Chapter 1 part 5

Old Ships, Older Jokes, and One Very Tired Doctor

The Lunatran Empire sprawls across the void like a cosmic tapestry, its dominion vast and fertile. Most of its worlds are terraformed jewels, planetary gardens engineered for agricultural supremacy. These are not mere fields of grain but celestial farms, brimming with hydroponic towers and protein vats that sustain billions. Around them, gentle planetary rings and scattered asteroid clusters orbit like silent sentinels.

Through the heart of this empire flows a colossal plasma stream—a radiant river of ionized energy, a blessing from the stars themselves. Yet, even in this abundance, there are limits. Exotic matter and heavy elements remain elusive, a scarcity almost inconsequential next to the unbroken waves of nutrient-rich grain flowing from the fields to the stars.

The Lunatran Empire's very identity is tied to its agricultural might. Its emblem—a harvester ship encircled by a planetary ring—proclaims its nature. These massive industrial vessels, piloted by the spacefaring farmers of the empire, are the backbone of Lunatran prosperity. Here, agriculture is not merely respected; it is revered. To be a space farmer is to embody the empire’s spirit, and many such farmers have risen to unexpected wealth, their agricultural stations thriving amidst the cosmos.

Yet, vast territories bring vast vulnerabilities. As the harvest cycle approaches, the trade routes bristle with activity. Cargo haulers gleam with prosperity, their hulls laden with the fruits of distant worlds. But that same vibrancy makes them targets. Pirates, those shadowy predators of the stars, lurk at the edges of the empire’s space, drawn by whispers of unguarded treasure.

"Miss Mirai, isn’t a single ship enough for this route patrol?"

"Absolutely not. I’ve told you this before, haven’t I?"

"Yeah, yeah. Fleets of eight or more. But it’s hard to relax when there are too many ships buzzing around me."

"Relaxation isn’t the goal, Galaxia Narwhal. The patrols serve to deter pirates. A lone ship makes you more of an invitation than a deterrent. Accept the mission or let me reassign you. If it’s too much trouble, I’ll place you wherever I see fit."

I work alone—or at least, I prefer to. But in the Lunatran Guild, even the most independent spacers must bow to the will of the organization. The guild’s influence is vast, its decisions final. Every harvest cycle, the empire mobilizes its people. Soldiers, guild members, and even civilians are dispatched to secure trade routes and agricultural stations. It’s a communal effort, a tradition as old as the empire itself. From the youngest station-born child to the most grizzled spacer, everyone has a part to play.

For me, this means trade route patrols—uneventful, mostly. And yet, there’s always the matter of station hospitality. Harvest celebrations aboard agricultural stations are a challenge of their own. Zero-G dances that defy all sense of coordination. Synthetic alcohol that inevitably leads to brawls over who’s the toughest spacer. And nutrient paste—so much nutrient paste. The old station-dwellers seem determined to overfeed every visitor, as if their generosity can overcome the void itself. My stomach, however, has its limits.

"Two open spots in Diana. Should we place Gakaxia Narwhal there? It’s an all-female crew."

"Absolutely not. That’s a punishment, not an assignment."

"You’re exaggerating. Fine, how about the Baldr patrol fleet? Healer’s squadron has openings."

"Dr. Healer? That’s perfect. Assign me there."

"Their patrol sector is far from Baldr Station."

"Even better. If I’m going to do this, I might as well enjoy some unfamiliar star systems. Should I bring you back any exotic materials?"

"The safe return of guild members is the only souvenir we care about."

Her words were sharp, but I could tell she’d used that line on countless spacers before.

"Galaxia Narwhal, it’s been a while."

"Dr. Healer, you look like you’re on the brink of collapse. Are you okay?"

Inside the cramped medical bay of the ship, exhaustion radiating off him like a dying star. Dark circles were etched beneath his eyes, visible even through his visor. His suit trembled slightly, a sign of his fraying nerves.

To be honest, I don't know what's going on to result in such a visual. If I were a medic, I would have him rest in zero-G, but unfortunately, Mr. Healer himself is the medic.

"Emergency from the Starborn Elite sector last night. They insisted on seeing me personally. Said I was the only one they trusted. I couldn’t refuse."

"Healer, seriously, you need rest. Will you even make it through today?"

"Relax. I’ll sleep on the carrier. I’ll be fine."

The irony of the medic being the one who looked most in need of medical attention wasn’t lost on me.

