31-01-3302

This shimmering light of Volkhabe 3 makes the icy outer ring burn like a second sun as the cobra slides gently into a backwater port; a hull full of geawen dance dust for the weekend's festivities, a cool mill for twelve light years of travel.

The cold rush of adrenaline runs on tap as the thruster hum in the aftermath of the battle. The flash of the pirate's end burned white on both retinas. Nine hundred and fifty bounty added a sweet thirty percent on this rather lucrative deal. The memory of the python (and near certain death) quickly forgotten in the haze of targets, marked from the higher ups.

Putting some light between the drop point and the ship brought us to an outpost in Glashow Terminal. A quiet little joint operated by Senlu industries, as quiet as space gets these days. A small conflict brewed on the dock shortly after as the Senlu defense troopers started a battle with two vipers looking for trouble. A sure fire signal to hit the road! A quick stop in Itza to swap out ships and its pedal to the metal as Friday starts to dwindle.

The corporate ladder has its rungs and the cargo hold of the asp explorer full to the brim of diplomats, solicitors, contracts and trade negotiations gabbling to one another was the next rung in my own personal ladder to success. The journey up to Polecteri was a quick but noisy interlude to the evening for hitting the VIP meetings in the bosses latest plans.

A heated debate took to the stars, over to <redacted> to undermine those poor <redacted> fools. An evening of battle so dense the screams whistled by in a blur. As the night rolls on the merits role in, one night of busy work beats chauffeur duty, although there is a lingering sense the later sits better on the conscience.

30-01-3302

A glistening work of art conceived by Whatt and Pritney back in 2700 this daring beast of a ship earned its name decades ago. Whether a patrol cruiser or pirate barge the hulking form of three hundred and fifty tons performs admirably in any role whilst fitting in at a fair size smaller than the typical cruiser. Two hundred and ninety tons of cargo space, littered with stolen goods and planetary bays the ship could hold a plentiful bounty in its cargo alone.

The bulking spine lit up like the sun firing pulse lasers directly at the cobra. A beam laser added to the assault upon the cobra's shields from the underside of the nose. Fragmentation cannons snarled impatiently for the target to close. Sensing the whistle pop of ozone and brief demise of its shields the cobra dived for cover slithering across the skin of asteroids to lose line of sight with the python.

Dodging and weaving, loop after loop the python and cobra danced again and again. A momentary involvement by the pack of eagles led to an altercation as the python wanted to save the kill for herself. The wing of eagles peeled off, leaving to the other python hundreds of light seconds away.

The cobra took the advantage of its speed, and maneuverability diving out pushing the engines to max and rushing the python in an insane arc. Sphere strafing the python the cobra fired its beam lasers constantly, the updated power core and distributor sang out from the smaller ship with equal excitement rushing the python's shields, pleading for them to stop in bright red neon.

For minutes, the drew out for hours this repeated each attempt only infuriating the python. System security engaged for a moment before the python's better half obliterated them, the hunt declared as her's alone. The adder from earlier attempted to escape catching a full battery from the python before exploding in a distracting burst of white hot static on the screen.

Exploiting the system security to weaken the python a final fury exploded from the cobra as its pilot closed their eye's tasting the end with a crescendo of breaking canopy and audio warnings declaring the near approach of death as all power switched to weapons in a last ditch attempt to take the python with it.

The sound of an explosive discharge, the vibration of released energy and the distant feeling of frustration echoed out all around. The python too had over extended. The rush of adrenaline as the realization sank in and the sound of a bounty (some 300,000 CR) flashed up in pieces over the remaining display. The thought of traversing the void to safety kicked in as the super-cruise initiated sending the cobra away from the remains of the python.

Chasing the readout of Gooch Mine; a distant dot on the broken canopy, was a fever rush of panic, watching the oxygen supply run down as the mechanical sound of each breath rang out in the pilots mask. The constant sensation something was following as the gap of 30ls inched along. The need for excessive course corrections as the display visibility forced incorrect positions to see the way point. Hearts pounding as the sound of the dock gave a welcome release. Victory, the first of many but this was a battle to remember.

