reliance

Runners, by nature, tend to be rather untrusting people. We're suspicious because everyone around us tends to be just as untrustworthy and suspicious as we are. Criminals don't ever trust each other, and those that do get let down and die. The only thing you can count on is having to rely on yourself to survive. Even places can betray us.
Maybe its that all people are suspicious. Running just brings out the worst traits in the downtrodden. I like to think I'm only here for the experience, but somewhere along the way I've made this my life. I suppose maybe the people who live this way are the most realistic, the most human. Or what used to be called human. They're rejected the worlds they come from, the soulsucking prospect of society.
Its freedom.

But it comes with a price. Freedom is living outside the rules and danger breeds distrust. We risk it all, and if you fail at this life, you're done for good. Either dead, or in jail somewhere, worse off than you would have been had you never started Running.

The problem is, we've got to get along. We agree to work together to get what we want, but we don't agree to trust. Some crews can manage it, some crews are bound together by loyalty or even love. Some crews are families because humans need each other. Most Runners won't admit that.
Every time you take a contract, you depend on others to survive. I've entrusted my life to countless men and women, but each time have been able to slip out, break free before it cost me more than I can afford. I'm not lucky, I'm smart. And, like so many Runners, proud of that fact.

I'll never forget Rigon. Admist the crazed rush, the danger and fear and pure thrill of a challenge there was a quiet moment before the jumps began. Jamieson leaned heavily on the back of my chair, watching as I programmed that impossible route. He was as intent as he ever was, but for once was not in control. He may even have been afraid.
"Trust me," I murmured, "trust me."
And he did.
And we survived.
Thats what the stories say.

We've all learned not to trust, not easily or even after years together. Caban and I took a chance, and its working. Its almost awkward, being the new crew on the Oberon. For all their time together, he can't rely on Ice fully, but I can't blame him. She is untouchable. And I know that when she looks at me she sees my quick escape at Xylos, my oft-repeated disappearing acts. Will she bother to forgive me? Will Caban ever notice the looks we shoot at eachother and pretend we don't see, or will he dive back into his enthusiastic business that much more confident?

In the end, its not given to us to know what the future holds. But I've got a feeling that this is a safe place to be.

burning bridges

And then the station exploded.
It wasn’t really anybody’s fault, that is to say, it was the fault of many people. Maybe it was Wilson, who hadn’t checked the position of the oxygen tanks. Or perhaps it was Shatter, who had simply fired one bullet too many. Or maybe the Feds, who fought back instead of letting their coin be stolen. I like to blame the safety inspectors, who obviously failed at their duty to ensure that the Station itself was not flammable, and could stand up to a bit of fire. It burst into flames almost eagerly. I don’t think that we Runners could be blamed for trying to empty the bank safe. It is our job.

It was panic. One of the most memorable events of the past two decades, the story told and retold by civilians and Runners alike. People scrambling for escape pods, trying to load their possessions, keep ahead of the flames. I like to think that most people got out before the explosion itself, that only property was damaged, that no one ever found the Feds that Shatter had killed. But still, Wilson is the name associated with that catastrophe, and it is no surprise that his crew quickly scattered and renamed themselves.
I was still loyal to Wilson, can't live without loyalty, but I managed to warn Ulysses. I told him that something might be happening, and to be ready. He gripped my elbow and said that if anything happened, he would wait for me.
“There won’t be time. I don’t know what is happening.”
“Yes, you do,” he said, “but I will stay in my hangar. I’ll wait.”

We knocked over the bank later that day. It was complicated, not the hardest job I’ve pulled but a challenge. I mapped it out, Wilson set it up, and Shatter kept our backs free of guards. The rest of the crew was brute strength and greed.
We got cornered in the vault, and Ice had opened fire. A bullet ricocheted into my leg, into the flesh below the knee. For a moment there was no pain, no comprehension, until the blazing agony and weakness consumed me. “Well,” I remember thinking bitterly, “you wanted to know everything.”
But suddenly the strange creaking of tanks along the wall gave us all a shock. Shatter knew the sound, and we grabbed what we could and ran. It was, as I said, panic. Sirens and smoke and screaming. The crew ran ahead, and I was for once at the rear, limping as fast as I could manage. No one bothered to put down a bit of profit to help me.
We neared the hangar, and I realized that the hatch to Front’s dock was only two numbers from Wilson’s. So I reached it first, and pressed the security code. Shatter stood at the hatch of Wilson’s hangar, covering my escape, and cried out in anger when I stopped. She shrieked my name and leveled her gun at me, thinking that I had double-crossed them all.
“No!” I shouted, holding up my bloody hands. As I did so the hatch slid open and Ulysses stepped into the smoky corridor. He looked at me, shocked, worried, and I am sure his presence confirmed Shatter’s thought of betrayal. Ulysses grabbed me and pulled me into his hangar, then into the ship. We couldn’t linger long enough to make explanations, and Xylos was far behind us when it suddenly and brilliantly billowed up, then darkened into the vacuum.

