500 Words on Grunge

500 Words on Grunge — Blue Ink Alchemy

When I was growing up, and going through some bullying and shunning in junior high, grunge was on the rise. Nirvana, Alice in Chains, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden... these names were surging through the airwaves, videos playing on MTV, the sound was all around. For my part, I listened, but I found it difficult to really interface with the content of the songs. I was much more engaged by faster-paced acts like Green Day and the Offspring. I wasn't quite ready to fully examine the meaning and thrust of grunge; the more obvious punkish sounds underscored my unexpressed frustrations and anger. It felt, at the time, more cathartic. I didn't know what I was missing. Since moving to Seattle, and especially in the last year, many of these bands and their music have come back into my life, and I find myself having a newfound appreciation for their messages and meanings. Chris Cornell's sudden and inexplicable death struck a melancholy chord deep within me. I feel that I missed some great opportunities. The more I listen to Soundgarden, Audioslave, and his side projects and solo work, the more I can see parts of myself and my inner struggles in what Chris conveyed in his words and his singular voice. I find myself in another situation where I feel I didn't appreciate the influence and power of someone enough until they were gone from my life; now, I can't deny a desire to say and do so much more, to this person and on their behalf, because they made the world, and my life, better for their presence; both are now the poorer for their absence. I've been thinking a lot about how I've handled my head weasels and the ways in which I've been pushed around by my errant thoughts and rampant emotions. While it's good to know I'm not alone in this, it also breaks my heart at times — why would a thinking, feeling human being wish these things upon another? When I listen to grunge with the ears I have now, I find myself understanding the music and its motivations so much more, and wishing peace for those who feel the same, from the artists to their fans. Mental illness is not something to be taken lightly. Even when things seem 'okay', the victim may simply be projecting an illusion of normality. Worse, something may appear out of nowhere to tip the scales into disaster — one unanticipated phone call, one bit of bad news, one pill too many. When these are conveyed to us, in speech or in song, we cannot take it lightly; we owe it to those we love to imagine them complexly, and offer love and support whenever we can. We have the music of the artists who've left us; we have the good memories of the loved ones we've lost. There have been so many casualties — Kurt, Layne Staley, Andrew Wood, Ian Curtis, and now Chris — but we can hear them, and we can remember. On Fridays I write 500 words.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Honor & Blood, V: The Green Boy

Honor & Blood, V: The Green Boy — Blue Ink Alchemy

Please note: All characters, locations and events are copyright George RR Martin and the events that take place during this game can and will deviate from series canon. The Story So Far: It is Year 296 since Aegon's Landing. Jon Snow has left Winterfell for Moat Cailin, home of House Luxon. His brothers Robb and Bran have gone with him to wish him well. Lord Goddard invites the sons of his liege lord to stay for a feast and rest before returning home, and while Robb spars with his half-brother one last time, Bran explores the unfamiliar castle and its many towers...

He adored the feeling of the wind cutting through him. Summer kept pace on the ground, watchful, long ears alert. The direwolf pup could not climb after him, though. The craggy masonry and hidden handholds were Bran's province alone. Here, in a place he'd never seen, he still navigated walls and towers with speed and precision. In his mind he saw himself assaulting an enemy stronghold, a dagger clenched in his teeth, men at arms struggling to keep up as they moved to overwhelm the guards at the gate, or carry off a damsel in distress. One tower was different from the others. It was not the tallest one of Moat Cailin's many, but it was one of the few that seemed unmanned. A gregarious garron was the only creature keeping watch at its base, tied to a post and pawing at the ground. Summer gave it a sniff in introduction as Bran ascended the tower. He immediately caught a scent from above: freshly brewed tea, strong and exotic. Curiosity overwhelmed him as he moved, hand over hand, up the side of the tower. At last he came to the window that was the source of the scent. A small spiral staircase rose through the middle of the room. Several stout bookshelves were spaced around the room, scrolls and tomes stuffed into their spaces. Tapestries hung from the higher portions of the wall and rugs lay on the floor. A small firepit was near the window, with a kettle hanging over it. Across the way from Bran was a table featuring odd figurines and two men facing one another as they sat in thought. One was Lord Goddard Luxon. He reminded Bran of his lord father, a man of war tempered with patience and wisdom. The other was an older man, his head curiously devoid of hair, dressed in the robes of a maester. The stranger's eyes flicked towards Bran, then back to the table. "A moment while I tend to the tea." He moved one of the figurines and rose. He picked up a staff that had been leaning against a nearby shelf before hobbling over to the fire pit, slowly, his eyes on Bran. The boy didn't move. Carefully, the maester removed the pot from the firepit's rail, set it on a side table, and covered the firepit with a broad metal lid. "You best come inside, my lad. 'Twould be a shame to see you fall from this height." Nodding, Bran climbed into the room. The maester was pouring tea as Goddard regarded him. "As you are not one of Lord Goddard's children, I deduce you're one of our honored guests." "That would be Bran Stark." Goddard hadn't moved from the table, his gaze severe on the boy. "And he should know wandering a yard, any yard that is not his own, is inherently dangerous." "I'm sorry." Bran found his voice but did not meet the lord's eyes. "I like to climb." "Well, since you worked so hard in climbing up here, would you mind holding onto this tray for our lord?" The maester was holding a small tray with two steaming cups, and Bran took it. Smiling, the maester moved back to the table with the boy in tow. Goddard's look had softened for a moment before turning back to the figurines. "What is this?" "It is called cyvasse, young master, a game of strategy and cunning. It is a means of keeping the mind sharp and taking the measure of another without the need for swords." "And it's damned annoying at times." Goddard's voice was laced with mirth, however, and he rubbed his chin as he regarded the board before him. After a few quiet moments, during which the maester sampled his tea, the lord moved his trebuchet. "Why is it annoying?" "A skilled opponent knows not to move all of his powerful pieces to the front." Goddard took a sip of tea, then nodded to the maester with a raise of the cup. "I jest; facing a skilled opponent is only annoying in that more effort must be exerted in overcoming them. My son could stand to learn that, as well as how to play the game better." The maester smiled, then turned his attention to the board. Bran leaned closer and looked at the different tiles and pieces. "Why not simply fly your dragons over everything?" "Two reasons." The maester moved one of his spearmen to block his opponent's trebuchet. "One, this is a game of Old Valyria, and the object is to capture the king, which is stronger than a dragon. Two, moving your dragons aggressively can sometimes be effective, but canny players can deal with and extinguish early threats and leave their opponents at a disadvantage for the duration of the game. Given the mobility of the dragons, your opponent could see it coming, and prepare a counter-move." Bran knelt and leaned his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands. "Not every battle is won with strength alone, Bran." Goddard moved his heavy horse. "More often than not, you must use your eyes and your mind as much as your sword or fist to win the day." Bran nodded, watching as the game unfolded. Eventually, the maester was forced to move his king out of his fortress and after a merry chase, Goddard pinned it in the back corner with his horse and spy. The maester, unflustered, stood and bowed to his lord. "A well-played match, my lord. The board is yours." Goddard stood and offered the maester his hand. "A good game and good tea. We must do this again." As they shook, noise came from below. The bulky form of Samsun Cray came up the spiral, followed by the quick and quiet Spectre. Bran smiled and walked over to the shadow cat, who rammed Bran's shoulder with her head to ensure she had the boy's full attention. "Some of the locals have arrived, my lord, wishing to speak with you about their crops and trade. I also was told to find Bran to inform him Robb is ready to leave." Bran looked up from petting Spectre. "I want to say good-bye to Jon." "So you will." Goddard laid his teacup down on the side table and made for the stairs, with Samsun in tow. Spectre moved after her master, but Bran hesitated, looking back at the maester as he put the cyvasse pieces in a box on a shelf near the table. "Did you go bald when you became a maester?" The older man smiled. "In a way. I shave every morning. It's a ritual, a reminder of the commitment I've chosen to make to the realm." "What about your leg? Doesn't that remind you?" "My leg reminds me that I am more than the circumstances that left me with only one of flesh and blood." The maester leaned on his staff as he regarded the boy. "Men are more than they seem, young master. More than their handicaps, more than their prowess, more than their smiles. Do not be afraid to look deeper into their hearts, as well as your own." Bran nodded as Goddard called his name. He hurried down the stairs. Summer bounded after him as they searched for Jon. He wasn't leaving until he said good-bye.

Get caught up by visiting the Westeros page.

Next: Viserys

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Cadmon's Journal: Fourth Entry

Cadmon's Journal: Fourth Entry — Blue Ink Alchemy

All characters, locations and events are copyright George RR Martin and the events that take place during this game can and will deviate from series canon.