30-01-3302

Stalking the fields of LHS 1275 the Sharks float on the outer edges of the asteroids; twinned pythons littered with an accompaniment of fighters offering support. The kill scanner ticks slowly over the data stored from systems far and wide whilst the reticule hovers over the first python retrieving galactic bounties. A sea of creds flash up on the display with 300,000 CR waiting for the one who survives a duel and destroys the ship. The names of pilots start dropping from the comms as the pack of wolves descend onto their prey.

A helpless adder mining at the edge of the planetary ring is suddenly the target of a frontal assault. Batteries of scans hail its doom as the misguided attempt to retract its weapons in self defense. The pythons fire a slew of lasers obliterating the shields instantly. Then nothing, a second of indifference passes before the entourage of eagles dive into the asteroids firing haphazardly at the cargo hatch.

Finding its mark a few hit home and the contents spools out into the open bouncing and jostling. Quickly the pack scoop up the parcels, all flashing red [illicit cargo] on the display as the sensors catch a parcel float by.

Pushing power to weapons, the remainder to shields the light of the sun bounces off the graphite tactical paint shimmering in the void. Moving at full speed firing beam lasers at the first eagle catching it by surprise. Too busy collecting parcels to notice the cobra appear from no where the eagles focus elsewhere. Seconds pass, literally two of them before the shields buckle just in time for the multi-cannons to rain munitions onto the exposed skin of the ship. The intermittent splash of beam lances the power supply tempted the eagles doom. A panic turn drives the eagle into the asteroid, the sudden explosion of panic pops and flashes in the viewport.

A 13,0000 credit bounty whistles across the display. The pack runs, fear spilling from their vets as they boost in unison back to their parental others. A lone python eyes the cobra with a curiosity; cargo, and kill warrant scan flash on the display. The Queen opens fire, punctuating the moment the real battle began!

29-01-3302

Hitting the outfitting yards scouring for parts the ASP explorer weighs in at a cool fifteen million of parts. On a whim the frames up on the rack being retro fit for mining in a moment of breaking out. The boards from Lembava to Masses are filled with demand; over fifty thousand credits for a ton of Palladium, or a hundred thousand for a few tons of osmium. The hyper inflation running rampant on the stations undermines the market, obliterated in these pockets of need.

After several refits and long pauses the decided loadout fits snugly into the available ports. Hums of engines fire once more as the ship is ready for launch. The docking pad grinds up to the centre of the workshop ready to go just as the galaxy wide crash comes across the comms. Systems shutdown, pilots drop out, everything goes haywire. Early cabin fever and angst rings out, unheard deep within the void.

28-01-3302

Two hundred and fifty light years whizz by as the fog horn blasts ring a cacophony of pips through the galaxy. Hyades sector AQ-X, GR-V, C2-16, SHUI WEI Sector NS-S to RH+S. Page after page of precious data; star classes, planet makeups, ring purity, gravity wells. Scattering the hops around Sirius space with a watchful eye kept on every resource extraction site, and less than legitimate outpost with runs to hire that hit the readouts. Several potential bounty hunting spots rank up the charts, in easily exploited space.

The end of the night brings little cash comparatively but for the first time since the pilots license was issued there's little need. Word has it some serious profit to be made outside the bubble hauling narc into the cities; enough to buy an asp over night. A task better suited to the cobra it may be time to take a leap out to the sticks, running that two fifty in a straight line! See whats hiding out there in the unknown space beyond this little space opera that is powerplay.

27-01-3302

Mostly harmless!

The message flashing up over the overlay, punctuated by the pop bang explosion of the Casey Jones a criminal wanted by the feds. Three days on the job and the reality is settling in and the gloves are certainly off. Stepped up the exploration plans; hunting off the grid for a sweet spot no one has uploaded. A couple of nice finds on the ass end of Li Yong-Rui's influence but still a little too close for comfort. Several dead along the way, pirates each and everyone, bounties paying their way further out into the unknown.

Apalok was hot so headed for goldstein port to grab some more franchise packages from Sirius HQ. Why we have to pick these up from their offices is confusing but at ten thousand a pack its a hefty investment in Sirius Corp from the ground up!

Slipping fifty tons of performance enhancers and a handful of industrial packages needed in the outer edges fill the hold as Lembava faded into the background as the FSD hit zero. V774 Tauri a few jumps later, the quiet peace of "safe" space dulls the senses hoping one jump after another lazly tapping the heatsink eject button to speed up the run.