history returning

I realize again that this Log isn’t my brain, it doesn’t know everything that I do, and so I owe it an explanation.

Xylos was an old spa stop, never really upgraded, had the feel of a city of back alleys and taverns. It was full of unfavorables: Runners, bootleggers, chemmies, fugitives. We were kept in check by the large population of civilians and Feds sent to keep the peace. I was flying with Wilson at the time, Wilson and Shatter and the crew, and we had docked there for a time to find more contacts. To be truthful, I never really liked Wilson, never agreed with his style of business. He was extravagant and violent, his crew the same way. I took the opportunity on the station to wander around, get to know it, learn what I could.

It was there that I first laid eyes on Captain Ulysses Front. He met with Wilson, talked business, I stood by to watch their holsters. He caught my attention, the way he carried himself. Alert, confident, content in his own lithe skin. He was a big man, tall and wide, commanding. He had blue eyes in a round face, inexplicably tan in the sunless world. Tawny hair feathered around his face like a mane, his whole presence was that of a lion, or how I imagine a lion would seem. Contained power and strength held by lean muscles and easy smiles.
I thought little of it, at first. Just another contact in the game. But one night in my wanderings, I slipped around the corner and ran smack into Captain Front. He stumbled back and put his finger to his lips, and I was so shocked by this archaic gesture that I obeyed his request for silence. We sank back into the shadows and a moment later two men wandered by, one complaining of a stolen money wallet. I turned to Front, who shrugged and grinned.
“Live like this, you get bored. Sorry.”
“Understandable, Captain Front.”
“Ah, thought I recognized you. But didn’t catch your name.”
“Scout.”
“Pleasure, I’m sure. Now…”
“I won’t turn you in.” I cut him off, not sure what possessed me to exchange such pleasantries with a man my Captain considered an enemy. But he smiled, and said, “Read my mind. Scouting out in there already?”
I have to admit that I enjoyed the suggestion that the word ‘already’ seemed to hold, and felt drawn in by this man.
“But you’ll owe me.”
“Ah, there’s hardly enough in the clip for a drink or two.”
“Well.” I responded, and he nodded.
“I believe it is time to play the law abiding citizen act again. Pleased to meet you again, Scout.” He said.
“Stay out of trouble, then.”
His look made me grin in return as he said, “Never.”


After that we began running into each other more often, rather discreetly. We’d find ourselves talking for hours in the run down bars or hidden corners of Xylos. There was something about him that put me at ease, something contagious about his smile. I felt safe despite myself. I had not had such a friend in a long time.
One night, or perhaps early morning, I snuck into the bunkroom, and Shatter sat up and glared at me.
“What are you doing?” she asked, and I remember her eyes glittering against her pale face, even in the dark. I told her it was my own business, and she asked, “Then who is he?”
“Who is who?” I asked, glad that the darkness covered my nervousness at the question. She never stopped being suspicious, but my business was my own. Still is, I suppose, but for this Log.

old beginnings

The first night on Oberon was difficult. I thought of all the holds and bunks that I have slept in these past years, and wonder how long its been since I've been able to call a place home. Or even wanted to. I set my things out, tacked the old picdiscs up on the wall, the diagrams and maps that I've managed to keep with me. It was strange to fall asleep in such a large, clanking ship after Roller (now safely stored in the shuttle hold with only minimal scraping), but the feel of my old knapsack against my face brought me quickly to sleep.

