Posts by Pertinax

I was afraid of that. Thanks, though!

I wish that was the problem. I'm still in a humble ol' Defender. My Freelancer disk is several years old. The only thing I can think of is that I'm suffering from a corrupted install from the base game itself.

Well, I loaded from the save prior to the one that was giving me trouble, played up that part, and nothing. No Juni, can't dock with anything. It's like a script isn't executing correctly.

Also, it was California Minor, not Pittsburg.

Another noob question: can one play the Crossfire storyline in Open SP, or only after completing the Vanilla storyline? It's looking like the Vanilla is at a dead end for me.

I am playing the vanilla SP campaign using the Crossfire mod. Early in the SP missions, I am supposed to meet Juni in orbit above Pittsburg (yeah, really dang early!), except.... No Juni. I can't use a trade lane or even fly back to Pittsburg. Has anyone else reported this problem? Thank you in advance.

Criminals, the lot of them. Oh, the cities on Crossfire
surely filled up when ship after ship vomited their human cargo upon the
waiting, newly constructed metropoli. Yes, the bloody news media hailed the
settling of Crossfire as an inspired achievement of inter-house cooperation.
What they didn’t tell you is that the so-called society that has chosen to
reside here are among the worst sorts of filthy degenerates one could imagine.

I understand that most of your candid voices for your little
docu-vid are often too cowardly or too degenerate to allow their names to be
associated with their lying, slanderous utterings. Well, I shan’t be
constrained by cowardly anonymity: my name is Reginald Crecy, and I have the
honor of holding the title of Director of all Crossfire Market for Bretonia
Mining and Metal. I administer and run the BMM complex on the ground and on the
orbital facility in-between the planet Crossfire and the alien hypergates. In
short, it is my business to bring trade, commerce, and the beginnings of civilized
life to this dreadful place. And what a loathsome task it is! I hail from five generations of Crecys, each
prominent in the upper executive ranks of BMM. There are times when I am
convinced that I am the only proper Bretonian on this foul planet.

As I said: criminals. Men and women, and even their little
mouth-breathing urchins arrive by the shipload every day. In fact, the local
Bowex fleet was at first a bloody mass-transit service after the automated
cities were completed. Little better than prison ships, I should say. Every one
of the pathetic plebs who arrives is pre-screened and has a job waiting for
him or her: the biodomes, the factories, the shipyards, the retail industries,
and the local shipping services aren’t going to staff themselves, now are they?
Well- nor are the mines, on the surface or in space, and that’s where we come
in. Normally, a market director would be perfectly content to see the masses
going about their work, bringing fame and profits to Her Majesty’s humble
business endeavor. But these- people.
Back in civilized space I could have counted on good, honest Bretonian labor.
But here: oh, dear me, no. Everywhere I turn, all I see are, say, the scum of
the Texas system- the bounty hunters are quite correct to round these vermin
up, I say! But it’s not only Liberty’s unwashed masses. I see the hordes of
Kusari, eating their disgusting noodle bowls even as they walk around in the
streets. Despite the pro-integration
policy, Rheinlanders form their own communities, with their guttural language
and their slovenly beerhouse folk songs. Even those who claim to be from
Brittonia aren’t true subjects of Her Majesty- there are so many O’s and Mics
that I fear the Dublin problem has been solved by transplanting the itinerant potato-eaters
here, to my facility!

Part of the BMM Crossfire charter was a guarantee that the
laborers would receive additional compensation for their voluntary settlement
of a remote, dangerous, partially terraformed planet. I can assure you: while under my thumb, none
of these wretched villains shall receive anything of the sort! I have already
instructed local managers to restrict hours worked, and informed all BMM employees
that residency on BMM facilities shall be mandatory- with an appropriate amount
for room and board deducted from their cheques, of course. Employees are
instructed to shop exclusively at BMM stores, and report those who venture out
into the larger cities on Crossfire during their off hours. Naturally,
productivity quotas shall remain the same, and even increase gradually. It is
my intention that if I am to be sent cattle, I shall treat them as cattle and develop
Crossfire into the most profitable market that Bretonia Mining and Metals has
ever exploited!

