Chapter Seven: New Horizons

RISA passenger cabin, en route to CD-31 1974 C 6
September 28th, 2025 - 1,847 light-years from Sol

"Commander, how much longer until we reach the tourist beacon?" Dr. Welkins asked from her seat, though her enthusiasm had notably dimmed over the past three hours of supercruise.

I glanced at the navigation display and suppressed a sigh. "Still about forty minutes, Doctor. CD-31 1974 C 6 is... a fair distance from the primary star."

What I didn't mention was my own mounting frustration with the RISA's outdated frameshift drive. While other commanders were already retrofitting their ships with Supercruise Overcharge modules — technology reverse-engineered from the very Thargoid Titans we'd defeated — I was still plodding along at conventional supercruise speeds. The SCO technology could have cut this journey to minutes instead of hours, but those modules commanded premium prices I couldn't justify for what was essentially a passenger taxi.

"The beacon commemorates mankind's early ventures beyond Earth," I said, falling back into tour guide mode. "CD-31 1974 was one of the systems surveyed during the initial expansion period, back when every light-year traveled was a triumph of human engineering."

Through the viewport, the distant gas giant grew incrementally larger with agonizing slowness. Three hours to cover a few thousand light-seconds — it was enough to make any pilot consider the economics of proper equipment versus time lost.

"I appreciate your patience, Doctor," I added, meaning it. "Not every ship is equipped with the latest drive technology."

She smiled sympathetically. "I imagine the newer modules are quite expensive."

"Just a bit," I replied, thinking of the SCO drives sitting in Jameson Memorial's outfitting bay, their price tags mocking every independent operator who couldn't afford to upgrade.

The nav computer chimed softly. Thirty-five minutes remaining.

Chapter Seven-and-a-Half: The Breaking Point

Bridge of the RISA, three weeks later
Jameson Memorial approach

"RISA requesting priority docking clearance," I said into the comm, though my voice carried the flat exhaustion of someone who'd made this same request a dozen times in the past two weeks.

"Copy that, RISA. Pad Twelve is available. Welcome back, Commander."

In the passenger cabin behind me, a trio of wealthy tourists from Achenar chatted excitedly about their "authentic Elite experience," completely oblivious to my growing sense of professional claustrophobia. Three weeks of the same routine: ferry passengers, smile politely, collect credits, repeat. All while the galaxy continued its grand exploration boom around me.

"Commander?" Mrs. Harrington called from the passenger section. "When will we be departing for our next destination?"

I powered down the main engines and engaged the docking clamps with perhaps more force than necessary. "I'm afraid that concludes our tour package, Mrs. Harrington. If you're interested in additional services, you'll need to book through the standard channels."

After the passengers disembarked, I sat alone in the RISA's cockpit, staring out at the bustling docks of Jameson Memorial. Anacondas, Corvettes, and Cutters moved between the landing pads — ships flown by commanders who'd found their place in this post-war galaxy. Meanwhile, I was running a glorified taxi service, watching my savings dwindle while the universe expanded around me.

I keyed the internal comm. "Eiza, you there?"

"Always here, Skip. How'd the run go?"

"The usual. Look, I need you to give the crew some shore leave. A week minimum. Full pay."

Silence for a moment. "Skip, you sure about that? We can't really afford—"

"We can't afford not to," I interrupted. "Everyone's been working double shifts to keep us operational. They deserve some R&R."

"What about you?"

I looked out at the stars beyond Jameson Memorial's superstructure. "I'm going to play tourist for a change."

Chapter Eight: Ghosts of War

Cockpit of the RISA, Sol system
September 28th, 2025

The journey to Sol had taken on the quality of a pilgrimage, though I wasn't entirely sure what I was seeking. With the crew on shore leave and no passengers to ferry, I'd found myself plotting a course to humanity's birthplace — not for credits or contracts, but for something harder to define.

"Approaching Earth orbital space," I murmured to no one, watching the blue marble grow larger in the viewport. Even from this distance, the scars of recent history were visible: the blackened husks of stations still undergoing reconstruction, the debris fields where Federal Navy ships had made their final stands.

But it was the massive shape hanging in high orbit that drew my attention like a dark gravity well.

The wreckage of Titan Cocijo dominated the sky above Earth, a twisted monument to humanity's costliest victory. What had once been a thirteen-kilometer biomechanical horror now drifted as a broken cathedral of chitin and metal, its caustic cloud long since dissipated. In the months since its destruction, the wreck had become an unlikely tourist attraction, drawing thousands of ships from across the galaxy.

I'd come here during the war. Not to fight — my skills lay elsewhere — but to evacuate the refugees streaming out of burning stations. The memories were still sharp: overcrowded passenger cabins, the smell of fear and smoke, the constant radio chatter of ships calling for help that couldn't come fast enough.

"Local traffic control, this is RISA requesting clearance for wreck site approach."

"Copy that, RISA. Be advised, heavy traffic in the area. Maintain safe separation and watch for scavenger activity."

I guided the Orca closer to the massive carcass, passing other ships doing the same slow pilgrimage. Some were clearly tourists, their pristine hulls gleaming in Earth's reflected light. Others were scavengers, their cargo bays filled with Titan Deep Tissue Samples and Thargoid Organic Circuitry — exotic materials that commanded premium prices at the right markets.

Through the cockpit canopy, I could see the intricate architecture of alien death. The Titan's "maw" — once a phasing membrane through which Thargoid ships could pass — gaped open like a wound in space. Heat vents that had once channeled unimaginable energies now served as landmarks for salvage crews.

A proximity alarm chimed as I drifted too close to a piece of floating debris. Titan Drive Component, according to the scanner. Worth a fortune to the right buyer, but I wasn't here for profit.

I was here to remember.

The comm crackled with chatter from other pilots:

"Nice haul over here, sector seven-seven-alpha..."

"Watch the pirates by the heat vents..."

"Anyone else getting weird scanner readings near the core?"

