Resale assessment diagnostics initiated:
Accessing ship black box
Unauthorized audio file found in black box data log
Play audio file: Y/N?
Y
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The sound of a metal tool hitting the floor plates ring out, followed by the heavy sound of a man flopping into a leather seat. A deep inhalation can be faintly heard.
“My name is Mark Locust, n’‒ “
The audio cuts abruptly.
“Sorry about that. I worked on my accent for a few years, still slip sometimes. My name is Mark Locust, ‘and’ I . . . I just forgot what I was going to say. Oh well, what you are listening to is a little log I decided to leave for the world. If you are listening to this, my ship is most likely scrap floating out across New York and some well-meaning person has brought it to the attention of Liberty’s finest. Hopefully the black box is going to survive like it is supposed to. Either that or I scraped together enough money and ambition to get a new ship and forgot to clear this little addendum to my ship’s black box before selling it. Probably the only way anyone is going to hear about me, unintentionally. Blah, I am rambling. Anyway, on to the boring part.
I was born in a fairly small, factory adjacent, dirt heap on Houston, Texas. I am the son of Frank Locust, a career guard with Liberty Police Incorporated. He was a good man, though certainly not the richest or smartest. I was one of the few children without a parent having been through Sugarland, Huntsville, or some such other dark hole. Never knew my mom, and dad never talked about it. Guessing by his brown hair and eyes set against my blonde hair and green eyes, I am guessing I was adopted. Given the local adoption pool I can take a few guesses where I come from. Never asked, got the feeling it was real touchy.”
He pauses for a time, his breath just faintly audible.
“Pa‒”
The audio cuts abruptly.
“Ahem, Dad, was assigned to Huntsville for a time. He was ordinarily assigned to some kind of post Houston-side, keeping an eye on the inmates getting ready to be released into the general population of Houston. Huntsville was shorthanded, and Dad was called up. Short story really.
His tone becomes starkly deadpan
“The inbred Xenos had a riot and Dad didn’t get to come home again.”
A short pause and a chuckle as he moves into the next statement
“Dad was apparently a fair enough man that one of the ex-Rogues who dealt with him said he was going to stow away on some ship and go back to the Rogues just to get a fighter and hunt some Xenos. Can you imagine?
Oddly it was the reformed Rogues who wound up being my support net. I played with the children of Rogues, I bought food from them, I worked with them. And when I had nobody, I had them. I moved in with a friend’s family for a time. They helped me get my head straight.
Wound up operating a machine press next to former inmates for the next six years.
With my adoptive family helping I got together enough money to purchase this ship on a finance program. Another year of studious independently-contracted cargo hauling and this thing was paid off. Sometimes things go well, sometimes they don’t, but at least now I control what I do and when I do it. No more punch presses or skimming floor managers, just vacuum and boxes and a lot of spare time moving one through the other . . .”
He takes a long, seemingly reflective pause after this statement.
“Well, I have made enough of a marginally illegal recording for one ship. You now know who flew this thing, and that he does a slightly better job than the average Houston man of speaking like the rest of Liberty. If my first guess is correct about why you are listening to this, it is my last will that whatever credits I have to my name be given to the LPI for the purposes of inmate reform.
Good luck to you.”
The sound of him standing can be heard, followed by his voice in a muffled, distant volume
“Mmm, wrench wrench wrench . . .ah, there!”
A few steps against floor plates come through, a little rustling of the recorder, and then a short snap of static.