A hasty rush of palladium gave an added bonus to the loop, a healthy compensation for the time wasted searching for discounted armor in between queues. The hunt continues! TBA

26-01-3302

Everywhere is the same but a little different; palm trees waiting to greet you on Oritiz Moreno City, giant spinning death spikes grafted onto a coriolis starport at Bacon City. The naysayers would say if you've docked once you've seen it all but there they maybe didn't stop to enjoy the view. Taking a load off and grabbing some more coffee it seemed Sirius Corp were running an event. After a few drinks and some banter there was a moment of over extending. Pledging to join Li Yong-Rui without really thinking it through.

Bleeding ozone and counting limbs several hours later it became apparent getting involved in the intergalactic powerplay was over reaching at this time. The five million weekly salary "just" from helping out made most pilots weak at the knees. Much like any MLM it turns out its much more involved than previously thought, and certainly more dangerous!

Within a few hours there were more deaths in a night than all of the nights since the pilots federation stamped the all clear on the license. Six souls sent to dust! in just hours. Once your flagged as Yong-Rui's your anyone else's fair game!

Jera holdings and the democrats of spoc 900 both have the word and their cheque books out for anyone greasing me. All fair kills, but since they were playing power games there's still a bounty for unfair sport!

Moving to Sirius space and abandoning the best trade route found was sadly necessary in order to save an ever increasing bounty.

Back in Lembava the truth came out; seems if you want to the bling you gotta spill the blood; merits in Sirius comes from the undermining of systems in enemy space. In short killing is the name of the game for the major leagues. Kill enough of your enemy, running up bounties left right and centre (no fair play needed) and they'll spot you the five mill for being a hostile mediator, but definitely not my Jazz!

25-01-3302

Bad news for Sirius Gov CEO Li Yong-Rui this week. Been so busy hauling the Galnet only just caught my attention stopping for some of that horrible Any Na Coffee; a side effect of the rare runs passing that way every day a few times.

After that last run and some serious piggy bank raids in the night the type 6 is in pieces over at Itza again; downgraded to below stock value, poor thing humbled to sell up the parts to afford the asp explorer although its chasis is in storage next to the cobra (which I also need to take for a walk!)

The thing is a beast, like riding an elephant from old earth before their extinction. This elephant however has fangs! Two beam lasers on medium mounts with four, yes four multi cannons to tear at little eagles' shields. The chaff, heat sinks and such all came along, accompanied briefly by a shield booster until the upgrades were paid off.

The sluggish taming of the beast continues with each trip. The curses and shouts as it flew past the dock by a Km or bumped to a halt half a spaceport from the parking spot. There was even a brief disappointment until they came swooping in. Three more this time, all torn apart, first the diamond back scout, then an eagle, then a cobra. The rush of the kill and taste of the reward bouncing up on HUD in bright white neon each time was intoxicating. Why anyone would give up that rush of the kill to a weapons specialist in control down stairs I cannot imagine! They should have used it to better offset the power usage cost.

After those first kills, the upgrades and such the thing is feeling great. Still 80 tons of cargo with exploration friendly setup in toe. The fog horn of the D-Scanner makes a familiar sound but it does make a hell of a noise.

24-01-3302

With the assistance of a local native to Itza the HUD colour scheme can be "modded" to tweak the colors to something more my style. The space cow as the Type 6 often becomes referred to glides a cool eighty tons between stations when the warnings hail in bright pinks and neon reds.

A pair of vultures and an eagle had me clean in their sights and the hyena call of a meal ran down the pecking order. A few names i recognized but mostly some gangers gone rouge several had warrants something more deadly could claim.

The thrust of a type 6 held them at bay once, but like a predator playing with prey time and again the pack pulled it back out of supercruise hungry for a payday. Payday indeed; a cool mill! eighty bars of palladium heading to an outpost only two million kilometers away, a drop in the pond relatively speaking.

The heat management of the type 6 is the sore spot of the whole ship. A type FSD's and distributors alone will not handle the cooking of heat-sinks as they fire off into space in quick succession. Chaff covering the space between it and them.

The fight lasted some time, jumping, interdicting, running, jumping. The stock of chaff ran dry, it seemed hopeless. Constant rush straight at the dock over and over, full throttle screaming at the coming death. Only a lucky patrol saved the night, even then it was a close call.

