Earnest Ed was about the size and shape of an Ocellus Type Starport: big, round, and with long extremities that made him look as if he was constantly about to lose his balance. I was directed to him after spending some time at the bar fishing for jobs. Once they pointed him to me, he was impossible to miss. He was visibly drunk, his small round eyes darted all over the place, and he smelled of some sort of distilled liquor. Probably a station specialty so foul it was either considered a rare export or an illegal substance in most sectors of the galaxy. Most likely neither of those, and it was just booze too cheap and filthy to be traded anywhere else off station.
You can usually tell which kind job you are going to get by the person offering it. Earnest Ed, the large, plump man in a worn suit and tie, looked like a salesman who knew you had no choice but to buy what he was selling, so why bother pretending. His outfit looked like it had been out of fashion this side of the Galaxy for at least two centuries and the kind of job he had for me was, of course, a job hauling biowaste to the next system over. He wasn’t some expert negotiator pitching a multi-million credit deal, and I wasn’t some decorated pilot transporting the royal jewels of Princess Aisling Duval. So I took the job. Not like I had that many other prospects at the moment. And I wasn’t quite ready for another long haul through deep space anytime soon.
Transporting crap from one system to the other is not the most glamourous thing, but it pays well enough for the short hauls you have to pull off. Khayyam Orbital’s recycling facilities were overworked, Earnest Ed explained. Probably trying to process whatever he was drinking, I thought. All I had to do was take some biowaste containers to Bokeili Port. Easy and quick.
I had tried my hand at moving rare goods, but the only reason some random crap is considered rare is because you can only find it on some far off system no one would bother going to otherwise. You end up carrying a few couple of tonnes over thousands of light years and if you are lucky, you only run into a few pirates along the way. If you are unlucky, which I certainly am, you run out of fuel in deep space and wait to die.
Veteran pilots know that, when planning long routes, you take into consideration basics such as ship jump range, the mass you are carrying, and where to stop along the way to refuel. But all that planning is useless if you don’t actually stop to fill up, and only realize it once you are in deep space with no station or outpost in sight. The thing is, after flying in supercruise for so long, jumping from system to system, your mind can start to act funny. You hear stories of pilots who get space dementia, seeing giant interstellar turtles with elephants on their backs, or fly into stars thinking they are following beautiful, scantly-clad space manatees. Or was it sirens?
Me? No space dementia, just stupidity. By the time I realized my mistake, I was too far from any populated system. My radar showed nothing but rocks, and my navigation panel was overwhelmingly in the red, the message ‘low fuel’ besides every possible destination.
I panicked for a moment. I went through my modules and functions and every system in my ship looking for a way out. I went through my inventory. I had some time on life support, but almost no food left, only a frozen burrito that by the looks of it must have been left behind the previous owner of the ship.
I remembered hearing some commanders talk about the Fuel Rats, but I never thought they were an actual thing. Contacting strangers in space can be risky. Out of fuel, no power to the shields, floating helplessly in the black, what is to stop them from just taking your cargo and leaving your fate? Seeing as I was doomed one way or another, I did not think I had that much choice in the matter.
It took some messing with the comms, but with all my modules powered down and a bit of mucking about, I managed to get word out. Standard text communications, but that was all I needed: I had an open channel. For all my panic, the Fuel Rats exuded calm. They gave me clear instructions on how to maximize my ships life support, asked for my position and nearby systems, and a few minutes later just said ‘don’t worry sir, help is on the way’.
I dropped a beacon for them to find me, and at some point, I must have fallen asleep. I woke up in a cold sweat, floating in space, thinking it had all been a dream. This is where I die, I thought; cold and alone in space, with only a frozen burrito that could very well be considered an ancient artefact to sustain me. Suddenly, the glaring light of the star in front of me got obscured, and a Type-6 Transporter ship floating in front of my ship. ‘Everything Ok?’ Asked CMDR Paul_Kavinsky.
A moment later, CMDR Paul_Kavinsky was refuelling my ship, and my systems came back to life. My modules powered up without an incident, and just like that, I was saved from my own ineptitude. The Fuel Rat stayed long enough to make sure my ship was fit to fly, then off he went to save some other foolish pilot. He would not even take payment in return. I was convinced I was suffering space dementia. No one in their right mind would just rescue CMDRs in deep space for nothing other than because if they don’t, no one will.
I did not feel safe until I hit port once again. Transporting a couple of tonnes of Zeessze Ant Grub Glue halfway across the galaxy almost got me killed. They may be a rare commodity and earn quite a profit, but I was not about to go deep into the black like that, at least not for the time being. Instead I headed straight to the local cantina and proceeded to get as drunk as was possible in the particular gravity and atmosphere of Khayyam Orbital. I rambled on about the Fuel Rats to anyone who would listen, and remember scribbling the contact information for them on the toilet wall. In hindsight, that may not have been my best initiative. Still, you never know. Maybe some CMDR lost out there in the deep will remember staring at that wall as he is floating hopelessly in space and be saved.
So instead of hauling precious rares, I am now carrying biowaste that must be the by-product of distilling vat-grown cattle into some sort of combustible drink fit only for advanced alien life forms. To make matters worse, the moment I get to Bokeili Port, the station manager tells me he was not informed of any deal with Khayyam Orbital and doesn’t want biowaste about to renege sitting in his hangar. I can relate. In fact, I feel the same way: I had no desire to keep the biowaste in my cargo hold any longer than I have to.
It took a couple of hours, but in the end the order came through and I could get the toxic sludge containers off my ship. The stench they left makes my eyes water, my throat and nose burn, and I doubt I will ever have an appetite again. Scrubbing the cargo hold for three hours now, I have to ask myself: is this really better than running out of fuel in deep space? Yeah. At least for now it is. I’m sure I can get a better job at the next station, and maybe some stronger, industrial strength cleaning products.