Third Entry

My time in the House of Black and White that sits in Braavos taught me several things. I learned patience, for those days after I awakened in a small acolyte's room were long and quiet. I learned how precious every moment is, considering how I'd simultaneously delivered a soul onto death and nearly fell into its arms myself. I learned that while I was recuperating in the temple of the Many-Faced God, the face of the weirwood of Storm's End was the one that came to mind when I felt the need to pray. I learned to speak more languages, to listen to whispers, to watch how people moved and looked around when they spoke. And I learned the water dance from Mavek Kushahn, Third Sword of Braavos. She took my dagger from me, letting me fight only with wooden swords. It wasn't until I took her practice weapon from her hand that she returned it. That same day, I thanked the priests in the House of Black and White and, wearing the clothes of a bravo, hired myself as a deckhand and sellsword to a trading ship. So it was for years, before wanderings and adventures brought me to Pentos. I was days from turning ten and seven, a man grown by Westrosi reckoning. I had taken scars and lives alike, and as I walked through the city to make my delivery I drew in the salty sea air and thought of how different it smelled from the spray of Storm's End and the cold loam of Dragonstone. I didn't miss them, precisely, but I knew they were the foundation upon which Cadmon Storm the bravo had been built. I handed the wineseller his cask and took his money. I was counting it for the third time - just to be certain - when I bumped shoulders with a youth just a few years older than me. He had his hand gripped tightly around the wrist of a young girl who caught my eye. While the teen pulling her along called me a fool and to watch where I was going, I found myself staring, the image of her searing into my memory. Her hair, caught in the breeze and sunlight, looked as if spun from a metal more precious that silver, more rare than gold. She was wearing a fine if somewhat insubstantial dress that was very much in keeping with the fashions of the upper-crust ladies of the Free Cities. What captured me, though, were her eyes. Not their color, though you don't often see them the color of amethysts. No, it was the sadness. The longing. Though she was dressed in the manner of a daughter of wealth, she looked very much a prisoner. A little voice in the back of my mind told me I would embarrass myself if she caught me gauping, and I tore my eyes away from the sight of her. Her escort, whoever he was, turned his eyes to me, eyes the same color as hers, and if looks could kill I would have dropped dead on the spot. Instead, I bit out an obscenity in Valyrian - another skill I'd refined in the House of Black and White. His eyes went wide and I winked at him, before he himself ran headlong into an oncoming traveler. I ducked out of sight before the drama unfolded any further. There was something about that pair, a feeling in the back of my brain that coiled and writhed in a mix of uncertainty and excitement. Who had I just seen? Why did this notion of destiny poke at my heart? I tried to tell myself it didn't matter. I had coin, and free time, and I knew what to do with both. Pentos had more than its share of taverns, and I had a favorite, the "Sea Lady's Chamber", a short walk from the docks. The Chamber is a home away from the sea for sellsails, oarsmen, and shipwrights of all types. One at the bar was smiling and laughing with a pair of ladies, wearing a dark tunic with a strange device over his heart: an onion, embroidered in white. It was a device I knew well. The ladies were striking in their own right. The more flamboyant of the two was also the larger, a collection of curves and bright flashing gold hanging from belts and sashes. Her bright hoop earrings and bold-colored scarves on her head were a stark contrast to her dark skin. She didn't look like one for fighting, but all the same, a jeweled scabbard holding a sickle-like dagger was prominent on the front of one of the many sashes around her waist. Her companion was more slender, her curves more modest, the caramel of her skin subtly accented by her fashionable skirt, slit up to her hip to expose bare leg running to the boot that came to just below her knee. A gem flashed in her navel, set in a taut belly shown by the tied-off sleeveless shirt in the same sandy color as the skirt. Behind her cocked hips, I could see the hilt of a Braavosi blade. Her hair was long and ebony, braided with threads of silver woven through it. The only other decoration she wore was a slender silver chain that encircled the base of her neck, itself braided at the hollow of her throat and hanging down between her full breasts and into her shirt. Again, the eyes got my attention. But they weren't exotic, like the amethyst orbs I'd beheld earlier. No, these eyes were a stormy, expressive blue. Familiar eyes. Eyes I'd caught sight of in mirrors or polished glass from time to time. Curious, intrigued, and perhaps a little aroused, I began to make my way over. Three bravos burst into the Chamber behind me. I stepped to one side; I didn't want to be seen as an obstacle to them. Not yet, at least. "Dale Seaworth!" The bravo that called the name drew his blade. "You will come with us!" Dale looked at the bravos, then his companions, then drank down the remnants of his wine. "Why would I do that?" "Your ship has raided and taken the property of our employer." It was the middle bravo who spoke now, his Westrosi Common slightly more refined. "We've come on behalf of our lady, Betharios of Braavos, to demand recompense." The slender woman set down her goblet and crossed her arms, the firelight reflecting from the studs of her fingerless gloves. "Dale. Have you been pirating?" Dale shook his head. "The ships were carrying slaves towards Westeros. I turned them back." "Lies." The bravo who hadn't spoken yet, the largest one, had a voice like gravel being ground underfoot. "You kept the cargo of Betharios for yourself." People are not cargo, I wanted to say, but Dale beat me to it. "I daresay that people are not, in fact, cargo." "I know Betharios," said the large woman, leaning on the bar. "She's a bitch. I'm not surprised she sent dogs to do her dirty work." The first bravo spat. "We are no dogs!" "And at least we are not pirates and thieves," the second agreed. "Not like you. Now will you come with us or shall we draw your blood now?" Dale got to his feet. People were quietly leaving the tavern or getting into a better position to watch. "I can't leave. My ship departs with the tide. I need to be on it, you see, as I am her captain, and we have goods to take back to Westeros. Goods, I might add, that were not taken from the leaky boats of Betharios." "We are three." The first bravo grinned, a smile missing a few teeth. "You are one. Odds are not good, pirate." "Learn to count." The slender woman uncrossed her arms and moved, hips almost in a slither-like motion, to stand by Dale. "We are two." The grinning bravo moved his hand to his hilt. "I can count. And we still number more than you." "You there. Tall, dark, and ugly." I stepped out of the crowd, lifting my chin to the big, stoic one. "We shall duel, bravo, you and I." He blinked at me. "You will stand for this Westrosi seadog?" "Aye. Any seadog of Westeros nursed at the same bitch I did." Dale smiled. "The Narrow Sea's a cold, hard one." The woman smiled, too. My heart might have skipped a beat. "Enough talk!" The first bravo roared as he attacked. We paired off immediately: the first with Dale, the second with the woman, and the big one with me. I parried and gave ground. He was strong enough, but he lacked finesse. Dale was quick on his feet and had a Westrosi longsword in his hand before his bravo could get close enough to stick him. The woman, for her part, ducked and darted like a snake, and I read in her water dance a placid patience, moreso than any sort of fury or malice, as she looked for the perfect place and time to strike. I kept mine busy, moving around the tavern and letting him grow tired and stupid... well, more stupid than usual. Sure enough, he over-extended his thrust and I took him in the chest, just below his heart. He slid back off of my blade and staggered, looking down at the wound in shock. I raised my blade to my face in salute, then turned to the other as he backed Dale into a corner. Dale wasn't used to fighting water dancers, and while he was holding off the attacks, it was only matter of time before he was disarmed or worse. The other bravo saw me moving, and was about to shout a warning when the woman capitalized on the distraction, her thrust landing in his throat. Winking at her, I turned back to the first bravo, my left hand reaching for my dagger. Valyrian steel whispered through the air as I ducked low, slicing the tendons at his heel. His leg turned to rubber, but he somehow stayed upright, clearly well-trained enough to keep his balance despite the sudden handicap. The large bravo shocked me when he roared and came at with with a final burst of energy. Effortlessly, the woman spun into his path, the tip of her blade slashing his face. He stopped, mid-stride, even more shocked than before. A good shove from her put him down on the floorboards. He didn't get back up. Dale finished off his hobbled foe when the bravo pressed an unwise attack. He slapped the thin blade of his opponent aside with contempt, and cleaved the man's neck down to the spine on the reverse stroke. The bravo bled all over his flamboyant clothing as he sank to his knees, then fell to one side. Dale cleaned his blade, nodding in my direction as the woman sidled up beside me. "You made that a lot easier than it could have been, friends. Thank you." "Any family of Davos Seaworth is family of mine." "You know my father?" "Quite well. This dagger was a gift from him. He helped me leave Westeros. I was in a place where bastards like me are seen the way a noble looks at a pile of horseshit he just stepped in." The woman was studying me intently at this point. She smiled, and again, the effect it had on me was undeniable. "I know a bit about being a bastard of the Seven Kingdoms. It's a shame your experience was so negative." I shrugged. "I didn't have the advantage of your charms." "Don't go trying to seduce my first mate away from me!" The large woman walked over to us and laughed. "She's far too much of an asset to the Pillowqueen." I knew that ship name. My face split into a huge grin. "It's a pleasure to finally meet the great Madrosa Saan!" I removed my hat and swept low in a bow. "I hear that business is treating you and your family well." Large dimples appeared as Madrosa smiled at me. "It is, young bravo, but you do have me at a bit of a disadvantage." "My name is Cadmon Storm. And, if I may, I find myself between jobs, and I'd be honored to be considered for your crew." Now the woman by my side was openly staring. "'Storm.' As in Storm's End?" I turned to her, blinking. "Yes. I was born there. My mother is..." "Rhiannon Penrose." She took my arm. "Walk with me." We left Dale Seaworth and Madrosa Saan watching us in confusion. I glanced over my shoulder, and I saw them exchange a look and a shrug. We walked across the street and down the docks, under a cloudless night littered with stars. The moonlight did fascinating things to the woman's skin. I noticed, now, that she was closer to my age than I'd originally thought. She turned to me when we were alone. "I know who your father is, Cadmon. Because he's my father, too." She reached between her breasts, into her top, and drew out the end of the chain. At the end of it was a large ring. She placed it in my hand. It was heavy. It had a thick band and fit over the long finger of my left hand. Its central accent was not a gem, but a signet of white. It depicted a tall tower with a flame at the top. I studied it for a long moment, then looked up into her eyes. "I didn't know who he was until after I arrived in Braavos. My mother kept his identity secret, even to me." "My mother had no need for such deceptions." She rested her hand on mine, the ring now shared between our skin. "My name is Sylvaria Sand, and I'm your half-sister." I suddenly felt a little abashed for feeling so attracted to her. She must have noticed this, because she flashed her alluring smile. Even with this new revelation, I couldn't help but notice the fullness of her lips. "No need to be so bashful, Cadmon. This isn't Westeros, and we're not intended for high seats. We should embrace what's beautiful, not hide from it. My mother, herself a bastard, taught me that." I tabled that for the moment. Plenty of time for such talk later. "I can't help but feel there's a reason we met tonight," I said. "Both you and Dale Seaworth, in the same tavern at the same time, on a night I arrive there... Do you believe in fate, Sylvaria?" She gently slid my finger free of the signet ring, but did not let go of my hand. "Sometimes, it's hard to deny that there might be such a thing as fate. And meeting you, as delightful as it is, reminds me of home, and how much I miss it. The Water Palace, and my mother's love, and my sisters. I should very much like to see them again." Something wells up in my heart. "My mother and I haven't seen each other since I left." "It's settled, then." As boldly as she stepped up to fight for Dale Seaworth, my half-sister leaned into me and placed a warm, gentle kiss on my lips. "Let's go home, Cadmon."

