies to force people into so much debt that Imperial slavery becomes their only option. And he profits off it. So hell, you won’t find anyone in Duval space to turn you in over that. More likely they’ll buy you a drink.”

“Well, thanks. Good to know.”

“So, answer my first damn question then. You going to Rat up?”

I shrugged. “I’m just in my old T6, it’s not exactly equipped for…” my voice trailed off as I thought about it. Why the hell not? I pictured the internal layout of the ship. I had an empty cargo slot I could convert to hold extra fuel. I could swap out the gym for a larger scoop, and replace the old scoop with a fuel drone controller. The entertainment room was mostly empty space anyway, I could fill the back wall with drones easily enough. Enough for a rescue, anyway.

“You know what? I think I will.”

“That’s the spirit!” Surly slapped me on the back, then shoved me towards the pilot’s lounge. “Now you’re gonna buy me a drink, jackass, for forgetting my name.”

[mossfoot]

The Rat That Jumped Ship

Surly sat me down at a booth and ordered me a water while he ordered himself an Indi Bourbon.

“You’ll need your wits about you,” he explained. “This ain’t just about a drink.”

“Oh?”

“I ever tell you how I got where I am?” He snorted after saying that. “The hell does it matter if I did, though, you’d have forgotten. But I remember your sob story. Navy brat who had it all, then lost it all, crawled back on his own terms. Amiright?”

That was Mossfoot’s story anyway. I nodded.

“Well I never had it all in the first place. I was a different kind of rat before, dock rat on Veach Hub over in Atins. Started as a kid, being a gopher for pilots who would toss a few coins my way if I brought them some bottled water. Eventually got a job running fuel lines to docked cargo ships, then working the cargo trucks. But I watched, and I learned whatever I could from those guys.

“Then some smuck with a trust fund comes prancing in with his shiny new Sidewinder, all whoopity-do I just turned eighteen the world is my oyster kind of dreck. I won’t bother with what the guy did to deserve it, but long story short I stole his ride.”

Well, I wasn’t going to judge him for that. I’d stolen far more than that.

“Spent my time hiding out in asteroid belts mining, long after the cops stopped caring to look for me, then turned to rares trading for the snobs in these parts with fat wallets and fatter heads. Even worked for Imperial Intelligence for a while, but we won’t talk about that. Point is, you pulled yourself up after a big fall—I started at ground level.”

Our drinks arrived and even though I was just having water they put a purple umbrella in it.

Surly savored the taste of the bourbon. “That’s the good stuff. Down here it’s a hundred credits a shot.” He seemed to get warm up a bit, though. Indi Bourbon doesn’t take long to kick in. “You know, Achenar isn’t the first time we’ve met.”

“It’s not?”

“Naw, I sent out a distress call down when I was exploring neutron stars down in Skaude sector. You were in range and tried to help me find a way back out. We were talking about that when I thought up the Fuel Rats. I’d also just bought my Clipper that night, and you went on and on about how you wanted one.”

I smiled. Mossfoot used to be big on getting a Fer De Lance, but something about the Clipper appealed to him—namely the combination of firepower and running away speed.

“So when I heard you stole one from Baron Kingsman, well, I knew I had to find you if you ever came back this way.”

I sipped my water, waiting for him to get on with whatever business proposal he clearly had in store.

“How would you like to work for Aisling Duval?”

I shrugged. “I work for anyone if the price is right. Don’t we all?”

“Come on, you’re dumb, but you’re not that dumb. Lines in the sand have been drawn, and everyone is trying to get as many independent pilots on their side as possible.”

“Yeah, and a lot are staying the hell away from all that. Declaring yourself is like putting a big target on your chest.” Fact was, I was already pledged to Edmund Mahon up in the Alliance.

“Look, we talked a bit about slavery before. I know you’re not a fan. Told me how you could have easily ended up in indentured servitude a couple times. Told me how you realized you’d been a bit of a bully back when you were a muckity-muck toff type and how you got a bit of perspective. Well, Aisling’s trying to make a difference. A real one. Slavery of any kind is outlawed wherever she’s got influence. She’s got support systems in place that help the little guy. Guys like you used to be.”

I shook my head. Aisling was a kid. “It’ll never work. She’ll either be dead in a year or she’ll go to the dark side and make compromises.”

