#like i prefer a three hour rehearsal with normal seating to a 45 minute one with covid spacing and im not joking

[connanro]

i'm listening to a recording of the mozart clarinet quintet my chamber group sophomore year made and it's a little painful....like @ me you're the first violinist did you not practise your solos???????

[misadventures-phan-can]

Chasing Phantoms ~ Chapter 1 ~ The Cloak

The sky was its usual orange. The clouds, their usual black and gray. Far out into the desert surrounding the town, past the skyscraper-rock stacks looming above and the dried-out river running like a scar around it, a dust-storm raged. The winds were blowing away from the settlement, protecting it from the sand and debris. For now, at least.

In essence, it was just another day.

People were already up and about, rushing to get their to-do lists done before noon, where the three suns burned hottest and turned the planet’s surface into an oven. It was only early in the morning, Melder-Standard time, and already it was hot enough to char an egg into oblivion on the tin-roofs of the town.

Hot, dry, unwelcoming and merciless. That was Heavy Melder in only a few words. A desert planet that spun wickedly fast, where one day lasted a week and 30 minutes in Standard Galactic time. From space, Melder’s speed showed physically in the planet’s squat oval shape. Or so it was said. Most of its population were born there and would die there, lacking the opportunity or financial means to leave and prove it. The lucky ones got a job on a passing ship, to hopefully never return.

That was why she was here, taking up a boarding room above the only saloon in the only town big enough to be named capital of this dust-bowl planet. She watched from her window as the Frontier Town shook itself awake, Main Street slowly but surely filling up with people going to and fro. Today marked a month since her arrival, but she didn’t intend to celebrate. No, quite the opposite. She had hoped to be gone by now, gone and working somewhere on a ship in space. She wanted to be one of those lucky few to leave and never look back.

It was taking time. She knew it would take time, but this was taking its sweet time. Nothing was lining up. No big ships were bound for port for another month or so, and none of the smaller, local cargo runs wanted an extra hand. Especially not a female one. She was lucky she landed a spot at the local Gunsmith's, and that was only by sheer mule-headed determination. Patience was a virtue, and hers was running desperately thin. Deep seated wariness and frustration assured it.

Two years of travel, hardships and steep, brutal learning curves would not amount to a life in the Trader City. She did not leave her adopted home for that. She wanted more, so much more. Melder couldn’t offer it, but the ocean of space could.

The girl- on the edge of adulthood- plopped back down on her bed. Wasn’t the comfiest of beds, a thin mattress and rickety bed-frame assured that, but it was great compared to some of the places where she had previously slept. The blanket, or top sheet really, lay crumpled on the floor by the foot of the bed. She didn’t use it, preferring her beat up brown poncho if she needed cover. It was normally too hot for either anyway. The room was simple, clean- if a little knocked with age- and barely furnished. Other than the bed, there was a dresser, a chair and a small bedside table. The one window gave a view of the majority of the town, covered only by a yellowed off-white curtains.

It was her base of operations, had been ever since she got here.

If her troubles could be blamed solely on one thing, she would blame them on Mrs. Cartier. She remembered her first serious altercation with Dust Devil Canyon’s resident old gossiping crone like it was yesterday. It wasn’t that long ago, but it was the start of the events leading to her departure. She had been walking home, to Arthur’s Odd-job Mechanics, when Mrs. Cartier called out to her from her porch.

The then-12 year-old girl knew how the town’s people saw her. She was an outsider, a strange and freakish one at that. They tolerated her because Arthur Fahey- the man who took her in- was well respected. She tolerated them because Arthur told her too. Violence was never the key, Arty always said. She was starting to disagree.

“Come here girl and make yourself useful.” Above all house rules, Arthur had always told her to mind Mrs. Cartier. Do as she says, and don’t take her words to heart. Easier said than done.

The girl reluctantly back-tracked until she was facing the old woman’s porch, standing there in uncertainty. She didn’t like being this close to the Cartier house. “Come on then, runt. Come here and get this table out on the step. The weather is nice and I want to take advantage of it.”