One particularly gifted chap from Human Resources has come up
with a capital idea: during every shift, the first and last hour worked is not
counted as regular labor, but as “BMM Team Time”. This time, generously donated
by the worker to the company, is an inspired way to prove one’s loyalty to the
BMM team, while adding millions of credits to our market’s bottom line. I have
consulted with our attorneys, who have assured me that, legally, no Bretonian
labor laws are violated by implementing this policy, as Crossfire isn’t subject
to Her Majesty’s Law.

Even though the business sense of these proposals should be
obvious to all, I still had to deal with a case of insubordination. No, not
from some grubby-pawed miners with delusions of unionizing; that would have been dealt with swiftly
and neatly. From one of my own executive staff! To even think! A young man, of
fine Bretonian stock- or so I had thought. As several new profit-enhancing
initiative policies were being implemented, this most junior of local administration had the absolute impertinence to suggest
that our sound business practices were of the same nature that had caused Imperial
Rheinland to spawn so many dangerous criminal groups from it’s old labor force.
The impudence! In addition to placing a security detail on this young man, I
can assure you that calls were placed to the correct people in New London- that
young “professional” would be fortunate to do accounting for a third rate
coffee shop on Leeds by the time his shuttle arrives back in Bretonian space.

The Crecy family has a long history with BMM- and I am resolved
to be remembered as the most significant Crecy of my line. If I can’t
accomplishment it with proper Bretonian labor, I shall have to make my mark
with the scum of Sirius. God save the Queen, and long live Bretonia Mining and
Metals!

Editor’s note: Bretonia
Mining and Metals wishes to assure all civilized peoples of Sirius, and
especially Her Majesty’s Royal Person, that rumors of labor unrest among her business
ventures on Crossfire are completely false. When asked for comment concerning
Director Crecy’s controversial remarks, BMM spokesman John Wolverton issued the
following statement:

I met him once, you know. Edison Trent, freelancer and hero
of the Nomad war. Second time I had seen him, though. Like most folks, the
first time was on the news right after the peace agreement. At the time, I was
waiting for a payment at a bar in Denver when his mug flashed on the
holovision for everyone to see.

Goddamn boy scout,
was my first judgment on seeing his prettyboy face. The news story was a
recruitment pitch as much as it was news, the anchor lady breathlessly
reminding the public that volunteers would still be needed for fleet to protect
Liberty’s borders and the freedoms of her citizens. Trent pretty much dropped
off the radar after that.

For a freelancer, anonymity is a blessing. You do the job,
get paid, and have a drink. Take a real shower and sleep in a real bed, and
then it’s back in your ship. Still- over time, you develop a reputation, based
on the kind of jobs you take and who it is that’s giving them to you. It can be
a real balancing act trying to minimize the amount of people who want you out
of business. Most of the time, security at a port is the ability to just blend
in with the rest of the riff raff while knowing who to see for your next job.

If Trent went back to ‘lancing after being awarded that
shiny medal by Jacobi, he was sure as hell picking some interesting clients. He
wasn’t seen on any of the house worlds for a long time after the war, and even
his stops at Freeports became rare. In the ‘lancer community, he became
something of an enigma. We ‘lancers are a solitary bunch, but if you stick
around long enough, you start to recognize faces and names- and the rumors that
accompany them. No one ever heard of Trent getting in trouble from his
drinking, nor had they ever seen a drowsy dock knocker slipping away from his
ship. Bartenders, when asked, would shrug and say that the man seldom speaks-
and when he does, it’s all business.

Inquiry about Trent eventually disappeared, except the
occasional remark by dock techs that he never seemed to land in the same ship
twice. More than that, he was usually flying some fancy vessel that had only
ever been seen in brochures- and sometimes not even that. Naturally, gossip and
speculation about where and how Trent acquired the credits for such high-end
ships always made the rounds in the bars, but no one ever seemed to know
anything solid about the man or his clients.

It must have been- fifteen?- years after the war that I saw
him. I was on Freeport 9- way the hell off the beaten path- when the same Edison Goddamn Trent strolled into the bar. Did I say same? That might have been a stretch- he
almost looked like a different man. No civie leather jacket and slacks like I
had seen before- he was wearing a black flight suit of the sort you only see in the
Edge worlds. In addition to needing a shave, he wasn’t dying his hair that
stupid academy blond anymore, either, and he had inked some facial tattoos from
God knows where. A ‘lancer doesn’t mark his face like that unless he’s been
involved in some serious shit with some serious people. Never did ask, though.
I figured if Trent decided it was my business, he’d walk up and tell me the
story.

