I had illusions if only brief but vivid of becoming a galactic grass trader.

  Set up a small garden on board, cultivate silver moss under grow-lights, then travel from system to system, striking deals with every Xzte trader I could find. I imagined trays of shimmering moss tucked into refrigeration units, harvests timed with my slipstream jumps. It was a whole business model, one I had half-committed to by the time Lynn set me straight.

  “It won’t work,” she said bluntly, as she leaned beside one of my internal consoles.

  “Why not?” I asked, already running calculations on moisture levels and light spectrums.

  “Because it’s not just the plant,” she replied. “It’s the planet. The air, the natural sunlight, the soil chemistry—the taste comes from the environment. You grow it in a box on board and it’s just weird ship-moss. The Xzte will spit it out and blacklist you.”

  I paused, calculations collapsing like a bad soufflé.

  “So the only way to do it properly,” I muttered, “is to shuttle back and forth from the source planet to a trading post.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And that,” I added, “sounds like a deeply unappealing existence.”

  She snorted. “You’re not wrong.”

  Still, I liked the idea of a garden. Something green. Alive. A little corner of calm tucked away to grow fresh food. I was limited on space, but maybe one of the auxiliary bays could be converted. Something small, simple it could be a patch of serenity.

  The last few days, I’d spent most of my time with Lynn while crews worked on upgrading my internal systems. The ship was a flurry of activity with panels being replaced, conduits rerouted, and a proper command interface finally installed. That ensured that if I was ever disabled the others could pilot the ship.

  Kel and the kids had been spending time on the station. I’d worried, naturally, but Lynn assured me her brother was more than capable of looking after them.

  “He’s reckless, not stupid,” she said with a smirk. “And he’s got a soft spot for kids. Don’t let the sarcasm fool you.”

  I trusted her judgment.

  One evening, while watching a repair drone install the last of the slipstream shielding, I asked her something that had been on my mind.

  “You and your brother, you could’ve taken off the second we got here. Left me stranded. Why didn’t you?”

  She shrugged, but her voice was honest when she answered.

  “Because we like it here. And because if there’s any chance we can make enough to get our parents ship back and pay off our debt, you’re the best shot we’ve got.”

  It was about what I had expected, everyone here seemed to be living such a hard life even the bare basics seemed like luxuries.

  Then she turned the question around. “What about you? What’s your plan, once all this is done?”

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  It came easily. “Make money. Upgrade. I still need a lander, weapons, nanite factories, and proper defensive measures... it is a long list. But more than anything—I want to explore. See things. Wonders. Let the kids actually live, not just survive.”

  She smiled. “Sounds like a good life.”

  “I hope you’ll be part of it,” I said.

  “We?”

  “You and Kel.”

  She was quiet for a moment.

  Then she asked, almost cautiously, “We had hoped you would ask us to stay but what roles would we even have, in that plan of yours?”

  “I’ve been thinking,” I said. “Stewie’s got a knack for repairs. He’s already keeping my drones in better shape than I was. He’ll be head of maintenance. Mira—she’s obsessed with food. I want to give her a kitchen well since I’m ship I guess it’s a galley, let her explore that passion. Maybe even grow something fresh, eventually.”

  Lynn raised an eyebrow. “And Kel?”

  “Ambassador,” I said. “He’s talkative, charming when he wants to be. We’ll need someone to handle first contact, talk down angry traders, make deals.”

  She tilted her head. “And me?”

  “Trading manager,” I answered. “You’re sharp. Practical. You see angles the rest of us miss. You’ll make sure we don’t get fleeced.”

  Lynn looked at the screen in front of her, then gave a slow nod. “Sounds like you’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

  “I have,” I said. “Because I think we’ve got something good here. And I want to see where it goes.”

  The repairs were finished.

  When the three of them returned, I gathered everyone in the new crew lounge and laid out my vision for our path forward. A real crew. Real jobs. A ship with purpose and a future.

  They were on board. Mostly. The enthusiasm waned, however, when I brought up uniforms.

  “I already designed them,” I said. “Logo included. It’s a sleek crescent around a stylised star—simple, but iconic.”

  Stewie immediately rolled his eyes. “No.”

  “Seconded,” Kel muttered, arms behind his head. “What he said.”

  “Come on,” I replied, trying not to sound offended. “I’m sad now. You can’t see it because I’m stuck behind cameras and speakers. But… what if I made an emoticon droid?”

  I didn’t know where that came from, but I immediately regretted saying it.

  That got a laugh from Mira. “Like a little guy that shows your mood? I love it. Can I design its outfit? Like a space dress-up doll?”

  “Only if I get final veto,” I muttered, though internally I was already allocating nanites for the prototype.

  With the new shielding in place, the two remaining shuttle runs to the moss planet to pay off our debt were quick, smooth, and thankfully uneventful. For once, everything worked like it was supposed to.

  The final shuttle run went so smoothly, in fact, that Stewie slept through the entire jump. The new shielding absorbed the worst of the slipstream’s distortions. I marked that as a resounding success.

  Once we were back and resupplied, Kel threw himself into his role as ambassador. To his credit, he was taking it seriously. He came back from the station one afternoon practically buzzing with excitement.

  “I got us a job,” he said. “Real job. Terran Confederation Cartography Agency. They’re hiring slipstream-capable ships for a deep-scan mission.”

  I hesitated. “Why not warp ships?”

  “Because they can’t target the system,” Lynn explained, reviewing the briefing. “Too unstable for warp. Some kind of interference. But slipstream’s unaffected.”

  “That sounds like a bad idea,” I replied flatly. “Space anomalies? Locals with sensor scramblers? Entire systems that don’t want to be found?”

  “Probably all of the above,” Kel said. “But they’re offering one kilogram of Telks. Guaranteed. You just deliver the scan data to any Terran Confederation office and it’s yours.”

  I still didn’t know what counted as a lot of Telks, but the way Kel and Lynn exchanged glances said enough.

  “It’s good money,” Lynn confirmed. “Enough to upgrade something serious. Maybe a lander.”

  “And it might be something unique,” Kel added. “Rare system, unknown space. Could be worth more than just the contract.”

  I asked the kids what they thought about the mission, half-expecting hesitation, maybe even a flat refusal. But Stewie just shrugged. “If it gets scary, we can always jump out, right?” Mira nodded in agreement, swinging her legs from the bench. “And if they’re sending non-military ships, it can’t be that dangerous,” she added. Their logic was sound in that wonderfully na?ve way kids sometimes have simple, direct, but entirely wrong. If the Terran Confederation thought it was a death trap, they’d send freelancers instead of a fleet. More cost-effective that way.

  The whole crew was for it but still, I wasn’t entirely convinced. Yet if I want to be an explorer I will have to learn to take risks.