Surly shrugged. “So what? It’s not about changing the world next week. Maybe she goes her whole life and doesn’t get slavery banned across the Empire. Maybe that life is a short one. But the people she touches now, the kids she saves from losing their parents or ending up as slaves themselves to pay off a family debt? Those kids grow up and make a bigger difference next time around. You want to make change, you look at what you can do in the long run, not what you can do by breakfast.”

I chuckled. “You’ve got passion, I’ll give you that. So, what put you on the recruitment wagon?”

Surly shrugged. “When I was working as a dock rat, I believed the Empire’s bull about meritocracy. I fetched water for privileged shmucks because I believed the system worked, and that I could make it there someday myself.”

“Well, you did become a pilot.”

“Yeah, but I stole the ship, and laid low till the cops forgot about me. Not exactly what the Imperial ethos had in mind. But I did that because I knew I was going to be stuck working a dock forever. There was no place for a guy like me to get a license, let alone a loan for a ship. And those uppity-ups, you think they even know how to fix the cupholder on their pilot’s seat? They’d just buy a whole new seat instead. Those guys don’t have merit, they have privilege.

“Aisling is different. She’s got privilege, but she knows it. What’s more, she knows it’s wrong. That the system doesn’t work as intended. But she wants it to. In a way, she’s not a whole lot different from you.”

Well, Mossfoot anyway, but I had to admit, I saw the appeal in what he was saying. Mahon was a good man, but the Alliance was doing fine for itself. The Empire, on the other hand? I never expected it to be anything but its stagnant aristocratic privileged self for the next thousand years. And guys like Denton Patraeus sure didn’t help me think otherwise. He was like Baron Kingsman, but on a whole other level. A level that bent planets to his will.

“So what would you want?” I asked. “Assuming I was interested.”

“For now? Information. Aisling likes the Alliance. She’s got no interest in hurting Mahon’s interests. But the fact is that illegal slave smuggling goes through there like nobody’s business. A lot of it going to Archon Delaine’s part of space. Kumo Crew territory. You know what happens to people there."

I groaned. He wasn’t wrong. I’d been tracking countless offers for smuggling slaves within Alliance space, part of a railroad that would eventually lead them to the Kumo Crew. The local authorities cracked down on it where they could, but that was the one problem with the Alliance—each system was autonomous, and some weren’t as opposed to slavery as others. It also just took on corrupt system to start a new network for the railroad, and accountability was all but nonexistent.

But as I said, I’d been tracking those offers. Keeping records of everything going on within a hundred light years of Gateway. Somehow Surly Badger knew that.

“With your records, we could send agents in to disrupt the railroads, maybe get some of those slaves into Aisling space where they’d be freed on the spot.”

“Okay, so you need information for now. What about later?”

“Up to you. There’s lots of ways you can help out. Spread the word about Aisling's efforts, bring back various agreements. Work it in with your usual trading if you want.

Great. Another goddamn paper route.

“You remember that you caught me just before I left on a major exploration trip, right?”

Surly lifted the bourbon to his lips for a sip and smiled. “Oh, I remember. In fact, I would strongly suggest you go on that trip anyway, and help out Aisling when you get back. If you say yes, that data is going to be put to use right away, and I’m willing to bet they’ll figure out where it came from.”

I set the glass of water down and crossed my arms. “So you’re basically saying that your bumping into me is no accident and that you had all these angles worked out from the start.”

“More or less. Saw your name on the station manifest, did some research, came and pretended this was all a big coincidence. Yep, sounds like my style.”

“Did you plan for me saying no?”

“With my silver tongue? Never crossed my mind. By the way, how’s the Cerberus plague situation up there? Did you manage to make a difference on your own?”

I opened my mouth to tell him to go to hell, only I found I couldn’t. I wanted to help, but what good was that data in my hands? In Alliance hands, even? It’s not like they didn’t know about what was going on, they just couldn’t do anything about it. Aisling’s people had the resources to do make a dent in the smuggling. Surly was just pointing that out to me in his own frustrating way.

“Goddammit.”

[mossfoot]

Stowaway

I will admit to feeling a bit guilty about defecting (more or less) to Aisling’s cause. Mahon was a good man, and the Alliance was worth protecting. I just honestly thought the information I had could be used better by her right now. Hell, maybe they’d unofficially appreciate the action if it meant shutting down the underground slave trading running through Alliance space.