"Ah, you must be Galaxia Narwhal," came the gruff, crackling voice over the comms. A moment later, the visual feed lit up, revealing a weathered spacer with a face like an old asteroid—scarred, tough, and full of stories. "Healer’s told me about you. Name’s Odinson, squadron leader of the Third. We’re just a bunch of worn-out relics out here, but don’t let the rust fool you. We’ll keep you alive. Treat us kindly, yeah?"

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Odinson," I replied. "Yeah, Narwhal's fine." I could've corrected him about my name actually is Galaxy A Narwhal, but honestly, after the hundredth time of people getting it wrong, I'd stopped bothering. "I'll be in your care."

The crew of the Baldr patrol fleet carried the air of seasoned spacers—a fraternity bound by countless cycles of shared danger and survival. They weren’t just colleagues; they were comrades, their bonds forged in the cold embrace of the void. Their ships were old, their hulls etched with the scars of countless journeys, but their skills were as sharp as ever—or at least sharp enough to trust. These weren’t greenhorn pilots or guild recruits cobbled together for temporary duty. No, these were veterans, men whose instincts had been honed by decades of spacefaring. I’d take them over a squadron of rookies any day.

Healer, the fleet’s medic, looked more like a patient than a healer. By the time we prepped for departure, he was barely upright, his environmental suit trembling slightly as if protesting against his refusal to rest. It was hard to reconcile the weary man before me with the stories I’d heard. Once, Healer had been an elite medical officer stationed in the capital system—a rising star in the field. But his career had taken a turn when he dared to question corruption among the higher-ups, calling out the theft of medical supplies and resources. For his trouble, he’d been exiled to Baldr, a backwater by comparison. Yet, beneath his gentle demeanor was a core of unyielding steel. He never spoke much about it, only offering a soft smile when asked, but his reputation spoke volumes.

From the bridge of our patrol ship, we watched as the carrier groaned under the weight of its cargo, its engines humming steadily in the void—supplies destined for distant agricultural stations scattered across the empire’s outer rim. It floated like a lumbering behemoth, its engines humming with the steady resolve of a vessel built for endurance, not speed. Our formation surrounded it, splitting into two wings—a standard escort pattern. The patrol speed wasn’t much faster than the carrier’s natural pace, which meant we crawled across the stars at what could generously be called a leisurely cruise.

Of course, "patrol speed" for this crew meant something even slower. Their ships were relics of a bygone era, maintained by sheer stubbornness and the occasional prayer. The old spacers piloting them weren’t in much better shape, though their laughter over the comms painted a different picture. They cracked jokes so ancient they might as well have been fossilized, their voices crackling with mirth as they reminisced about misadventures I wasn’t privy to. I didn’t try to join in; the atmosphere wasn’t hostile, but it was theirs. Better to observe from the edges and enjoy the show.

"Clear skies today. No solar flares to mess with our sensors," one of them noted, his voice tinged with relief.

"Thank the stars for that. Looks like another good harvest this season," another replied.

As we cruised along the route, the sights of the harvest came into view. Massive harvester ships dotted the asteroid fields, their collection beams glowing faintly as they carved into mineral-rich rock. Operators in bulky radiation suits moved with practiced precision, their tools clipped to suit mounts as they guided their vessels through the asteroid clusters. The efficiency—or lack thereof—of their methods was almost irrelevant. There was a kind of rustic elegance to it, a sense that this wasn’t just work but tradition. The harvester ships themselves, with their collection beams mounted at midpoint, were iconic in their own right.

Rumor had it that some of these harvesters had been retrofitted into warships for the capital system’s defense fleets. It sounded absurd, but in a universe as unpredictable as ours, it wasn’t impossible. If true, it was a strange romance—turning tools of creation into weapons of destruction. I couldn’t say I was a fan of the design, but I understood the sentiment. Harvesters were cool in their own way, just not my style.

"Ow, my stabilizers are acting up. Gonna dock with the carrier for a bit," one of the old spacers grumbled over the comms.

"Ha! That’s what you get for flying that museum piece. Your suit joints are probably as old as the carrier’s engines!" another spacer shot back, their laughter echoing across the channel.

The spacers docked with the carrier periodically to rest, their voices growing softer as they drifted into temporary slumber. Despite the leisurely pace, the journey stretched on, and by the time we arrived at the first relay station, the night cycle was already upon us.

The patrol wasn’t over yet. We’d be repeating this routine for another two or three cycles, escorting the carrier from station to station. It was tedious work, but the monotony was broken by the occasional sight—a distant nebula glowing faintly against the black, or the silhouette of a harvester ship cutting into an asteroid like a cosmic artist chiseling away at stone. Space travel wears on the body and soul, but it has its moments. Out here, among the stars and the silence, even the smallest things can feel extraordinary. For now, that’s enough.