I am a spec, everyone is a spec. No one has significance. Not in this fragmented existence. I have no purpose, other than to exist. I am a rogue, a mercenary, a bounty hunter, a gun for hire. I have killed, and always will kill, good and evil, love and hate, charity and greed… they’re all the same, who am I to make the distinction, all I care about is my needs for survival. Corporate wars rage every day, children are sold off to sex, women are raped by thieves, and all anyone cares about is money. History tried to teach man, over and over again. But man never listened, and hundreds of millions died for it.

This is my story.

I was born on Ganymede, which is a moon wide city based off of the mining industry of Jupiter. Jupiter, with its high amount of radiation is mined robotically, and the raw ore is processed on the moons of Lo. Ganymede was one of the first gardens after Mars, and is one of the largest colonies in our system. We also have a port, which incoming vessels deal in the processed ore from Jupiter. With material goods comes crime, and there is no lack of it in this day.

My father was in a crime syndicate that was closely tied with ADM, the local mining business. ADM gained control of all Jupiter’s resources after the corporate wars, and gained complete control of the planet. As for my mother, I never knew her. All I have is a picture.

I was 16, young, restless, and arrogant. I knew of my father’s work for the syndicate and respected him greatly for it. With no mother and an apartment of questionable conditions I grew up quiet and solemn. I took an early interest in music considering words only seemed to complicate things, but musical notes usually tend not to offend. My father couldn’t afford to send me to a traditional school so he taught me what he knew. I red crates of old books, listened to hours of old music, studied things on paper rather than organic LED screens, and was taught history. My father had something for the past… his philosophy was that to look into the future, you must be able to look into the past; I agreed. Any society, on any planet, moon or satellite can be perfectly predicted with what has happened in the past. Man is a hateful creature by nature, so says every religious text I know; never trust any one. My money was earned in bars across the moon, playing my beat up alto sax for tips. With the money I earned I would go out and buy basic necessities. I talked to no one, and my only friend was my horn… she gave me money, an outlet, and a way of survival. The blues came naturally to me, I know pain; and playing it in notes requires no thought.

It was a cold and rainy night, and I had just been getting back from the bars. The commotion of the bar, and the sweet rhythm of the blues was still tantalizing my mind as I walked down the street to the apartment. I got up stairs and my father was gone, which was no surprising event considering his line of work. I walked into my bedroom and then into the living area only to find a few empty beer bottles and an antiqued black case on the table with a note, and a single rose. I opened the case and there shone a horn, gleaming with white gold, and pearl finger pads, and a beautiful design rising up its bell that blossomed into roses, with mouthpieces and reeds of all kinds. I stepped back and looked at it in shock taking in its beauty. There was writing on the back of the horn that dated it to the 1950’s, giving the name "Conn," and specifying its origin from France. I was holding a 350 year old antique in my hands…

I soon set the horn down in confusion trying to figure out if I was conscious from the opium fumes that tended to make their way to the stage as I played. I then picked up the note and read, "I love you, good bye Cruizer." I fell asleep shortly after in excitement for my new instrument and confusion as to what my father meant by his "good bye."

I woke up that next morning to a knock on the door… I threw on a robe and made my way to answer when three members of the syndicate stood before me with their heads held low.

Before I knew it, it was a cold autumn’s morning on a Tuesday and they were reading my fathers eulogy. Leaves fell from the trees in Ganymede as a flautist played a solemn song as they lowered my father into the ground. I had no idea what had happened… this new world was surreal, and I had no idea of what to do next. Dozens of people flocked to his grave saying their final good byes, all syndicate.

It was after the funeral when one of my father’s friends approached me and put his hand on my shoulder. His name was Brad, my father had always talked about his drinking problems, and his loose lifestyle. But down in his heart Brad was a good man, with good intentions. By this time I was wanting answers, and out of any of the syndicate men, Brad was the most likely to tell me something. Brad invited me into his home, which was a shit hole apartment with empty bottles scattered around; but that was a home, and I was willing to take it. We stopped by our old apartment where I gathered my father’s limited belongings, as well as mine. I made a room on a mattress inside the living area of the apartment with my two crates of books and media and my saxophones. There was a chair that looked out the window there, onto the drab grey sky; I put the rose in an old liquor bottle with some water trying to honor my father’s memory. That night Bradley came out of his room, with a tenor saxophone, looked me in the eye and told me we were going to play. I had no idea Bradley played any music, but the look on his face only suggested seriousness. I then pulled out the beautiful instrument given to me by my father and began to play the blues. We passed melody and rhythm changes back and fourth for hours that night. I finally understood pain to its full potential, and as we played we talked. I asked brad how my father died, and the only answer I could get out of him was "with honor," before he picked his horn back up to start playing again. I didn’t sleep that night--I lied awake in tears for hours contemplating my life; only to find nothing but dead ends.