Logbook entry

Kaparov / 06 Aug 3305
PERSONAL LOG #9 - 6 AUG 3305

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Writing to CMDR.KAPAROV.09...

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I reviewed my logs earlier tonight while sitting in Low. It's been a year, and it's hard to believe it's been so long, but I've said that before. Couple of times, even. Maybe. I think I lose track of time in this line of work, you know? Never get to sit down like your average Gil and take that trip to the beach; no family picnics on Achenar or time to dedicate to a relationship. It's a stop in a station, a call to the docks to fill up another two hundred 'n twenty tons of cargo, and then the same thing but in reverse. Take the time, you know, sometimes, to stretch my legs in that nifty artificial gravity, but I'm feeling weak in my old age. And I'm honestly pretty damn young. I'll need to find the time for more exercise under normal gravity conditions or else I'll wind up with brittle bones and a heart condition by thirty.

... But enough of that. Get some other commander with ten to twenty more years under his belt gettin' wind of this log and I'll never live it down. If they can manage to make it so long, so can I. Heart be damned.

...

The short of where I've been for the past year is that my log from July 6th thirty-three oh-four, wasn't so far off. Not sure what person or organization did it, but they fried both the navigation and communication systems on Breca just as I was in the middle of runnin' jobs for the Cobra Wing.

Remember that? The Cobra Wing? Independent organization running out of a base on Ebor, running research on Thargoid communication. Never heard anything about that since then, but it should've been a success. Either they kept the information to themselves or GalNet decided for all us pawns that we're not ready for the intel. I'd bet on the latter. Either way, I wound up grounded for the better part of six months doing menial labor until station services could verify that yes, I actually am commander Kaparov, and that no, I hadn't just smuggled myself aboard with a bricked ship and an intent to loiter on pad nine.

With no access to my credit balance, I chipped in with the maintenance staff to make sure I didn't wind up aboard some Alcatraz Class cruiser. It's been Li Yong space for as far as I can remember, so they were fine with me so long as I was willin' to work. In the meantime, old Gerald was apparently trying to figure out how to get back in contact with me. Don't know how long I'd 've been stuck had he not come off his vacation to find my fleet impounded a couple hundred light years away. Lesser man would have taken all of the vessels and ran--or at least the Anaconda. Thing's got to be worth at least ten times what he's earned under me, even now. Probably could've assumed my fucking identity had he wanted to.

Needless to say, I'm out of Ebor and I've been running jobs out of 4 Camelo for the past while. I hooked up with a group of alright people in the system and Gerald's still running the fighter when it's needed, communications and repairs when it's not.

...

I really should get back in the habit of recording these. Find myself with a hundred thoughts running through my head otherwise. I'll leave the current going-ons for another log so I've got somethin' to talk about later, but the short of it all is that I've allied with the Outer Systems Liberation Movement to yank the system out of a Cartel's hands. Met a nice woman named Sadgati that's been pullin' all the strings. I just go where I'm needed. Do the work that needs to be done. Some things never change.

Kaparov out.
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