Despite all the noxious gasses and flashing warning lights, my ship still flew. I dropped out of supercruise nine kilometres away from the station, and slowly made my way to dock, not caring if security forces scanned me or not. I wasn’t about to do some reckless manoeuvre with my ship falling apart as it was. The authorities must have taken pity on me, since I made it to dock without an incident. As soon as I touched down I dialled in the unloading services, but decided to postpone the damage check to sometime after I had gotten paid and was reasonably drunk to cope with it.

Mr Hayes stepped into The Shocked Frog a few minutes after I contacted him. His Cheshire smile flickered for a fraction of a second when he saw the condition I was in, and like that it was back, ear to ear as he approached me. I was covered in sweat and soot stains, which made me fit right in with the rest of the clientele. He didn’t bother sitting down this time, just produced a small tablet from his coat pocket and presented it to me. I signed off the cargo to him through his secure channels, and I saw a modest sum go into my account.

“You did good, Commander, real good, yes?” he said, his tablet vanishing into his coat. “This stuff sells quite well in certain, eerrm…, unsanctioned markets. Your share, of course, in your account. Pandra Central Corp. is grateful for your services. Let me know if you are, eerrm, looking for a job, yes?” And like that, he turned and left.

What I had earned would barely be enough to handle the repairs. Depending on the damage, really. My ship was fine, I figured. Cobras are resilient chunks of metal, and things often look worse than they really are. Most of the time it’s just a question of tightening a few bolts, soldering some bits here and there, and good as new. Smokes and sparks make everything look worse than it really is. I flew back to station fine, didn’t I?

“Your ship is junked” The mechanic said bluntly.

“What do you mean junked?” I asked, as if language comprehension was another thing I had not quite mastered yet.

“I mean every system, module and component is damaged, burnt, shorted out or broken in one way or another. To be honest, I’m surprised you could fly that thing into the station.” The mechanic said, with the tact and gentleness of an irritated hippopotamus.

I came up with a list of reasons why he, a professional at his job, must be wrong and should trust the opinion of the pilot who killed his ship through sheer incompetence. The mechanic was having none of it. “You’re not understanding,” He said “Your ship is a half-molten heap of junk metal. Even if you replace all the modules that cannot be fixed, and repair all the ones that can, you would end up paying almost double what a new one costs. Cut your losses, sell the scrap, and be thankful you made it this far alive.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do now?” I asked, not directly to him, more to myself out of sheer desperation.

“Tell you what,” The mechanic said. “I’ll take the junked Cobra out of your hands. I have a Diamondback Explorer you can take. 15% off, plus what you get for your broken down ship. How does that sound?”

“Diamondback Explorer? Do I look like an explorer to you? What am I supposed to do with that?” I asked, trying to keep my voice from betraying my fear of deep, uncivilized space.

“Listen, man. It’s all I’ve got for you. It’s got a bit of cargo space on it. You won’t be doing some heavy trading, but unless you want to fly out of here on a second-hand Sidewinder, or have a couple of million in your account for one of those high end ships, you are out of luck, friend.”

I should have learnt how to use a fuel scoop before trying it out for the first time. I almost die in space by running out of fuel, almost get killed trying to scoop fuel by flying close to a star. And now my ship was junked and I was out of choices.

Well, I guess this ugly thing will have to do.