The weather was nice. The clouds hid all but the strongest sun, and the heavy air promised some rare rain. It wasn’t as hot as it was normally, giving some relief to the people. The girl didn’t say anything, questioning why she had any obligation to help the old crone would just cause more trouble than it was worth. She carefully walked up the steps and followed Mrs. Cartier inside, glaring at the woman’s back when she wasn’t looking. The table was small and easily moved, but what made it hard was the nagging. “Watch out welp! That table is made of the finest glass available on this dust bowl.” The girl almost tripped over the woman’s carpet and the crone hissed, grabbing hold of her arm in a vice-grip. “I said to be careful girl. Bah. Can’t trust you. Can’t trust no outsider, ‘specially not the spawn of some space-cast whore.” The girl’s grip on the table tightened. She remained staring ahead, afraid that if she looked the crone in the eye she would snap.

It was about time to head to work. The rays of sunlight spilling into the room had barely shifted, the suns virtually in the same position as an hour ago. The girl stood and stretched her back, feeling her shoulders pop warily. Beside her, scattered on the bed sheet along with a tin of cleaning solution and a rag, were all the pieces that made up a single-action revolver. It was a special weapon, one custom made by her adoptive father and herself. It was a chameleon gun, able to switch between a super-charged plasma-cell and actual bullets, something that was rare in this age. Even if bullets were hard to come by, and the resources needed to make them were scarce, it was all worth it for the number of times they had saved her life. No one expected physical ammo anymore. Armor made for plasma-cell weapons is, usually, not thick enough or simply not meant to block something solid like a .45 caliber bit of lead.

The girl quickly collected her things, deftly putting the gun back together in clean, familiar movements. She reinserted the cartridges, having removed them when she was doing the routine maintenance. 7 shots in the cylinder, one plasma-cell in the middle and only six bullets. She left one chamber empty, as a precaution. Nobody liked getting shot in the foot, after-all. Then she grabbed her belt, a thick leather thing with two metal hoops in the main strap to support a second that hung lower on the left. It was ideal for weapons, and the holster for her revolver hung on the handy second strap. She tied another little band of leather around her thigh so the holster didn’t dangle and promptly stashed her gun, all in familiar well rehearsed strokes.

From the dresser she snatched an old, brown and worn-out wide-brimmed hat. She settled it atop auburn hair, kept out of her face in a braid. She double checked that she had everything, pulled on a pair of brown knee-high riding boots and grabbed an equally brown, well-worn poncho on her way out.

She almost vaulted down the steps, but resisted the urge when she caught the Owner giving her the evil eye from the behind the bar counter. He caught her ‘flippity-floppiting’ around the first time, and made it clear that if she did it again she would have to find herself another room somewhere else. Maker knows the Owner was a kindred-soul, but mess with his bar and you got the Eye. So, no fancy footwork. Instead, she took the stairs two at a time and breezed past the gray-whiskered man behind the counter with a quick exchange of ‘Good Mor’n-Be safe’.

She wasted no time speed-walking to the far right end of the Main Road, head bent forward to shield her face with her hat against the sun. There was no breeze today, only bone-dry dust. She avoided most folk on the way, ignoring their curious gazes or open hostility. Past Sir Gorg’s General Store, Jio’s Pawn shop, Ms. Beverly the Tailor’s and the town Jail on the other side, stood a squat but long building with a large porch and a roof that slanted in awkward angles. It had been, at some point, painted saffron yellow with white trims. Now the wood plank siding was faded, dull and lifeless. Beside the door, two guns crossed behind a target made up the sign, chipped lettering onto announcing it as: REV’S GUNSMITH. Without batting an eye she jumped the four steps to the porch, opened the door and closed it behind her in a flurry. No one was in the shop proper, Rev himself was probably in the backroom or in the half of the building that was his home. “Rev?!” She called out, voice echoing slightly. She waited a moment, but there was no response. Frowning, the girl took off her hat and slipped off the poncho, laying the former on top of that later on the counter. Walking around it, she peeked through the door frame beyond, the one that led to the backroom.

“Rev?! Ya here man?”

A shout, the heavy clashing and metallic clang of tools and parts, probably even a stool or two. The girl chuckled and walked past a two rows of rifles, shotguns and various parts of both. “How’s the floor Rev?” She asked cheekily, a smirk plastered on her face. A middle aged man, with grey-streaked black hair tied back in a bun and a white-speckled beard in a ducktail style, looked up from the floor with his arms crossed. He was not amused.