Ice caught me today, alone in the engine room. I was rerouting for 4x perches into the top modules, she came in quiet and took hold of the stray wire tubes for me. She waited until I had the connection made and then said, simply, “Xylos.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that. I knew exactly what she meant, but what to say? Finally, “That was a long time ago.”
“It was.”
“What have you been doing, since then? Did you stay with Wilson?”
“Please. I told them you’d fallen behind, we split your percent of the profit. Crew didn’t last long after that. Too dangerous.”
“I know he got pinned for it.”
“He did. Gave the Feds the slip for years.”
“You shot me that day, you know.” I said, and her eyes glinted.
“It really was a long time ago.” She replied.
We lapsed into silence, I fiddled with the modules, unsure of what she wanted.
“How long have you been Ice Amrit?”
“Long enough. And you’ve always been Scout?”
“Of course.”
“But you were Whisp.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. She had caught me.
“I saw the charts from Rigon. That had to have been you.” She smiled at me, not her cold death smile, and I knew that we would keep each other’s secrets. I returned the smile. We hadn’t been this at ease with each other since before Xylos. Satisfied, Ice handed the tubes back to me and stood up, dusting her knees and turning away. As she neared the doors, I realized I had better explain myself in case the topic never arose again.
“I didn’t mean to abandon you.” I called, and heard her stop. “I loved him, you know.”
She did not respond, but waited a few moments before leaving.

up and back

We docked with Caban’s ship, the Oberon. I was nervous, to be truthful. Its been a while since I cared about joining a crew.
And the first thing I saw when I set foot on Oberon? A face I’d known. An old friend. Shatter.
Now called Ice Amrit. It is how she introduced herself, after the same momentary pause I felt. I smiled and shook her hand firmly, and I am sure the Captain did not notice anything strange about our meeting.
Oberon is a good ship. The navigational system, an NX-17 Router, is one of my favorites. Old enough to pull off a few tricks, new enough to perform well. Caban trusts me, and Ice has to trust me, though I don't know how far that will go.

I cannot get over that first shock of seeing Ice’s face. Never expected to see it again, the way she runs. She is the same as ever, seemingly unchanged since the last time I saw her. It has been more years than I care to count. What has she been doing? She’s done well recently, securing this ship and position of First Mate, but has she drifted? Has she suffered?

We worked together, long ago. My first crew after Havers, I was eighteen. She was called Shatter then. At first, she terrified me. She is cold, silent, well-suited to her new name. I have never met a better shot, nor any woman more willing to break holster and shoot her way out. For her it was almost gleeful, almost a passionate destruction of life. Her battle cry is horrifying, blood-curdling. She is not a student of ancient war-fare, but she has an instinct for it. I think of her as an avenging Fury, a shrieking Valkyrie, while I have always seen myself as more of a stoic, a Spartan or Amazon. It explains much of Caban’s recklessness, knowing he has flown alone with Shatter. Ice.
Despite this, we had always gotten along, always been friends. Even in the few minutes I have spoken to her today, I felt the camaraderie rekindling. Soon we will have to talk about it, about Wilson’s crew and Xyos and Ulysses. She was never one to wait for explanations.

lotus-eaters

Plotted in the fastest route to Verisan that I can, but I'll be surprised if the Roller can jump it. So far its been fine, but tonight's jumps will be rough. Its a good little ship, better now that we've been working on it. Caban says that Oberon has a shuttle bay that just might fit it, if we can thin it down a bit. I for one have been grateful for the width of its hull ever since Miklund.

I haven't been to Verisan in years. Its a gorgeous planet, all light and air. The gravity there is less than what we're used to, making it a popular spot for vacations, wealthy retirees, and spas. And, of course, chemmies.
I'm not sure if this Ice is a chemmie, or if we are in reality headed to Verisan's dockheap moon, where the less scenic business of the planet is handled. It is a nice spot for Runners.

Verisan is covered in spreading fields of poppy flowers, too fragile to grow 'ponically. There are not enough fields back on the homeworld to make the business profitable. Whoever first sold the idea to the Frightie landscapers must be a wealthy genius by now.
Its really amazing what sort of chemicals we can produce now, drugs that can make you see and feel any manner of things, things dredged up and distilled in factories or terraforming refuse across the galaxy. Chemicals that will burn up your innards while you're still too blasted-off to realize whats happening. I've seen the rotted out remains of chemmies in every space-port from Rookston to Target City. Some people prefer the warmth of a 'space dust' haze to reality. Some people can't handle the cold.
But the opiates on Verisan are gentle in comparison, the pleasure-domes are plentiful and clean. The faint floating feeling of a low-grav planet only adds to the experience.
I am not a chemmie. I don't Run drugs, there are enough people spreading that particular pain. Verisan poppy gives me ideas of the future that I don't need to see, and it takes some convincing to remember that they aren't real.