Honor & Blood

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Delta-V: Furious Egress

Delta-V: Furious Egress — Blue Ink Alchemy

The interior of a station access corridor resembles a telescope when seen from within; for Jason Frimantle, it gave the promise of freedom. As a boy, he'd looked up at the inner surface of the Ackerman's Market hub and its traffic with wonder, his head full of dreams. Once he was old enough, his father had entrusted him as an extra pair of hands aboard the Frimantle's family freighter. Recently, he'd been given permission to run a few missions of his own in his grandfather's Sidewinder, the same ship that had established the Frimantles as reliable and efficient traders in the Eravate system and several of its neighbors. He stood alone in the control tower of one of the Market's many landing pads, gazing at the familiar habitats and conveyance ways, blue eyes focusing on the bright fields dividing the hub from the blackness of space beyond. When he took in that sight, as the sovereign young man he was becoming, he did so with hope, and more than a little impatience. The need to exit Federation space and avoid its stations after said egress was becoming an itch under his skin. He went down from the civilian observation area of the tower to the hangar below. Perched under the lights was an Adder, its cobalt blue hull shining in the overhead lights. It was freshly washed, fueled, and its stock equipment had been replaced with everything Jason needed. The plates declared its registration code, and the name Jason had given it: Wayfarer. With the Civil War having calmed down, and interdiction rates at an all-time low, Jason knew it was time for him to leave. He tugged at the collar of his somewhat weatherbeaten flight jacket, a relic of his grandfather's time with the Federation Navy, and was about to climb aboard his new ship when he heard the door open behind him. An unctuous and preening man in a suit about a size too large ambled towards Jason with a big smile. "Ah, young master Frimantle! I thought I'd find you in the Trader's Lounge. I bring good news! We're all set." Jason took the tablet from the man's outstretched hand and gazed at its screen. It did, in fact, lay out all of the payment information for the Wayfarer behind him. It included the sale price he'd gotten for the old Frimantle Sidewinder, which tugged at one of Jason's heartstrings, just a little. But it was a small discordant note in the growing feeling within him, like an orchestra tuning up. "Are you sure I can't interest you in a Cobra Mk III? It's one of our best sellers!" Jason smiled and shook his head. "For the last time, Mister Cornwall, no thank you. I have a long journey ahead of me, and the more credits I hold onto for that journey, the better. Besides —" Here Jason's smile became knowing, his tone chiding. "— you and I both know there are no refunds on customizations like paint jobs and name plates." Abashed, Cornwall tugged at his mustache, a tick Jason recognized as his unconscious "I've been caught red-handed" expression. "Now, now, no reason I can't make an exception there, my boy. Your old Sidewinder is in excellent condition; I'm sure I can extend a line of credit. I'm always willing to work out a deal! Remember, once you're a Cornwall customer, you're a customer for life!" Jason stopped smiling. That my boy made him bristle, and the idea of being tied to Ackerman's after today was too much. "My life isn't going to be here, Mister Cornwall. Or anywhere near your dealership." He pressed his thumb to the marked square on the tablet, and it chirped, indicating the finalization of the sale. "Thank you. I'm sure you'll find that Sidewinder a good home." Cornwall's frustration at a loss of potential revenue seeped past his genial expression, which suddenly froze on his whiskered face when he looked past Jason as another door opened behind him. "Well... ah... excuse me, master Frimantle, I have to finalize the transfers. Nice doing business with you!" The little salesman scuttled off. Jason didn't turn around. "I hope you have a damn good explanation for this." Jason shrugged. The irritated voice of his father no longer had the terrifying effect on his guts it used to. Now it just served as one more obstacle to overcome before he left this place forever. "I do. I'm leaving." "The hell you are, boy. Your place is here. Just like mine is, just like your Pappy's was. Why'd you have to go and sell his Sidewinder? It's a better ship than this..." His father's voice trailed off, as if he was searching for the right way to trash-talk the Adder, which was smaller, faster, and definitely prettier than the beat-up Type-7 his father used. Jason didn't let his father finish. Instead, he turned. "Is it better because of the tracking device you had installed in it?" Joseph Frimantle, his hair going more gray by the day, frowned. It exacerbated the worry lines on his face. "You taking that tone with me over something I used to keep you safe?" "It kept me on a leash, Dad. That's all it ever did." "What if you'd run outta fuel out there? Huh? Or how about if you got jumped by pirates?" "Then I'd be dead." Or I'd call the Fuel Rats. Jason didn't want to mention that aloud; his father's opinion on the altruistic organization usually involved words like 'socialist scumbags,' 'hippy nonsense,' and more than a few expletives. "I don't see how you knowing my every movement outside of this station kept me 'safe'." "You'll understand when you have kids of your own, son. Now, come on, let's sell this flashy piece of crap back to Cornwall. I've got work to do." Jason crossed his arms. "I'm not stopping you. Go do work." Joseph blinked. "Now, see here..." "No." Jason glared at his father. "This is over, Dad. I'm leaving. I made my own credits, I bought my own ship, and I'm leaving." "Oh, is that so? And where is it that you'll be going in your fancy new ship?" Jason shrugged. "Away. What do you care?" "What do I—? I am your father, you overgrown snot, and what I say goes." "I'm a licensed, independent commander, and I have no outstanding warrants or fines. I can come and go as I please. Emphasis on go." "Your mother would be weeping if she were standing here to see you talk to me like this." "My mother is dead." "She's turning in her grave, then." "She wouldn't be, if you'd let her get the care she needed." "She was just sitting around the house, not lifting a finger to help us at all!" "She was in pain, Dad, every single day, and the fact that the doctors we could afford couldn't help her wasn't her fault. And did you think the dishes washed themselves? Or that prepared meals just emerged from the oven at your whim? You're really dumb if you think all Mom did was sit idle all day." "Don't you dare call me stupid, boy." "Oh, I dare." Jason's hands were in ever-tightening fists, and they were just starting to hurt, now. He didn't care. His voice was a growl. "I dare because you could have paid for better care for her. You could have been here more for her. Hell, if I had then the cash I had now, I would have paid for her medical care, and I'd be taking us both away from you." "One more word outta you —" "Go ahead, Dad. Can't be worse than you killing her. You son of a bitch. Why didn't you just shoot her, if you wanted her out of your hair so badly?" Joseph raised his hand to slap his son. Jason's arm flashed up, grabbing his father by the wrist, blocking the blow. Shocked, Joseph stared at the young man in front of him. "You're never hitting me again, old man." Jason resisted the urge to twist the wrist in his hand, possibly breaking his father's arm. There were lines, even now, he refused to cross. He did tighten his grip, though. Joseph's eyes began to water. "Let... let go of me." Jason did, and stepped back. Joseph kept staring, uncomprehending, gently holding his wrist in his other hand. "Listen to me. And you listen well. This is the result of your actions. You voted for that blowhard, Zachary Hudson, to be the Federation President. You put up all of those signs, about people paying their own way, and how those who can't work shouldn't get 'handouts' from the government. You barely lifted a finger when Mom started getting sick. You stayed out on longer and longer runs, and when you came home, drunk and exhausted, you yelled at her to keep the house more tidy and to get a job. And when I started working on my own? You took as much of my profit as you could, putting it who knows where." He paused. He waited. Joseph was, in fact, listening. Another discordant note sounded in the young man, but he kept on his tirade. "When Mom died, I set up a way to have credits automatically deposited in an account of my own before you saw my balance sheets. And I worked a lot. Check that tracking data of yours. I've been out as far as GD-219 and Macarthur Terminal. And I earned this." He pointed at the Adder. "I earned my way out of here, and away from you." Joseph blinked away tears. "I loved your mother." His voice was quieter, now, tired and worn out. "I didn't want to watch her die." "But you could have helped. You could have let me help." His father's face took a little of the wind out of his sails. "She needed both of us. All she had was me. And I couldn't do enough." Joseph shook his head. "She used to be so strong. She was making her own way, and she helped make our business become one of the best." "She loved you. She honored you. And... you let her down." "Okay. Okay. Just... let's just go home, son. We can talk more when we're at home. I'll keep listening. I promise." Jason closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "No, Dad. I have to go." Joseph frowned again. "You can't. Jason, you can't. I'm getting more work requests every day. I can't be in two places at once." Jason shrugged. "I guess that's because I told everyone I was trading with to contact you. I figured the Frimantle name meant speed and quality of service, and now you've got customers far and wide. You'll be making even more money!" Joseph's eyes narrowed. "Then... why are you leaving? You know I can't do this alone." "You know why I'm leaving. And isn't that your President's whole thing? Independent businessmen doing business on their own, without handouts or help, 'personal freedom at any cost'?" Jason spread his arms. "Well, here you go. Plenty of work, no family holding you back, just you and that rattling old rustbucket of a ship. That's what you voted for, Dad. I'm just making it all happen for you." Righteous indignation crept back into the old man's eyes. "I'll have your license revoked." "By the time you get that paperwork squared away, I'll be out of Federation jurisdiction. Which means it'll be a huge waste of your time and money. Go back to your freighter, Dad. Go back to work." He turned towards the Wayfarer. "At least take off that jacket. It's mine." Jason looked over his shoulder, one foot on the ramp into his ship. "No, Dad. He said I was a better pilot than you, and that only the best pilots wear jackets like this." He paused. "Get clear. I don't want you to get caught in the blast wash when I take off." Joseph glared, his hands balled into fists, and turned to leave the hangar. Jason walked into his ship, sealed the ramp, and got his pre-flight checklist completed as quickly as possible, without missing anything. With his flightsuit secured and all systems green, he requested liftoff clearance, and headed for the exit of Ackerman's Market. As he cleared the landing lights on the exterior of the station, his comm channel crackled to life. "Jason! Stop!" Turning his head, Jason checked his contacts. Sure enough, an old Type-7 freighter had emerged from the station. "Don't make me call the Federation Security pilots! I'll tell them you bought that ship with stolen funds!" "And when I keep flying away in spite of your cunning ploy?" "Well then I'll just shoot your engines out myself, smart-ass!" "Oh? With what?" "The guns I got installed by my friend over at Cleve Hub last week! Now turn that ship around!" "I don't think you have a single weapon installed on that crate, Dad." "You callin' me a liar?" Jason cocked his head to one side. "Yes. Yes, I am." They had cleared the no fire zone around the station. Jason knew that, given their position, Joseph would feel confident in bringing his weapons online. Jason immediately turned his ship, boosted himself back into range of Ackerman Market. The Type-7 began its slow turn, killing its throttle, and had never left the zone. The ship automatically switched over to the traffic control channel when the Federation pinged him. "Zorgon Peterson Bravo Lima Uniform, please comply with all Federal regulations —" "Mayday, mayday, calling Ackerman Control." He kept his voice calm, but added a hint of urgency, as if he was truly terrified but trying to control it. "This is Zorgon Peterson Bravo Lima Uniform. I am being pursued by a hostile party, their weapons are hot. I am unarmed. Say again, this vessel is unarmed." This was true — other than a chaff launcher and point-defense turret, the Adder transport did not have any weapons. Jason had made sure to remove them after he'd bought the ship from Cornwall. They were weight he didn't need on his trip; once he got where he was going, maybe he'd install something. But, for now, his Harmless status was in his favor. Federation fighters zipped towards him. He keyed his comm back over to his father's frequency. "I think those officers want to have a word with you, Dad." "You!" The voice on the other end crackled through the speaker with impotent fury. "You tricked me! You —!" "Bye, Dad." Turning off his comm, Jason turned to his map of the galaxy. It was a long way to Lave, but it was out of Federation space, and the trade routes he'd heard of were lucrative, if a bit volatile or dangerous at times. Nevertheless, he was going. He was putting this system, this station, this family behind him. And he wasn't looking back. Elite Dangerous is a registered trademark of Frontier Developments. Mondays are for making art.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Delta-V: Furious Egress

