Chapter 1 part 5

Old Ships, Older Jokes, and One Very Tired Doctor

The Lunatran Empire stretches across the stars like a glittering web of farm worlds. Most of its planets are carefully shaped garden worlds, engineered to grow food on an unimaginable scale. These aren't just fields—they're towering hydroponic farms and protein factories that feed billions. Around them, delicate planetary rings and asteroid belts drift like quiet guardians.

Running through it all is the Great Current—a shining river of star energy - solar wind that powers the empire. Yet even with all this plenty, some things stay rare. Heavy metals and exotic materials are hard to come by, though nobody complains when the harvest ships bring endless waves of grain from the orbital farms.

Farming isn't just a job here—it's sacred. The empire's symbol says it all: a harvest ship wrapped in planetary rings. These massive farming vessels, flown by space-faring growers, are the backbone of Lunatran wealth. To be a space farmer is to live the empire's dream, and many have grown rich tending their orbital fields.

But big empires mean big risks. When harvest season comes, the shipping lanes buzz with activity. Cargo haulers gleam with wealth, their holds stuffed with food from distant worlds. And where there's wealth, there are pirates—shadowy raiders lurking at the empire's edges, always hungry for an easy score.

"Miss Mirai, do the job need more than single manned ship for route patrol?"

"Yes. How many times must we have this talk?"

"I know, I know. Fleets of eight or more. But more ships means more noise in my comms."

"This isn't about your comfort, Galaxia Narwhal. More ships scare off pirates. A solo ship is just target practice. Take the mission or I'll assign you somewhere worse."

I work alone—or I try to. But in the Lunatran Guild, even lone wolves follow orders. The guild's word is law. Every harvest, the empire mobilizes everyone—soldiers, guild members, even civilians—to protect the trade routes and farm stations. It's tradition, as old as the empire itself. From station kids to veteran spacers, everyone pitches in.

For me, that means boring route patrols. And worse—station hospitality. Harvest parties on farm stations are their own kind of battle. Zero-gravity dances where everyone crashes into each other. Synth alcohol that always leads to fights about who's the toughest spacer. And endless offers of nutrient paste—like the station elders think they can fill the void with forced generosity. My stomach can only take so much.

"Two openings in Diana. All-female crew. Should we assign Galaxia Narwhal?"

"That's not a posting—that's punishment."

"You're being dramatic. Fine, what about the Baldr patrol fleet? Dr. Healer's squad has space."

"Perfect. Send me there."

"Their patrol zone is deep space. Far from Baldr Station."

"Even better. If I'm stuck on patrol, I might as well see new stars. Want me to bring back space rocks?"

"Just bring yourself back in one piece."

Her tone was sharp, but I could tell she'd said that line a thousand times before.

"Galaxia Narwhal. Long time."

"Dr. Healer, you look like death warmed over. Are you okay?"

In the ship's tiny med bay, exhaustion rolled off him in waves. Dark circles hung under his eyes, visible even through his helmet visor. His hands shook slightly in his suit gloves.

Honestly, I didn't know what could leave someone this drained. If I were a medic, I'd order him to rest in zero-gravity. But since he was the medic, nobody could make him stop.

"Emergency call last night. Starborn Elite sector. They insisted only I could help."

"Healer, you need sleep. Can you even function today?"

"I'll rest on the carrier. I'll manage."

The irony wasn't lost on me—the doctor looked sicker than his patients.

A crackling voice cut over the comms: "You must be Galaxia Narwhal." The screen flickered to life, showing a spacer with a face like weathered asteroid rock—scarred, tough, and full of stories. "Healer's told me about you. Name's Odinson, Third Squadron leader. We're just a bunch of old junk heaps out here, but we know our business. Try not to break anything, yeah?"

"Pleasure, Mr. Odinson," I said. "Just Narwhal's fine." I could've corrected him—my name's technically Galaxy A Narwhal—but after years of wrong pronunciations, I'd given up. "I'll try not to slow you down."

The Baldr patrol crew had that veteran spacer vibe—a family bound by decades of shared close calls. Their ships were ancient, their hulls etched with battle scars, but their skills were sharp. These weren't green recruits; they were spacers who'd survived more cycles than most stations had been operational. I'd take their experience over fresh-faced rookies any day.