But beneath the casual scavenger talk, I heard something else: reverence. This wasn't just a wreck site. It was a memorial to everyone who'd died fighting this thing, from the crew of the FNS Nero to the countless pilots who'd never made it home.

I targeted one of the tourist beacons floating near the wreck and listened to its recorded message:

"Tourist Spot 0087: The planet Earth is the cradle of humanity. As such it has experienced times of terrible destruction, through war and ecological disaster. Since the 22nd century, humanity has expanded from its home into the stars, and with much of the damage the planet's ecosphere had suffered has since been repaired. The planet is now a popular travel destination and is a lush and vibrant world."

The irony wasn't lost on me. Here we were, touring the wreck of an alien dreadnought that had nearly conquered our homeworld, while recorded voices told us about Earth's recovery from past catastrophes. History layering upon history, scars upon scars.

I spent hours in the shadow of the Titan wreck, watching other ships come and go. Some stayed for minutes, snapping photos with external cameras before heading home. Others lingered like I did, perhaps seeing their own memories reflected in the twisted alien architecture.

Eventually, I fired up the engines and plotted a course for the next stop on my impromptu pilgrimage. If I was going to play tourist, I might as well do it properly.

Tourist Beacon Alpha-Charlie-471, Sol
Ancient History Archive

"Tourist Spot 0165: Mankind's first ventures into space were tentative and gradual. The early part of the 21st century saw the first manned spaceflights beyond the moon, but it took major population and economic problems to stimulate enough commercial commitment to start settlements beyond Earth."

I drifted past another beacon, this one documenting humanity's earliest steps into the void. The contrast was striking: here we were, casually traveling between star systems in ships that would have seemed like magic to those early pioneers, yet still fighting wars and struggling with the same fundamental questions about our place in the universe.

Tourist Beacon Bravo-Seven-Seven, Sol
New Leadership Archive

"Tourist Spot 0171: However, the 23rd century saw new leadership and initiative. The Earth Environmental Recovery Programme to restore the polluted and radioactive regions of the planet was much more successful."

The messages blended together as I moved from beacon to beacon: tales of recovery, expansion, setbacks, and triumphs. Each one a snapshot of humanity's long journey from a single world to a galactic civilization.

But it was the silence between the beacons that affected me most. The vast emptiness where individual stories lived — the refugees I'd carried, the pilots who'd died fighting Thargoids, the countless people who'd built this civilization one decision at a time.

I found myself thinking about Dr. Welkins and her excitement at visiting these historical sites. For her, they were educational curiosities, windows into a past she'd studied but never lived. For me, they were reminders of how quickly everything could change, how fragile our accomplishments really were.

The comm chimed with an incoming message from Eiza: "Skip, hope you're enjoying your vacation. Crew's doing great — Garth's discovered some kind of high-stakes poker game, and Clay's apparently become the unofficial tour guide for three different tourist groups. When you're ready to come back, we'll be here."

I smiled for the first time in days. Maybe that was what I'd been looking for — not answers in the wreckage of old wars, but reminders of what we were fighting to protect.

Time to go home.

Chapter Nine: Shore Leave's End

Conference Room aboard K1F-37B "Leaf on the Wind"
Jameson Memorial, October 5th, 2025

"Alright, people," I said, settling into my chair with the kind of satisfaction that came from seeing familiar faces around a familiar table. "I trust everyone enjoyed their shore leave?"

The responses were immediate and overlapping:

"Best week I've had in months," Chad grinned.

"Learned some new engineering tricks from the techs at Jameson," Kaylani reported.

"Won enough at poker to pay for my own vacation," Garth added with obvious pride.

Eiza raised an eyebrow. "How much exactly did you win, Garth?"

"Let's just say the next round of drinks is on me."

"The next several rounds," Clay corrected. "I was there for some of those games. Garth cleaned out half the merchant marine officers in the Elite Bar."

I looked around the table at my crew — relaxed, recharged, and clearly ready to get back to work. The shore leave had been expensive, but seeing their renewed enthusiasm made it worthwhile.

"Well, I'm glad everyone made good use of the time," I said. "Because I've got some news that might interest you."

Harelene leaned forward. "Did we get that exploration contract from Brewer Corporation?"

"Better," I said, calling up a holographic display. "Word through the grapevine is that there's a major mining community goal about to be announced. Something about rare minerals for the new Type-11 Prospector production line."

The table fell silent as everyone processed this information.

"A mining community goal," Jesus said slowly. "That means..."

"High demand for mining crews, premium prices for extracted materials, and a chance to test our equipment under real working conditions," I finished. "Exactly the kind of opportunity we've been waiting for."

Selene pulled up her own tablet. "What kind of timeline are we looking at?"

"Nothing official yet, but my sources suggest the announcement will come within the week. Which gives us just enough time to shake down the Type-11 and make sure all our mining equipment is properly calibrated."

Alondra nodded approvingly. "Smart to test everything before committing to a major operation."

"That's the plan," I said. "A few days of asteroid belt work in nearby systems, iron out any kinks in the mining arrays, make sure the prospector limpets are functioning properly."

"And if we don't find any pulse scanner 'malfunctions' this time," Mareli added with a grin.

"The pulse scanner is installed and tested," I confirmed. "Along with everything else we forgot to bring on the last expedition."

"Speaking of equipment," Boyce said, "the biological sampling gear could use some field testing too. Mining operations often turn up interesting organic compounds in asteroid cores."

"Good point. We'll make it a comprehensive shakedown — mining, exploration, prospecting, the works."

Chad leaned back in his chair. "Feels good to be planning real operations again instead of just keeping the lights on."

"The milk runs served their purpose," I said. "They kept us operational and built up our reputation in the system. But you're right — it's time to get back to what we do best."

"So what's our first target?" Eiza asked.

"Local asteroid fields in the Shinrarta Dezhra system," I said, highlighting several locations on the display. "Close enough for easy logistics, isolated enough to test our procedures without interference."

"When do we start?" Kaylani asked.

"Tomorrow," I said. "But first, there's one more piece of business to take care of."