But I guess like everything in the Alliance, it would depend on what system you’re on. Some embrace the idea of Imperial slavery, while others honestly don’t give a rat’s patooty as to where their slaves come from—and the very ethos of the Alliance means they have to honor those planet’s beliefs, even then they’re seen as immoral by others, and hope gentle pressure and persuasion can change things over time.

Same can be said for Fed space as well—just because a planet that joins the Federation has to officially renounce slavery doesn’t mean it won’t keep on truckin unofficially. The pressures of an ingrained culture and society can be enormous and take generations to turn around.

I saw Surly a couple more times before I left Cubeo, asking him to look over my rig and see if the new Fuel Rat attachments looked good. Viaticus Rex II could now hold twice the fuel if need be, but I figured I’d keep her close to her usual sixteen tons for weight considerations. He grunted his approval at the extra large fuel scoop I had installed.

All told the T6 had dropped a bit of range, from 28 to 26 Light Years, but that was because of the extra kit and the beefed up shields I had installed. I had a feeling I might need them.

As I prepared to leave I checked the fuel lines running along the bottom of my ship, as well as the hull, looking for anything to be concerned about. I’d had the dockers give the internal structure a once over to strengthen its integrity, a costly but worthwhile expense if you were going to be out for a long time. You could be flying an eggshell in short order if you weren’t careful with that.

The paint job, however, stayed as it was. Moss liked the way VRII looked all dirtied up, and so did I. The vibrant green had looked a bit garish out of the shop, but with the exhaust and wear and micrometer scratches everywhere, it kind of reminded me a bit of an old earth army jeep. Rugged and functional.

Also, it’s well known that thieves are less likely to steal your ship if it looks like crap.

I went up the cargo ramp, through the hold to check the various internal components. If I had a single regret it was that I couldn’t fit an auto-repair system on board as well. Aside from that, everything was ship shape.

Inside the cockpit, however, was a different matter. Right on my dashboard was a small round ball of fur, right on top of the radar projector.

“Ah crap, trumbles!”

How they got on board I had no idea. I hadn’t even heard of trumbles being a problem in 3300 and had assumed they’d been wiped out. These pests ate almost anything and reproduced like crazy, getting into every part of your ship.

I reached for my sidearm, hoping it was the only one, when the ball unfolded into a very long tube like shape and yawned.

“Ah crap, ferrets!”

Fun fact: Cubeo has a ferret problem.

If there’s one thing mankind knows how to do, it’s how to muck up and wipe out indigenous life forms by introducing new ones, either intentionally or accidentally. Rabbits in Australia, grey squirrels in England, cats and snakes on various Pacific islands, and humans themselves on Achenar.

Go read a history book—it happened.

Ferrets, it turned out, were borderline superpredators in this system, having been introduced as aristocratic pets, once they got out into the wild there was no getting rid of them. They even made their way on every space station in the system. I didn’t learn this till later, though, when I told Surly about what I’d found. Rather than shoot it, I captured it to show him—capturing it involving all the dexterity and hard work of reaching over and picking up its limp body as it dangled from my hand like a wet noodle.

“Yeah, they’re like rats here,” he said. He’d come back to my ship one last time to see me off. “Though they actually eat the rats, truth be told.”

“So, do I just dump it in the bin or something?”

Surly looked over the dangling cappuccino colored tail with legs. “Well, maybe not this one. This is a pet.”

“How can you tell?”

“The ears are tattooed. That means it’s someone’s pet.”

“So some rescue place to turn it in, then? Get it back to its owner.”

“Oh, she’s already with her owner.”

I frowned. “You put her on my ship.”

Surly smirked. “What can I say? I thought you’d be lonely out there. Last time I saw you, you had a cat. I didn’t see a cat here anymore.”

“No… she found a new home.”

“Well, this little needs a home. Trust me, they’re almost like a cat in terms of taking care of them. You’ll love it. And if you don’t? Well, I hear they’re tasty, too. Ferret-kabab!”

I rolled my eyes, Moss would joke about putting our old cat Dumbass in the airlock, but that wasn’t my style. Still, he wasn’t wrong about some form of companionship. Mossfoot had me. Who did I have?