Humans love trouble. We love to push ahead and see which limits can be bent, which can be broken. The problem is, we're all of us slow learners.

scratches

He made me put the aidstrip on his knee, though I refused to mend his pants for him. The man can do that himself. “I like these pants” he said mournfully, wincing as I poured on the antiseptic. Who knows what germs lurk in the corners of Roller. I wonder if space is still the cleanest frontier, after a generation or two of shipping, dumped cargo, engine dust, coffins, who knows what else. A bacterial vacuum.

Then he reached out and touched the scar on my arm. It’s a short scuffmark near my left elbow, I had my sleeves rolled up and he must have just noticed it. A trail left by a bullet meant for Ulysses. I reached out and pushed him aside, but the arm occupied the space his body had filled a millisecond before, and the bullet left a bleeding gash. If I had leaned my body six centimeters more, or taken half a step, it would have lodged in my lungs. Though we publicly joked about it, Ulysses used to touch that smooth line with a serious expression on his face. We both knew what it meant.
I jumped, surprised at the touch, and Caban let his hand drop.
“I’ve been shot, too” he said, none of his usual bravado. He was suddenly so strange, so quiet. “Each scar is a memory. A specific event, a failure or mistake.”
“A reminder of survival.” I replied, thinking of the man’s self-proclaimed impenetrable luck.
“But it hurts.” He said, surprising me again. I could do nothing else but agree. I thought of my other wounds, the pockmark on my calf from Xylos, the second scar on my arm, the deep lesion they had dug in my back. Those were scars that Ulysses had tried to prevent, ones he’d never know I received. That, too, wounded me.

I wonder what marks have riddled Caban.

commitment

A definite lead sends us to Verisan. Caban rubbed his face and said "I should have known." We'll drop the water afterwards, hopefully, somewhere in that system. I just hope we can catch up, or at very least abandon the chase. Chasing strangers with a faster ship is not my idea of a profitable venture. And Roller is not so uncomfortable as I first supposed. Maybe I'm getting attached. After all, I did draw gun with Caban for the first time.

We had only just sealed the deal with Zacharias when the front door burst in to reveal several armed deputies intent on a bust. We all dove beneath the nearest cover, everyone shouting furiously. Someone opened fire and suddenly it was a gunfight. Caban's face was a wash of excitement, I should have known he was a gleeful fighter. It was all fine until they brought out a Pulse gun. I hate Pulse guns. They can shatter bones at close range, usually used to take out legs to prevent escape. However, they also tend to bust up a person's insides for a lot of untreatable internal bleeding. So we decided perhaps it might be best to get on out of there. We made a dash for the back door, which was unguarded (stupid local Feds), and made it several blocks away before Caban decided we needed to go back. "A deal is a deal," he said, "and I want that cargo."
"There isn't a cargo worth dying for." I replied. Unless its a cargo of human babies, maybe. But, the good captain is a stubborn old ruster, and before long we were closing in on the deputies from behind. They were still pinned down at the door, the contacts were holding their own. We got so close behind them we could hear their coms blaring info. We shot four of them right away, three spotted Caban who ran off into the city. That left two, who of course figured out my position and started sending Pulses my way while comming for backup. I couldn't do much of anything, and was about to fire back when I saw a figure appear at the doorway. It was Zacharias, he took out both deputies while their backs were turned. A kick to the head and a bullet for the other. The crew came behind him, one bleeding freely from the belly, so we were quick in sealing the deal and splitting the Fed's guns between us. Zacharias, I think, is a good man to have on our side.

