The hum of his ship’s engines made for pleasant backing noise as Roland coasted through space. He’d just returned from a job – delivering a significant load of cargo to a suspiciously high-paying customer – and was taking some time to relax. His eyes would dart to the various screens on his ship’s dashboard as the occasional, erroneous indication would catch his attention. Of course, Roland had nothing to worry about. He was in a highly-travelled region with plenty of network repeaters to spare – even a weak distress signal would be heard by thousands.
Nevertheless, Roland’s wandering mind slowly grew suspicious of the random flickers on his screens. He knew his technician had told him his sensor array was in disrepair, but something about these flashes bugged him. The lupine-like pilot leaned forward, staring his monitors down with an intensity they’d never previously experienced. Luckily, these screens couldn’t see, let alone feel the pressure he was putting on them. Regardless, his intense glaring at the screen was met with several sudden flashes in various corners of his screen.
Alarmed, Roland’s head flung up and swung around as he took in his surroundings. To his eyes, there was nothing around other than the expanses of space, colorful fields of debris, and the occasional dart of flashing ship lights. He pulled the monitor up to get another look at it and, of course, the objects were gone. He sighed, sitting back in his seat. Part of the pilot wished those objects had been real. Since he had first started running shipments years ago, he’d hear tales from fellow pilots of marauders breaching hulls, stealing cargo, and even fighting the pilots themselves. These stories are what inspired Roland to do this type of work in the first place.
The stories Roland had heard were very likely fantasy (cargo ships typically don’t have weapons, and if they’re attacked, it’s uncommon that the occupants survive) but that didn’t stop his fantasies. He’d always wanted to be a fighter pilot, after all. To the lupine, running cargo seemed like a great way to prove himself. To who, exactly? Roland wasn’t exactly sure. Maybe himself, maybe his friends. Likely himself. Regardless of who he’d be impressing, he wanted to fight someone. Someone, or even something, bad. Outside of those “freighter tales” he obsessed over, he’d heard stories of a particular space-faring vigilante that just drove him mad with jealousy. This vigilante, not too unlike Roland himself in appearance and species, was known for single-handedly taking down entire crews of raiders in calculated attacks. He took no prisoners and rarely showed mercy for those space pirates.
With a few beeps, Roland’s ship notified him of a rock cluster up ahead. Dozens of large space rocks were suspended ahead of the ship in a large, cloud-like field. Often, the pilot would opt to go around these large rock clusters – trying to thread your way through that mess proved more difficult and time consuming than it was worth. However, driven to a shred of insanity from both boredom and the monotony of his daily routine, Roland cranked up the engine power and rocketed toward the space rocks! He’d finally had enough of just fantasizing of all these crazy things he could be doing. It was time to take risks, make things happen, and most of all, prove himself.
His bulky cargo ship barreled toward the rocks. Roland gripped the controls firmly in both hands, each slight movement of his wrists causing just as much response from the ship at this level of power. He charged toward a large formation of rocks, his ship alarming about imminent collisions, before a sudden yank of his controls turned the ship sharply to the left. Roland practically rubs his ship across the massive rock before banking down, then up, twisting and turning the whole ship. Loose papers, clothes, and even coins fly around the cockpit of the ship as he violently maneuvered the ship. His heart was practically pounding out his chest as he danced through that rocky forest. The ship was, surprisingly, holding together, even with this wild abuse from its pilot.
Colorful splashes started to become visible again as Roland weaved through the rocks. The end was in sight and Roland, the freighter, hadn’t even scratched the paint on his ship. He barreled toward the open expanse of space, twisting and rolling the ship to avoid rocks, when suddenly his ship is struck hard in the side. Roland yells out, still holding onto the controls as he swore. The ship protests with lights, noise, and even verbal callouts as it spins out of the cluster of rock. The blast shields blocked his view of the outside. His leftmost engine was severely damaged from whatever he had struck (or had struck him), at least according to the alarms. The ship slowed to relative motionlessness, indicators flashed, and overall, Roland was rather confused.