As it happened, Trent did
walk up to me- or rather, next to me at the bar. He ordered a Sidewinder Fang
and paid the bartender with a generous tip. He didn’t say anything after that.
Him and I just sat side by side, watching the holovid behind the bar. Even out
on Freeport 9, Zoners reported events as word trickled in, doing their
best to ape the news programs you’d see in house space. The story at the moment was covering the
opening of another metropolis on Crossfire.

I felt the need to comment. “Something else, huh? The houses
securing the system and kicking up whole damn cities like that?”

Trent didn’t take his eyes off the holo.

“It ain’t secured.”

I turned to glance at him. “What do you mean?”

Trent took a drink, and his face hardened.

“I mean it ain’t secured. Crossfire don’t belong to no one.
You’re as likely to see an Outcast as you are Alliance. The houses have all
their beef in orbit around the planet and that shipyard- but outside their
perimeter, it’s a crapshoot.”

I took a swig of my own.

“You ‘lancing in those parts?”

He let out a short, bitter laugh.

“More like passing through. Making contacts. These days, I’m
more of a messenger than a ‘lancer.”

A long moment passed as we watched the holo. I took another drink.

“You know, you looked kinda stupid with blonde hair.”

Trent didn’t turn away from the holo, but he didn't face me to reply,
either.

“Careful, friend. That was a long time ago.”

I tried a smile and gestured to the assemblage of pilots,
techs, and the odd dock-knocker. “No worries, partner. We’re all just chickens
in this coop.”

For the first time, his face threatened to resemble
something approaching friendly. I held out my hand.

“Name’s Dax.”

He shook. “Trent. But I suspect you maybe knew that.”

“Ain’t everyday a ‘lancer saves Sirius and makes the news.”

He snorted. “I was the only one the news could get away with
showing. A lot of folks did more against the Nomads than I did, sacrificed a
hell of a lot more, too. But they ain’t exactly the types that a Liberty
president is going to publicly thank.”

I turned back to the screen. “Ain’t politics a bitch?”

Trent had turned towards a young women who had walked into the bar. Real respectable, from the way she carried
herself. Dark hair, maybe half-Kusari from the looks of her. Pretty young
thing- clearly no dock knocker, but she seemed as comfortable navigating the Freeport
bar as any roughneck there. She made brief eye contact with Trent before settling down at a booth.

Trent finished his drink, never taking his eyes off her.

“That they are, friend. That they are.”

With that, Trent rose and ducked into the booth with the
mystery woman. I’m not one for staring, so I kept watching the news until I
finished my drink.

Last I saw Trent and his associate, she was sliding him a
holo-disk across the table. I never even heard them say a word, but that wasn’t
what struck me as odd. It was what I saw in that glance, the way they were
looking at each other. These two- whoever the hell she was, and whatever the hell Trent had become, had a history. That was plain as the tats on
his face. They regarded each other with familiarity, and respect, and… pain?

I thought about ordering another drink, decided against it,
and made my way to the pilot showers. Something about what I had witnessed
between the two strangers didn’t sit right with me. I’m no mind-reader, but
there was a lot between Trent and that woman. It ain’t right to leave things
unsaid, not in a ‘lancer’s line of work. Still- I don’t meddle in the affairs of a man I
met at a bar for ten minutes, either. Even if that man is Edison Trent. Especially
if that man is Edison Trent.

I never saw Trent or the mysterious woman again after that,
and I don’t reckon’ that I will, either. A ‘lancer always has his own hide and his own
ship to worry about, and there ain’t much room for the affairs of others-
unless those affairs are the next job. Made me think about my early days of ‘lancing,
still a fresh-faced kid flying a civilian-spec Hawk and taking whatever jobs came
his way. Once, an old veteran next to me at the LD-14 bar had downed a few ales
too many, taken me by the shoulder, and slurred you know, every ‘lancer is this Goddamn business is either chasing a pipe-dream,
or running away from something.

I hope that Trent finds a port he can call home one day. I
hope that him and his silent lady friend find their peace. I hope that he can
see the things that he’s seen, and do the things that he’s done, and still
remember who he is. A man can know every port and every jumphole, but if his heart is elsewhere, he ain't never going to be anything but lost.