Time to check the balance, see if there's something able to do this with some teeth! sick of running!

24-01-3302

The compulsion to grind out the palladium market feels overwhelming, watching the numbers roll up and up with each haul, eight minute round trip between stations and a ten minute run. The variant of space station is really a struggle; remember to tag your orbit lines and drop just in between the planet and station to avoid the space spikes! Those things must be the size of a city! Imagine the collision damage of getting a swipe from one of those...

Want to pick up a diamond back scout and an ASP explorer but the palladium market is ripe. Maybe tomorrow i'll find some time for poetry, and exploration! Until then profit awaits!

23-01-3302

MPH had a previous meaning in the past, old earth, miles per hour, not millions per hour. As things spiral out of control, technology, humanity let loose amongst the stars thoughts of future plans start to form. A few hops around in my Cobra. The adrenaline of a good find not on the net flashes through the brain before hopping back to the type six when a trade scout turns up gold.

Eighty tons of palladium at 12,585 totalling 1,006,800 credits of risk. Forty light years, three jumps, no scoop, rush like crazy for the dock. Low light seconds seems to be the trick, short burn time, quick dock at speed. Pray the type six stops before spreading yourself against the dock!

Sold for 1,157,820 credits with a quick profit, as performance enhancers get dropped back in at 6,409 each. A quick steal on the way back, amid considerations of holding free space to make the jump back quicker. Ten jumps later between station and outpost a cool million pours through the bank.

22-01-3302

One ship forward, two ranks back... The type six seems terrifying! Hitting the reverse thrust at full force feels futile as strip of the docking bay looms in the horizon. The slow drag of pivoting thrusters blasting vapor either side of the goldfish bowl viewport as hundreds of tons of mass boost through the strips of ozone buzz and static before the panic drop of velocity landing onto an M pad to a sigh of relief. My appreciation of outposts has only grown since purchasing the type 6. If only they sold rare commodities there spaceports would rarely see this ship docked there!

The rare trade was booming, twenty stations in a cult spiral in my journal around the galaxy with a few pickups in each spot. The eighty tons of cargo hold full of low investment, high profit goods for sale at every other port. Blue pens outline exit vectors and pit stops should stars fail for fuel scoops mid hop. Green lines detail the mass usage and red the drop offs about the galaxy.

Jotting things in the journal I remember an old man jotting away in his journals. Grandfather was very alike, I wonder what he would do in this age of space. Would he be running good about the universe, or writing poems under binary systems watching the suns roll around in the viewport.

The minor scuffles came with the odd interdiction here or there, surprisingly nimble the six; it can hit that escape vector far more consistently than the cobra, which made little sense but is very welcome. After a couple of lovebirds decided to press the matter. Losing cargo this far out means burning a cool million of potential, and a hundred grand of the current fools' gold. The risk of rare runs comes in the time investment taken to gather the crop, not necessary the outlay to get involved.

Hitting the chaff, turn to vector, push the engines, distributor firing as heatsinks roast in their ports, ejecting as frost obscures the view! 3,2,1, Jump...

Submitting to interdiction when it starts to look bad, then turning tail as fast as you can. Traders who run get called names, traders who fight return to the void.

The upgrade to a type six came with tales of high profit runs out in the wilds. Time to check out of the grand tour, find some systems to write poetry in!

21-01-3302

The annuals of space trucking hold a surprising commonality of constants in their advice for flying safely with a nuclear power plant strapped to the back of a giant tin can, blasting through dimensional rifts on a whim. Wise pilots play the long game; get plenty of sleep, stay sober, avoid the temptation of "one more jump" commit only what you can afford to lose. Play the market, don't let the market play you.

After Howard City it seemed quiet, the trade routes a far away a few space taxi runs left on the board from last night. A third of a million waiting to be made hopping from station to outpost to station … rinse, repeat. Always small numbers and mostly left to passing sidewinders, beneath most pilots but reputation and standing doesn't make itself.

Stories of big hauls run rampant in docks but whole systems run off seven tons of coffee for those early start shifts, or five tons of uniforms for the breakdown teams starting next week. Casks of brown ale and genetically engineered omni-meat for wedding barges bound for Tauri 39 on the weekend. Mini-hauls are what keep the lights on and the docking bay full.