I stood up and headed for the door. "The RISA needs some serious upgrades if we're going to keep doing passenger work between mining operations. Starting with a proper SCO module."

"About time," Chad muttered. "That last run to CD-31 1974 took forever."

"Tell me about it," I said. "I spent four hours in supercruise watching a gas giant get incrementally larger. Never again."

As the crew filed out of the conference room, chattering excitedly about equipment lists and operational procedures, I felt something I hadn't experienced in months: genuine optimism about the future.

We had a plan. We had equipment. We had a crew that was rested, motivated, and ready for whatever came next.

Time to show the galaxy what an independent carrier operation could really accomplish.

Chapter Ten: The Upgrade

Outfitting Bay, Jameson Memorial
October 5th, 2025 - 1800 hours

The Felicity Farseer engineering workshop hummed with the kind of efficient activity that came with working on a steady stream of high-end modifications. I watched through the observation window as technicians carefully installed an enhanced frameshift drive into the RISA's engine bay, their movements precise and professional.

"FSD_LongRange level three," the chief engineer reported over the comm. "Optimized for maximum jump range and fuel efficiency. She'll handle like a completely different ship."

"How much of an improvement are we talking about?" I asked.

"Forty percent increase in jump range, twenty percent reduction in fuel consumption," came the reply. "Plus the new drive architecture is compatible with the Supercruise Overcharge modifications when you're ready for that upgrade."

I nodded, watching the installation proceed. The SCO module would have to wait — even with Garth's poker winnings, our budget was stretched tight. But the long-range FSD would make an immediate difference in operational efficiency.

"Commander?" Chad's voice came over the comm from the dock. "The Lakon dealer says they can give us a tour of the Type-11 showroom. Want to take a look at what we're getting into?"

"On my way," I replied, leaving the engineering bay and heading for the Lakon Spaceways dealership.

The showroom floor gleamed under bright lighting, and there in the center sat a Type-11 Prospector in full display configuration. Unlike the elegant curves of the RISA or the aggressive angles of military vessels, the Type-11 was all function over form — a ship designed by Lakon for one thing: extracting resources from asteroids with maximum efficiency.

"She's a beauty, isn't she?" Chad said as we approached the display model.

"She's certainly something," I agreed, walking around the ship's hull. Four hardpoints designed specifically for mining equipment, a reinforced cargo bay for handling raw materials, and sophisticated processing systems that could refine ore on the fly. "Look at that Mining Volley Repeater system."

The Lakon sales representative, a crisp woman in corporate blue, gestured toward the mining arrays. "Simultaneous multi-target mining with automated limpet deployment. You can work an entire asteroid field with a fraction of the crew time of conventional mining ships."

I peered into the cockpit through the transparent aluminum canopy. The bridge was different from other ships I'd flown — more industrial, more purposeful. Every system was designed around resource extraction, from the enhanced scanner arrays to the specialized cargo management systems.

"When did you say our delivery date was?" I asked.

"Three weeks," she replied, consulting her tablet. "Just in time for the rumored mining community goal. Speaking of which..." She led us toward the back of the showroom.

In the storage area, a massive shipping container sat on an anti-grav platform, sealed with Lakon's corporate logos and our order number.

"Your Type-11," the sales rep said with obvious pride. "Factory fresh, waiting for final assembly once we get confirmation of your carrier's docking specifications."

Chad whistled softly. "It's really happening."

"The plan's simple," I said, studying the container that held our future. "Take delivery, outfit her with proper mining equipment, use the community goal to shake down all our systems and build up our cash reserves, then head into the black for proper self-sufficient exploration."

"Think it'll work?" Chad asked.

"It has to," I replied. "We've invested too much to turn back now."

The sales rep smiled. "If I may say so, Commander, you've chosen an excellent time to enter the mining market. The Type-11 represents the cutting edge of resource extraction technology, and with the galaxy opening up for exploration, there's never been more opportunity for independent operators."

As we walked back through Jameson Memorial's corridors, I felt the familiar mixture of excitement and apprehension that came with major decisions. In three weeks, we'd have a ship purpose-built for deep-space mining operations. After that, we'd finally be free of the bubble's constraints, able to push into regions where only self-sufficient operations could venture.

"No more milk runs," Chad observed.

"No more milk runs," I agreed. "Next stop: the galactic frontier."

Looking at the stars beyond Jameson Memorial's superstructure, I knew we were making the right choice. The galaxy was vast, full of resources waiting to be discovered, and soon we'd finally have the tools to find them.

Time to see what we were really capable of.

Commander's Personal Log
October 5th, 2025

The pieces are finally coming together. Upgraded equipment, rested crew, and the promise of opportunities ahead. For the first time since we started this operation, I feel like we're not just surviving — we're building something that could last.

The war taught me that nothing is permanent, that everything we build can be destroyed in an instant. But it also taught me that the act of building is what makes us human. We keep trying, keep exploring, keep pushing into the unknown because that's who we are.

Tomorrow we finalize our preparations. Next week we take delivery of the Type-11. After that, we use the mining community goal to shake down our new ship and build our cash reserves.

And after that? The galaxy awaits.

[i]End of Log[/i]

RISA passenger cabin, en route to Shinrarta Dezhra
September 20th, 2025

"Oh my God, is that really Jameson Memorial?" Dr. Sarah Welkins pressed her face against the passenger cabin's viewport like a child seeing snow for the first time. "I mean, I've seen it in documentaries, but actually being here..."

I kept my eyes on the approach vector and tried not to let my exhaustion show in my voice. The Orca RISA handled like a dream compared to the heavy haulers I'd been flying lately, but three weeks of back-to-back tourist runs were taking their toll.

"Yes ma'am, that's Jameson Memorial," I said, falling into the well-practiced tour guide routine. "Home to the Elite Pilots Federation and exclusive docking rights for commanders who've achieved Elite status in at least one discipline. You'll notice the distinctive design - that's authentic Coriolis-class architecture, one of the last original stations from the pre-expansion era."