“Very comfortable, Tommy, thank you for ‘informing’ me of this wonderful new seat.” His voice was laced with sarcasm, face set in a deadpan. Rev hauled himself off and dusted off his ripped-kneed pants. Then he set to work cleaning up the mess he had made, while Tommy walked closer to see what he had been fiddling with before she startled him. She whistled.

“Damn Rev, this looks like quite the project.” And it was the truth, on the table lay a bizarre looking gun, or more appropriately, three parts of a gun. The first chunk resembled a butt of a rifle, made up of two bars held together at the end with the actual shoulder rest. The bars were connected on the other side to- what she guessed was- the rest of the stock that seemed to contain a chamber, the action, trigger and trigger guard. It was all sleek, sharp lines. In fact, beside this lay a rectangular piece of metal, a slant cut length-wise and the whole side sharpened. The blade- because that’s what it probably was- appeared to fit under the chamber.. The second chunk of the gun was a separate section, resembling a metal forestock. It was open on one side, revealing complex coils of wire and what looked like energy stabilizers. The other side was a dull edge, which Tommy assumed Rev would sharpen later. The final chunk, or piece really, was the actual barrel. It was unusually long, and one side was cut with a slant. All connected, Tommy thought it would measure about 4 feet long, minimum. It wasn’t painted yet, but she could just imagine… a bit of blue, some black highlines… parts left gunmetal gray. It would be a lethal beauty.

“It’s a new model I’ve been working on. A pet project.” Rev answered her, putting the fallen tools where they belonged. He stood straight again, rubbing the dirt off his hands on his pant legs and crossing his arms once more.

“It got a name yet?” The girl asked, eyes still on the gun as she simultaneously ran a hand down the stock, tracing the edges with a finger.

“Yes! In fact,” Rev moved beside her, reaching under the work table and opening the drawer hidden there. From it he removed the gun’s blueprints, handing them to his employee. Tommy took the wrinkled blue page almost reverently, while Rev pointed to the print’s name. “Odiyan. It’s an Odiyan P-T1.”

Tommy looked up from the page and at him, brows furrowed in confusion. Rev grimaced, eyes narrowing. His expression resembled a pout. “Where did you get a name like that? You couldn’t of come up with it.”

“You’re faith in me is astounding. No, Tommy, I did not make the name up. Odiyan Proto-Type 1 is, well, the Odiyan part anyway, is from an old tale my grandfather used to tell me. Apparently, it’s a person whose soul could turn into an animal, but he needed an assistant or else he could stay stuck as the animal forever. Anyway, Pa used to scare me with stories where the man never came back to his body… He always said the moral was that no job is easy… The man was confusing.” Rev took the blueprint back and rolled it up carefully, tucking it in the hidden drawer once more. Tommy folded her hands behind her back for lack of a better place to put them.

“So, why name a rifle after a shapeshifter? Especially one that sounds rather risky,” Tommy asked, genuinely curious. “There must be a reason.”

Rev chuckled, the corners of his mouth tucked up in a mischievous smile. “That, Tommy, is for me to know and you to find out. And Odiyan isn’t a normal rifle.”

With one last smirk, Rev turned away and waltzed back to the front room.

“You can’t just say something like that and walk away!” Tommy cried, arms in the air in an over-dramatic disgruntlement. She followed him to the front room, hands on her hips and lower lip protruding in a childish pout. Once in the room, she leaned against the left wall beside shelves and hooks displaying various gun accessories.

“I can and I have. Now, at any moment Mr. McGee is gonna walk through that door and complain about his rifle,” Rev nodded toward the shop’s front door for emphasis. “Go get your bench ready. It’s what I pay you for.”

Tommy scrunched up her nose in clear distaste. “Do I have to boss? Do I really have to? Why can’t you deal with him? You know the old bastard will be back in here next week saying I ain’t done my job right. Again.” Ever since Mr. McGee paid a visit to the Gunsmiths, only to find a newly-hired girl instead of Rev at the counter, he would come periodically to get the ‘crappy job they did last time’ repaired. Nothing was ever wrong with the gun, but when told as such the man would throw a fit. Tommy- from then on- had decided to pretend to do maintenance.