Delta-V: Furious Egress — Blue Ink Alchemy

The interior of a station access corridor resembles a telescope when seen from within; for Jason Frimantle, it gave the promise of freedom. As a boy, he'd looked up at the inner surface of the Ackerman's Market hub and its traffic with wonder, his head full of dreams. Once he was old enough, his father had entrusted him as an extra pair of hands aboard the Frimantle's family freighter. Recently, he'd been given permission to run a few missions of his own in his grandfather's Sidewinder, the same ship that had established the Frimantles as reliable and efficient traders in the Eravate system and several of its neighbors. He stood alone in the control tower of one of the Market's many landing pads, gazing at the familiar habitats and conveyance ways, blue eyes focusing on the bright fields dividing the hub from the blackness of space beyond. When he took in that sight, as the sovereign young man he was becoming, he did so with hope, and more than a little impatience. He went down from the civilian observation area of the tower to the hangar below. Perched under the lights was an Adder, its cobalt blue hull shining in the overhead lights. It was freshly washed, fueled, and its stock equipment had been replaced with everything Jason needed. The plates declared its registration code, and the name Jason had given it: Wayfarer. With the Civil War having calmed down, and interdiction rates at an all-time low, Jason knew it was time for him to leave. He tugged at the collar of his somewhat weatherbeaten flight jacket, a relic of his grandfather's time with the Federation Navy, and was about to climb aboard his new ship when he heard the door open behind him. An unctuous and preening man in a suit about a size too large ambled towards Jason with a big smile. "Ah, young master Frimantle! I thought I'd find you in the Trader's Lounge. I bring good news! We're all set." Jason took the tablet from the man's outstretched hand and gazed at its screen. It did, in fact, lay out all of the payment information for the Wayfarer behind him. It included the sale price he'd gotten for the old Frimantle Sidewinder, which tugged at one of Jason's heartstrings, just a little. But it was a small discordant note in the growing feeling within him, like an orchestra tuning up. "Are you sure I can't interest you in a Cobra Mk III? It's one of our best sellers!" Jason smiled and shook his head. "For the last time, Mister Cornwall, no thank you. I have a long journey ahead of me, and the more credits I hold onto for that journey, the better. Besides —" Here Jason's smile became knowing, his tone chiding. "— you and I both know there are no refunds on customizations like paint jobs and name plates." Abashed, Cornwall tugged at his mustache, a tick Jason recognized as his unconscious "I've been caught red-handed" expression. "Now, now, no reason I can't make an exception there, my boy. Your old Sidewinder is in excellent condition; I'm sure I can extend a line of credit. I'm always willing to work out a deal! Remember, once you're a Cornwall customer, you're a customer for life!" Jason stopped smiling. That my boy made him bristle, and the idea of being tied to Ackerman's after today was too much. "My life isn't going to be here, Mister Cornwall. Or anywhere near your dealership." He pressed his thumb to the marked square on the tablet, and it chirped, indicating the finalization of the sale. "Thank you. I'm sure you'll find that Sidewinder a good home." Cornwall's frustration at a loss of potential revenue seeped past his genial expression, which suddenly froze on his whiskered face when he looked past Jason as another door opened behind him. "Well... ah... excuse me, master Frimantle, I have to finalize the transfers. Nice doing business with you!" The little salesman scuttled off. Jason didn't turn around. "I hope you have a damn good explanation for this." Jason shrugged. The irritated voice of his father no longer had the terrifying effect on his guts it used to. Now it just served as one more obstacle to overcome before he left this place forever. "I do. I'm leaving." "The hell you are, boy. Your place is here. Just like mine is, just like your Pappy's was. Why'd you have to go and sell his Sidewinder? It's a better ship than this..." His father's voice trailed off, as if he was searching for the right way to trash-talk the Adder, which was smaller, faster, and definitely prettier than the beat-up Type-7 his father used. Jason didn't let his father finish. Instead, he turned. "Is it better because of the tracking device you had installed in it?" Joseph Frimantle, his hair going more gray by the day, frowned. It exacerbated the worry lines on his face. "You taking that tone with me over something I used to keep you safe?" "It kept me on a leash, Dad. That's all it ever did." "What if you'd run outta fuel out there? Huh? Or how about if you got jumped by pirates?" "Then I'd be dead." Or I'd call the Fuel Rats. Jason didn't want to mention that aloud; his father's opinion on the altruistic organization usually involved words like 'socialist scumbags,' 'hippy nonsense,' and more than a few expletives. "I don't see how you knowing my every movement outside of this station kept me 'safe'." "You'll understand when you have kids of your own, son. Now, come on, let's sell this flashy piece of crap back to Cornwall. I've got work to do." Jason crossed his arms. "I'm not stopping you. Go do work." Joseph blinked. "Now, see here..." "No." Jason glared at his father. "This is over, Dad. I'm leaving. I made my own credits, I bought my own ship, and I'm leaving." "Oh, is that so? And where is it that you'll be going in your fancy new ship?" Jason shrugged. "Away. What do you care?" "What do I—? I am your father, you overgrown snot, and what I say goes." "I'm a licensed, independent commander, and I have no outstanding warrants or fines. I can come and go as I please. Emphasis on go." "Your mother would be weeping if she were standing here to see you talk to me like this." "My mother is dead." "She's turning in her grave, then." "She wouldn't be, if you'd let her get the care she needed." "She was just sitting around the house, not lifting a finger to help us at all!" "She was in pain, Dad, every single day, and the fact that the doctors we could afford couldn't help her wasn't her fault. And did you think the dishes washed themselves? Or that prepared meals just emerged from the oven at your whim? You're really dumb if you think all Mom did was sit idle all day." "Don't you dare call me stupid, boy." "Oh, I dare." Jason's hands were in ever-tightening fists, and they were just starting to hurt, now. He didn't care. His voice was a growl. "I dare because you could have paid for better care for her. You could have been here more for her. Hell, if I had then the cash I had now, I would have paid for her medical care, and I'd be taking us both away from you." "One more word outta you —" "Go ahead, Dad. Can't be worse than you killing her. You son of a bitch. Why didn't you just shoot her, if you wanted her out of your hair so badly?" Joseph raised his hand to slap his son. Jason's arm flashed up, grabbing his father by the wrist, blocking the blow. Shocked, Joseph stared at the young man in front of him. "You're never hitting me again, old man." Jason resisted the urge to twist the wrist in his hand, possibly breaking his father's arm. There were lines, even now, he refused to cross. He did tighten his grip, though. Joseph's eyes began to water. "Let... let go of me." Jason did, and stepped back. Joseph kept staring, uncomprehending, gently holding his wrist in his other hand. "Listen to me. And you listen well. This is the result of your actions. You voted for that blowhard, Zachary Hudson, to be the Federation President. You put up all of those signs, about people paying their own way, and how those who can't work shouldn't get 'handouts' from the government. You barely lifted a finger when Mom started getting sick. You stayed out on longer and longer runs, and when you came home, drunk and exhausted, you yelled at her to keep the house more tidy and to get a job. And when I started working on my own? You took as much of my profit as you could, putting it who knows where." He paused. He waited. Joseph was, in fact, listening. Another discordant note sounded in the young man, but he kept on his tirade. "When Mom died, I set up a way to have credits automatically deposited in an account of my own before you saw my balance sheets. And I worked a lot. Check that tracking data of yours. I've been out as far as GD-219 and Macarthur Terminal. And I earned this." He pointed at the Adder. "I earned my way out of here, and away from you." Joseph blinked away tears. "I loved your mother." His voice was quieter, now, tired and worn out. "I didn't want to watch her die." "But you could have helped. You could have let me help." His father's face took a little of the wind out of his sails. "She needed both of us. All she had was me. And I couldn't do enough." Joseph shook his head. "She used to be so strong. She was making her own way, and she helped make our business become one of the best." "She loved you. She honored you. And... you let her down." "Okay. Okay. Just... let's just go home, son. We can talk more when we're at home. I'll keep listening. I promise." Jason closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "No, Dad. I have to go." Joseph frowned again. "You can't. Jason, you can't. I'm getting more work requests every day. I can't be in two places at once." Jason shrugged. "I guess that's because I told everyone I was trading with to contact you. I figured the Frimantle name meant speed and quality of service, and now you've got customers far and wide. You'll be making even more money!" Joseph's eyes narrowed. "Then... why are you leaving? You know I can't do this alone." "You know why I'm leaving. And isn't that your President's whole thing? Independent businessmen doing business on their own, without handouts or help, 'personal freedom at any cost'?" Jason spread his arms. "Well, here you go. Plenty of work, no family holding you back, just you and that rattling old rustbucket of a ship. That's what you voted for, Dad. I'm just making it all happen for you." Righteous indignation crept back into the old man's eyes. "I'll have your license revoked." "By the time you get that paperwork squared away, I'll be out of Federation jurisdiction. Which means it'll be a huge waste of your time and money. Go back to your freighter, Dad. Go back to work." He turned towards the Wayfarer. "At least take off that jacket. It's mine." Jason looked over his shoulder, one foot on the ramp into his ship. "No, Dad. He said I was a better pilot than you, and that only the best pilots wear jackets like this." He paused. "Get clear. I don't want you to get caught in the blast wash when I take off." Joseph glared, his hands balled into fists, and turned to leave the hangar. Jason walked into his ship, sealed the ramp, and got his pre-flight checklist completed as quickly as possible, without missing anything. With his flightsuit secured and all systems green, he requested liftoff clearance, and headed for the exit of Ackerman's Market. As he cleared the landing lights on the exterior of the station, his comm channel crackled to life. "Jason! Stop!" Turning his head, Jason checked his contacts. Sure enough, an old Type-7 freighter had emerged from the station. "Don't make me call the Federation Security pilots! I'll tell them you bought that ship with stolen funds!" "And when I keep flying away in spite of your cunning ploy?" "Well then I'll just shoot your engines out myself, smart-ass!" "Oh? With what?" "The guns I got installed by my friend over at Cleve Hub last week! Now turn that ship around!" "I don't think you have a single weapon installed on that crate, Dad." "You callin' me a liar?" Jason cocked his head to one side. "Yes. Yes, I am." They had cleared the no fire zone around the station. Jason knew that, given their position, Joseph would feel confident in bringing his weapons online. Jason immediately turned his ship, boosted himself back into range of Ackerman Market. The Type-7 began its slow turn, killing its throttle, and had never left the zone. The ship automatically switched over to the traffic control channel when the Federation pinged him. "Zorgon Peterson Bravo Lima Uniform, please comply with all Federal regulations —" "Mayday, mayday, calling Ackerman Control." He kept his voice calm, but added a hint of urgency, as if he was truly terrified but trying to control it. "This is Zorgon Peterson Bravo Lima Uniform. I am being pursued by a hostile party, their weapons are hot. I am unarmed. Say again, this vessel is unarmed." This was true — other than a chaff launcher and point-defense turret, the Adder transport did not have any weapons. Jason had made sure to remove them after he'd bought the ship from Cornwall. They were weight he didn't need on his trip; once he got where he was going, maybe he'd install something. But, for now, his Harmless status was in his favor. Federation fighters zipped towards him. He keyed his comm back over to his father's frequency. "I think those officers want to have a word with you, Dad." "You!" The voice on the other end crackled through the speaker with impotent fury. "You tricked me! You —!" "Bye, Dad." Turning off his comm, Jason turned to his map of the galaxy. It was a long way to Lave, but it was out of Federation space, and the trade routes he'd heard of were lucrative, if a bit volatile or dangerous at times. Nevertheless, he was going. He was putting this system, this station, this family behind him. And he wasn't looking back. Elite Dangerous is a registered trademark of Frontier Developments. Mondays are for making art.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Delta-V: Furious Egress