Say what you want about bounty hunters being crude sons of
bitches, but damn if the Guild can’t make a ship. Back in my ‘lancing days, I
spent five years as an associate Bounty Hunter, flying a Barracuda all across
Liberty. It was essentially my home, you understand. I knew it, my clients knew
it, and the engineers who designed the thing knew it. Yeah, it’s technically a
fighter, but you can stand up in it.
It’s cramped as hell and you can only walk a few steps until you hit your bunk,
but just the ability to walk around can make a world of difference when
you’re going to auto-burn a whole day or two to avoid some trade lanes. A
hunter’s real enemy ain’t the cops or the pirates- cops are easy to avoid, and
in those days, most of the organized crime was too busy with their turf wars to
notice little ol’ me. It’s boredom and cabin fever that’ll make you hang up
your spurs quicker than anything. So yeah, my ‘Cuda came with more cabin space
than anything else I had found. You had a bunk, a tiny little table, and a
holo-vision. It’s big brother the Hammerhead even had an honest-to- God chem
shower, too, if you wanted to spend the credits. I guess the legendary tales of
bounty hunter hygiene had reached Guild HQ.

It wasn’t just creature comforts with that
ship. It could take a pounding, give a
bigger pounding, and was made with parts that any base in Sirius would have in
plentiful supply. Guild engineering was all business and no frills- their
R&D department almost didn’t exist then. Of course, it was an old design
even when I first looked at it- my ‘Cuda was bought used, and I sold it even
used’r. Now, I had no illusions- I
didn’t dare fly farther than the Border Worlds in my rig, because even for a
ship named after a shark, there are far
scarier fish in the sea than a stock Barracuda. It was just right for my niche
at the time, though- plinking Rogues and delivering their asses to Sugarland.
Now, I’ll never exactly love the LPI, but damn if taking their jobs didn’t keep
me in parts, drinks and dock knockers. If you don’t know what a dock knocker is
or don’t approve of a man seeing to his needs, maybe you should stick to
helping old ladies cross the street. You’ll sleep better.

For someone who’s never been beyond house space, the
difference in ship quality can seem mighty counter-intuitive. How could yokels
on the fringe of civilization consistently turn out ships that are better,
tougher, and meaner than the fruits of house technology? I’ll fill you in, but
it ain’t exactly a secret for those with a shred of common sense. Even the most
died-in-the-wool navy flyboy will privately admit that your typical house ship
flown by your typical house pilot wouldn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell in
a one-on-one dogfight against an Edge-world ‘lancer. In fact, he’d be lucky if
it were just a ‘lancer- most ‘lancers I know don’t go out of their way to pick fights
if they ain’t getting paid for it. Other folks, though- that shiny badge don’t
mean a thing beyond house space. In some systems, it would be a death sentence. You might wonder- houses have the bigger militaries-
why not just embark on some good ol’ fashioned campaigns to bring the Indies
and the pirates in line? I’ll tell you why. House leadership might be stupid,
but they ain’t stupid enough to try a stunt like that. Military adventures beyond house borders have
a way of going sour- just ask any Brit pilot in Dublin, or
dust off some history holos about the Rheinlanders’ attempt to “settle” with
the GMG. House military actually has a terrible record against Indies when
engaged en mass. Ain’t nothing changed, either.

If it ever came down to a for-real shitfight between a
Liberty task force trying to “bring freedom” to, say, a Corsair stronghold –
well, let’s just hope Fleet HR has a “we regret to inform you” form letter, or
else some poor clerk is going to have a mighty sore writing hand. Hell, the
only advantages Liberty would have are numbers and prettier pilots. I shouldn’t
even joke about it, really. You see, an Indy pilot- be them a ‘lancer, a
pirate, or a smuggler- has a totally different attitude about what it is to
fly. To navy, your ship is what you joyride in while flying the same route in
the same place. It’s your job- you clock in, you look forward to it being done.
That attitude don’t exist in the Indy worlds, because to an Indy, your ship is
your home. Remember when I was
talking about my old ‘Cuda? Well, any ship made by an Indy firm is going to
have a bunk, too. Period. It might be cramped, and you probably can’t stand up
all the way, but by God, you’ll have a bunk. It’ll also have food storage, a
water filtration unit, and at least basic facilities. Most of the time, this is
all packed in a tiny space right behind the pilot’s seat, but I guaran-damn-tee
it’ll be there. There’s also the fundamental difference in engineering
values.

