From his dilapidated office, Regon watched teams swarm Gaian’s launchpad as countdown approached. The generational ship would eventually reach a rocky planet within the habitable zone, allowing Gaian’s crew to terraform it and create an egalitarian society. Regon sighed. As a boy, he dreamed of donning a spacer’s helmet, launching to somewhere better.
“Nonsense,” his father scoffed when Regon told him. “Sclerous’s enough for us. That lot only lands in mess, never any profit to show. Set here’s as good as anywhere.”
And here he still sat. The comm interrupted Regon’s thoughts, announcing another anonymous job. He punched the screen on.
“We need an extraction,” a woman’s voice hissed, the vid showing an impounded transporter. Regan whistled when he saw Gaian’s flight crew on board.
Sclerous, Nimue’s moon, hosted the galaxy’s only low G spaceport capable of building vessels like Gaian. The local gov additionally benefitted by grounding transports and holding their passengers hostage for petty offenses until physical currency changed hands. Folks without funds or the talent to finesse the lines either got stranded or delayed, something the Gaian couldn’t afford.
“Isn’t Gaian underfunded?” he asked bluntly. His father told him to mind his credits, too.
She tersely replied, “Name your fee.”
Regon recalled how his father sneered at ethics and quoted a number. The voice gasped, taken aback.
“Best you’ll do,” he assured her. “Haggle and it’s double.”
“I—we’ll take it,” she hastily agreed.
Terms set, Regon deployed his crew: queuers to muscle through lines, bribers to avoid future “embarrassment”, and speeders to deliver them—intact, one hour—less than half the going price. His father would be furious. But Regon still believed in somewhere better, wanted to be part of it somehow, even though he would be among those left behind.
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