Delta-V: Furious Egress — Blue Ink Alchemy

The interior of a station access corridor resembles a telescope when seen from within; for Jason Frimantle, it gave the promise of freedom. As a boy, he'd looked up at the inner surface of the Ackerman's Market hub and its traffic with wonder, his head full of dreams. Once he was old enough, his father had entrusted him as an extra pair of hands aboard the Frimantle's family freighter. Recently, he'd been given permission to run a few missions of his own in his grandfather's Sidewinder, the same ship that had established the Frimantles as reliable and efficient traders in the Eravate system and several of its neighbors. He stood alone in the control tower of one of the Market's many landing pads, gazing at the familiar habitats and conveyance ways, blue eyes focusing on the bright fields dividing the hub from the blackness of space beyond. When he took in that sight, as the sovereign young man he was becoming, he did so with hope, and more than a little impatience. He went down from the civilian observation area of the tower to the hangar below. Perched under the lights was an Adder, its cobalt blue hull shining in the overhead lights. It was freshly washed, fueled, and its stock equipment had been replaced with everything Jason needed. The plates declared its registration code, and the name Jason had given it: Wayfarer. With the Civil War having calmed down, and interdiction rates at an all-time low, Jason knew it was time for him to leave. He tugged at the collar of his somewhat weatherbeaten flight jacket, a relic of his grandfather's time with the Federation Navy, and was about to climb aboard his new ship when he heard the door open behind him. An unctuous and preening man in a suit about a size too large ambled towards Jason with a big smile. "Ah, young master Frimantle! I thought I'd find you in the Trader's Lounge. I bring good news! We're all set." Jason took the tablet from the man's outstretched hand and gazed at its screen. It did, in fact, lay out all of the payment information for the Wayfarer behind him. It included the sale price he'd gotten for the old Frimantle Sidewinder, which tugged at one of Jason's heartstrings, just a little. But it was a small discordant note in the growing feeling within him, like an orchestra tuning up. "Are you sure I can't interest you in a Cobra Mk III? It's one of our best sellers!" Jason smiled and shook his head. "For the last time, Mister Cornwall, no thank you. I have a long journey ahead of me, and the more credits I hold onto for that journey, the better. Besides —" Here Jason's smile became knowing, his tone chiding. "— you and I both know there are no refunds on customizations like paint jobs and name plates." Abashed, Cornwall tugged at his mustache, a tick Jason recognized as his unconscious "I've been caught red-handed" expression. "Now, now, no reason I can't make an exception there, my boy. Your old Sidewinder is in excellent condition; I'm sure I can extend a line of credit. I'm always willing to work out a deal! Remember, once you're a Cornwall customer, you're a customer for life!" Jason stopped smiling. That my boy made him bristle, and the idea of being tied to Ackerman's after today was too much. "My life isn't going to be here, Mister Cornwall. Or anywhere near your dealership." He pressed his thumb to the marked square on the tablet, and it chirped, indicating the finalization of the sale. "Thank you. I'm sure you'll find that Sidewinder a good home." Cornwall's frustration at a loss of potential revenue seeped past his genial expression, which suddenly froze on his whiskered face when he looked past Jason as another door opened behind him. "Well... ah... excuse me, master Frimantle, I have to finalize the transfers. Nice doing business with you!" The little salesman scuttled off. Jason didn't turn around. "I hope you have a damn good explanation for this." Jason shrugged. The irritated voice of his father no longer had the terrifying effect on his guts it used to. Now it just served as one more obstacle to overcome before he left this place forever. "I do. I'm leaving." "The hell you are, boy. Your place is here. Just like mine is, just like your Pappy's was. Why'd you have to go and sell his Sidewinder? It's a better ship than this..." His father's voice trailed off, as if he was searching for the right way to trash-talk the Adder, which was smaller, faster, and definitely prettier than the beat-up Type-7 his father used. Jason didn't let his father finish. Instead, he turned. "Is it better because of the tracking device you had installed in it?" Joseph Frimantle, his hair going more gray by the day, frowned. It exacerbated the worry lines on his face. "You taking that tone with me over something I used to keep you safe?" "It kept me on a leash, Dad. That's all it ever did." "What if you'd run outta fuel out there? Huh? Or how about if you got jumped by pirates?" "Then I'd be dead." Or I'd call the Fuel Rats. Jason didn't want to mention that aloud; his father's opinion on the altruistic organization usually involved words like "communist," "hippy nonsense," and more than a few expletives. "I don't see how you knowing my every movement outside of this station kept me 'safe'." "You'll understand when you have kids of your own, son. Now, come on, let's sell this flashy piece of crap back to Cornwall. I've got work to do." Jason crossed his arms. "I'm not stopping you. Go do work." Joseph blinked. "Now, see here..." "No." Jason glared at his father. "This is over, Dad. I'm leaving. I made my own credits, I bought my own ship, and I'm leaving." "Oh, is that so? And where is it that you'll be going in your fancy new ship?" Jason shrugged. "Away. What do you care?" "What do I—? I am your father, you overgrown snot, and what I say goes." "I'm a licensed, independent commander, and I have no outstanding warrants or fines. I can come and go as I please. Emphasis on go." "Your mother would be weeping if she were standing here to see you talk to me like this." "My mother is dead." "She's turning in her grave, then." "She wouldn't be, if you'd let her get the care she needed." "She was just sitting around the house, not lifting a finger to help us at all!" "She was in pain, Dad, every single day, and the fact that the doctors we could afford couldn't help her wasn't her fault. And did you think the dishes washed themselves? Or that prepared meals just emerged from the oven at your whim? You're really dumb if you think all Mom did was sit idle all day." "Don't you dare call me stupid, boy." "Oh, I dare." Jason's hands were in ever-tightening fists, and they were just starting to hurt, now. He didn't care. His voice was a growl. "I dare because you could have paid for better care for her. You could have been here more for her. Hell, if I had then the cash I had now, I would have paid for her medical care, and I'd be taking us both away from you." "One more word outta you —" "Go ahead, Dad. Can't be worse than you killing her. You son of a bitch. Why didn't you just shoot her, if you wanted her out of your hair so badly?" Joseph raised his hand to slap his son. Jason's arm flashed up, grabbing his father by the wrist, blocking the blow. Shocked, Joseph stared at the young man in front of him. "You're never hitting me again, old man." Jason resisted the urge to twist the wrist in his hand, possibly breaking his father's arm. There were lines, even now, he refused to cross. He did tighten his grip, though. Joseph's eyes began to water. "Let... let go of me." Jason did, and stepped back. Joseph kept staring, uncomprehending, gently holding his wrist in his other hand. "Listen to me. And you listen well. This is the result of your actions. You voted for that blowhard, Zachary Hudson, to be the Federation President. You put up all of those signs, about people paying their own way, and how those who can't work shouldn't get 'handouts' from the government. You barely lifted a finger when Mom started getting sick. You stayed out on longer and longer runs, and when you came home, drunk and exhausted, you yelled at her to keep the house more tidy and to get a job. And when I started working on my own? You took as much of my profit as you could, putting it who knows where." He paused. He waited. Joseph was, in fact, listening. Another discordant note sounded in the young man, but he kept on his tirade. "When Mom died, I set up a way to have credits automatically deposited in an account of my own before you saw my balance sheets. And I worked a lot. Check that tracking data of yours. I've been out as far as GD-219 and Macarthur Terminal. And I earned this." He pointed at the Adder. "I earned my way out of here, and away from you." Joseph blinked away tears. "I loved your mother." His voice was quieter, now, tired and worn out. "I didn't want to watch her die." "But you could have helped. You could have let me help." His father's face took a little of the wind out of his sails. "She needed both of us. All she had was me. And I couldn't do enough." Joseph shook his head. "She used to be so strong. She was making her own way, and she helped make our business become one of the best." "She loved you. She honored you. And... you let her down." "Okay. Okay. Just... let's just go home, son. We can talk more when we're at home. I'll keep listening. I promise." Jason closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "No, Dad. I have to go." Joseph frowned again. "You can't. Jason, you can't. I'm getting more work requests every day. I can't be in two places at once." Jason shrugged. "I guess that's because I told everyone I was trading with to contact you. I figured the Frimantle name meant speed and quality of service, and now you've got customers far and wide. You'll be making even more money!" Joseph's eyes narrowed. "Then... why are you leaving? You know I can't do this alone." "You know why I'm leaving. And isn't that your President's whole thing? Independent businessmen doing business on their own, without handouts or help, 'personal freedom at any cost'?" Jason spread his arms. "Well, here you go. Plenty of work, no family holding you back, just you and that rattling old rustbucket of a ship. That's what you voted for, Dad. I'm just making it all happen for you." Righteous indignation crept back into the old man's eyes. "I'll have your license revoked." "By the time you get that paperwork squared away, I'll be out of Federation jurisdiction. Which means it'll be a huge waste of your time and money. Go back to your freighter, Dad. Go back to work." He turned towards the Wayfarer. "At least take off that jacket. It's mine." Jason looked over his shoulder, one foot on the ramp into his ship. "No, Dad. He said I was a better pilot than you, and that only the best pilots wear jackets like this." He paused. "Get clear. I don't want you to get caught in the blast wash when I take off." Joseph glared, his hands balled into fists, and turned to leave the hangar. Jason walked into his ship, sealed the ramp, and got his pre-flight checklist completed as quickly as possible, without missing anything. With his flightsuit secured and all systems green, he requested liftoff clearance, and headed for the exit of Ackerman's Market. As he cleared the landing lights on the exterior of the station, his comm channel crackled to life. "Jason! Stop!" Turning his head, Jason checked his contacts. Sure enough, an old Type-7 freighter had emerged from the station. "Don't make me call the Federation Security pilots! I'll tell them you bought that ship with stolen funds!" "And when I keep flying away in spite of your cunning ploy?" "Well then I'll just shoot your engines out myself, smart-ass!" "Oh? With what?" "The guns I got installed by my friend over at Cleve Hub last week! Now turn that ship around!" "I don't think you have a single weapon installed on that crate, Dad." "You callin' me a liar?" Jason cocked his head to one side. "Yes. Yes, I am." They had cleared the no fire zone around the station. Jason knew that, given their position, Joseph would feel confident in bringing his weapons online. Jason immediately turned his ship, boosted himself back into range of Ackerman Market. The Type-7 began its slow turn, killing its throttle, and had never left the zone. The ship automatically switched over to the traffic control channel when the Federation pinged him. "Zorgon Peterson Bravo Lima Uniform, please comply with all Federal regulations —" "Mayday, mayday, calling Ackerman Control." He kept his voice calm, but added a hint of urgency, as if he was truly terrified but trying to control it. "This is Zorgon Peterson Bravo Lima Uniform. I am being pursued by a hostile party, their weapons are hot. I am unarmed. Say again, this vessel is unarmed." This was true — other than a chaff launcher and point-defense turret, the Adder transport did not have any weapons. Jason had made sure to remove them after he'd bought the ship from Cornwall. They were weight he didn't need on his trip; once he got where he was going, maybe he'd install something. But, for now, his Harmless status was in his favor. Federation fighters zipped towards him. He keyed his comm back over to his father's frequency. "I think those officers want to have a word with you, Dad." "You!" The voice on the other end crackled through the speaker with impotent fury. "You tricked me! You —!" "Bye, Dad." Turning off his comm, Jason turned to his map of the galaxy. It was a long way to Lave, but it was out of Federation space, and the trade routes he'd heard of were lucrative, if a bit volatile or dangerous at times. Nevertheless, he was going. He was putting this system, this station, this family behind him. And he wasn't looking back. Elite Dangerous is a registered trademark of Frontier Developments. Mondays are for making art.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Delta-V: Furious Egress