You see, unlike a pansy-ass nine-to-five navy toy, an Indy
ship is designed to run for weeks at a time- while in the ass end of nowhere.
All the parts- the reactor, the drive, electronics- everything- all have to run
perfect, every damn time. If
something breaks, help is likely not available. The solution? Engineer it so that it doesn't break- at least, not without help from belligerents with ships of their own.
In fact, depending on who you’ve pissed off your last few jobs, chances
are good that folks at certain ports will answer your hail with a little
weapons test. Of course, if you’re stupid enough to try to feed from the hand that
you just bit, I say you’ve got no business being in Indy space to begin with! I
mentioned that an Indy’s ship is home- and like most homeowners, Indy pilots
take great pains to keep their property in tip-top shape. Again, it’s a
difference in attitude- in the fleet or Big Shipping, it’s the hanger tech’s
problem. For the Indy, maintenance is profoundly personal; whatever they can
do, they do; whatever they can’t do, they watch over like a damn hawk while the
technician works. Everything about the ship is a customized extension of the
pilot’s will (and budget)- the paint, the components, the weapons- even the
damn cockpit seat is usually aftermarket.

That reminds me: the equipment. That’s another little secret
that makes house flyboys squirm. See, the truth is pretty bleak- Indy weps kick
the tar out of house. Indy shields shrug off more damage. The sensors are
better, the reactors are tricked out, and you can buy black market capacitors
that make shields regenerate in no time. Some folks, they replace their outer
hull with armor plating. That’s for the hardcore mercs and ‘lancers- pirates
don’t usually have it. The added weight means less cargo space, you see. The
plating itself can range from just another layer of standard ship panels to
some top-secret material the Order cooked up that takes a lot of pepper to even
scratch. Some kind of
diamond-adamantine nanocomposite, I’m told. But you get the idea. Like it or
not, Navy buys it’s ships and weapons from the lowest bidder. House
bureaucracies look at budgets first, results second. It ain’t that house
militaries want inferior equipment-
it’s just that they can’t and won’t keep up with a murderous arms race that’s
outside their jurisdiction, and why would they?
A navy ship patrolling a core trade lane can go years without needing to
open fire, whereas a ‘lancer flying some cargo from point A to point B in the
Omicrons assumes that he will.

Of course, a scuffle between two armed groups is more than
just comparing ships and gear. Hell, it’s even more than weighing combat
experience; you’ve got to look at the people themselves. Even if all things
were equal and Indies had to use the exact same equipment as navy, I would still bet my bottom credit on the
Indies. See, no Indy is going to get drawn into the neat, organized, set-piece battle
that navy trains for- why would they? Have you seen some of the places Indies hang their hat? Lava storms, dense
asteroid fields, nebulas where your sensors don’t scan for shit- hardcore
Indies not only routinely fly but fight
in these environments as a matter of course- even with Liberty’s huge numbers
advantage, it wouldn’t be a fair fight. If Liberty was stupid enough to journey to the Omicrons, the Corsairs would have them for dinner- ain't a doubt in my mind.

Is it starting to make sense? If you really want to be a pilot above what you see in house space, you
move as far away as possible. If you really
want to turn your rig into a flying dispenser of righteous justice, you get in
good with Indies. That’s all there is to it. The very best shit is found at the
most dangerous areas- because of course it is, right? But even getting there
ain’t enough- you’ve got to be real chummy with the locals too, because the GMG
or Hessians ain’t just going to sell to any shlub who just wanders by. Hell,
groups like Corsairs and Outcasts won’t even give you enough time to transmit a
“howdy”- if they don’t know you, they blast first and ID later. Of course, if
those guys do let you just mosey up
and buy their deadliest wares, chances are good that your own moral slate ain’t
exactly clean- and you’ve probably burned some pretty important bridges getting
there. So there’s that to think about. Still think it’s worth it?

Editors note: The
opinions contained in this account are strictly that of the person interviewed,
and not the publisher's. Manhattan DucuVids maintains the highest confidence that
the ships, equipment, and personnel of the Liberty government are the best to
be found within Sirius.