Despite the hour and the jobs already done that type seven isn't going to buy itself and the hold is getting a little cramped. In a moment of pure stupidity the cargo is filled with rares, the usual run, down and out in minutes up to Pausch City a few light years outside of Li Yong-Rui's space. You can always tell as the price of ships go up, if he has his way insurance would too. Now that I can get behind, dreams of discount vessels beyond the bank balance sneak in with the early morning tiredness.

Jump... Turn... Jump... Turn... Sleep... Jump... Turn... Jump...

Eyes dipping, head bobs with each swerve, a screaming slash and tear of ceramic plate against military composite as the suicidal officer barges into the cobra rocking it back and forth with a shock alarm call fashion from a horror movie. The Fujin authorities shouting over the comms, the ping pong of alarms [and fines] dancing over the display as the giant goliath of the Starport consumes the sensors.

Then it hits, Fujin! Seven AM and punch drunk on sleepless nights the galaxy map must have spun around, instinct took over sending me back "home" crashing gently into Futen orbital with a tender bump. One hundred and eighty light year round trip, two asps returned to the void and countless pitch and roll maneuvers with eyes closed.

Fujin! The cargo hold full of worthless tat, a stack of prayer sticks crash onto the floor with comedic effect. No more runs, time to sleep!

20-01-3302

Who brings a diamond back scout to a cobra fight?

Vanity is a curse of a pilots license, but an this A class cobra mk3 against a scout, even an asp, would be outclassed without some serious outfitting. If the pilots had been equally matched it would have been climatic as brief but lessons needed to be taught, for both parties it seems.

Chaff fires from both ships in a cascade of panic fires coupled spirals of death entwined in their swan song. Targeting the power core of the diamond back scout the beam lasers rained down a constant strobe plummeting its shields, as two B class frag cannons made quick work of its hull plating.

[Direct:] : You will pay for this you monster!

The targeting lock screamed as the scout's systems flashed red over the readouts.

Sliding into Howard City there wasn't a cop in sight. The normal array of law enforcement had gone after some fool attacking ships in a diamond back scout of all things. The workers quick to tell tales as they haul the mislabeled cargo off the dock. Not a Bobby to be seen.

19-01-3302

The Orrerian Brew was a little stale but a hundred and sixty light years away it's all the same to those trendsetters. They taste a mouth full or two before proclaiming its "nuanced flavor" at over twenty times the price. A pilot's license can pervert the mind, cloud up the memory before hopping the stars; always a few jumps to fool's gold from snake oil down the road.

Particularly tight lipped crew turned up a few tons and left a big hole in the hold, but the rare runs paid off again in the reputation gain covering more than it's tonnage in actual gold! It seemed A broker of less reputable standing was needed to help overcome some trade impasses in the way of illicit misunderstandings between Howard City in Nagnatae and themselves. A miss appropriation as "narcotics" had ceased a very lucrative arrangement of medicines.

CR 900,000... 26LY

The system was two jumps at most... fingers thumbed galaxy maps and a few curt words later the debt on the advanced discovery scanner is a distant memory, or at least it will when the cargo lands.

Jump...Jump...

Suns bounce by with the fog horn of the scanner announcing each jump with a drawn out beat. Targets pop up with little time to stop and scan each item, a few scoops of fuel let a couple dance over the view, twenty, thirty thousand credits should cover the fuel, and a room.

Pilot's license can pervert the mind, cloud up the memory before hopping the stars!

18-01-3302

A silent portent of death rattles with a slow hiss of stale ozone engulfed in a melange of kamitra cigar smoke and Tarach spice pooling around micro-fractures in the hull, atmosphere bleeding into the void as a kaleidoscopic array  neon alarms plea for attention. The silence breaks in spurts and whistles of thrusters protesting in crackled moans and pitch screams forever strapped to its slavish rack mount. The adrenaline fire of slow motion consumes the pilot as they wave pantaa prayer sticks to the chants of "9%, 8%, 7%..." counting off the remaining hull integrity amid the cascade of reactive plating peeling off the carcass. The final lateral thrust of salvation sends a king's ransom in illicit commodities bounding across the docking bay; cases of Eranin Pearl Whisky, Lavian Brandy, and Leesti Evil Juice hammering in chorus to the encore of bulkheads giving way; ballooning the remnant of "Lucky 7's" cargo hold onto the ceramic plate of the dock