Dr. Welkins was a xenobiologist from CD-33 8748, paying premium rates for what she called "the full Elite experience" - a tour of significant sites in and around the core worlds. She'd been chattering almost non-stop since we'd left Viktorenko Holdings twelve hours ago.

"And the security?" she asked, watching the patrol ships weave between incoming traffic.

"Some of the best in human space," I replied automatically. "Jameson Memorial maintains a strict no-weapons policy within the exclusion zone, and their response teams are... highly motivated."

That was putting it diplomatically. The security forces around Jameson Memorial had a reputation that made even hardened pirates think twice. But Dr. Welkins didn't need to know about the darker aspects of Elite space.

"What about that one?" She pointed at a massive ship in the distance - a Fleet Carrier moving slowly through the shipping lanes.

"Drake-class Fleet Carrier," I said, glancing at the tactical display. "Probably an independent operation like ourselves. Those ships can sustain deep-space operations for months at a time, providing mobile bases for exploration, mining, or research expeditions."

Like the Leaf on the Wind, currently stationed somewhere in the Hill Pa Hsi system while I ran these milk runs to keep the credits flowing. The thought of my crew managing our modest operation while I played tour guide to wealthy tourists left a familiar bitter taste in my mouth.

The comm crackled with approach control. "RISA, maintain current heading, reduce to approach speed. Jameson Memorial traffic control standing by."

"Copy that, Jameson Control," I replied, adjusting our velocity. "RISA inbound with passenger service, requesting priority passenger docking."

Dr. Welkins was practically vibrating with excitement. "I can't believe I'm actually going to dock at Jameson Memorial. My colleagues back at the university are going to be so jealous."

I remembered being that excited about things once. Back when everything was new and the galaxy felt full of possibilities instead of bills that needed paying.

"Tell me about the war," she said suddenly.

My hands tightened imperceptibly on the controls. "Which war would that be, Doctor?"

"The Thargoid War. You were there, weren't you? I can tell - the way you scan every contact, how you always know where the nearest exit is. Classic combat pilot behavior."

Smart woman. Too smart for her own good, maybe.

"I wasn't really a combat pilot," I said carefully. "More of a... logistics specialist."

"Medevac," she said with certainty. "You ran rescue operations."

I was quiet for a long moment, watching the station grow larger in the viewport. The same kind of Coriolis-class architecture that had been burning when the Thargoids hit the core systems. Different station, same basic design. Same vulnerable interiors packed with too many people who had nowhere to run.

"Something like that," I said finally.

"I was studying exobiology when it happened," Dr. Welkins continued, oblivious to my discomfort. "The xenological implications were fascinating, even if the circumstances were... well. Tragic. But the courage of pilots like you, going into those burning stations..."

"We just did what needed doing." The words came out sharper than I'd intended.

She seemed to pick up on my tone and fell quiet for a few minutes. I focused on the docking approach, letting the familiar routine of clearances and approach vectors wash over me. Request docking permission. Receive pad assignment. Follow the guide lights. Simple, orderly, predictable.

Not like the chaos of a burning Coriolis station with emergency bands screaming and ships colliding in the dark.

"RISA, you're cleared for docking. Pad Twelve. Welcome to Jameson Memorial."

"Thank you, Control. RISA on final approach."

The docking clamps engaged with their characteristic mechanical thunk, and I powered down the main engines. Through the canopy, I could see the bustling activity of one of humanity's most exclusive stations - Elite pilots moving between ships worth hundreds of millions of credits, conducting business that shaped the political and economic landscape of the bubble.

"Well, Dr. Welkins," I said, unbuckling from the pilot's seat. "Welcome to Jameson Memorial. Your tour package includes a four-hour station visit, including access to the Elite Bar and the Pilots Federation archives. I'll be conducting some business of my own, so we'll meet back here at eighteen-hundred hours for departure."

She was already gathering her things, practically bouncing with excitement. "This is incredible. Thank you so much, Commander. This has been exactly the kind of authentic experience I was hoping for."

I watched her hurry toward the passenger airlock, tablet in hand, probably already composing messages to send back home. Another satisfied customer, another five-figure payment toward keeping the lights on.

But as I sat alone in the RISA's cockpit, looking out at the gleaming corridors of Jameson Memorial, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was running from something I couldn't name. The war was over. The burning stations were rebuilt. The refugees had found new homes.

So why did I still feel like I was carrying people who had nowhere else to go?

I keyed the internal comm. "Chad, you copy?"

"I'm here, Skip. How'd the run go?"

"Routine. Tourist's happy, credits are in the bank. Any word from the Leaf?"

"Everything's quiet. Eiza's got the crew running maintenance schedules, and Garth's been working on supply projections for the next expedition. We're in good shape."

"Good. I'll be done here in a few hours, then we can start planning our next move."

"Roger that. Take care of yourself out there."

I closed the channel and sat back in the pilot's seat. Through the station's viewing ports, I could see other ships coming and going - Anacondas, Corvettes, Cutters. Ships flown by commanders who'd found their place in this new galaxy, who'd made their peace with what came after the war.

Maybe someday I'd figure out how to do the same.

But until then, there were passengers to ferry, credits to earn, and stars to explore. The galaxy was vast, and there was always somewhere else to go.

Even if you could never quite leave the past behind.

Personal Log - Commander [Classified] - September 20th, 3311

[b]Chapter One: The Reckoning[/b] [i]Conference Room aboard K1F-37B "Leaf on the Wind" Blae Drye region, September 12th, 2025[/i]

The holographic display flickered between star charts and financial projections, neither showing anything I particularly wanted to see. Around the conference table, my senior staff looked about as enthusiastic as I felt – which was to say, somewhere between resigned and caffeinated.

"Alright, people," I began, settling into my chair with the kind of sigh that had become my trademark over the past month. "Let's get this over with. Garth, hit me with the numbers."