At the time, I was
feeling like a big fish in a small pond. I was taking on Xenos and even the
occasional Outcast in addition to my usual Rogue popping, and Sugarland paid
good credits for higher-ranking criminals. Well, long story short, I got a
little big for my britches and took a job in Rhineland against some Corsairs. I
agreed to bring in a specific baddy who had a penchant for killing their
federal police; didn’t even salvage their ships or tractor in the escape pod.
This guy (I later learned it was a woman) was either a straight-up sociopath,
or had figured out that having a force of piss-scared cops was good for
business. The local authorities put a pretty sweet bounty on his (her) head,
and I happily and stupidly volunteered. I had no idea what I was in for.

Now, in retrospect this is clear as day- but bagging Rogues
sure as hell wasn't preparation for fighting Corsairs. For starters, Rogues are
basically petty criminals who got a raw deal- most of them come from poverty and
did some time in one of the Big Houses. Of course, that shit stays on your
record, and good luck getting a job fresh out of prison… not that going to
prison is difficult or uncommon if you’re poor or unconnected. The rural economy all over Liberty is in the shitter, and lots of honest folk turn to crime just to get
by. A criminal just out of prison only has two real choices- go back to piracy,
or join up with the Guild and start hunting down your old drinking buddies. Used
to be you could get a job at one of the factories on Houston even with a record, but nowadays they're
getting more and more automated. Any leftover human labor is scarce and pays
next to nothing. You’re either a slave
for the man, or you’re on the man’s payroll bringing in more meat for the grinder.
It’s no secret that the LPI regards Liberty's underclass as it’s private labor pool- the
saying goes that LPI will bust you for jaywalking but hire you for backstabbing.
So you get the picture- Rogues are typically a mixture of desperation and
resentment. Most of them don’t have any real flight training, and what assets
they have are from their more competent benefactors, the Outcasts. Their ships are usually those ramshackle
“hound” types that are more perilous to fly than to face- but as long as you
can lash some blasters onto them, they’re dangerous to someone.

Corsairs, on the other hand… Jesus, where do I even start? You
have to understand that we’re talking about a culture that has walked the
ragged edge of survival and death for hundreds of years. Every man and woman is
a Corsair first, and a human being second. Not all Corsairs are pilots, but all
are warriors in some way or another. There are no freeloaders, no ornamental
people like you see in London or New York- you either fulfill a useful function
from the time you can walk, or you’re a waste of scarce resources. Crete ain’t
Manhattan- crops don’t grow well, only certain parts are habitable, and what
resources it has are a bitch to extract. Until a few hundred years ago, the
Corsairs weren’t really a thriving people- until they figured out that rich
folk with more money than brains would pay through the roof for the one thing
Crete has in abundance: alien artifacts. Sure, Corsairs didn’t worry anymore
about where their next meal would come from, but the idea of contact with the
rest of Sirius only made them more paranoid. You see, Crete had gone from a
hellhole to a gold mine overnight; gold mines have a way of being seized by
force. So the Corsairs, who were already used to taking scrap and making a ship
that could be handed down generations, doubled down on their xenophobic
philosophy. If anything, their society became even more militantly
survivalistic- their pilots came to see themselves as not only providers
through piracy, but warriors as well. So you see, Corsairs started off on a world that tries it’s best to kill them- and
between the piracy and the artifact trade, most of their neighbors want them
dead, too. Their ships are excellent
because they have to be; their pilots are supremely skilled because the
alternative is death.

Naturally, I felt it was a great idea to take these people
on.

The operation actually went quite well at first; I bribed a
wannabe bounty hunter to shadow the Corsair from a Freeport in a pathetic
little Starflyer while I hung back out of range. He was a young, pimply-faced
kid who was more eager than thoughtful. The ship wasn’t even his- it was his
mother’s, and he had borrowed it to do some graduation sightseeing. What he was
doing at a Freeport was anyone’s guess. Still, a naïve kid in a ship that
couldn’t harm a fly was the perfect tail to send after a Corsair. Looking back,
it was the only smart thing I did; a little economy ship with an empty hold
ain't worth a pirate’s time, and the proximity to the Freeport meant that they
wouldn’t open fire even if they had a mind to do so. I was unsure about
tracking the Corsair myself; though I had splurged on a nicer
sensor array for my ship, I couldn’t know if the Corsairs had one of equal or
better quality. Plus, following a Corsair in a Bounty Hunter ship ain’t exactly
discreet.

