Space didn't look like the movies. It didn't shimmer with nebulae or sparkle with adventure.
It just looked black. And cold. And expensive.
Ford sat in the pilot’s seat of *The Millennium Seagull*, staring out the viewport at the unending nothingness of the Dead Sector. He took a sip of lukewarm coffee from a pouch. It tasted like recycled water and regret.
"Proximity alert," the ship’s AI, a disembodied voice named MOTHER (Minimal Operating Telemetry & Heuristic Electronic Resource), chirped. "Port authority beacon detected. Station *Rust Belt 4* is hailing us."
"I see it, Mother," Ford grunted. He reached out and flipped a switch on the overhead console. It was a physical switch, chunky and satisfying. He hated touchscreens. "Tell them we’re carrying Class C agricultural machinery. No bio-hazards."
"Lying is a violation of Transport Code 772," Mother noted helpfuly.
"It's not a lie," Ford muttered. "Manure spreaders are agricultural."
He leaned back, the worn leather of the pilot's chair creaking under his weight. He caught his reflection in the darkened console screen.
The face looking back at him was smooth. Too smooth.
Technically, Ford was fifty-two years old. But the Bio-Gens looked thirty. His skin was tight, his hairline was intact, and his liver had been scrubbed clean three times. Science had conquered aging.
But science couldn't fix the fatigue.
It was a tiredness that lived in his bones, deeper than muscle or marrow. It was the weight of twenty years of hauling garbage, parts, and people across the void. It was the lonely hum of the gravity generator (which was currently vibrating in A-minor again).
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"Three more runs," Ford whispered to the empty cockpit.
He tapped a small photo taped to the dashboard. It was a faded printout of a postcard from the 21st century.
*Florida.*
A white sand beach. A palm tree. An ocean that wasn't trying to suffocate you.
He had the plot picked out. It was in the "Reclaimed Zone," where the geo-engineers had finally pushed back the rising tides. It cost four million credits. He had three point two.
"Just three more runs," he repeated. "Then I buy out the contract. Then I buy a chair that doesn't vibrate. Then I sit on the beach and watch the seagulls steal tourists' fries."
The ship shuddered as it hit the station's gravity well.
*Rust Belt 4* loomed ahead. It was an ugly knot of metal, rotating slowly against the stars. It looked like a tumbleweed made of rusted pipes.
"Docking vector requested," Mother said. "Warning: Thruster 4 is lagging by 0.2 seconds. I recommend auto-dock."
"I don't do auto-dock," Ford said, sitting up straighter. "Auto-dock scrapes the paint."
He grabbed the joystick. It was an older model, a flight stick he had salvaged from an atmospheric fighter. It felt heavy in his hand.
"Switching to manual."
Ford closed his eyes for a second, feeling the ship around him. He felt the sluggishness of the starboard thruster. He felt the drift of the stern. To anyone else, *The Millennium Seagull* was a flying brick. To Ford, she was a fat, stubborn bird that just needed coaxing.
He feathered the throttle. The ship drifted sideways, sliding between two massive cargo haulers with inches to spare.
"Proximity warning," Mother said, sounding slightly panicked. "Collision imminent."
"Relax," Ford murmured. "I'm just drafting."
He slotted the ship into the docking ring with a gentle *thud*. No scrape. No shudder. Just the metallic clang of the magnetic clamps engaging.
"Docking complete," Mother said, sounding relieved. "You are reckless, Ford."
"I'm efficient," Ford corrected. He unbuckled his harness and stood up, his spine popping. "And I'm on a schedule."
He grabbed his jacket—a faded bomber jacket with a patch that read *EARTH ATMOSPHERIC DEFENSE* on the shoulder—and headed for the airlock.
"Keep the engine warm, Mother," Ford said. "I'm just dropping off. Then we find a payload that pays better than manure."