Supply Officer Garth Wimmer pulled up his tablet, his weathered face creasing into what I'd learned was his 'delivering bad news' expression. "Well, Skip, we're not broke. But we're not exactly flush either. We've burned through about sixty-eight tons of tritium getting out here, carrier upkeep is still sitting at twenty-five million a week, and our exploration data cache is..." He paused, consulting his notes. "Modest."

"Modest," I repeated flatly. "That's diplomatic."

"I prefer 'realistic with optimistic undertones,'" Clay Dillard chimed in from across the table. Our Morale Officer had the kind of irrepressible attitude that made you want to either promote him or space him, depending on the day. "We're building character out here."

"Character doesn't pay for fuel," Engineering Chief Kaylani Mullins observed dryly. She'd been running diagnostics on the Excelsior all morning and looked like she'd rather be wrestling with a malfunctioning power plant than sitting through another budget meeting. "Speaking of which, we're going to need some serious maintenance time when we get back to civilization. The Mandalay's holding up well, but these extended deep-space operations are hard on the environmental systems."

Chad Gallagher, my pilot and the closest thing I had to a second-in-command, leaned back in his chair. "The good news is we haven't lost any ships or crew. The bad news is we've missed first discovery on about fifteen systems that looked promising."

"Fifteen?" Squadron CAG Alondra Snider looked up from her own tablet. "I thought it was twelve."

"That was yesterday," Navigation Officer Harelene Le said quietly. She had the kind of precise, analytical mind that made her invaluable for plotting courses and absolutely terrifying during budget discussions. "The Col 359 sector systems we surveyed last week? All previously catalogued. Someone got there first, probably during the early expansion period."

Tactical Officer Selene McCray, who'd been unusually quiet, finally spoke up. "Are we sure we're looking in the right places? I mean, we're out here in the Blae Drye region, it's not exactly the most popular tourist destination."

Vista Genomics Liaison Boyce Underwood cleared his throat. "Actually, that's part of the problem. The bio signal density out here is lower than we hoped. We're finding organics, sure, but they're mostly common strains. Fonticulua, Bacterium species we've seen a dozen times before. The big payouts come from first discoveries of rare exobiology."

"Which brings us back to the fundamental question," Deck Officer Eiza McGee said, her voice carrying the kind of authority that came from years of keeping large ships running. "Do we push deeper, burn more fuel and time looking for the really rare stuff, or do we cut our losses and head back to start earning some real credits?"

I looked around the table at the faces of people who'd trusted me enough to follow me out into the black. Good people, all of them, who deserved better than endless meetings about money.

"What's our current position worth if we cash out now?" I asked.

Garth consulted his tablet again. "Maybe four hundred thousand, total. Enough to cover operational costs for about a week and a half."

"And if we push deeper?"

"Roll of the dice," Boyce said honestly. "Could find a pristine system with valuable exobiology. Could burn another week's worth of fuel and come back with more of the same."

Chad leaned forward. "Skip, we knew this was a shoestring operation when we started. The question is whether we're learning enough to make the next expedition better."

Hangar Manager Jesus Macias, who'd been quietly listening, finally spoke up. "The Rockhopper's mining arrays are ready if we want to try supplementing income that way. Might be asteroid fields worth hitting on the way back."

"Without a pulse scanner?" Maintenance Officer Mareli Molina raised an eyebrow. "Good luck finding anything worth the effort."

An uncomfortable silence settled over the room. The missing pulse scanner had become something of a running joke – except nobody was laughing anymore.

"Alright," I said finally. "We're not quitters, but we're also not idiots. We'll work our way back toward Hill Pa Hsi over the next week, hitting any promising systems on the route. If we find something valuable, great. If not, we get back to civilization with enough data to pay for fuel and start planning the next run properly."

"With actual equipment this time?" Kaylani asked hopefully.

"With actual equipment," I confirmed. "And maybe a pulse scanner that's not sitting in a warehouse back in Jameson Memorial."

Clay grinned. "See? Character building."

[b]Chapter Two: The One That Got Away[/b] [i]Bleia Eohn SU-E c28-4 September 19th, 2025 - 2,722 light-years from Sol[/i]

The yellow dwarf star of Bleia Eohn SU-E c28-4 cast long shadows across the rocky surface of the fifth planet as I guided the Excelsior through the final approach vector. After eight hours of detailed surface scanning and bio-sample collection, my eyes felt like they'd been sandblasted and my back ached from hunching over the survey controls.

"Exobiology package secure," I reported over the comm. "Samples from three different species plus comprehensive geological surveys. Heading back to you."

Chad's voice crackled through from his patrol position in the Aurora. "Copy that, Skip. Anything look promising?"

"Two Fonticulua variations and what looks like a new strain of Bacterium Aureus. The geological formations are interesting too – metallic crystalline structures that might be worth something to the right buyer."

From the carrier, Boyce Underwood's voice joined the conversation. "Uploading the biological samples to the Vista Genomics database now. Initial analysis looks... well, let me cross-reference with known discoveries."

I settled back in the pilot's seat as the Excelsior's autopilot took over for the journey back to the carrier. "What's the verdict, Boyce?"

A long pause. Too long.

"Boyce?" Chad prompted.

"Well, the good news is your sampling technique is getting better. Very comprehensive biological profiles, excellent geological correlation data..."

"And the bad news?" I asked, though I was pretty sure I already knew.

"All three species were first discovered and catalogued eighteen months ago by Commander Sarah Chen aboard the FSS Determination. The geological formations are a known phenomenon in this sector, mapped during the Colonia expansion surveys."

The comm channel fell silent except for the quiet hum of life support systems.

"So we just spent eight hours..." Chad began.

"Collecting samples worth exactly standard bio-data rates," Boyce finished apologetically. "Maybe six thousand credits total."

From the carrier, Eiza McGee's voice cut in. "That's barely enough to cover the fuel cost for today's operations."

"Well," Clay Dillard's voice added with forced cheer, "at least we're getting really good at bio-sampling. Practice makes perfect!"

