18 October – Midgard
The fleet—such as it is—has a heartbeat now. Six crew on payroll, hundreds of D.O.T.’s robots whirring in the moonbase, and a growing list of needs: food, power, credits. To keep the dream alive, we took a contract. Lysander Biochemical (again) has a missing lab on La Mussara. A pharmaceutical site, not robotics this time. Small mercies. Also noted: an active bounty on the Space Kings. 10,000 credits per head, plus 10% of the value of any ship captured or destroyed. Tempting, but first things first.
25 October – Miracle
A quick stop to refuel and resupply. The Legate—our new 600-ton flagship-in-waiting—handles like a barge, but she’s ours. For now.
1 November – La Mussara System, Planeta del Sis
The planet is a toxic puzzle. The atmosphere isn’t just corrosive—it’s insidious. Classified as lethal with zero recommended exposure. Who comes up with these ratings? Someone with a dark sense of humor, probably.
We took the Legate into the lower atmosphere, slipping beneath the acidic cloud layer. Scans were useless—thick atmosphere and who-knows-what composition blocked sensors. The lab’s coordinates were our only guide.
No signs of life. No automated defenses. Beñat noted the lack of a welcoming committee. “Maybe they’re polite,” he grunted. I made a mental note: install a ship horn. For atmosphere.
Lucid pinged the facility. No response. Then we saw it: a human-sized hole cut straight through the inner airlock door with a hull cutter. The facility, built from starship-grade plating, had been breached months ago.
Inside, we found acid-eaten remains and blast-scarred walls. A half-dozen dead security, corroded where they fell. Petrie dishes shattered. Lab equipment smashed. They weren’t here for credsticks—they were here for combat drugs.
Beñat’s voice crackled over comms: “Let’s split up, gang.” He took the basement with Castor, Lukia, and Dix. I led Thad, Jin, and Mei to the living quarters. Signs of struggle—dragged bedding, no blood (just corrosion).
Beñat found the vault already open. Scientists likely gave up the codes hoping to live. Six bodies in the basement, half not even dressed. Six more still missing.
The data storage was slagged. Of course.
Lucid recorded everything—every corroded corpse, every blasted terminal. For the client. Always for the client.
4 November
Refueled. Processed gas. The air on the Good Times still smells faintly of acid, no matter how much we scrub.
11 November – Miracle, Lysander Biochemical HQ
The receptionist looked startled when we walked in unannounced. I explained that the footage we carried wasn’t the sort you transmit over open channels. Ten minutes later, a chromed-out security officer appeared—most of his face replaced with cybernetics, unreadable.
I handed him the crystal. Without a word, he popped it into his mouth. His eyes rolled back. Processing.
A few minutes later, he snapped back to the present.
“…So. You want to find the six missing scientists?”
“Do you have a lead?” he asked.
“We think the Space Kings hit the lab. We’ve met some of them recently. On your combat drugs.”
A pause. Then, flatly: “Oh, fuck.”
He’d have to talk to corporate. They never give him resources anyway.
Terms: half a million per scientist recovered alive. 10k per head confirmed dead. And he wants intel on the Space Kings and the Red Queen in two days’ time.
We left without an escort.
Either Lysander’s security protocols have changed since the Catta Gule days, or they actually trust me now.
I’m not sure which is more unsettling.
— Captain Peter Avignon
SS Good Times II
“Bringing back bad news, one acid-scarred ruin at a time.”
[Addendum: Beñat’s started a “Days Since Last Atmospheric Horror” counter in the mess hall. It currently reads: 0.]