“Thanks.”

“No worries. Now get the hell off this station. You’ve got exploring to do, remember?” Surly walked off the ship with an offhanded wave.

I held up the furry tube to look at me. She was starting to wake up, and didn’t look too happy about dangling in the air the way she was. Mossfoot would no doubt make an offhanded grumbling remark about having another mouth to feed, but I found myself liking the idea already.

“Hello, sweetie,” I said. “I wonder what I’m going to call you?”

[mossfoot]

Trouble

I’m a combat pilot by nature, but that doesn’t mean I can’t adapt. It’s like anything else, you look at what is required to accomplish the job, then look at the threats that might keep you from accomplishing it and devise a strategy to deal with those threats.

Since I got the requirements down pat, let’s have a look at the threats.

Key threats within and near human space: pirates (moderate), crazy hermits (minor),

Key threats outside human space: stellar phenomena, fuel shortage, wear and tear on parts.

Okay, so dealing with pirates and crazy hermits is easy enough: run. The T6 couldn’t fight its way out of a wet paper bag. Therefore despite the weight advantage (and therefore increased jump range) D class thrusters can provide, it’s worth taking A instead. Same goes for shields, in case those threats are faster or heavier than me and I need time to lock onto another star system.

Sensors and life support, however, are not as important. I don’t need top of the line sensors to run away from anyone who interdicts me, and once outside the bubble it doesn’t matter if I have seven minutes of oxygen or seventy, if the canopy goes I’m toast unless my ejection seat can preserve me until a rescue ship arrives. Those can go D class.

Fuel shortage? Added an extra fuel tank. I can now carry 32 tons for any trips through fuel-poor badlands. Wear and tear? Not much I can do there, but MF had this ship’s integrity down to zero after SagA* and it was still in good shape… well, good enough.

Stellar phenomena? There’s always the chance or running into a stray asteroid or crash through a nearly invisible ring around a planet or gas giant. I’ve got shields for that. What about stars? Basically heat is your biggest enemy. Get too close during a scoop, or jump into a binary system where you get wedged between a pair, and you can start taking damage to your internal components.

The T6 tends to run a bit hotter than other ships, but with a decent powerplant this is largely taken care of. However, there’s always room for improvement. Setting your power distribution to engines and shields then turning it off can lower your heat signature a bit, so can turning off your shields once you’re outside of human space (though, you’d wish they were up if you run into one of those aforementioned invisible rings, or a stray crazy hermit). Cargo hatch can also be turned off, sensors, even the fuel limpet controller until it’s needed.

Basically turning off everything you don’t need to explore with can drop your baseline heat a fair bit. That’ll buy you a few extra and potentially precious seconds if heat becomes an issue.

That’s about it. I reckon I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.

* * * * *

Remember what I said about thrusters and shields? Well, that goes double if you’ve just given an opposing major faction all your ship data and effectively turned traitor in their eyes, no matter your justification.

It started with me watching my still unnamed ferret crawling around the walls of the cockpit like some kind of furry salamander. Before I’d left I’d bought her some GeckoPads(TM) like pretty much any pilot has to unless they like their pet bouncing off all the walls like a ping pong ball.

GeckoPads(TM) are non-magnetic adhesives that mimic the namesake’s ability to walk on any surface in zero-gee, even glass. Most pets adapt to them rather quickly, and some of the smarter ones even figure out how to use it in concert with zero gravity – cats mainly.

This ferret, however, was still getting used to the pads, and walked staying as flat to the surface as possible, instead of its usual hunched back approach, hence the salamander comparison.

I was heading towards the edge of the Bubble, ready to start my little adventure, when she crawled over the viewscreen and blocked my view.

“Out of the way, you walking scarf,” I said, and casually tossed her over my shoulder. She’d grab onto something eventually, I was sure.

But as I cleared the windscreen, there was a Vulture in front of it, standing between me and the station, weapons drawn.

A quick glance at the readout brought up the words Alliance Adjuster, and the rating: Elite.

I knew full well who he was here to adjust.

Kicking the afterburners, I dove as his twin beams scorched my shields. The station was eight kilometers away, I was sure I could make it there before he burned me to ash.