Delta-V: Furious Egress — Blue Ink Alchemy

The interior of a station access corridor resembles a telescope when seen from within; for Jason Frimantle, it gave the promise of freedom. As a boy, he'd looked up at the inner surface of the Ackerman's Market hub and its traffic with wonder, his head full of dreams. Once he was old enough, his father had entrusted him as an extra pair of hands aboard the Frimantle's family freighter. Recently, he'd been given permission to run a few missions of his own in his grandfather's Sidewinder, the same ship that had established the Frimantles as reliable and efficient traders in the Eravate system and several of its neighbors. He stood alone in the control tower of one of the Market's many landing pads, gazing at the familiar habitats and conveyance ways, blue eyes focusing on the bright fields dividing the hub from the blackness of space beyond. When he took in that sight, as the sovereign young man he was becoming, he did so with hope, and more than a little impatience. He went down from the civilian observation area of the tower to the hangar below. Perched under the lights was an Adder, its cobalt blue hull shining in the overhead lights. It was freshly washed, fueled, and its stock equipment had been replaced with everything Jason needed. The plates declared its registration code, and the name Jason had given it: Wayfarer. With the Civil War having calmed down, and interdiction rates at an all-time low, Jason knew it was time for him to leave. He tugged at the collar of his somewhat weatherbeaten flight jacket, a relic of his grandfather's time with the Federation Navy, and was about to climb aboard his new ship when he heard the door open behind him. An unctuous and preening man in a suit about a size too large ambled towards Jason with a big smile. "Ah, young master Frimantle! I thought I'd find you in the Trader's Lounge. I bring good news! We're all set." Jason took the tablet from the man's outstretched hand and gazed at its screen. It did, in fact, lay out all of the payment information for the Wayfarer behind him. It included the sale price he'd gotten for the old Frimantle Sidewinder, which tugged at one of Jason's heartstrings, just a little. But it was a small discordant note in the growing feeling within him, like an orchestra tuning up. "Are you sure I can't interest you in a Cobra Mk III? It's one of our best sellers!" Jason smiled and shook his head. "For the last time, Mister Cornwall, no thank you. I have a long journey ahead of me, and the more credits I hold onto for that journey, the better. Besides —" Here Jason's smile became knowing, his tone chiding. "— you and I both know there are no refunds on customizations like paint jobs and name plates." Abashed, Cornwall tugged at his mustache, a tick Jason recognized as his unconscious "I've been caught red-handed" expression. "Now, now, no reason I can't make an exception there, my boy. Your old Sidewinder is in excellent condition; I'm sure I can extend a line of credit. I'm always willing to work out a deal! Remember, once you're a Cornwall customer, you're a customer for life!" Jason stopped smiling. That my boy made him bristle, and the idea of being tied to Ackerman's after today was too much. "My life isn't going to be here, Mister Cornwall. Or anywhere near your dealership." He pressed his thumb to the marked square on the tablet, and it chirped, indicating the finalization of the sale. "Thank you. I'm sure you'll find that Sidewinder a good home." Cornwall's frustration at a loss of potential revenue seeped past his genial expression, which suddenly froze on his whiskered face when he looked past Jason as another door opened behind him. "Well... ah... excuse me, master Frimantle, I have to finalize the transfers. Nice doing business with you!" The little salesman scuttled off. Jason didn't turn around. "I hope you have a damn good explanation for this." Jason shrugged. The irritated voice of his father no longer had the terrifying effect on his guts it used to. Now it just served as one more obstacle to overcome before he left this place forever. "I do. I'm leaving." "The hell you are, boy. Your place is here. Just like mine is, just like your Pappy's was. Why'd you have to go and sell his Sidewinder? It's a better ship than this..." His father's voice trailed off, as if he was searching for the right way to trash-talk the Adder, which was smaller, faster, and definitely prettier than the beat-up Type-7 his father used. Jason didn't let his father finish. Instead, he turned. "Is it better because of the tracking device you had installed in it?" Joseph Frimantle, his hair going more gray by the day, frowned. It exacerbated the worry lines on his face. "You taking that tone with me over something I used to keep you safe?" "It kept me on a leash, Dad. That's all it ever did." "What if you'd run outta fuel out there? Huh? Or how about if you got jumped by pirates?" "Then I'd be dead." Or I'd call the Fuel Rats. Jason didn't want to mention that aloud; his father's opinion on the altruistic organization usually involved words like "communist," "hippy nonsense," and more than a few expletives. "I don't see how you knowing my every movement outside of this station kept me 'safe'." "You'll understand when you have kids of your own, son. Now, come on, let's sell this flashy piece of crap back to Cornwall. I've got work to do." Jason crossed his arms. "I'm not stopping you. Go do work." Joseph blinked. "Now, see here..." "No." Jason glared at his father. "This is over, Dad. I'm leaving. I made my own credits, I bought my own ship, and I'm leaving." "Oh, is that so? And where is it that you'll be going in your fancy new ship?" Jason shrugged. "Away. What do you care?" "What do I—? I am your father, you overgrown snot, and what I say goes." "I'm a licensed, independent commander, and I have no outstanding warrants or fines. I can come and go as I please. Emphasis on go." "Your mother would be weeping if she were standing here to see you talk to me like this." "My mother is dead." "She's turning in her grave, then." "She wouldn't be, if you'd let her get the care she needed." "She was just sitting around the house, not lifting a finger to help us at all!" "She was in pain, Dad, every single day, and the fact that the doctors we could afford couldn't help her wasn't her fault. And did you think the dishes washed themselves? Or that prepared meals just emerged from the oven at your whim? You're really dumb if you think all Mom did was sit idle all day." "Don't you dare call me stupid, boy." "Oh, I dare." Jason's hands were in ever-tightening fists, and they were just starting to hurt, now. He didn't care. His voice was a growl. "I dare because you could have paid for better care for her. You could have been here more for her. Hell, if I had then the cash I had now, I would have paid for her medical care, and I'd be taking us both away from you." "One more word outta you —" "Go ahead, Dad. Can't be worse than you killing her. You son of a bitch. Why didn't you just shoot her, if you wanted her out of your hair so badly?" Joseph raised his hand to slap his son. Jason's arm flashed up, grabbing his father by the wrist, blocking the blow. Shocked, Joseph stared at the young man in front of him. "You're never hitting me again, old man." Jason resisted the urge to twist the wrist in his hand, possibly breaking his father's arm. There were lines, even now, he refused to cross. He did tighten his grip, though. Joseph's eyes began to water. "Let... let go of me." Jason did, and stepped back. Joseph kept staring, uncomprehending, gently holding his wrist in his other hand. "Listen to me. And you listen well. This is the result of your actions. You voted for that blowhard, Zachary Hudson, to be the Federation President. You put up all of those signs, about people paying their own way, and how those who can't work shouldn't get 'handouts' from the government. You barely lifted a finger when Mom started getting sick. You stayed out on longer and longer runs, and when you came home, drunk and exhausted, you yelled at her to keep the house more tidy and to get a job. And when I started working on my own? You took as much of my profit as you could, putting it who knows where." He paused. He waited. Joseph was, in fact, listening. Another discordant note sounded in the young man, but he kept on his tirade. "When Mom died, I set up a way to have credits automatically deposited in an account of my own before you saw my balance sheets. And I worked a lot. Check that tracking data of yours. I've been out as far as GD-219 and Macarthur Terminal. And I earned this." He pointed at the Adder. "I earned my way out of here, and away from you." Joseph blinked away tears. "I loved your mother." His voice was quieter, now, tired and worn out. "I didn't want to watch her die." "But you could have helped. You could have let me help." His father's face took a little of the wind out of his sails. "She needed both of us. All she had was me. And I couldn't do enough." Joseph shook his head. "She used to be so strong. She was making her own way, and she helped make our business become one of the best." "She loved you. She honored you. And... you let her down." "Okay. Okay. Just... let's just go home, son. We can talk more when we're at home. I'll keep listening. I promise." Jason closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "No, Dad. I have to go." Joseph frowned again. "You can't. Jason, you can't. I'm getting more work requests every day. I can't be in two places at once." Jason shrugged. "I guess that's because I told everyone I was trading with to contact you. I figured the Frimantle name meant speed and quality of service, and now you've got customers far and wide. You'll be making even more money!" Joseph's eyes narrowed. "Then... why are you leaving? You know I can't do this alone." "You know why I'm leaving. And isn't that your President's whole thing? Independent businessmen doing business on their own, without handouts or help, 'personal freedom at any cost'?" Jason spread his arms. "Well, here you go. Plenty of work, no family holding you back, just you and that rattling old rustbucket of a ship. That's what you voted for, Dad. I'm just making it all happen for you." Righteous indignation crept back into the old man's eyes. "I'll have your license revoked." "By the time you get that paperwork squared away, I'll be out of Federation jurisdiction. Which means it'll be a huge waste of your time and money. Go back to your freighter, Dad. Go back to work." He turned towards the Wayfarer. "At least take off that jacket. It's mine." Jason looked over his shoulder, one foot on the ramp into his ship. "No, Dad. He said I was a better pilot than you, and that only the best pilots wear jackets like this." He paused. "Get clear. I don't want you to get caught in the blast wash when I take off." Joseph glared, his hands balled into fists, and turned to leave the hangar. Jason walked into his ship, sealed the ramp, and got his pre-flight checklist completed as quickly as possible, without missing anything. With his flightsuit secured and all systems green, he requested liftoff clearance, and headed for the exit of Ackerman's Market. As he cleared the landing lights on the exterior of the station, his comm channel crackled to life. "Jason! Stop!" Turning his head, Jason checked his contacts. Sure enough, an old Type-7 freighter had emerged from the station. "Don't make me call the Federation Security pilots! I'll tell them you bought that ship with stolen funds!" "And when I keep flying away in spite of your cunning ploy?" "Well then I'll just shoot your engines out myself, smart-ass!" "Oh? With what?" "The guns I got installed by my friend over at Cleve Hub last week! Now turn that ship around!" "I don't think you have a single weapon installed on that crate, Dad." "You callin' me a liar?" Jason cocked his head to one side. "Yes. Yes, I am." They had cleared the no fire zone around the station. Jason knew that, given their position, Joseph would feel confident in bringing his weapons online. Jason immediately turned his ship, boosted himself back into range of Ackerman Market. The Type-7 began its slow turn, killing its throttle, and had never left the zone. The ship automatically switched over to the traffic control channel when the Federation pinged him. "Zorgon Peterson Bravo Lima Uniform, please comply with all Federal regulations —" "Mayday, mayday, calling Ackerman Control." He kept his voice calm, but added a hint of urgency, as if he was truly terrified but trying to control it. "This is Zorgon Peterson Bravo Lima Uniform. I am being pursued by a hostile party, their weapons are hot. I am unarmed. Say again, this vessel is unarmed." And it was true — other than a chaff launcher and point-defense turret, the Adder transport did not have any weapons. Jason had made sure to remove them after he'd bought the ship from Cornwall. They were weight he didn't need on his trip; once he got where he was going, maybe he'd install something. But, for now, his Harmless status was in his favor. Federation fighters zipped towards him. He keyed his comm back over to his father's frequency. "I think those officers want to have a word with you, Dad." "You!" The voice on the other end crackled through the speaker with impotent fury. "You tricked me! You —!" "Bye, Dad." Turning off his comm, Jason turned to his map of the galaxy. It was a long way to Lave, but it was out of Federation space, and the trade routes he'd heard of were lucrative, if a bit volatile or dangerous at times. But he was going. He was putting this system, this station, this family behind him. And he wasn't looking back. Elite Dangerous is a registered trademark of Frontier Developments. Mondays are for making art.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Delta-V: Furious Egress

