The system of Lemana is a backwater, abandoned a century ago when its sponsoring corp went bankrupt, leaving a half-terraformed planet and a hundred-thousand stranded souls. There was only one source of support for the entire system: its refineries. Some were dismantled for parts in the lawless squabble for power. Others pressed on, making the arid wasteland Lemana Prime something akin to habitable. Greedy corporations and lawless gangs compete for power; life is cheap, and credits talk.

It was into this environment that Michael Paxton Ridge was born.

The outskirts of Carrasco Silo are an unforgiving wasteland; it was here that that Michael grew up, the youngest of four brothers. His was a youth spent scavving and tinkering; there was little in to the way of formal education in a place like Lemana save a hands-on acquisition of practical skills. By the age of ten, Michael could bullseye a malfunctioning robo-harvester from a hundred yards with his father's rifle. By the age of twelve he could repair it. By the age of fifteen he was employed, working alongside his brothers at the scrapyards of Hedin Terminal. It was here that young Michael got his first glimpse of the larger world; ships, awe-inspiring to the eyes of an adolescent, came and went, the young man never tiring of looking upward to their majestic forms.

Michael Ridge bought his first land speeder at the age of sixteen, selling choice salvage to scrappers, who in turn sold it to the local outfitters and shipyards. It wasn't long before he fell in with the various gangs that collectively formed the Lemana Drug Empire, never formally joining but possessing the street smarts to know where the serious credits could be made. He became a smuggler and rogue, able to talk or shoot his way out of a tough situation, always getting the job done.  But no good thing lasts forever.

At the age of twenty five, Ridge took a job to secure a lost shipment of cargo, taking his speeder deep into the wasteland, his face stinging from the arid heat. In the distance was a Krait Mk II, the one that he'd been tasked to retrieve. It was intact, its pilot having set down for an emergency landing, years of heavy drug and alcohol use finally dooming his heart to its final beats. He'd not even managed to stumble out of the bridge before he collapsed face-down, life draining from his bloodshot eyes.

Still, the Lemana Drug Empire wanted its cargo.

Michael Ridge possessed everything he needed to slice the security systems and convince the Krait that he was its rightful owner. He stepped into the ship, not the first time he'd been inside one but the first time he'd had free run. The first thing he encountered was the pilot, already stiff, the bridge reeking with the smell of death. The second thing he found was a cargo hold full of slaves.

For the first time in his life, Michael Paxton Ridge faced his first real moral dilemma. Staring at him from the other side were men, woman, and children, their eyes shut in cryosleep, destined for a life of misery and exploitation. Michael checked his comm unit. He was out of range, untraceable and utterly alone.

For hours Michael walked up and down the Krait's corridors, familiarizing himself with its systems, taking stock of the several modifications done to it, seeing past the worn paint and vintage interfaces. The ship was unique, a vessel crafted without regard to law or convention. And its training simulations worked perfectly well.

Michael Ridge descended the battered entry ramp, one hand on his pistol, his eyes gazing across the arid desert in the direction of Hedin Terminal. There and then he made his choice.

The first order of business was disposing of the old pilot, the man's flightsuit stripped away, his identicard and personal effects pocketed. It was a distasteful task, but Michael Ridge was no stranger to death or hardship. Next was to immerse himself  in the training sims, the basics of maneuvering, flight, and navigation coming to the man on an intuitive level. Indeed, the ships of the 34th century were automated to the point that people with far less experience and skill than Michael Ridge can and did fly among the stars. It was only a matter of practice.

At last, knowing that the Drug Empire would soon send a party after him, Michael powered up the Krait in earnest, feeling the thrum of its reactor and the power of its engines. Systems came online just as in the sims, each in the green, the pre-flight checks now completed in reality.

Michael's stomach fell into his gut as the Krait lifted away, the g-forces pressing him against his seat as he angled his ship upward, thrusters flaring as he blasted away. The Krait was simple to maneuver, responding to his every command, the holo-interfaces simple and easy to understand. Michael Ridge was now a pilot, green as grass and in possession of a ship that wasn't legally his, abandoning the only life he'd known for the sake of saving a hold full of strangers.

At least, that was what Michael told himself.

It was a simple matter to fly the ship to Imperial space, to the home planet of Aisling Duval, her organization happy to take in the bewildered slaves, scarcely believing their luck at being rescued. Michael was rewarded with a generous amount of credits, his eyes wide at the majesty of the Imperial metropolis surrounding him, never even dreaming that such magnificence was possible. Still, the pretentions of Imperial culture soon wore on the man— even after virtually drowning himself in Achenar Blue in the comfort of a high-rise hotel suite— and Ridge resolved to quit the place as soon as he was sober. The worn environs of his Krait— which he'd named the Misadventure— already felt more like a home than even his family's old homestead.

As the Krait rose from the landing pad, Ridge gave the majestic Imperial skyline a final look, the enormity of his new life sinking in. He was a dead man if he ever dared visit the system of his upbringing, and it was less than likely that he'd ever see his family again. But the weight of the gun at his hip reminded him of who he was— and he had a full tank of h-fuel, an empty cargo hold, and a canopy full of stars surrounding him. A thousand dreams and possibilities paraded themselves before the man, danger and adventure and fortune all within his grasp. Still, the Misadventure didn't run on dreams.

It was time to go to work.