He sat there for a few moments, muting alarms and taking in the entire situation. Had he been attacked? Had he simply misjudged a rock? The ship was still misreporting nearby craft in brief flickers (as it usually did), so it was hard to tell for sure. However, after multiple minutes of waiting, nothing happened. His monitor continued to flicker and flash with meaningless data, so nothing new. Roland picked up the microphone on his communicator, pressing down the key and announcing his presence to local craft. No answer. He tried a few different channels, but still no answer. He sighed, regretting not having his sensor array fixed at the shop a few days back. Roland would have to open his blast shields blind – a potential death sentence if you’re facing an adversary out in space.
After much hesitation, the entered his confirmation code and the blast shields opened. Nothing. Roland quickly relaxed, sinking into his comfy pilot’s seat as he let out a sharp exhale. If anything, he’d dodged a bullet. He was lucky at best. The pilot looked back at his engines and, sure enough, a massive hunk of space rock was embedded in the left one. The damage certainly wasn’t fatal to the ship, just a bit compromising. Roland wouldn’t be able to jump to another galaxy without both engines operating, so he’d have to get this fixed locally. If he’d been smart, he would’ve also picked up a part synthesizer that would’ve allowed him to fix his engines up here and get back home. Unfortunately, Roland was left synth-less, so he spun up his navigation window, tracked down a nearby station with repair services for his model of ship, and began limping his way there.
After several hours of slow, linear flight, Roland finally made it to a spaceport. This one was owned by a galaxy-local franchise and was similar in spirit to a terrestrial truck stop. Plus, they had a repair crew. Roland’s ship synced with the station’s gravity before automatically landing in an open space adjacent to the repair shop. The ship locked itself down, the engines quieting as the interior lighting kicked on brighter. Then, it was quiet in the cockpit. A voice piped in from Roland’s communicator.
“Oi, that’s a nice ornament you got on yer engine right there, Roland,” a fairly cheery voice teased. Roland rolled his eyes, chuckling into the mic over the local radio.
“Yeah, bit of an unwanted gift to be honest.” Roland sighed, still a tad frustrated with himself. “You got parts for this thing?”
“Course we do. Saw your inquiry pop up before ye even got here, eheh. I’ve already got ‘em set aside on the trolley in here. You got the credits?” Roland saw an estimate appear on his screen from the repair shop, listing the parts and labor costs, among other things.
“Just, yeah.” Roland sat back, microphone held near his mouth. “How long will this take, you think?”
“Hah, well… I wouldn’t imagine longer than it’d take for you to get bored in our lounge. We’ve got some TV channels we’re leeching off a nearby planet’s satellite, so, heh. ‘Least there’s that,” the worker chuckled.
“Ahh, you’ve got a lounge. Wonderful! Door for that is... where exactly?”
“I’ll guide ya in. Gimme a second.” The conversation ended over the radio, Roland paying the invoice before slipping into his space gear. Somewhat uncharacteristically, Roland had actually splurged on a nice space suit with some sort of proprietary, electronic mask tech. “No helmet required” was what the promotional materials read, and he’d tested that to work a few times. Pretty clever tech, however it worked at least. He opened up his exit door and hopped out, heading over to the repair shop.
A door opened and an insect-like individual stepped out. Whatever species he was, he reminded Roland a lot of a hornet. Bipedal of course, but still very hornet like. Very hornet-y face, too. Roland wasn’t specially into bugs, and he hadn’t been around many people-bugs either, but this didn’t really phase him. Nor would it phase any other seasoned space traveler, but that’s besides the point.
“So, the door is over here.” The repairman points toward a door marked in green paint on a far end of the building. “That’s for the lounge. We’ll ring you when the ship’s been sorted out, but until then, feel free to sit back and enjoy yourself however you like.”
“Ah, great. Thanks again.” Roland grinned up at the hornet guy. Roland wasn’t especially tall, let alone very big. Especially compared to the long, lanky hornet dude. The repairman nods to him and heads over to the ship, Roland issuing temporary cockpit access to the repairman (with a tablet Roland had attached to his belt) as he headed to the lounge.