I stared out at the stars of Bleia Eohn SU-E c28-4, another system that had looked so promising from a distance. Another eight-hour day that had yielded enough credits to buy a decent meal at a station bar.

"Pack it up," I said finally. "Next system's got to be our lucky break."

"That's what we said about the last three systems," Chad pointed out.

"Optimism, Mr. Gallagher. It's all about optimism."

"Is that what we're calling it?"

[b]Chapter Three: The Great Scanner Debacle[/b] [i]Smojai OS-A b2-0 asteroid field September 6th, 2025[/i]

The Type-8 Rockhopper drifted slowly through the asteroid field, her mining lasers powered up and ready, while I tried very hard not to think about the irony of our situation. Beside me, the comprehensive mining scanner control panel stared back with the digital equivalent of a blank expression.

"Rockhopper to Aurora," I called over the comm. "Chad, you seeing any likely rocks in your sector?"

"Define 'likely,'" came Chad's voice from the Eagle flying Combat Air Patrol around the field. "I'm seeing a lot of rocks. Some bigger rocks. Couple of really big rocks. Without a pulse scanner, your guess is as good as mine which ones are worth hitting."

From the carrier, Jesus Macias chimed in. "Hangar Control to Rockhopper. I've got a complete inventory of mining equipment aboard. We've got surface scanners, detailed surface scanners, abrasion blasters, displacement missiles, collection limpets, prospector limpets..."

"Let me guess," I said, already knowing the answer.

"No pulse scanner," Mareli Molina's voice cut in from Engineering. "It's sitting in our module storage back at Jameson Memorial. Along with the mining laser upgrades and the better refinery."

"So we're flying a mining ship," Chad observed, "in an asteroid field, without the one piece of equipment that tells us which asteroids are worth mining."

"Essentially, yes."

Kaylani's voice joined the conversation from Engineering. "We could try random prospecting. Fire a limpet at every rock and see what comes back."

"How many prospector limpets do we have?" I asked.

"About forty."

I looked out at the asteroid field, which contained several hundred rocks of varying sizes.

"This is like trying to fish without being able to see the water," Chad muttered.

"Or trying to cook without being able to taste," added Clay from the carrier.

"Or trying to navigate without being able to see stars," Harelene contributed.

"We get it," I said. "It's a terrible situation. The question is, do we burn our prospector limpets on random rocks, or do we accept that this particular revenue stream is temporarily unavailable?"

Selene's voice cut in from Tactical. "I'm showing some larger metallic asteroids in grid seven-seven-alpha. If we're going to roll the dice, those look like the best candidates."

"Garth?" I called. "Supply perspective?"

"Well, we're burning fuel to sit here either way. Might as well see if we can find something valuable while we're at it. Though I'll point out that without knowing what we're looking for, we're basically gambling."

"Everything we do out here is gambling," Alondra observed from her CAG station.

"Fair point," I acknowledged. "Alright, Rockhopper to all stations. We're going to prospect three asteroids – the biggest, most metallic-looking rocks we can find. If they turn out to be worthless, we call it a learning experience and add 'buy pulse scanner' to the top of our shopping list."

"Right above 'remember to bring pulse scanner next time,'" Chad added.

"And just below 'check equipment manifest before leaving civilization,'" Mareli chimed in.

I targeted the largest asteroid in the field and launched a prospector limpet. "Well, here goes nothing."

The limpet attached to the rock and began its analysis. Moments later, the results came back: mostly iron ore with traces of carbon and sulfur. Basic materials, worth maybe a few hundred credits per ton.

"Asteroid number one is a bust," I reported.

"Shocking," Chad said dryly.

The second asteroid yielded similar results – common materials not worth the fuel cost to extract and haul back to civilization.

"Two for two," I muttered, lining up on the third target.

"Third time's the charm?" Clay suggested hopefully.

The third prospector limpet told the same story: common materials, minimal value.

"Well," I said, powering down the mining lasers, "at least we've confirmed that this asteroid field contains asteroids."

"Valuable scientific data," Boyce added with mock seriousness.

"Right up there with confirming that space is big and stars are far away," Chad observed.

"Next expedition," I said, turning the Rockhopper back toward the carrier, "we're bringing two pulse scanners."

"Two?" Garth asked.

"One to use, and one backup in case we forget the first one."

[b]Chapter Three-and-a-Half: The Long Road Home[/b] [i]Captain's Ready Room, K1F-37B "Leaf on the Wind" Smojai OS-A b2-0, September 6th, 2025[/i]

The ready room was quiet except for the gentle hum of the carrier's environmental systems, a sound that had become as familiar as my own heartbeat over the past months. I sat at my desk, staring at the navigation display that showed our current position: 2,956 light-years from Sol, deep in unexplored space with a cargo hold full of modest discoveries and a fuel tank that was starting to look uncomfortably light.

The door chimed, and Eiza McGee stepped inside without waiting for permission – a privilege that came with being my Deck Officer and the person most likely to tell me uncomfortable truths.

"We need to talk," she said, settling into the chair across from my desk.

"Let me guess. The Brewer Corporation initiative."

She nodded grimly. "Hill Pa Hsi deadline is September 30th. If we want to contribute our exploration data to their surveying project, we need to be there in three weeks. From here, that's... optimistic."

I called up the star chart, tracing the route from our current position back toward civilization. "Doable, if we push hard and don't get distracted by every interesting signal we find along the way."

"Which brings us to the real question," Eiza said. "Do we cut the expedition short to make the deadline, or do we push deeper and risk missing out on whatever rewards Brewer's offering for survey data?"

The truth was, I'd been wrestling with that exact question for the past two days. The Brewer Corporation's call for comprehensive stellar cartography data represented exactly the kind of organized, well-funded initiative that could provide steady income for independent operators like us. But it also meant abandoning our current survey grid just when we were getting into properly unexplored territory.

"What's your read on the crew?" I asked.

Eiza was quiet for a moment, choosing her words carefully. "They're good people, Skip. They followed you out here because they believe in what we're doing. But they're also starting to count credits and wonder if we're going to make payroll next month."