I had been receiving transmissions on the position of three
Corsair ships for close to twelve hours before my target’s wingmen finally
appeared to go their own way. I had to take my tracker’s word, as I had been
flying blind in a nebula a well out of range; I could receive transmissions,
but neither my eyes nor my sensors could
make out more than a few meters in front of my cockpit window.

At the time, I had counted the nebula’s cover as a stroke of
brilliant luck; I could just follow and wait until my quarry was alone, reel
him (her) in, and collect my fat reward (minus the chump change I had promised
my hireling). Now that my target was alone, I throttled up the power and burned
towards her last reported location.

As my ship burst out of the nebula, I felt a burst of savage
anticipation as I saw that, as reported, my target was alone. My glee swiftly
faded as I heard the screams of my young assistant for a brief second as his
ship was destroyed by precision fire from one of the supposedly departed
wingman. Rookie mistake- he was so intent on keeping track of our target’s
position that it had never occurred to him to check his own rear. Well, it
wasn’t as though civilians were exactly accustomed to watching their back while
flying. I began to feel real pangs of guilt, or at least would have, if all hell
hadn’t broken loose at the same time. I don’t much like to talk about it;
besides, that tale's been told already by some hack who turned my retirement
story into a cheap piece of pulp.

Long story short- I got ambushed, left to die, and it took
me four days to limp back to the Freeport. Not sure if I got a wink of sleep in
that time. Nav was working only sporadically; I barely made it back in one
piece. My ship was basically scrap; by the time I was tractored back into the
Freeport, I only had a semi-functioning thruster, a leaking reactor with one
core working, and life support that kicked on and off. I was fully suited up on
account of there being a gnarly crack in the windshield. Couldn’t even hail
anyone on the comm- it was blasted, too. By the time I was within sensor range,
the Freeport boys figured on their own that I needed help and towed me in. The ‘Cuda
was trashed. I would have had to take on some serious debt to get her right
again, and I had my first black mark in the Guild registry for the blown
mission. Goodbye, paying jobs. See, for a hunter, reputation is everything. For
me to screw up my first mission outside of Liberty space and damn near get
killed- nope. Clients would access my Guild record and see that I was nothing
but a Rogue catcher who paid the piper for thinking that he could take on Corsairs.
I would be lucky to get a job babysitting convoys for gas money- and that ain’t
no way for a bounty hunter to earn his scratch.

I sold the ‘Cuda for parts and used what savings I had to buy
a used Rhino back on Manhattan. What a goddamn disgrace. The ship was
technically certified for jump gate passage, but I barely trusted it on a trade
lane. Whoever owned it before me must have thought that maintenance was
something that other people did to
their rigs, because there was always something broke on it. It was ugly, flew
like a sick pig, and the cargo hold started smelling funny whenever I hit the
cruise drive. The hull was thin, and the reactor had trouble powering both the
weapons and shields at once, even though they were so weak I might as well have
just skipped mounting them and saved the credits. Even the goddamn bunk smelled
like the last guy, no matter how many times I chemed it. Still- it was the only
thing that I could afford after booking passage back from the Freeport. At
least it had a similar cockpit layout as my old ‘Cuda- but it wasn’t my ‘Cuda,
and I was no bounty hunter. I had suspended my Guild membership indefinitely so
that I could become a truck driver and get back on my feet- at least, that’s
what I told myself. Truth was, I was done.

Old Hunters say that a man will always know his last job
with the Guild, one way or another. If you’re lucky, it means a scoring a dream
bounty. For some like me, it was a scrape that was too close to shrug off. For
most, though… well, the Guild is always hiring for a reason.

Thanks for the welcome, all! if my connection can hold, I'll be seeing you on MP!

Hello, all!

I am trying out the Crossfire mod for Freelancer. So far I like it quite a bit more than others I've tried. I'm a bit of an old-school Freelancer player, since I bought the game when it was new and have player it on and off ever since. I don't usually do MP and have never done any RP, but I did dabble in a bit of backstory for a character (which I may or may not post).

Cheers!

-Matt