InShiningArmor

*Radio click, then clothing rustles; a chair creaks; a cigarette crackles, then a heavy exhale* Hey folks, it’s Jack. Welcome back to, uh, well, I’m not sure what to call this. Some folks here are calling it Space Stories or Salvage Stories with Jack, which is fine—I’ve heard Spacing Out with Jack, which I think has a ring to it. Nicer than Jack Shit, which Graham is trying to push. Now, seems I may have struck a chord with some of you out there; I’ve gotten more personal messages in the last day than the previous, I’d say, five years combined, and I want to express my appreciation. Truly. Even those of you who felt it necessary to explain to me how I’m an old fool who needs to get his everything checked. But there’s something we all know as truth out in the expanse: if you’re hitting hyperspace, you leave the controls alone. Everyone knows this, young and old alike, even people who ain’t never been off-planet before. It’s like ‘keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle,’ at

*Burst of static, followed by sounds of shuffling and a man grunting. His voice is whiskey-dark but gentle with a slow drawl* Alright, is this working now? I’ll take it from the red light that it is. Ain’t used citizens’ band radio much, not for anything but listening, but a friend of mine said you lot liked a story now and again. Now I know most of you don’t know who the hell I am, so here’s a little background. Don’t worry, I’ll make it quick. You can call me Jack, if you do. I run salvage and delivery on my own, freelance-like. Got a couple buddies I been in the business with for a long time, though we go our own ways for much of the year. We was sitting at that big station by Della’s Halo out in Adonis during one of our irregular meetups, me yacking on over a drink about some such thing that happened to me—you know how it is out here—and Hugh says I oughta write some of these down, maybe write a book. Out of the blue, I might add; he’s never once said nothing about my