Delta-V: Furious Egress — Blue Ink Alchemy

It was a sight Jason Frimantle had seen so many times. From the transparent viewport in the control tower for the landing pad, he could see out to the portal that divided Ackerman's Market from the depths of space. As a boy, he'd looked up at the station's vast access corridor and its traffic with wonder, his head full of dreams. Once he was old enough, his father had entrusted him as an extra pair of hands aboard the Frimantle's family freighter. Recently, he'd been given permission to run a few missions of his own in his grandfather's Sidewinder, the same ship that had established the Frimantles as reliable and efficient traders in the Eravate system and several of its neighbors. Now, when Jason looked out towards the stars, he did so with hope, and more than a little impatience. He went down from the civilian observation area of the tower to the hangar below. Perched under the lights was an Adder, unadorned with paint or name plates. It was freshly washed, fueled, and its stock equipment had been replaced with everything Jason needed. With the Civil War having calmed down, and interdiction rates at an all-time low, Jason knew it was time for him to leave. He tugged at the collar of his somewhat weatherbeaten flight jacket, a relic of his grandfather's time with the Federation Navy, and was about to climb aboard his new ship when he heard the door open behind him. An unctuous and preening man in a suit about a size too large ambled towards Jason with a big smile. "Ah, young master Frimantle! I thought I'd find you in the Trader's Lounge. I bring good news! We're all set." Jason took the tablet from the man's outstretched hand and gazed at its screen. It did, in fact, lay out all of the payment information for the Adder behind him. It included the sale price he'd gotten for the old Frimantle Sidewinder, which tugged at one of Jason's heartstrings, just a little. But it was a small discordant note in the growing feeling within him, like an orchestra tuning up. "Are you sure I can't interest you in a Cobra Mk III? It's one of our best sellers!" Jason smiled and shook his head. "For the last time, Mister Cornwall, no thank you. I have a long journey ahead of me, and the more credits I hold onto for that journey, the better." "Well, you don't necessarily have to pay it all now!" Cornwall grinned. "Your old Sidewinder is in excellent condition, I'm sure I can extend a line of credit. I'm always willing to work out a deal! Remember, once you're a Cornwall customer, you're a customer for life!" Jason stopped smiling. "But my life isn't going to be here, Mister Cornwall. Or anywhere near your dealership." He pressed his thumb to the marked square on the tablet, and it chirped, indicating the finalization of the sale. "Thank you. I'm sure you'll find that Sidewinder a good home." Cornwall's frustration at a loss of potential revenue seeped past his genial expression, which suddenly froze on his face when he looked past Jason as another door opened behind him. "Well... ah... excuse me, master Frimantle, I have to finalize the transfers. Nice doing business with you!" The little salesman scuttled off. Jason didn't turn around. "I hope you have a damn good explanation for this." Jason shrugged. The irritated voice of his father no longer had the terrifying effect on his guts it used to. Now it just served as one more obstacle to overcome before he left this place forever. "I do. I'm leaving." "The hell you are, boy. Your place is here. Just like mine is, just like your Pappy's was. Why'd you have to go and sell his Sidewinder? It's a better ship than this..." His father's voice trailed off, as if he was searching for the right way to trash-talk the Adder, which was smaller, faster, and definitely prettier than the beat-up Type-7 his father used. Jason didn't let his father finish. Instead, he turned. "Is it better because of the tracking device you had installed in it?" Joseph Frimantle, his hair going more gray by the day, frowned. It exacerbated the worry lines on his face. "You taking that tone with me over something I used to keep you safe?" "It kept me on a leash, Dad. That's all it ever did." "What if you'd run outta fuel out there? Huh? Or how about if you got jumped by pirates?" "Then I'd be dead. I don't see how you knowing my every movement outside of this station kept me 'safe'." "You'll understand when you have kids of your own, son. Now, come on, let's sell this flashy piece of crap back to Cornwall. I've got work to do." Jason crossed his arms. "I'm not stopping you. Go do work." Joseph blinked. "Now, see here..." "No." Jason glared at his father. "This is over, Dad. I'm leaving. I made my own credits, I bought my own ship, and I'm leaving." "Oh, is that so? And where is it that you'll be going in your fancy new ship?" Jason shrugged. "Away. What do you care?" "What do I—? I am your father, you overgrown snot, and what I say goes." "I'm a licensed, independent commander, and I have no outstanding warrants or fines. I can come and go as I please. Emphasis on go." "Your mother would be weeping if she were standing here to see you talk to me like this." "My mother is dead." "She's turning in her grave, then." "She wouldn't be, if you'd let her get the care she needed." "She was just sitting around the house, not lifting a finger to help us at all!" "She was in pain, Dad, every single day, and the fact that the doctors we could afford couldn't help her wasn't her fault. And did you think the dishes washed themselves? Or that prepared meals just emerged from the oven at your whim? You're really dumb if you think all Mom did was sit idle all day." "Don't you dare call me stupid, boy." "Oh, I dare," Jason growled, his blood truly up. "I dare because you could have paid for better care for her. You could have been here more for her. Hell, if I had then the cash I had now, I would have paid for her medical care, and I'd be taking us both away from you." "One more word outta you —" "Go ahead, Dad. Can't be worse than you killing her. You son of a bitch. Why didn't you just shoot her, if you wanted her out of your hair so badly?" Joseph raised his hand to slap his son. Jason's arm flashed up, grabbing his father by the wrist, blocking the blow. Shocked, Joseph stared at the young man in front of him. "You're never hitting me again, old man." Joseph's eyes began to water. "Let... let go of me." Jason did, and stepped back. Joseph kept staring, uncomprehending. "Listen to me. And you listen well. This is the result of your actions. You voted for that blowhard, Zachary Hudson, to be the Federation President. You put up all of those signs, about people paying their own way, and how those who can't work shouldn't get 'handouts' from the government. You barely lifted a finger when Mom started getting sick. You stayed out on longer and longer runs, and when you came home, drunk and exhausted, you yelled at her to keep the house more tidy and to get a job. And when I started working on my own? You took as much of my profit as you could, putting it who knows where." He paused. He waited. Joseph was, in fact, listening. Another discordant note sounded in the young man, but he kept on his tirade. "When Mom died, I set up a way to have credits automatically deposited in an account of my own before you saw my balance sheets. And I worked a lot. Check that tracking data of yours. I've been out as far as GD-219 and Macarthur Terminal. And I earned this." He pointed at the Adder. "I earned my way out of here, and away from you." Joseph blinked away tears. "I loved your mother." His voice was quieter, now, tired and worn out. "I didn't want to watch her die." "But you could have helped. You could have let me help." His father's face took a little of the wind out of his sails. "She needed both of us. All she had was me. And I couldn't do enough." Joseph shook his head. "She used to be so strong. She was making her own way, and she helped make our business become one of the best." "She loved you. She honored you. And... you let her down." "Okay. Okay. Just... let's just go home, son. We can talk more when we're at home. I'll keep listening. I promise." Jason closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "No, Dad. I have to go." Joseph frowned again. "You can't. Jason, you can't. I'm getting more work requests every day. I can't be in two places at once." Jason shrugged. "I guess that's because I told everyone I was trading with to contact you. I figured the Frimantle name meant speed and quality of service, and now you've got customers far and wide. You'll be making even more money!" Joseph's eyes narrowed. "Then... why are you leaving? You know I can't do this alone." "You know why I'm leaving. And isn't that your President's whole thing? Independent businessmen doing business on their own, without handouts or help, 'personal freedom at any cost'?" Jason spread his arms. "Well, here you go. Plenty of work, no family holding you back, just you and that rattling old rustbucket of a ship. That's what you voted for, Dad. I'm just making it all happen for you." The anger crept back into the old man's eyes. "I'll have your license revoked." "By the time you get that paperwork squared away, I'll be out of Federation jurisdiction. Which means it'll be a huge waste of your time and money. Go back to your freighter, Dad. Go back to work." He turned towards his Adder. "At least take off that jacket. It's mine." Jason looked over his shoulder, one foot on the ramp into his ship. "No, Dad. He said I was a better pilot than you, and that only the best pilots wear jackets like this." He paused. "Get clear. I don't want you to get caught in the blast wash when I take off." Joseph glared, his hands balled into fists, and turned to leave the hangar. Jason walked into his ship, sealed the ramp, and got his pre-flight checklist completed as quickly as possible, without missing anything. With his flightsuit secured and all systems green, he requested liftoff clearance, and headed for the exit of Ackerman's Market. As he cleared the landing lights on the exterior of the station, his comm channel crackled to life. "Jason! Stop!" Turning his head, Jason checked his contacts. Sure enough, an old Type-7 freighter had emerged from the station. "Don't make me call the Federation Security pilots! I'll tell them you bought that ship with stolen funds!" "And when I keep flying away in spite of your cunning ploy?" "Well then I'll just shoot your engines out myself, smart-ass!" "Oh? With what?" "The guns I got installed by my friend over at Cleve Hub last week! Now turn that ship around!" "I don't think you have a single weapon installed on that crate, Dad." "You callin' me a liar?" Jason cocked his head to one side. "Yes. Yes, I am." They had cleared the no fire zone around the station. Jason knew that, given their position, Joseph would feel confident in bringing his weapons online. Jason immediately turned his ship, boosted himself back into range of Ackerman Station's security forces, and changed his comm channel. "Mayday, mayday," he called, "this is Zorgon Peterson Bravo Lima Uniform. I am being pursued by a hostile party, their weapons are hot. I am unarmed. Say again, this vessel is unarmed." And it was true — other than a chaff launcher and point-defense turret, the Adder transport did not have any weapons. Jason had made sure to remove them after he'd bought the ship from Cornwall. They were weight he didn't need on his trip; once he got where he was going, maybe he'd install something. But, for now, his harmless status was in his favor. Federation fighters zipped towards him. He keyed his comm back over to his father's frequency. "I think those officers want to have a word with you, Dad." "You!" The voice on the other end crackled through the speaker with impotent fury. "You tricked me! You —!" "Bye, Dad." Turning off his comm, Jason turned to his map of the galaxy. It was a long way to Lave, but it was out of Federation space, and the trade routes he'd heard of were lucrative, if a bit volatile or dangerous at times. But he was going. He was putting this system, this station, this family behind him. And he wasn't looking back. Mondays are for making art.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Bloody Streets Sample Chapter

Bloody Streets Sample Chapter — Blue Ink Alchemy

I've been getting more and more mental momentum to get more writing done. I'm planning updates to my Patreon page. I've been carving out time for both Monday storytelling/art-making posts here and forward progress on my longer novel project and revising my shorter novella, the sequel to Cold Iron. Titled Bloody Streets, I've had a "final draft" sitting collecting metaphorical dust for a few years, now. Revisiting the draft, it's clear to me that, while it might have been "final" back then, it certainly isn't ready for consumption quite yet. It's close, but it needs a bit more work. Still, I think it's going to be a good follow-up to Cold Iron. You can read that novella by picking it up from Amazon or other sources (for now), and as for the sequel... well, here's the first chapter. Enjoy.