But that left me wondering where Caban had gotten to. I took a comlink from a fallen deputy. Backup was coming soon, suspect on foot was seen heading for the docks at road 41. Caban and I agreed to meet up later, but if he didn't show I was to take the cargo and have our business done. As I threw the com tracer in the gutter I realized that I didn't want to take Roller myself. Flying solo is inefficient, I tell myself, but I know the truth. Shake the man for being likeable.
The com crackled again. Suspect on foot inside construction building at corner of road 43. Backup in six minutes. I could make it there before then.
The deputies were inside when I got there, I caught up with a lawwoman on the second floor, she didn't know I was there until I had sent her sprawling. Her com buzzed on and I replied, letting the others think their comrade was still up. Then I heard a shuffle in front of me, Caban's gun and face appeared from a shadowy corner. My gun was on him before I recognized his grin.
On our way out I left the com on the ground and gave the Captain a collection of guns from my belt. I realized that his hands were stained red. Had he been hit, was that why he had gone to ground? He smiled at the shock I must have shown and pointed to his knee, where a bloody scrape showed through a tear in his pants.
"Fell down and lost my lead. Just glad to recognize your voice, though I was a bit shook to hear it so close."
"Just glad I recognized you before I shot you too."
"Well. You didn't follow orders, anyway."
He was right, but I didn't care. As we made our innocent civilian way to the docks, Caban gripped my arm suddenly and said "Thanks for breaking holster with me, Scout."

What else are friends for?

currents

We arrived in New Bombay on-schedule. First thing off-board was the domestic task of getting haircuts (something only rich bootleggers can afford) before Caban went to get in touch with his contact. A man named Zacharias. He is a gaunt, craggy-faced man with the almond skin and dark eyes of a desert man. And a good reputation, he has quite the operation set up here. Siphoning Fed and Corporate water tanks and spreading it around, selling to Runners who will ship it to local distributors instead of over-priced companies. The rewards on his head don't level up to the level of respect he has in the sector, its men like him who keep this universe in order.

A day after setting foot here we have a hold full of water, and it only took us one gunfight to get it.

The water will, in the right market, fetch us more than the hold full of alcohol did. Its considerably more legal, too, less risky. Water is scarce on so many of the places we've decided we want to go but won't bother to terraform. Men work in bone-dry silver mines for a ration of musty water and a lungful of corrosive asteroid dust. You charge too much for water, some places, and the locals don't let you get out safe. They're not nearly as lenient as Feds tend to be, which is saying something.

We've spent the rest of the day out in the city. I like New Bombay, it is big and as old as anything else out here. Its started to lose its heap-town feel, more families and schools than mining depots now. Even a few tourist attractions. I've always enjoyed the bustling energy of the place, the swirl of people and thoughts and chance of contact or information.
While Caban went on the rounds to get news of Oberon I hacked into Govweb and took a look around, then picked up some supplies for the ship. Caban refuses to worry that he hasn't heard from his first mate in some time, as Oberons com system went out months ago. But she hasn't left a trail for him to follow. He knows what I'm thinking, that she has left him drifting, but I don't say it. He handed me a pocketful of coin and said "We're doing fine."
I restocked a bit, even found some 'ponic fruit, exchanged the Fed guns we recovered yesterday to replace our ammunition. Caban's not back yet, so I am seriously considering accidentally breaking a water barrel and having myself a bath.

standard time

Thoughts in transit to New Bombay.

I shouldn't sample the cargo. Its mighty unprofessional. Cuts into profit, gives us headaches, and makes me a touch bitter.

He used to say to me "What are you doing as a Runner? You might have been a professor somewhere. A poet."
I would always respond, "You might have been a Circus act. The both of us are defying our destinies."

But he was serious, and sometimes I believe those words.

I bring up a chart to find out the time. Each planet has its own rotation and revolution, there is no other place that has the 24-hour day, like Earth. We judge a year is 365 of those sunrises, though it means so little out here. I have been floating in the void for some five thousand of those terran sunsets, and what is there to show of it? Still, Earth time remains standard time, at least until some other planet takes over, or until our brain tides rearrange themselves to the patterns of space.
There is good money to be made in the manufacture and sale of clocks and calendars that convert from standard time to planetary time. Any good trader has some sort of chart on hand and won’t have to rely on shipboard Comweb connection. I have most of the chart in my head.

I still run on standard time.

Sometimes I wake in the dark just as the sun is rising on Earth. Free of moon and tides, there is nothing to pull me along save the relentless hum of trackless time and the clanking machinery of exploration.

hiccup

All clues point to New Bombay. Civilization is a long haul from here.


