Well, they asked me to introduce myself, so here goes;
I was born on planet Erie... but that doesn't make me a Zoner. Our family hasn't been Zoners since my grandfather's generation, and he was only half-Z, truth be told. Not that I have anything against those folks... they're fine folks; but people have been emigratin' to Erie for a good long while now, and my bloodline is a testament to it. I suppose I'm what you'd call a Pennsylvanian; that's what it says on my Liberty Republic Citizenship card, and that's good enough for me. My father was a strong believer in the ideals of the Republic... and that's what got him killed.
But that's another story.
Growing up around the dockyards of the spaceport, I spent my youth dreaming of one day owning my own starship. The stories the traders told, of fortunes and adventure, led me to imagine that starship as an escape from the political corruption and quiet oppression I'd known all my life. Needless to say, my first few ventures into space taught me otherwise. Every form of graft, extortion, piracy and pillage ever imagined by the mind of man persists throughout inhabited space. And so, I decided to be cautious in my ventures, hoping to escape the fate of congenital naivete. Apparently, however, I was not cautious enough.
You see, about two weeks after I purchased my first Rhino... things get a little fuzzy. Apparently, I went missing for nearly a year, with nothing to show for it but a hospital bill, and six weeks of memories that every expert has told me did not... could not have possibly happened. After I awoke from the coma they found me in, it took a few weeks to acclimate to the knowledge that these memories aren't real, but to be honest I'm glad. It was... a nightmare-Sirius, to say the least.
But that's another story.
Once I was back on my feet, I invested in a new Rhino and started once again... with even greater caution and a reserve some say borders on paranoia. I continue to pursue any scraps of information about my disappearance, any sign of where I may have been, and what these foreign memories could mean. The only consequential fragment of information I've been able to find was a report filed by Liberty Police Sgt. Jacob Strepfield; the officer who found me, comatose, and delivered me to Erie General Hospital. His investigation into my disappearance seems confused and disjointed, however, and four days after I was found (and two days before I awoke from the mysterious coma) Officer Strepfield disappeared.
A Freelancer without a contract is basically a trader or a miner. And, if you're a paranoid Freelancer, you spend alot of time in asteroid fields. If you spend alot of time in asteroid fields, you inevitably spend some of your time in the mechanic's shop, repairing impact damage. And that is how I met Selrahc.
I heard him before I saw him, bellowing at the mechanics as he strode the short hallway between the service bays and the pilots' waiting area.
"And try installing them in the right BAYS this time!" he shouted over his shoulder, entering the small room in which I waited. He seemed pretty worked up, and by his looks I took him for a mercenary... or worse. My paranoia began to coil itself around my better judgment, as if often does, and I resolved to stay out of his way. After slamming the door, however, he whirled on me and caught my eye. Incongruously, he smiled.
"So... what're YOU in for?" he asked in a suddenly conversational tone.
"I, uh..." I stammered, "Oh... uhm, just impact damage. Asteroid! ...asteroid damage. How about you?" I wondered why I was asking, even as I asked.
"Bah!" he answered, waving his hand in the air, "Stupid pirates fragged my third gun... of course," as he continued he stepped back to the service bay door and opened it, raising his voice considerably, "...it wouldn't have HAPPENED if these MORONS hadn't installed my FLARE dispenser in a FORWARD GUN POSITION!!!" And with that, he slammed the door.
"Ooooh, pirates." I said, "I hate those guys!" Again, I wondered why I made the statement, even as I made it. I had no way of knowing who this dangerous looking person was, or what chance comment might send him into a maniacal killing rage, right here in the pilots' lobby.
"Well," he smiled, "we've got THAT in common then, eh?" he laughed a gregarious laugh, and I began to believe, again, that I had not just committed suicide-by-psycho. "And by the looks of that jacket," he pointed, "we've got something else in common, as well. You're a Freelancer, aren't ya?"
"Yeah," I said. "But... you? I thought you were a... I mean..." I began to stammer, realizing the potentially offensive nature of ANY word I could end that sentence with.
"What... a mercenary? A pirate? Hah! It's just a look, kid, don't let it bother 'ya."
I wasn't sure I liked being called "kid" but it was better than a few other things I might have expected. This scounrellous-looking fellow was seeming more human by the minute, and I began to relax.
"So..." I asked carefully, "what brings you to Erie? I mean... beyond gettin' your guns fixed. Have you got... work? Or..."
"Yup!" he answered, sitting on one of several crates strewn about the room, "Just picked up a contract from NPP. With any luck, you'll be seeing quite a bit of me around these parts."
"NPP..." I asked, "Aren't they a... mercenary group?"
He laughed again, "Don't let those categories get all boggled up in your brain, kid. Here's the deal: an organization called NPP, for its own reasons, and I don't care to know what they are, offered me a contract to protect the local citizenry of Pennsylvania from piracy, extortion, that sort of thing."
I was amazed. Someone was actually being paid to protect my home system. "Well, you'll have alot of friends, here on Erie!" I told him. "We're not exactly... high tippers. This ain't exactly Planet Manhattan, but..."
"Bah!" he waved again, "That don't bother me a bit. My contract covers my expenses, and I don't have to do anything against my conscience. I get to help people without demanding anything from them, get paid for the contract, and cook pirates to boot!" He laughed, "What more could I ask for?"
By the time the mechanics came back to let me know my Pelican was ready, Selrahc and I had become good friends. I resolved to buy him a drink at the local bar, the next time he was planetside. On my way out the door, he shouted after me...
"Hey, Stormy! You know what they call an unemployed Freelancer, right?"
Stopping in the doorway, I turned and asked, "What's that?"