Healer, the fleet’s medic, looked more like someone in need of care than the one meant to give it. By the time we were ready to launch, he could barely stand. His suit trembled slightly with each movement, as though it resented him for pushing through exhaustion. It was hard to connect this weary man with the stories I’d heard. Once, he’d been a rising star—a top medical officer in the capital system. But his career derailed the moment he spoke out against corruption in the upper ranks, exposing theft and misuse of medical supplies. His reward? A one-way ticket to Baldr—a dusty, forgotten corner of the empire. Still, despite his quiet voice and tired eyes, there was something unbreakable about him. He rarely talked about his past. When asked, he’d just offer a gentle smile and change the subject. But his reputation lingered, and it said more than he ever did.

From the bridge of our patrol ship, we watched the cargo carrier drift slowly ahead of us. It creaked and groaned like a tired giant, hauling crates of supplies bound for remote farming outposts across the outer rim. The engines gave off a low, steady hum—the sound of a ship built to last, not to race. We split into two wings around it, forming a protective escort. At this speed, we weren’t much faster than the carrier itself. It was more of a long walk through the stars than a sprint.

Then again, “patrol speed” on this route had always meant slow. The ships we flew were aging workhorses, held together more by habit than engineering. The old spacers piloting them weren’t much different. Their voices crackled over the comms, full of jokes older than the ships themselves, laughing about past disasters like they were campfire stories. I didn’t try to join in. It wasn’t that they were unkind—it was just their world. I was content to float on the edge and listen.

"Clear skies today. No solar flares to scramble our instruments," one spacer said, relief in his voice.

"Good news. Looks like another strong harvest out here," another replied.

As we cruised along the supply route, the asteroid fields came into view, dotted with massive harvesting vessels. They glowed faintly as they broke apart rocks filled with minerals, drawing out resources with long, focused energy beams. Workers in heavy-duty suits moved like clockwork, guiding the process with steady hands. It was slow, meticulous labor, but there was a kind of poetry to it—half ritual, half survival.

Some of these harvesters, or so the stories went, had once been converted into makeshift battleships during a crisis in the capital. It sounded ridiculous, but in this galaxy, nothing was too far-fetched. Turning farming machines into war tools—well, it wasn’t my style, but I understood the logic. Desperate times, and all that. Still, I liked harvesters better when they were just harvesters.

"Ugh, stabilizers are on the fritz again. I’m docking with the carrier for a bit," one of the old-timers muttered.

"Ha! That’s what happens when your ship’s older than the stars themselves. I bet even your boots creak!" another spacer shot back, laughter bubbling through the channel.

They took turns docking with the carrier to rest, their banter growing quieter as sleep took hold. Despite the slow pace, the hours dragged, and by the time we reached the first drop-off station, night had settled in.

But the job wasn’t done. We’d repeat the same routine over the next few stops—escort, deliver, move on. It was repetitive, sure, but not without its moments. A glimpse of a glowing nebula off in the distance, or a lone harvester cutting into an asteroid like an artist shaping stone. Space has a way of wearing you down, slowly, bit by bit. But sometimes, it gives back.

And sometimes, just getting through the day is enough.

(And at least I avoided the all-female crew.)

Author's Note:

Ah, welcome back, dear reader, to another thrilling episode of "Why Settle for a Boring Patrol When You Can Have Old Ships, Older Jokes, and One Very Tired Doctor?" If you thought our protagonist's adventures were all about mopping floors, punching idiots, blasting Krivvens, and hunting space boars, think again. This time, we dive into the delightful world of intergalactic farming—or lack thereof.

Yes, you read that right. Our hero is back, and this time, he's not just cleaning up messes—he's making them. With his trusty half-spec blaster and a whole lot of attitude, he's on a mission to bring some real excitement to this part of the star system. And by excitement, I mean boring route patrols and station hospitality.

Now, you might be thinking, "But why would anyone risk their life for a taste of real excitement?" Oh, dear reader, you underestimate the power of a good joke. Our protagonist might be a tough space merc, but he's also a comedian at heart. And when you've been surviving on flavorless goop and rubbery protein bricks, a taste of real excitement is like a little slice of heaven.

And who knows? Maybe one day, our hero will find that elusive excitement he's been dreaming of. Until then, he'll just have to make do with old ships, older jokes, and one very tired doctor. Bon voyage!