The lounge was comfy, to say the least. It was sectioned off into a few different zones, clearly intended to target a certain subset of travelers. Naturally, Roland gravitated toward the one intended for species similar to his, dropping himself on the rather comfy couch and sprawling out. He stretched and settled into the cushions with a quiet sigh, then a yawn, taking a few moments to half-hearted study the ceiling. For whatever reason, it had a popcorn finish on it. Roland thought that was particularly interesting, but it wasn’t horribly important. He took the time to unwind, relax, and even release a bit of stress in the comfy, private space. Roland even found the fridge, grabbing a familiar carbonated drink from it and sucking that down.
He spent the next few hours relaxing in the lounge, watching a few TV shows from the jacked satellite television signal before getting bored of that. Roland turned the audio down on the television, letting the voices and music settle into the background as he fell back into his own thoughts. He sure had flown great out there. That was probably the most exciting thing he’d ever done in space, let alone in his entire life.
Roland shut his eyes, imagining him doing the same thing again. However, this time, he was dodging shots from a ship full of raiders looking to take him down. He got a bit wound up just thinking about it. Then, he thought about chasing down pirates in his ship… but not his ship. A proper fighter, not some bulky cargo ship! He slipped into a dream, imagining himself in the shoes of that vigilante he admired so much. Effortlessly chewing through an entire squad of raiders with two handheld blasters. Fighting his way up to the cockpit, taking out the captain… It was awesome. Some voices called out, “Oh, thank you Zenith!” Maybe some hostages, who knows. At the sound of the vigilante’s name in his dream, the illusion was shattered, and Roland found himself waking back up. He let out a bit of a grunt, settling into the couch cushions. Instead of opening his eyes to the fruits of some big battle, all he was looking at was that popcorn ceiling again. Back to the typical, slow life of his. How disappointing.
Soon enough, his name was called out over the intercom. Roland marched out of the lounge, recharged from his 3-hour-long nap he’d taken. The repairman showed Roland to his ship, Roland thanked him, and he was back on his way. The dream he had had in the lounge still stuck with the freighter. He wondered how hard it would be to get a fighter ship, especially considering that his own ship was freshly repaired. Perhaps he could trade it. Or, possibly, sell it for enough to buy a fighter of his own. He’d need an agile ship if he wanted to take on baddies after all. In pursuit of his dreams, Roland set course for a major space hub, then engaged jump. The ship accelerated sharply into open space, coils in the back of the ship spinning up as the blast shields raise. The ship suddenly roars, shakes and rumbles as it barrels through its jump before finally phasing back just a few minutes outside of the space hub in question. After the shields lowered, Roland could already see the massive terrestrial mall-like station covered in lights and advertising. Ships came in and out constantly – clearly this place was popular.
A popular star hub is good for Roland. Lots of traffic means more people to see his craft, meaning more of a chance of a lucky trade. The lupine had originally gotten his ship off some old human who’d grown tired of the trade. He could recall being surprised to hear such a thing at the time. The irony of the situation didn’t miss Roland, grinning a bit to himself as he landed in a designated spot on the outer rings of the star hub. He hopped out of his ship, heading through an identity gate and into the megastructure.
The star hub was massive, to say the least. It was the size of many terrestrial cities in walkways – over 300 separate floors of shops, booths, restaurants, and accommodation. That didn’t even include the floors dedicated to the apartments and temp rooms. Some folks liked to call star hubs “Space Cities” because of their size alone. Roland, with his thumbs tucked in his belt, walked through the massive hub following some signage. He was looking for the auction room of the hub, occasionally stopping at a map or taking a second to regain his bearings. After a bit of confusion, he finally used his tablet off his belt like a map (which he wasn’t sure why he hadn’t done that in the first place) and found his way to the auction room.
Amusingly, the auction room was decorated quite elaborately with hardwood. The place looked a bit like a barrel to Roland, crude and unfinished. And, of course, it was far from the prettiest establishment within the hub. Various individuals chatting with each other, looking to swing deals, make money, and more often than not, rip off someone else. There didn’t seem to be any sort of major auction going on at the moment – nobody was up on the platform after all – so Roland took advantage of that. He climbed up on the pedestal, held the mic, and called out what he had.