"That bad?"

"Let's just say Garth's been very creative with the duty rosters lately. Anything to keep people busy and not thinking about the bank balance."

I leaned back in my chair and looked out the viewport at the distant stars of the Smojai system. Somewhere out there were undiscovered worlds, pristine systems full of valuable exobiology that could set us up for months. But that was gambling, and right now we needed certainty.

"Set course for Hill Pa Hsi," I said finally. "We'll work our way back through the Col 359 sector, hit any promising systems along the route, and make sure we're in position to contribute to the Brewer initiative."

"And if we find something big on the way back?"

"Then we're lucky. But we don't bet the crew's future on luck."

Eiza nodded approvingly. "I'll get Harelene to plot the most efficient route. We can probably make Hill Pa Hsi with time to spare if we don't dawdle."

[b]Captain's Personal Log[/b] [i]September 19th, 2025[/i]

The journey back has been a study in diminishing returns and hard-learned lessons. We've jumped through seventeen systems over the past two weeks, each one a reminder that the galaxy is vast, mostly empty, and generally indifferent to the financial needs of small carrier operations.

Droju RG-J d10-11 yielded three biological species, all previously catalogued. Bleia Eohn SU-E c28-4 looked promising until we discovered Commander Chen had been there eighteen months ago. The pattern repeated itself system after system – scan, analyze, sample, discover that someone else had gotten there first.

Still, we haven't been completely unsuccessful. The detailed astronomical data will be valuable to the Brewer initiative, and we've managed to rack up a respectable collection of biological samples. Not the kind of first-discovery payouts that make legends, but steady, professional work that builds a reputation.

Chad's been invaluable throughout the return journey, taking point on the more routine surveys while I focused on the potentially high-value systems. The man has developed an almost supernatural ability to spot which planets are worth detailed investigation and which ones are just going to eat up time and fuel.

The crew's held together remarkably well, considering we're essentially admitting defeat and heading home with our tails between our legs. Morale's been surprisingly good – Clay's doing his job, but honestly, I think everyone's just ready to get back to civilization and start planning the next expedition properly.

[i]Curie Gateway, Hill Pa Hsi[/i] [i]September 20th, 2025[/i]

Standing at the exploration data interface in Curie Gateway, I uploaded the final batch of survey data from our two-month expedition into the Blae Drye region. The numbers scrolled past on the screen with the kind of ruthless mathematical precision that reduced weeks of work to simple statistics.

"Final tally coming through now," I reported over the comm to the crew aboard the carrier.

The exploration data terminal chimed as it processed our submissions. Total systems surveyed: twenty-three. First discoveries: zero. Biological species catalogued: forty-seven. Astronomical phenomena recorded: twelve. Total value of exploration data: 847,000 credits.

I stood there for a moment, staring at that number. Eight hundred and forty-seven thousand credits. For two months of work, hundreds of jumps, countless hours of detailed surface surveys, and enough fuel to power a small space station.

"Skip?" Chad's voice came over the comm. "How'd we do?"

"Well," I said, trying to inject some optimism into my voice, "we're not rich. But we're not broke either. Eight hundred forty-seven thousand credits, plus confirmation that we're eligible for the Brewer Corporation survey rewards."

From the carrier, Eiza's voice carried a note of relief. "That's enough to cover operational costs for about five weeks. Not counting whatever Brewer pays out."

"Plus we've learned a lot about deep-space operations," Boyce added. "Better sampling techniques, more efficient survey patterns, what equipment we actually need versus what we think we need."

"Speaking of which," Garth's voice cut in, "I've started a list of required equipment for the next expedition. It's... extensive."

"How extensive?" I asked, though I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

"Let's just say the pulse scanner is item number one, and it goes downhill from there."

I looked around the bustling concourse of Curie Gateway, at the steady stream of independent traders and exploration vessels coming and going. Somewhere among them were the commanders who'd beaten us to those first discoveries, who'd managed to find the pristine systems and valuable exobiology that we'd missed.

But we'd learned. And learning, in this business, was almost as valuable as credits.

"Pack it up," I said. "Next stop, Jameson Memorial. Time to start planning expedition number two."

[b]Chapter Four: The Credit Crunch[/b] [i]Jameson Memorial, Shinrarta Dezhra September 20th, 2025[/i]

The service bay at Jameson Memorial buzzed with the kind of efficient activity that came with catering to the galaxy's Elite-ranked pilots. Ships worth hundreds of millions of credits moved through maintenance cycles while their owners conducted business in the exclusive shops and lounges. Standing at the service counter, I felt every credit of my relatively modest net worth.

"So you're saying there's no possibility of a bulk discount?" I asked the service manager, a stern-faced woman whose expression suggested she'd heard this question before.

"Sir, our pricing is standard across all services. Refueling, repairs, maintenance – all fixed rates. The ten percent discount for Elite certification applies automatically."

Chad stood beside me, tablet in hand, looking over the itemized list of what it would cost to properly service our small fleet. "Even with the discount, we're looking at almost two hundred thousand just for basic maintenance. That's not including the upgrades we need."

"I understand your situation," the manager said, though her tone suggested otherwise. "However, Jameson Memorial maintains its pricing structure for all customers. If you're looking for more competitive rates, you might consider other facilities."

"Other facilities that don't stock half the modules we need," I pointed out.

"That's the trade-off, sir."

I looked around at the gleaming starport interior, at the other pilots casually authorizing hundred-million-credit transactions, and felt the weight of being the new guy with shallow pockets.

"Thank you for your time," I said finally.

Chad and I walked away from the service counter, heading toward the shipyard section.

"Well," Chad said once we were out of earshot, "that was about as successful as expected."

"She looked at us like we were asking for charity."

"We kind of were."

I stopped walking and pulled up the service quotes on my tablet. "You know what? Fine. We'll pay full price for critical repairs, but everything else gets deferred. And we're going to build some reputation in this system if it kills us."

"How do we do that?"