“Your day of reckoning has arrived, traitor! I knew your true colors from the start!”

I recognized that voice. Frickin Javert. I couldn’t believe Officer Dillon had travelled three hundred light years just to track me down.

Who was I kidding? Of course I could.

And here I was without The Troubadour, because I wanted nothing more than to take him down as well. Not today, though. Heck, I couldn’t even ram him to death if I wanted. My shields and hull weren’t cut out for that, while the Vulture was a tank.

To make matters worse, my casual tossing of the ferret across the cockpit had been taken as an invitation to play. She’d quickly crawled sideways around the cockpit, got right on the viewscreen again, blocking my view of the station, then shuffled down to the radar so I couldn’t keep an eye on the guy trying to murder me. When I tried to pick her up to move her again, she jumped up and grabbed my hand like it was a rabbit, playfully nipping at the fingers.

It would have been cute if I hadn’t needed that hand to steer with.

I shook the little off again and focused on staying alive. Shields down to half. All I needed was to get within the station’s no-fire zone and…

…he’d keep firing, apparently. Crap.

Fortunately the station didn’t take to people violating the no-fire zone, and I could see Dillon taking a pounding. And that’s when the ferret, having crawled along the deckplates, decided to crawl up my leg.

“Ghah! Goddammit!”

I tried to squirm and shake her off, needing both hands to dodge incoming fire. I must have looked like I was having a seizure or something. I’d like to think I’d somehow inadvertently made myself harder to hit through sheer zaniness, but I doubt that was true.

Eventually Dillon had to break off his attack, the station having collapsed his shields.

“This isn’t over, traitor! I’ll be waiting for you!”

I rolled my eyes, requesting docking permission and breathing a sigh of relief. “Good luck with that, dumbass.”

I then looked over to the ferret that had almost gotten me killed. “And you. You’re nothing but trouble, aren’t you?”

At least she had a name now.

[mossfoot]

(...continued) *****

I’ve been watching a lot of movies lately.

I kind of got sick of books for a bit because that used to be all I had access to. Now with MF’s entertainment rig in the space cargo room I’m indulging in my old ways—four meter screen, surround sound, with optional immersive holotech on select movies. Bliss!

This is also my way of pointing out how little I have to do out here.

After spending some time around the Loop it really sank in just how little idea I had about what to do. Just wander from star to star? Planet to planet? It’s not like the T6 is kitted out for landing on any of them, and so far what I’ve been coming across has largely been discovered by others.

I needed an objective. A target. I’m the sort of person who is given a mission to complete, and exceeds expectations doing so.

MF, on the other hand, was happy just wandering around aimlessly for weeks on end.

Without someone to give me a mission, I had to give myself one. What was interesting about Barnard’s Loop, other than all the other nebulae inside it? I did a bit of research and came across something interesting.

Runaway stars.

It seems that when the star that created the Loop blew, the force was so great it sent a number of other stars flying away in every which direction.

Now, we’re ALL moving at incredible speeds – the planets around their suns, the suns around the galaxy, the galaxies within the universe, we’re all constantly in motion, so when we talk speed, it’s all relative.

So, relative the other stars that are (more or less) spinning around in an orderly fashion at similar speeds, these suckers are shooting out at hundreds of kilometers a second from one another, and dozens of kilometers a second from their neighbors.

After two million years, these stars have travelled about a thousand light years (give or take, depending on relative velocity) from their origin point.

I let that little bit of trivia sink in for a bit, imagining an explosion so massive it pushed whole stars away from one another, to the point where, two million years later, they could only see what where they came from looked like a thousand years before. They were explorers too, after a fashion, passing by thousands of other stars in the void.

I wondered how close they had ever gotten to another system, or if life on those planets ever saw the star passing by, inching across the sky for centuries? Though I doubted any of the runaway stars had planets, let alone life inhabiting ones, I imagined for a moment if life had evolved on one after their own second “big bang”, and intelligent life trying to make sense of a universe where evidence over time proved they were travelling through the stars in a way none of the others were.

There’s a science fiction novel in there somewhere.

And that was good enough of a reason for me to go. Runaway stars had captured my imagination. And so, from inside their birthplace at Barnard’s Loop, I’d be chasing after them, covering their two million year journey in a matter of days.

Who says science can’t be fun?