InShiningArmor

*Radio click, then clothing rustles; a chair creaks; a cigarette crackles, then a heavy exhale* Hey folks, it’s Jack. Welcome back to, uh, well, I’m not sure what to call this. Some folks here are calling it Space Stories or Salvage Stories with Jack, which is fine—I’ve heard Spacing Out with Jack, which I think has a ring to it. Nicer than Jack Shit, which Graham is trying to push. Now, seems I may have struck a chord with some of you out there; I’ve gotten more personal messages in the last day than the previous, I’d say, five years combined, and I want to express my appreciation. Truly. Even those of you who felt it necessary to explain to me how I’m an old fool who needs to get his everything checked. But there’s something we all know as truth out in the expanse: if you’re hitting hyperspace, you leave the controls alone. Everyone knows this, young and old alike, even people who ain’t never been off-planet before. It’s like ‘keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle,’ at

“So a Duty rookie hires a down-on-his-luck Merc to help capture this Freedom guy who keeps stealing from their base at night. They search for clues, discover his tracks, and follow them all the way to Zaton, the middle of bumfuck nowhere. By the fifth day of searching, they’re tired, nearly out of supplies, and terribly sober, but by some miracle they stumble upon a hatch in the dirt—the Freedomer’s bunker!” Dima paused his joke to look between the backs of his brother Max and an older stalker named Slouch. Both continued their steady march through the swampy grass ahead of him. Neither looked back or made any noise Dima could discern above the thin drizzle of rain. “So they yank the hatch open,” Dima continued, “and yell down, ‘Hey! Come out, and bring your alcohol!’ The Freedomer climbs up, empty-handed. He explains how he’d been relentlessly assaulted by a pair of bloodsuckers for the past few days, was absolutely exhausted, and had gone through all of his food and vodka. He