“I’ve got a freshly repaired Rockeliner 485-Cargo up for auction. Let’s start things at 20 thousand credits.” Roland activated the screen behind him, images of his ship being shown for the folks in the auction room. “Or, alternatively, an adequate trade.” One of the folks piped up.
“How ‘bout a Blackwood Cargo 44 for that Rockeliner?” Roland narrowed his eyes, a tad suspicious at the offer. Blackwood ships certainly went for more than his Rockeliner, even the cheapest ones. But, nevertheless, he didn’t want another cargo ship.
“Nah, only trading for fighter ships.” Roland smiles again. “So, 20k?” Soon enough, he starts getting a few bids. There’s clearly some interest. It gets up to 40k, then begins to stall. Some folks have left, and new folks have entered in the time being. “45k or trade, still taking trade if anyone’s interested.”
A familiar face suddenly pipes up. “Niles HAWK-45, how about that?” Roland looks and, to his surprise, it’s the man who sold him his cargo ship originally. His face instantly lit up in delight. It wasn’t often you’d run into someone twice by accident, especially someone as nice as this guy.
“Ooh, lovely offer. Anyone gonna beat that?” The crowd was quiet, seemingly defeated by the old man in the back. Roland nods, stepping down from the pedestal. “Sold, then!” And, of course, the rest of the crowd goes back to their discussions of other sales. Roland weaves through the crowd to meet with his ship’s buyer, hoping he didn’t mistake someone else for the man he thought he was. Luckily, as he grew closer, he was proven correct.
“It’s been some time, hasn’t it?” Roland smiled up at his friend, who was happy to take the pilot’s hand and give it a shake. And yes, Roland is fairly short for his species, let alone a human.
“Sure has, Rols. Retiring from the cargo game already?“ Roland nodded.
“Yup. I’m pretty curious about that Hawk you’ve got – how’d you come across that? I thought you were going into something more terrestrial.” The man shook his head, chuckling softly.
“Turns out farming isn’t nearly as viable as it once was, eheh.” He shrugged. “I buy and sell ships now for my living. Thought I’d give ya a hand. Your units are the only reason why I’m not begging for scraps!” The two had a bit of a laugh, walking out of the auction room together.
“Well, glad things worked out for you.” Roland smiled again. “So, where’s this ship, then?”
The old man led Roland into the business-end of the star hub, the two entering a large, shared warehouse for many of the businesses that operated in the hub. It was massive to say the least. Rows and columns of shelving filled with pallets, boxes, and even some crated spacecraft covered the room. The two chitchatted as the stock robots removed the ship from storage and brought it to the loading dock, the old man leading Roland through a caged-off section of the warehouse to meet the ship. The warehouse was a bit cold, but luckily Roland’s suit (he’d neglected to take it off) was keeping him cozy and warm.
“Here she is.” The rough, thin metal walls of the craft’s crate fell away after a tap on the man’s tablet, revealing a pristine HAWK-45 as promised. Roland practically launched into the air in joy as he’d been expecting something in much rougher shape. “You like it then?” The old man chuckled softly.
“Hell yeah!” Roland ran over to the craft, the Hawk letting out a gentle chime as it registered him as pilot. The man watched the lupine pilot climb into the single-person ship with a gentle smile. Roland lifted the cockpit window hatch and peered out of the ship. “So, what all has this ship got?”
Roland spent some time with the man as he ran him through the various ins and outs of the Hawk. He paid close attention to everything, trying out features and overall getting more and more excited about this ship. It was practically brand new, apparently. Roland’s friend had come across it while buying liquidation lots and had kept it around for a special situation. Apparently, Roland was a special enough situation.
After some final exchanges of words, title transfers, and a bunch of other technical nonsense to get the ship transferred over to Roland, the pilot rocketed away from the hub in his brand-new ship. He spent the first few hours with the thing on autopilot toward one of his favorite rest stops, spending the travel time playing with the various features and gadgets this fighter ship had. His rosiness wore off around midway into his trip, sitting back in his seat and taking in his surroundings. He took some time to think, remembering the original reason why he had sought out a ship like this in the first place. Roland wanted to fight, not just for himself but to help others in some way.