Ponderosa: Freelancer (personal log)

[Scribbley]

I am typing this over the faint roar of air venting into vacuum, trying to calmly peer through the glare on my terminal cast by the inextinguishable plasma leak in the cabin behind me. Thank His Noodley Appendage for redundant sealed pressure suits. Glad I kept my helmet handy, too.

My sense of foreboding concerning the jump from Pennsylvania to New York proved to have some merit. After making the the short sprint through the constructed wormhole without incident and proceeding to dock with the trade lane leading to West Point, the trade lane's field was disrupted by a prowling pack of bloodhounds, looking for a fresh helping of Space Noob. And they certainly got more than a nibble.

Their targeting reticles must have been sticking to me like wet spaghetti to the wall. The only thing allowing a moment's reprieve to the pattering of hot plasma and flashes of laser all over my hull was the large columnar rock debris floating in the field, that I was weaving between. In the confusion of combat and maneuvering for my very life, I lost track of where the trade lane was to re-establish a link once it came back online. I didn't dare operate the scanner, for fear of taking my hand off the stick for even a moment.

Gathering what courage I had and thanking the long tradition of diapers in space suits, I focused on who I figured to be the leader and began aggressively attacking his flank every time he strafed by me. After keeping a steady stream of hits on him and exhausting all of his ship's counter-measures and damage-management abilities, his bloodhound finally popped like a festering zit, ejecting the liberty rogue pilot into open space. My perhaps soft notions of preserving human life made me instinctively tractor him into my hold as I swept through his ship's wreckage. Villain he may be, no one deserves to die alone in space, drifting alone until their air ran out.

It wasn't too long before I had bagged one of his wingmen, and they were keeping each other company, locked in their pods in my tiny hold. Despite having suffered significant damage and barely being able to maintain 10 % shield power, I was feeling pretty good about myself. Only one enemy left.... Or not.

As I jockeyed for position behind the last bloodhound, four fresh pups appeared on my scanner at 3.2 klicks and closing. One glance at my energy and shield levels told me I had to switch from "fight" to "flight" while I had a chance. I broke off from my quarry and flipped my scanner onto a full spectrum sweep. Boom: the trade lane corridor was one sector away.

As I set a way point, a massive jarring of the ship nearly through me into my front viewing canopy. That kind of bump is never good, especially so when in the zero gravity of space. In my haste to set a course for the trade lane, I had crashed into a large asteroid. My already paper mache-like shields collapsed in a wink of glitter. I was naked. The previously soft thuds of the occasional hits of enemy fire now caused deafening screeches of melting and sheering metal. I weaved my little star flier through streams of enemy fire, occasionally clipping an asteroid and further compromising my hull, which was beginning to have as many crumples and creases as aluminum foil.

But I couldn't waste too much time being careful. I maximized my thrust engine and then disengaged my inertia dampeners, sending my ship hurtling like a cruise disruptor torpedo at 199 klicks per hour. And speaking of cruise disruptors, they began to rain down onto my ships aft like candy at a parade. I guess the Rogues didn't realize I had been to afraid to engage my cruise engines, for fear of being destroyed before they could spool up. This way was a bit slower, but it did allow me to rotate my ship while not altering my trajectory and return fire at my pursuers.

By the time I reached and initiated the trade lanes, I had gotten a small amount of separation from my pursuers. And my ship resembles an oil lamp with the wick too long, spurting dark smoke and flame irregularly. As I reached West Point, I checked the cost of repairs. A few hundred credits. Okay.

Okay, that is, until I saw that my account balance was 12 credits... Apparently some sort of banking error back at Philadelphia station had resulted in me buying and selling a small shield upgrade over and over again, at a loss each time. Luckily, the reward for the two captured rogues will more than pay for repairs. Only one system away from home. And no more debris fields!

If I'm going to get my shipping racket going, I'm going to need a little savvy muscle. I hope my old acquaintance isn't looking to retire now that his squadron got grounded. I guess I'll find out when I get to Denver.

////Feedback welcome in this thread, btw////

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For myself I am an optimist - it does not seem to be much use being anything else.
-Sir Winston Churchill