“Oh, I’ve done it now!” Eggen muttered, I wasn’t sure if to me or to himself. “I’ve gone and done it now, my boy. Oh, oh, have I gone and done it now!” Panic was threatening to overcome him.

“Slow down, old man,” I said, trying to sound more reassuring than groggy or hungover. “What have you done?”

“Remember those Elysium folks I was talking to at Signal Source?” Was he about to cry? It sounded like it. So they were EC people after all. “Well, they seemed interested in my stories, I mean, of course they would, who wouldn’t? And, well, I may have agreed to do a job for them…” he trailed off.

He sounded like he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. “Well, there is no better pilot than you in this sector, of course they would want your services!” It was cruel of me, seeing him in this state, but I could not help myself.

“You don’t get it!” He almost shouted. “They want me to go to Wonneriti and destroy the power generator on the turret! On a surface base! It’s suicide!”

“Well, why did you agree to it, then?” I asked. As far as I knew, no one had seriously offered him a job in ages, and even if that were the case, he always had a good excuse to weasel out of flying.

His voice was beginning to break. “I don’t know! I was drunk! They caught me unawares, they said they needed a pilot of exceptional skill and discretion!”

Well, if those were the qualifications they needed, they had chosen most poorly, I thought to myself. I looked up at the mess of a man pacing in my cramped room. I didn’t know what to say or ask without risking sending him overboard.

“You!” He exclaimed. “You need to do this for me! You’re a good pilot, I know you, you can take Miranda and do the job!”

I thought he was joking, but his watery, pleading eyes said otherwise. “Wait just a second,” I muttered “I’m a smuggler, not a combat pilot. No, old man, no way I am doing this for you.”

He slumped heavily on my bed, and threatened to spin the whole station out of orbit. I had not realized how fat he actually was. “You don’t get it,” he sobbed. “It’s a lie. It’s all a lie. I’m no combat pilot, son. I may have bounty hunted when I was younger, but those stories I tell? They… they’re… not true.”

I did my best attempt to look surprised and patted him on the back. “There there,” I said. “we all add a little polish to our tales, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“No,” he mumbled. “No it won’t. I…” He seemed to be having an argument with himself. “I… can’t fit in the cockpit of my ship anymore.” He covered his face in his plump hands and began to sob uncontrollably. “I’m finished. I’m done. The gig is up. I can’t continue to live a lie.” He looked up with pleading eyes. “Just one last tale of glory. Will you do that for me, boy? Do this for me, and… and… and Miranda is yours to keep.”

I felt as if my stomach was being tugged at by a black hole.

I was a smuggler. I’ve had my share of combat, but usually against small, weak ships that thought my Asp was easy prey. Nothing like proper combat. Nothing like what he was asking me for. My mouth went dry, and it suddenly felt as if the station was spinning slightly faster.

Before I could say anything, he took my hands in his, and placed a small object between my palms. I started to mutter, but he cut me off. “You are doing an old pilot a great service, boy.” He said. “Miranda is yours now. She is your ship now. Just do this for me. And… and take good care of her. Please.”

He stood up, his great weight shifting my small bed, looked back once towards me, and shuffled out the room without saying goodbye. My mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. My brain was undergoing module malfunction. I looked down to see the Vulture’s ship access chip.

What had I gotten myself into now? Or rather, what had old Eggen gotten me into?