"The same way every independent operator does it. Small jobs, reliable service, gradually building up enough trust and credit history that people start offering us better deals."

Chad nodded slowly. "Milk runs."

"Lots of them. You start ferrying our ships here from wherever they're stored. I'll take the Canterbury and start working the mission boards. Nothing glamorous, just steady income and face time with the local factions."

"How long you think it'll take?"

I looked around at the bustling starport, at the casual wealth and established connections that surrounded us.

"However long it takes," I said. "We didn't come this far to give up because some service manager doesn't know our names yet."

[b]Chapter Five: Tales from the Black[/b] [i]The Elite Bar, Jameson Memorial September 20th, 2025 - 2300 hours[/i]

The bar at Jameson Memorial had the kind of understated elegance that came with catering to pilots who could afford to drink wine that cost more than most people's ships. Fortunately, they also served decent beer at prices that wouldn't bankrupt a small carrier operation. My crew occupied a corner booth, the day's work finally behind us.

"So there I was," I said, gesturing with my glass, "Canterbury loaded down with thirty tons of consumer technology, making what should have been a routine run to CD-33 8748, when proximity alarms start screaming."

Clay leaned forward. "Pirates?"

"Not just any pirate. Elite-ranked Fer-de-Lance, fully engineered, drops right out of supercruise ahead of me. Guy's call sign was 'Voidhawk' – you know, one of those names that means he either takes himself way too seriously or he's actually dangerous."

Eiza raised an eyebrow. "Which was it?"

"Both, as it turned out. Soon as he drops, he's on the comm demanding I cut engines and prepare to transfer cargo. Now, the Canterbury's not exactly a race ship, but she's got decent shields and I've been flying her long enough to know her tricks."

Chad, who'd heard this story twice already on the way back, grinned into his beer. "This is where it gets interesting."

"So Voidhawk starts his attack run," I continued, "rails and beam lasers, the full treatment. My shields are dropping fast, but I'm already angling toward the nearest planet. CD-33 8748 A 1 – water world, nice thick atmosphere."

Kaylani looked skeptical. "You took a Panther Clipper into atmospheric flight?"

"Panther Clipper Mk2 is rated for planetary operations," I said defensively. "One of the advantages of Zorgon Peterson's heavy hauler design. The trick is keeping your speed up and your angle shallow."

"The trick is not being completely insane," Selene muttered.

"Details. So I'm diving for atmo, Voidhawk's right behind me, and he's probably thinking this is the easiest payday he's had all week. Except he makes one critical mistake."

"Which was?" Boyce asked.

"He follows me down into the atmosphere."

Harelene's eyes widened. "A Fer-de-Lance in thick atmosphere?"

"Exactly. Ship's designed for speed and maneuverability in zero-g, not atmospheric flight. Soon as we hit the thick air, his advantage disappears. Meanwhile, the Canterbury's flying like she was born for it – because she basically was."

"What happened to the pirate?" Mareli asked.

I took a long drink. "Well, let's just say that pulling out of a high-speed atmospheric dive requires a certain understanding of your ship's flight characteristics. Voidhawk... didn't quite nail the execution."

The table fell silent for a moment.

"You killed him?" Alondra asked quietly.

"The planet killed him. I just gave him the opportunity to make a poor decision."

Jesus shook his head. "Remind me never to underestimate a cargo hauler."

"Good policy," Chad agreed. "The quiet ones are always the dangerous ones."

Clay raised his glass. "To surviving another week in the black."

"To surviving another week, period," Garth corrected.

As we drank, Kaylani pulled up something on her tablet. "Speaking of survival, anyone else been following the news about this Type-11 Prospector they're releasing?"

"The Lakon mining ship?" Boyce asked. "Yeah, I've seen the specs. First dedicated mining vessel in decades."

"Four hardpoints specifically for mining equipment," I said. "Plus that new Mining Volley Repeater system. Could be exactly what we need for supplementing exploration income."

"More than that," Eiza interjected thoughtfully. "Think about what it means for carrier operations. Right now, we're tethered to tritium markets and fuel stations. But a dedicated mining ship could extract our own tritium from ice asteroids. Autonomous refueling in deep space."

Harelene's eyes lit up. "Which means we could push into regions that are currently impossible to reach. Areas so far from civilization that no one's bothered to map them properly."

"Exactly," I said, feeling a spark of genuine excitement for the first time in weeks. "The real discoveries – the pristine systems with valuable exobiology – they're out there in the deep black, thousands of light-years from the nearest fuel depot. Places where only a self-sufficient carrier operation could venture."

"Assuming we can afford it," Garth pointed out, ever the pragmatist.

"Assuming we can afford not to have it," I countered. "With proper mining capabilities and autonomous fuel production, we wouldn't just be another exploration outfit competing for scraps near civilization. We'd be pathfinders, pushing into territory that's genuinely unexplored."

"Assuming we can afford not to have it," I countered. "With proper mining capabilities, we wouldn't have to rely entirely on exploration data for revenue. Diversified income streams."

Harelene nodded. "Plus the enhanced scanner rewards from that community goal should help with our next exploration run. Better probe coverage means more efficient surveying."

"More efficient surveying means finding the good stuff before someone else does," Selene added.

I looked around the table at my crew – good people who'd followed me out into the black on the promise of discovery and adventure, who'd stuck with me through equipment failures and near-misses and the endless grind of making ends meet.

"Next run," I said, "we do it right. Proper equipment, proper planning, proper preparation. We find a pristine system full of valuable exobiology, map it completely, and come back with enough credits to outfit this operation the way it deserves to be outfitted."

"And if we don't?" Chad asked.

I grinned. "Then we keep looking until we do. That's what explorers do."

Clay raised his glass again. "To the next expedition."

"To the Type-11 Prospector," Kaylani added.

"To not forgetting the pulse scanner next time," Mareli said.

"To all of the above," I said, and we drank to dreams of better days ahead.

Commander's Note: The journey continues. The Type-11 waits in the shipyard. And somewhere out there, the next adventure is waiting to begin.