Episode 141, Dumpster Fire
29 Dec 2024Ryuko Ntsikana
Dumpster Fire
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Galileo was thankful to be back onboard the main orbital station. The odd couple with their macabre decorating tastes had been far too unsettling for his liking—especially the woman. There was something about her gaze. Her eyes didn’t appear cybernetic, but she had mastered the cyborg-like stare that seemed to look straight through you, deep into your soul. They hadn’t been wrong about what was happening in the system—or about the end of his contract.
Initially, four fleet carriers had settled into the system. Just as suddenly as they arrived, three left, replaced by one. Now, only two remained. These newcomers weren’t here to undermine the system—they were aiding the ruling faction in recovering its status and regaining lost influence.
His protective services contract, tied to a facility that would take at least a month to rebuild, had been terminated. The ruling faction could have amended the contract to include guarding a temporary facility during construction, but their finances were already stretched thin from recent events. That decision left Galileo jobless.
Still, there was a silver lining amid the day’s morbid gloom. The Pilot’s Federation insurance adjusters had initially refused to fund a different class of ship—even though it would have been cheaper. It wasn’t out of malice; it was just procedure. Fortunately, the adjuster referred him to their supervisor, who reviewed the case and approved the change. It was a rare instance of bureaucratic common sense.
What didn’t make sense was the puke green paint. Who in their right mind would choose that color for a ship? Sure, it wasn’t new—several commanders had owned it before—but puke green?
The insurance company hadn’t exactly gone the extra mile. The Cobra was salvaged and refurbished just enough to make it flyable. The interior bulkheads bore heat shadowing from some kind of internal explosion or decompression. Below the pilot’s seat, scorch marks marked where the previous owner had ejected. About the only thing new was the seat itself. At least the insurance covered A-rated core modules. Everything else? That was on him. Not even a mattress for the cabin.
Settling into the pilot’s seat, Galileo scrunched his nose at scent of the lingering burnt ozone remained, as his hands clutched the worn controls. The best contracts with the highest fees always went to commanders with the strongest reputations and the ships to back them up. As the hangar lifted his Cobra into launch position, he glanced around the cockpit, bathed in the blue light above. It had been one of the newest Cobras that had bested him. If he’d had the same model, even with the loss of the outpost, there was a good chance they would have worked with him on a new contract. Instead, he’d been tossed onto the trash heap.
His eyes flared at the thought of that—tossed out like trash. He guided the ship off the pad. What he needed was one of those ships. And, if they came begging for him? Galileo tightened his grip on the controls. The ship vibrated beneath him, a growl of hate burning in its engines. He glanced at the cockpit panels, recalling how a newer Cobra had outpaced him, outgunned him, and left him in the dust. This ship wasn’t sleek or pristine, but it had one undeniable advantage: it was here.
He eased the throttle forward, the Cobra drifting out of the station’s mail slot and into the void. He let the weight of the moment settle over him.
“This is where it starts,” he said quietly. “Next time.”
He pushed the throttle forward, the engines roaring to life. The stars stretched out before him. They’d thrown him away, but he wasn’t done yet. Not by a long shot.
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Galileo knew he wasn’t the most experienced pilot, but experience wasn’t everything. He’d run protection contracts long enough to know how things worked and where to be. It wasn’t glamorous—some might even call it cowardly—but credits were credits. What mattered was that everything he did was legal. Mostly. People could think what they liked.
His strategy was simple, efficient, and ruthlessly effective. He lingered around resource extraction sites, watching as miners chipped away at asteroids under the ever-present threat of pirate attack. When the inevitable harassment began, Galileo would hang back, scanning the aggressors to confirm their bounty status. He never acted alone—not at first. He waited until system security arrived, letting them draw the pirates’ fire. Then, as chaos erupted, he made his move.
His Cobra streaked in, guns blazing, just enough to grab the pirates’ attention before boosting away at full throttle. Like a fish darting through the jaws of a shark, he flew straight into the heart of the security forces, weaving through their formation as lasers cut the void behind him. The rest was predictable. The authorities did the heavy lifting, Galileo swooping in at the last moment to deliver the kill shot and claim the bounty.
It was a routine. Hours passed in a blur of asteroid fields, skirmishes, and credit notifications lighting up his HUD. By the end of each relative day, Galileo returned to the nearest orbital station, docking to cash in his earnings. He barely glanced at the totals anymore. The numbers spoke for themselves. After two days of work, his account had swelled to an impressive 10,325,207 credits.
It was enough.
The Cobra Mark III had served him well, but he was ready for something more. Most of its core modules could be transferred to a Cobra Mark V, a ship that promised greater potential in every way. There were exceptions, of course—the power distributor and shield generator would need replacing. He could have reused his Class 4 bi-weave shield generator, but the Mark V’s Class 5 slot was a game-changer, and Galileo intended to make the most of it.
The Ad Astra ship salesman didn’t care about Galileo’s weary appearance or his scuffed flight suit. Credits were all that mattered. As the salesman delivered the same polished pitch Galileo had heard dozens of times before, he couldn’t help but wonder if the man was an android. They all looked the same—sharp, clean-cut, and unsettlingly cheerful—and their scripts never varied. It had to be company policy.
Galileo turned his attention to the monitors as automated systems began transferring modules from his Mark III to the Mark V. One by one, the components clicked into place, each line of data confirming compatibility. The Class 5 bi-weave shield generator and Class 4 power distributor required a separate purchase, as did the additional Class 2 multi-cannon, wake scanners, and a handful of other modules. The final tally: 5,857,131 credits.
He ran the numbers, setting aside enough for a rebuy—just in case. That left him with 3,857,058 credits. Not bad. Not bad at all.
Galileo let his eyes roam over his new ship, its sleek lines gleaming under the hangar lights. This wasn’t just an upgrade; it was a statement. The Mark V could take him places his old Cobra never could—places he intended to go. He tightened his fists, his knuckles brushing against the worn edges of his gloves.
Let them think they’d tossed him aside like trash. He’d show them that sometimes the trash catches fire and burns the hand that tossed it.