Rev looked up, a warning to his voice. “Language Tommy. Mr. McGee may not be… completely up to date on… current social norms, but he asks for you specifically. Deep down…” Tommy’s eyebrows shot up, making Rev sigh. “Ok, deep, deep, deep down, he know’s you do your job well.”

“Or he’s a perv.”

“Tommy!”

“Tommy! You have to understand, people here at stuck in the past! They can’t help it, it’s what their parents’ taught them, what their parents’ parents’ were taught!”

“Then why do I have to bare the brunt for their twisted upbringing?!”

“Forgive them! They don’t know better, you can’t be angry with them over something they can’t change.”

“Ignorance is not an excuse! I will not pay because they deny, are too weak to change!”

“Tommy-”

“NO! I refuse to be silent and take their lies. I refuse to get thrown down and spat on. I refuse to be YOU!!”

“Girl, my gun better shoot straight or I’ll see to it that you don’t get payed.” The old Mr. McGee held up his ancient rifle, other hand curled around a crooked cane.

Tommy, arms crossed, shirt sleeves rolled up past the sleeves and hands covered in grease, nodded appeasingly. Her shoulders were tense, and she kept shifting her weight from foot to foot. Rev, stood beside her, recognized these tells for what they were. His employee’s patience was running dangerously low. “Good day now, Mr. McGee.” He called out, touching Tommy’s elbow and motioning to the shop.

“Go take a break. You need it.” He said, tone soft and quiet, smile empathetic.

