Greg Shap’s Journal entry 3

I like my life. Even if Saurubi and I are down to eating energy pills to survive, or recycling our own piss to the point where it’s dangerous, it’s okay. We made the stupid decisions that got us there. And we’ll make the stupid or brilliant play that gets us back out again. No one else to blame or praise. It’s a harsh life, but I don’t need much, and, apparently, neither does Saura. Just us, the Hand, the cold vastness of space, and an occasional port on the Rim where we can both blow off some steam, get a quick lay, eat some decent food and get some maintenance and repair done on the ship. And a paying job. We need that, too. Sometimes it involves hauling cargo from one port to another. Sometimes it involves pulling off a little bit of security service for the Earth Alliance. Once a Marine, always a Marine. It’s part of the deal that lets us keep the fancy, advanced translation software in our heads and our awaysuits, that protect us when we answer the call. We need that stuff to keep us in the game the rest of the time. What we don’t need is a fortune in metal sitting in our hold that we can’t transfer to the consignee for payment because the Station quarantined it. It’s metal, for craps sake!

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