We cleaned out the hold before taking off again. It stinks, but a barroom is better than a barn.
The first thing I noticed was that Caban had kept one of the broken barrels. He patted its cracked side, grinning as it sloshed with liquid. To keep us company, he said. No shame in wasting such valuable cargo, he said.
I was skeptical, but he insisted that we put it to good use.

It tastes terrible.

tents

We spent what I had expected to be a sleepless night on Miklund, camped out and waiting for our contacts to show up. As I said, Miklund does not follow standard time, and we had forgotten this in the excitement of landing in the barren landscape and concealing the Roller from the Feds that were by then looking for us. Caban decided he didn’t want to stay with the ship in case they showed up. He said with the money from the deal, we could buy a new ship. When I reminded him that the Feds would get the cargo, too, he shrugged and asked if I really wanted to sleep in a ship now that smelled like a heaptown bar. I did not.
We set up camp in some brush, squeezed together in a tent. Smaller quarters still, but it was only for a while. Caban took first watch, said he’d wake me in a few hours.
When I awoke it was morning, and he was sleeping, and I had no idea where I was. I was warm, and relaxed, and it wasn’t until Caban mumbled something and turned over in his sleep that I realized what might have gone wrong with this plan. How easily we could have been nabbed by Feds or shot by patrols or cattle ranchers or bootleggers. We might not have woken up at all. I got up and checked around the camp, hiked back and saw that Roller was untouched. When I returned to the tent, the captain was awake and grinning blearily at me and strapping on his holster. Curse the man, he is lucky. I don’t even believe in luck, but no logic can explain the scrapes he gets out of.
“It worked out all right, though.” he said.

I was packing up my blankets when my necklace suddenly dangled free from the folds of my shirt. I felt his eyes on it before he asked me what it was. I shoved it back beneath the cloth and shrugged.
“Was that a bullet? That’s a touch deathly for you, Scout. Thought you didn’t like guns.”
“I don’t.”
He thought a minute. “Well. Then who was it dug out of?”
“Me.” It hurt just to say it.
I knew his eyes were on me but I couldn’t meet them. The bit of metal suddenly felt warm and heavy against my skin, pushing its way back in and through my memory. I tried to mumble an excuse before leaving the tent. That tent, where I had felt so safe and comfortable with Caban, forgetting what I wore against my heart.
I couldn’t tell him the story of that necklace. Too morbid, too…deathly, as he said. What would he say if I told him that it had pounded through Ulysses before burrowing into my back? Would he turn away, or ask me why I still wear it, or would he look at me with sympathetic eyes and understand?

“It worked out all right, though.” It’s something that Ulysses would have said.

fun facts

The thing that Caban neglected to tell me is that Miklund-3 has a strict ban on alcohol of any sort. And, well, its hard to remember such tiny details when you’ve never been to a place before. I’ll just add it to the list of things I’ve learned recently. Let us examine them.

• Miklund does not permit the sale or transport of alcohol
• Border patrols DO check ALL ships entering the capitol city
• Borer patrols DO NOT appreciate attempted bribery
• They also DO NOT appreciate being insulted by foreign ship captains
• Refusal to permit a search of your ship means that you cannot enter
• Coming back after the border patrol changes shift results in relearning facts #2-5
• The third shift of border patrollers are either sleepy or absent-minded, small ships can sneak by without being noticed for several minutes
• Not responding to hails permits border patrol ships to open fire
• Roller has very strong hull-plating.
• One out of every hundred barrels has a tendency to spring a leak if bounced around a bit.
• Roller is a difficult ship to land.
• Miklund does not follow standard time, making meetings with contacts difficult.
• Much of Miklund is still under-charted territory.
• Sleeping on the ground has become somehow less comfortable than sleeping onboard a ship.
• Tents are not strategic.
• Caban relies on luck.
• Bootlegging is extremely profitable.
• Border patrols do not search ships leaving Miklund.
• Border patrols DO NOT appreciate being insulted on the way out.

I don’t know why people choose to remain so ignorant. It is easy to learn new things. While I could have used common sense to tell you many of those facts, some of them came as complete surprises.
Oh, Scout. You knew you’d be surprised when you started all this.