For now I am just thankful I have air to breathe, even if it is borderline toxic.
You can usually tell which kind job you are going to get by the person offering it. Earnest Ed, the large, plump man in a worn suit and tie, looked like a salesman who knew you had no choice but to buy what he was selling, so why bother pretending. His outfit looked like it had been out of fashion this side of the Galaxy for at least two centuries and the kind of job he had for me was, of course, a job hauling biowaste to the next system over. He wasn’t some expert negotiator pitching a multi-million credit deal, and I wasn’t some decorated pilot transporting the royal jewels of Princess Aisling Duval. So I took the job. Not like I had that many other prospects at the moment. And I wasn’t quite ready for another long haul through deep space anytime soon.
Transporting crap from one system to the other is not the most glamourous thing, but it pays well enough for the short hauls you have to pull off. Khayyam Orbital’s recycling facilities were overworked, Earnest Ed explained. Probably trying to process whatever he was drinking, I thought. All I had to do was take some biowaste containers to Bokeili Port. Easy and quick.
I had tried my hand at moving rare goods, but the only reason some random crap is considered rare is because you can only find it on some far off system no one would bother going to otherwise. You end up carrying a few couple of tonnes over thousands of light years and if you are lucky, you only run into a few pirates along the way. If you are unlucky, which I certainly am, you run out of fuel in deep space and wait to die.
Veteran pilots know that, when planning long routes, you take into consideration basics such as ship jump range, the mass you are carrying, and where to stop along the way to refuel. But all that planning is useless if you don’t actually stop to fill up, and only realize it once you are in deep space with no station or outpost in sight. The thing is, after flying in supercruise for so long, jumping from system to system, your mind can start to act funny. You hear stories of pilots who get space dementia, seeing giant interstellar turtles with elephants on their backs, or fly into stars thinking they are following beautiful, scantly-clad space manatees. Or was it sirens?
Me? No space dementia, just stupidity. By the time I realized my mistake, I was too far from any populated system. My radar showed nothing but rocks, and my navigation panel was overwhelmingly in the red, the message ‘low fuel’ besides every possible destination.
I panicked for a moment. I went through my modules and functions and every system in my ship looking for a way out. I went through my inventory. I had some time on life support, but almost no food left, only a frozen burrito that by the looks of it must have been left behind the previous owner of the ship.
I remembered hearing some commanders talk about the Fuel Rats, but I never thought they were an actual thing. Contacting strangers in space can be risky. Out of fuel, no power to the shields, floating helplessly in the black, what is to stop them from just taking your cargo and leaving your fate? Seeing as I was doomed one way or another, I did not think I had that much choice in the matter.
It took some messing with the comms, but with all my modules powered down and a bit of mucking about, I managed to get word out. Standard text communications, but that was all I needed: I had an open channel. For all my panic, the Fuel Rats exuded calm. They gave me clear instructions on how to maximize my ships life support, asked for my position and nearby systems, and a few minutes later just said ‘don’t worry sir, help is on the way’.
I dropped a beacon for them to find me, and at some point, I must have fallen asleep. I woke up in a cold sweat, floating in space, thinking it had all been a dream. This is where I die, I thought; cold and alone in space, with only a frozen burrito that could very well be considered an ancient artefact to sustain me. Suddenly, the glaring light of the star in front of me got obscured, and a Type-6 Transporter ship floating in front of my ship. ‘Everything Ok?’ Asked CMDR Paul_Kavinsky.
A moment later, CMDR Paul_Kavinsky was refuelling my ship, and my systems came back to life. My modules powered up without an incident, and just like that, I was saved from my own ineptitude. The Fuel Rat stayed long enough to make sure my ship was fit to fly, then off he went to save some other foolish pilot. He would not even take payment in return. I was convinced I was suffering space dementia. No one in their right mind would just rescue CMDRs in deep space for nothing other than because if they don’t, no one will.
I did not feel safe until I hit port once again. Transporting a couple of tonnes of Zeessze Ant Grub Glue halfway across the galaxy almost got me killed. They may be a rare commodity and earn quite a profit, but I was not about to go deep into the black like that, at least not for the time being. Instead I headed straight to the local cantina and proceeded to get as drunk as was possible in the particular gravity and atmosphere of Khayyam Orbital. I rambled on about the Fuel Rats to anyone who would listen, and remember scribbling the contact information for them on the toilet wall. In hindsight, that may not have been my best initiative. Still, you never know. Maybe some CMDR lost out there in the deep will remember staring at that wall as he is floating hopelessly in space and be saved.
So instead of hauling precious rares, I am now carrying biowaste that must be the by-product of distilling vat-grown cattle into some sort of combustible drink fit only for advanced alien life forms. To make matters worse, the moment I get to Bokeili Port, the station manager tells me he was not informed of any deal with Khayyam Orbital and doesn’t want biowaste about to renege sitting in his hangar. I can relate. In fact, I feel the same way: I had no desire to keep the biowaste in my cargo hold any longer than I have to.
It took a couple of hours, but in the end the order came through and I could get the toxic sludge containers off my ship. The stench they left makes my eyes water, my throat and nose burn, and I doubt I will ever have an appetite again. Scrubbing the cargo hold for three hours now, I have to ask myself: is this really better than running out of fuel in deep space? Yeah. At least for now it is. I’m sure I can get a better job at the next station, and maybe some stronger, industrial strength cleaning products.
For now I am just thankful I have air to breathe, even if it is borderline toxic.