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Church of Saint Mary the Redeemer, Green Street and 5th, Philadelphia July 1st, 2020, 12:21 am Murdered nuns. Not something you see every day. Morgan Everson had left her coffee in the car. The scent of it was unlikely to help her nausea. Cops from other precincts kept onlookers from walking by, too far to get a good shot on any phone or tablet cameras.  The wind was coming at Morgan from behind, meaning the street was being spared the smell of death. In front of her, Doctor Leminovsky knelt by the scene, latex-gloved hands gingerly pulled dark fabric away from one of the slain nuns. "Never seen someone have quite so violent a crisis of faith." "We sure it's a someone, Lem? Not some animal?" "I just got off the phone with Bowman." Next to Morgan, Seth Fasil tucked his phone into his pants pocket. "All of the zoo's animals are accounted for, and no domestic animals in this area are bigger than a bull terrier." "There's no way a pit bull did this, not even an abused or rabid one." Lem sighed and shook her head. "I've never seen a weapon in human hands do something like this, either. Even axe murderers leave cleaner wounds than these. It's like they mauled by a big cat, or maybe gored by a bull. Ever seen what happens to a bullfighter who isn't that good at his job? It's not a pretty sight." "Neither is this." Morgan moved the circle of her flashlight over the bodies. "Any other evidence of big animals?" "Last rain was a week ago. We'll be lucky to get many paw prints around here." Seth was looking, in spite of his observation, his own flashlight prowling through the grass. That was Seth in a nutshell: aware of the problems but unwilling to give up. It was clear he hadn't lost a bit of his cop instincts. The angry scar on Seth's neck, just above his collarbone, reminded Morgan of Seth's reason for joining the city's Special Homicide division in the first place, and the means by which he'd come to their attention. "It could have been an animal." Lem rubbed her forehead on her wrist, away from the latex. "But without tracks or other evidence, I won't be able to tell you much." "The animal theory does have another hole in it." Seth's voice was lower than usual. Morgan turned to look at him, and her eyes followed the beam of his flashlight. On the stone wall of the church, red letters stood out even as the blood used to paint them ran in rivulets down grooves of mortar. LIAR Morgan glanced over her shoulder, making sure any onlookers were still out of range or sight of the message. She approached, tying her auburn hair behind her head before pulling on gloves of her own. Seth produced a small evidence vial and a cotton swab from the kit he'd brought to the scene, and Morgan slid the swab against the blood. Sealing it in the vial, she walked back over to Lem. "Probably a match for one of the victims." "I'll be sure to let you know." Lem dropped the vial in her bag and shook her head again. "I don't know, guys. Something stinks about this other than the entrails." The medical examiner waved over her assistant, who carried the body bags. Morgan removed her gloves and walked back over to Seth. They were out of earshot of most of the collected professionals in the courtyard, but Morgan looked over both of her shoulders, just to be certain, before she spoke. "Are we thinking wolves?" Despite her circumspection, she still went for the abbreviated term for the most obvious suspect, rather than actually using the entire word 'werewolves'. Seth frowned, just a bit, not wanting to give away what they were discussing to any onlookers. He didn't look at Morgan. He'd taken a photo of the word on the wall, and was examining it on the screen of his phone. "They're usually pretty quiet. We've had an actual case with them... what, once, since I came on board?" Morgan nodded, looking around again and brushing a lock of hair out of her eyes. "And that was due to some greenhorn bloodsuckers deciding to take a joyride across the bridge. There's a reason vampires aren't welcome in Camden, and why we avoid it like the plague. If that pedestrian hadn't been involved..." "Isn't Camden technically out of our jurisdiction?" "We're Special Homicide, Seth... anything around here that goes bump in the night is our jurisdiction." "And last time, they brought the perpetrator to us, before we'd even saddled up to cross the bridge ourselves." Seth flipped back through his notebook. "There was a note tacked to the guy, from someone named 'Pickett'. Asked us not to cross the bridge, either." Morgan frowned. "I wouldn't count on them being that helpful twice. Not if this was some sort of hit or message." Seth nodded, then frowned for a moment as his fingers swiped at the screen of his phone. "Any other problems with that thing?" Morgan let a change of subject take her mind off of the scene. "I think I'm getting the hang of it." He turned the device over in his hand. "Still hard to believe I'm basically holding a personal computer. Did you know portable phones used to be the size of bricks, and computers once filled entire rooms or floors, constantly monitored by dweebs in sweaters?" "I think it was mentioned in school once or twice." Seth shook his head. "Technology marches on." He tucked the phone into his jacket. He'd left the leather in his Firebird and was wearing a more stately if somewhat dated blazer on the job. Morgan smiled. So far Seth's clothing seemed to be coming from thrift sources and other second hand sources. She reminded herself that she wanted to take her partner shopping. Just because he was essentially from the 1980s didn't mean he had to dress like it. Producing her own phone, Morgan took one more shot of the victims as Lem and her assistant began to close the body bags. Once the photo appeared, Morgan sent it to Neil Parkhurst, who would feed the photos into their secure datacore and dig up more information on his end. As the phone processed the images, she looked up at Seth, who was standing by the fence that separated the grassy courtyard of the church and its attached living quarters from the street. He was studying the fence, examining the metal closely. "If it works the way I think it does, we can definitely rule out certain parties." Morgan nodded. The church was old, and the fence had never been replaced. The less iron was worked by human hands and methods, the closer it was to pure, or 'cold' iron, which Morgan had learned was repulsive to vampires. Myths of vampires being unable to walk on holy ground were likely tied to the presence of cold iron fences and gates. The savagery of this new murder was not beyond them, but looking at the wrought iron that bound the courtyard within the confines of the church around it, Morgan felt more and more that the fence had been vaulted by something even more savage, even more unhinged; something worse than a vampire. They continued to work the scene. They marked and photographed the patches of blood and gore strewn around the courtyard. Seth kept searching for abnormal footprints, and Morgan scoured the bushes for bits of fabric or any other evidence. What little they found was bagged, labeled, and taken back to the district house. Neil's skills at evidence analysis kept anything related to vampires from going to other CSUs, and thus limited the number of people aware of the creatures. If there was one thing on which Morgan agreed with the likes of Bethany Engelherz, it was the fact that people would not take wide-spread news of actual vampires roaming around terribly well, let alone werewolves. The cover story protecting Marshall Thorne, CEO of Comcast and the local Baron, said he had an atypical blood-borne condition that kept him on a nocturnal schedule. Others reported the condition, to try and transition into their night lives, but sooner or later, one of them would run afoul of Morgan and Seth. And then after that… "I think we're done here. Let's go talk to the priest." Morgan looked up, unaware that she'd been daydreaming. Well, nightdreaming if you wanted to be technical about it. She followed Seth into the church. It was solid stone, showing weathering here and there, but there was something implacable about the building. The sanctuary had a high, vaulted ceiling, complete with stained glass windows, flying buttresses, and statuary in the corners, each one holding a different angel. Morgan didn't go to church that often, but this was an impressive one, and as intimidating as it was in its size and eerie as the echoes were within its cavernous space, she felt a little more at peace within it. The priest was in a small room behind the front of the sanctuary, beyond a tiny dressing area where several robes hung in a closet to one side. Dressed in a black shirt with a priest's collar and faded jeans, he talked animatedly into a phone as Seth and Morgan walked in. Morgan knew enough that the man was speaking Italian, and using a very formal and roundabout way of addressing people, but other than that she quickly got lost. She kept telling herself she'd be brushing up her language skills, but somehow she never quite found the time. Seth put his hands in his pockets as the priest wrapped up his call. Morgan had noted, on a previous investigation into a couple young vampires gone AWOL, that Seth could assume that nominally casual pose and still look intimidating. Maybe it was the way the gold flecks in his jade-green eyes reflected the light, or maybe it was just an effect he had on vampires who knew of him and what he had done to a member of their secret police. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Detectives. I'm Father Michael Jacobson." Morgan shook his hand. "I'm Morgan Everson, this is Seth Fasil. We're sorry for your loss." "Not as sorry as I am. Sisters Florence and Gwendolyn were very active in our outreach to the homeless. Two fewer sisters ministering to the poor and neglected means more people will drift without assistance." Seth produced a small notebook and clicked his pen. Morgan had to smile a little. All the years of innovation since he'd last been a cop, and he insisted on doing things the old-fashioned way. "Let's start right there. Do you know of anyone among the homeless who would want to hurt either of the sisters?" "I didn't know many personally, I'm sorry to say. I do know that those I did speak to held them in high regard." "Could we get the names of the ones you spoken to?" Morgan felt her phone vibrating in her pocket. It was the third time that night, and like before, she ignored it. "It would really help us." "Of course." The priest began listing names and basic descriptions of several destitute people, as well as his numbers for the church and his cell phone. Seth diligently got it down on paper. Morgan took the opportunity to check her phone. The first voice mail was from last night's date. The second, a message from her mother. The last one was from Bethany Engelherz. If there was one person on the face of the planet Morgan didn't want to talk to, it was Bethany. On a basic level, dealing with powerful vampires felt like spending time in a tiger paddock with a fresh, raw steak around your neck. Even if they weren't interested in eating you right then, they still wanted to get a piece of you. Bethany, in particular, was a thorny issue for Morgan. Not only was she powerful, and an attorney on top of it, Bethany's actions in sparing Morgan and Neil from a vicious if ill-advised vampire attack meant that Bethany felt entitled to call on Morgan whenever it suited her. Normally, it was to check on the status of cases in progress. But they'd wrapped their last fang case two nights ago. What was she on about now? With nothing to say to last night's date, Morgan decided to let the attorney wait, and stepped out to return her mother's call, rather than listening to the voice mail. "Morgan? I'm sorry to call so late, did I wake you?" "No, Mom, I'm working." Morgan's mother knew that homicide detectives worked all hours of the day and night. She didn't know Morgan worked with denizens of the night almost exclusively. The existence of vampires was not a widespread fact, and both the vampires and mortal authorities tried to keep it that way, to avoid panic. "What's going on?" "I thought you should know your father's here." Morgan's blood turned to ice and then immediately boiled before freezing again. "When?" "Just a half-hour ago. He said they kept moving his flight around." Bullshit. "Can I talk to him?" "Sure, sweetie." There was hesitation in the elder Everson's voice. She knew there was tension between father and daughter, but had never imposed upon the situation. "Here he is." Morgan waited, perhaps a heartbeat or two, before the voice of a man with millions of miles under his feet and more than a few encounters with cigars and booze in his throat came on the line. "Hello, Morgan." "Hi, Dad." She swallowed. "Moved your flights around, huh?" "Something like that." There was a pause, and then his voice became distant. "Diana, can you get me a glass of wine? Whatever you have in the house is fine." He's sending her out of the room. She waited. She hated waiting for her father to speak to her alone. It never ended well. "You know I can't talk shop with your mother in the room." "Why are you here, Dad?" She got right to business. Other children or family members might doubt Charles Everson's involvement with shady corporations or government agencies as a security consultant, but Morgan knew better. She had access to his criminal records. A friend at Interpol had helped her fill in a lot of blanks, a lot of days and weeks unaccounted for, a lot of missing, silent years. "I'm here because you're in danger." That, Morgan scoffed at. "I can take care of myself." "I don't doubt it, Morgan, but I'm here all the same. I take it your mother doesn't know who you really go after at one in the morning." What? No. No way. "I don't know what you're talking about." "Deniability. I've taught you well." "Don't flatter yourself. I learned how to be discreet all on my own. It's easy when you don't have family to talk to." He paused. "Morgan, I didn't come here to pick a fight with you. I can be in Philadelphia first thing in the morning." "Don't bother. I've got things under control here. Worry about Mom. She hasn't seen you in over a year and she's been a mess since Mark died." "I know. I'll stay here as long as I can. But I'll keep an ear out for…" "No, Dad. Just… just stay there. Take care of Mom. She needs you, even if she won't admit it." "Redirecting on me, Morgan? I guess I deserve that." She listened to him take a deep breath. He wanted to say more. "Look, just know I'm here, all right? Call if you need me." "Don't hold your breath." She took the phone away from her ear and ended the call without looking at it. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Is Mark the name of last night's beau?" She jumped, turning to find Seth at the top of the stone stairs outside the church entrance. Morgan had walked down them while talking to her father. She looked down at her phone. "No. His name was Leonard. And he works way too much." "You'd have that in common." Morgan's head snapped up, scaring away Seth's smile and bringing concern to his eyes. "Come on, I'm kidding." "I...  Mark was my step-dad.  My mother filed for divorce when I was about ten. My dad wasn't home that often, and…" Seth blinked slowly. "I understand, you don't have to say any more. I'm sorry for your loss." She smiled a little. "Thank you. It was six months ago, but Mom is still pretty wrecked over it." "Hey, if you want to call it a night, I'm fine with that. This is heavy stuff in and of itself, and we just wrapped the case with that vamp from Portland, you had a bad date last night..." "It's 'heavy', is it? Does that make it hard to hold?" Seth gave her a look that wasn't entirely pleasant. She couldn't help but smile. "Still a man of the 80's, after all." "Next thing I know, you'll be reminding me that we're not at war with the Russians." "You're the one who gave the stink-eye to the guy running that hot dog stand, not me." "I know Siberian prison tattoos when I see them." "That doesn't automatically make him the enemy, Seth!" "No, but it does make him suspicious." He sipped his coffee casually, and Morgan held up her hand and turned away, trying to hide her widening smile. "I think I'll take you up on your offer. I need to sort some things out at home." "Good. Take your mind off of the case a bit. We'll catch up tomorrow." She nodded. "Thanks, Seth." "Hey, it's what partners do. Just get home safely." Morgan left the scene, and as she drove home, her thoughts was less with the dead nuns outside of the Redeemer and more with her father reappearing after years off of her radar. Once she got home, Morgan headed into her apartment, cracked open a fresh can of food for Nike, and unlocked the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet next to her desk. Rather than keep data on her father digitally, she maintained hard copies of photos, articles, and snippets from files she had acquired one way or another. As much as her friend at Interpol and the occasional delve into her mother's basement had helped her figure out places Charles Everson had been over the years, what he did day to day still eluded her. What he had said to her now begged the question: did his globe-trotting and mysterious 'consultation' profession have something to do with vampires, or something else that went bump in the night? She spent more than an hour poring over the file, the Siamese cat occasionally making a plea for attention. Finally, when she could barely keep her eyes open, she wandered towards bed, Nike directly behind her, curling up beside her human as the detective drifted off into a fitful sleep.

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Blue Ink Alchemy