A friend of mine (I'M LOOKING AT YOU, CASEY) and I are really getting into the upcoming MMO Star Citizen. He poked at me to write a story about our characters and crew, so I went for it. There should be more to it, but this is as far as I go before I crapped up.

I'm looking forward to seeing what's coming around the corner (Casey made me write that at gunpoint, for the love of Godhelpme).

Oh, my friend Joe just put up his site for transmedia. http://launchyouruniverse.com  It basically explores writing in multiple medias, be it the traditional novel, the age old movie, or throwing up some Youtube content. He's just getting this thing off its feet, and I'd appreciate your support for him.

Still plugging away at the book. In a few weeks I should have a pitch-ready draft. Then I get to wait impatiently for editors. Ughhhh, I'm impatient already dammit.

As far as dives went, I hadn't see much worse. The bar was greasy, and its patrons even greasier, worn down from long days of small ships with no showers. You'd think the first thing they'd do when docking was take a nice, long bath, but given the locale, that was expecting too damn much. After all, the whole place stunk of shame and bad decisions, and alcohol wasn't apt to stop either.

It was the perfect place for me. I once wrote front page columns, the name "Edward Jones" emblazoned across vid screens the Sphere (adjust) wide. Now I was in some seedy little hole-in-the-wall, conducting human interest stories that might might be glimpsed by a handful of eyes. Akira Corporation was busting my balls.

I planned to bust a pair of my own. They just so happened to be attached to the only other man who saw fit to shower. He sat in a corner booth, a nearly empty pitcher and a very full glass the only things keeping him company. I decided to add the human element to the scene, slipping into the seat across from him.

"Captain Davion," I said, "A pleasure to meet you." I extended my hand across the table. The good captain eyed it, eyed his beer, and chose the option that was already in-hand. He drained half the glass before giving me a second look.

"Crybaby Jones," he said with a little grin, "You certainly keep aman waitin'." My eye twitched, which only seemed to increase the captain's amusement. Some writers had "Hemingway" or "King" as their nicknames, comparisons to the greats. I wasn't so lucky. "Crybaby" was going to haunt me until the day that I died, which given my company, was hopefully soon.

"I'm sorry. It took me sometime to find you. You didn't look how I expected."

"Oh? Whatddya expect?" he asked curiously.

Sobriety. Of course I kept that little kernel to myself. The pen might be mightier than the sword, but it has a hard time competing with a pistol. The captain had just such a beast strapped to his thigh, the holster worn with age and use. No, if I was going to put my life on the line, it'd be by ordering one of the drinks there.

"That you were taller," I said sweetly, pulling out my Mobi-Glas. The screen popped up over the keyboard, semi-transparent blue taking on tones of brown leather from Devion's jacket. "So, I heard that you just saw some action, Captain. Can you tell me about it?" Any good space goat would love a chance to brag, and I didn't see why Davion would be any different.

My perception was never precise. The ensuing silence meant I had made a miscalculation. The disappearing smile suggested I may have done more than just that. I squirmed in my seat as sweat rolled down my brow, the cool room suddenly sweltering. I cleared my throat, and tried another tack. A career of writing bullshit suddenly came in handy.

In turned out I could say it just as easily.

"You and your crew were single-handedly responsible for the survival of a Lieben Salvage convoy last I checked, and odds that weren't something to sniff at. A Cutlass and a handful of Auroras against your lonesome Connie. A few of Lieben went so far as to call you a hero."

Few men don't like to brag. Even fewer don't like being bragged about, especially when the "h" word is brought to bear. The silence stayed, but his green gaze wavered, meaning I could start breathing again. I sucked in a few, sweet swallows of filtered oxygen as Davion's eyes drug along the tabletop. He had a story in mind, and I meant to take it down. The sooner he said it, the sooner I was done, and I could leave this place behind, taking in the few comforts a Legionnaire could offer. My fingers were poised as Davion's lips parted.

"My father used to say that a ship's name had to have soul."

I blinked. My fingers froze.

"Huh?"