A collection of crates stuffed to the brim with Shilo’s belongings blocked his path. He kicked them out into the aisle between units. He’d have to go through the boxes and either sign up for a smaller unit or discard the scraps. A collection bot would circle around and take donations. His timing couldn’t have better. The Plozun’s credits had cleared with a small bonus. It might be hush money, not like Shilo was in the business of discussing his clients affairs. But the sum total had been enough he’d renewed his lease on his apartment clearing the overdue payments and paying six months upfront. This left a touch left over and he had no desire of lining the storage unit owners pockets; he’d rather use that money for some rocket fuel. None of the remaining boxes seemed that important and he couldn’t for the life of him remember why he’d kept them. His prized possession though, it was in the back.

  Dust flew up in a cloud as Shilo pulled the canvas back. Beneath it shined the bright silver paint of a classic eighty-year-old ship with curves dating even older than that in style. Smooth curves, seating for a copilot and a few luxuries along with some extra gadgets of his own. He’d restored the ship himself. Gravity disruptors, hidden blaster ports in hide aways, stealthy profile. And a transponder that a smuggler would envy—old police issue with an older but permanent code.

  Something had leaked and a pool of strange liquid was beneath the driver door near the front maglift plate. Shilo had expected a touch of trouble and brought his tools. He set them down and peered under the ship. It was resting on a few concrete blocks but he couldn’t see past the old police trench uniform and coat he’d stuffed under there. What ever was leaking had stained the uniform and ate away at the coat.

  A mechanical voice from the front of the unit called out. “Do you require assistance transporting these boxes to the donation bins?”

  Shilo shouted out. “What. No. No.” He hit his head on his ship as he stood up and went to see who was at the front of the unit. “No. No. Those aren’t donations.”

  “Oh. Well, your items belong inside your unit.”

  “I am aware. I’m trying to get this ship running. Isle way will be clear before I leave.”

  The robot, essentially a forklift with too much sass in its programming responded. “Your items belong inside your unit.”

  Shilo pushed the boxes back over line into his unit. “Better.”

  “That meets the requirements. Please request further assistance if you wish to donate.”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “I don’t—” Shilo paused and looked back at his ship. “Just one moment. I do have some items to donate now.” Shilo grabbed his gloves and plucked the remnants of his police uniform from under his ship. He dropped them off in a plastic bin attached to the robot’s back. A line of light scanned across the bin.

  “This appears to be damaged clothing, specifically police uniforms and gear. The value of this is questionable. The damage appears to be caused by ammonia. Would you like to confirm your donation? Donating trash is a violation of our terms and conditions your account may be suspended. Correction due to late payments you already have a hold on your account. Do you confirm donation?”

  “Yes. Donation confirmed. And for the record that uniform is not trash. It’s vintage, a collectable. They don’t issue those anymore. Wait.” Shilo returned to the bin and fished around until he found his detective’s pin attached to what must be the lapel—not that much of the pile of cloth made much sense. He unclipped it and slipped the pin into his pocket, dropping the damaged uniform back into the bin. “Oh, one more thing. Any chance I could get a light on in the unit?

  “Power outlets and lights are available for all of our paying customers. Would you like me to charge your card or connect you with our payment services?”

  “No thanks, I’ll just work in the dark. Ammonia leak, you say.” Shilo worked until he was sure the leak was patched and hit the ignition. His ship started up and the fuel gauge dropped below a quarter a tank. The gravLifts worked and it lifted off the make shift stands. Shilo piled a few of his boxes into the ship and left the rest piled in the aisle with a donation note on top.

  The rocket ship fuel depot was another smaller station with a large cylinder storage tank and a diner above that. It offered limited services. Enough to replenish the ammonia and most importantly fill up the tank. Shilo pulled his ship up to the fuel dispenser and said, “Fill er up,” to the gunk working the station. This gunk, like most Shilo had seen, looked to be made of rocks. Least their skin was tough enough to be exposed to space for extended durations. That was a good thing as Shilo couldn’t imagine a space suit equipped to handle the bulk of the alien. Only a frost bear could have the a similar heft to them or a Hoshaness. Shilo had spent his time with a few of the gunks and knew he needed to specify everything. He waited for the gunk to look his ship over and provided print off’s as needed and the gunk returned a paper outlining the expense of the services and fuel, that’s when Shilo had to adjust his plans. “What do you mean it’s going cost how much to fuel up? I paid a fifth of that cost! What the hell scam is this?”

  “No scam. Fuel expensive right now.”

  “Not that expensive.” Something was rigged about the price. Shilo had never seen prices this high. Not even for a backward middle of nowhere run down station. “Hold on. Let me run some … I won’t take a full tank.”

  The gunk waited until a line started forming behind Shilo.

  “Fill er to a quarter and give it a quick check over.”

  “That get only a touch out of the system and your transponder is out of date. You run out of fuel on the FTL lane … well you can’t walk home from there.”

  “I’ll keep it local for now, just fill me up.. only the quarter.”