Tommy scrunched up her nose and closed her eyes as she passed a hand down her face, letting out a long breath. “Yeah… yeah you’re right Rev. I’m going to go dismantle a shotgun or something…” After that, the Cycle went by slowly. Nobody else came in- and when it was apparent no one would- Rev let his employee leave early and went back to work on his project. Tommy took the opportunity to walk around town for a bit, making detours to the Spaceport and Shipyard. One was crowded, as usual. A few cargo ships were in at the moment, and a Galaxy Railways train had just arrived the Cycle prior. The girl had never seen one of the space trains up close before- never had the time- and as such made her way to the railway platforms to get a better look. She avoided the worst of the hustle and bustle, giving a wide-berth to any sketchy looking crewmen or unknown uniformed people. The closer she got to the vehicle, the more wary and suspicious looks she got from it’s passengers. Most of them were dressed in high-end fashions, and looked down their nose at the workers. She promptly ignored them and beelined for the massive engine’s current resting place. What kind of power, she wondered, did it take to move such a beast? The machine loomed over her as she examined it with hungry eyes. The engine resembled a rectangular prism with a little square knick cut out at the front where windows were placed for the cabin. It was painted a dark cherry red with gold detailing and a paler stripe of scarlet running along the bottom of its length. At the front, two large circular holes were cut deep into the frame, and a quick hop onto the railing on the side when no one was looking revealed that these were lights. Here, at the front, the scarlet flared up and down like a four pointed star. The rest of the cars behind the engine matched it in colour and further down she could just barely make out the name of the train, detailed in gold on the caboose. The Scarlet Queen She could just hop on right now and be gone from this planet, leave and never look back. One of the conductors was walking over now, and Tommy sighed. She didn’t have the means, not yet. She hopped off the railing, raised a hand to the conductor and started walking away, leaving the train behind to pass by the shipyard before she went back to her room. From busy port to dead silence, the shipyard was completely empty. Currently, there were four ships in for maintenance, the hull of a heavyweight fighter in the process of becoming scrap and two medium sized Bullhead cargos ready to leave and pass by the port for a new haul. Tommy ignored everything but the fighter, and made her way to the skeleton of a once proud ship. Most of its body had been picked over for salvage, frame exposed to the elements. She spared a few minutes poking around, curious about the ship, before deciding it was late. The vessel would still be here next Cycle, after all. And she was hungry.By the time she entered the Worst Bar in the Universe, the usual patrons were already installed comfortably and the conversation was booming. Somewhere in the background a radio played, but she couldn’t make out anything beyond the odd word or two. Her customary spot- a stool at the far end of the bar, near the stairs for the second floor- was vacant. The Owner was already waiting for her, and as she sat down presented her with a glass full of smooth amber liquid and a few ice cubes.Tommy thanked him, ordered some fried rice for her supper and with that done- sat back and watched the crowd. A few people were unfamiliar, and she assumed they were just particularly brave crewmen, or passengers of the train. Normally, travelers went to the other bar in town, The Loopy Dustdog. It was slightly bigger than the Owner’s establishment, but really the only thing that attracted temporary clients was its close proximity to the Port and Shipyard.   The Worst Bar in the Universe was the locals’ choice, and on the opposite end of Trader City. In her opinion, it was much more interesting- and reliable. The Owner may seem tough, but he was kind. And plus, rumor had it the Space Foxes were back in town. If they were anywhere in Trader City, it would be down at the Melder-shadiest bars of Melder-shady bars on the planet. Having had prior experience with this particular band of two-bit, trigger happy idiots, Phantom was going to stay far away from the Dustdog. The girl tucked into her meal, savoring it after a long, hot Cycle. After a few minutes, one specific conversation peaked her interest: a few men off somewhere to her right were debating the subject of a new Council member. News of any kind was valuable here, but news of the New Order? The power that had taken the reigns from the disgraced Gaia Coalition? That was worth its weight in Galactic-Standard coin. She kept eating, all the while eavesdropping on the men. “Ye, I heard the lad was a cargo capt’n, before the prawns of the Order called ‘im up.” One, a heavy-set bearded man with fists the size of hams stated matter-of-factly. “I heard he was chosen by the Cargo Unions to be their voice on the Council. Kid must be good if all three of ‘em agreed on it.” His companion added, a smaller, older man with gray thinning hair. “That’s a rarer sight than a Tribble riding a Hssiss…” The third at the table, taller than both his comrades sitting down, snorted.   “Yessir. But he’s young. Tha’s what I’m worried about- he’s young, and he’s dumb.” The first continued.   “Bah. Can’t be dumb if he’s on the Council now can he? He has to have somet’ing in that head o’ his.” The second retorted. “Smarts? Yeh, sure. But tha’ ain’t enough! Ye gotta have some experience… And young means no experience. I don’ wan’ no rookie runnin’ the Order, representing all us hard workin’ men.” The first bit back, adamant. “Give ‘em a chance, Jim. He might do us good. Some young blood ain’t a bad thing. He’s better than, say, ol’ Croc Shunk Connor.” The second replied, with a booming laugh. The first joined him. “That he is. Tir help us if tha’ old bastard ever got his hands on more power.” “Ay’ men tah’ that.” They clunked their mugs together, taking a good long gulp that had Tommy rolling her eyes. “You joke now, but do you honestly believe this man’s got no experience? I recognized his name, do you know why? Because he was- and listen good- this lad was the one who commanded the prized FTL class fleet. Back in the Gaia Coalition. Youngest one to ever do it.” The third broke in suddenly, silencing the other two. “Nah, Gerry, I don’t believe yer.” The first grumbled. He said something else, but the conversation got rowdy on the other end of the bar and Tommy couldn’t hear the words over the noise. When they finally calmed, she had missed a good chunk of what was said, including the Council member’s name. “An’ now, that’s why he’s a cargo captain, FTL lightweight, good crew, good ship an’ damn good skills. People trust him back in the Solar sector.” The third seemed to have just finished a monologue about this person, and it frustrated the girl to no end that she hadn’t heard it. Tommy gave up on the trio entirely when the subject changed to the latest, outrageous work hours their captain had set. With an irritated huff she stabbed at the rice with her spoon, angrily scooping it up and shoving it into her mouth. So close, she had been so damn close to getting some real information. Instead she got a bunch of disjointed facts and speculations. She glanced up and met the Owner’s eye, whose response was to raise one thick, gray eyebrow at her behavior. She scowled, taking a sip from her glass. “And what do you think, Owner?” They both knew exactly what she was referring to. The old man simply shrugged. “Anything’s better than the Gaia Coalition. I’m just hoping they won’t end up the same.” He said steadily, going back to polishing a glass he had in hand. Cheers to that, Tommy thought. Because wouldn’t that just be terrible. 

Next: Chapter 2 - The Dagger

Previous: Prologue