The Deal at Stargrave Station
The wreck of Spacetrucker’s old ship had long since gone dark. It drifted like a coffin in the silence, hull scarred from micrometeorite pockmarks and forgotten battles, its innards looted by cosmic scavengers. It was there, in that cold black tomb, where Vox and the rest of The JURN had cut their way in, looking for fragments of their past. They found the corpse of their brother-in-arms still slumped at the helm, a husk in his jacket and hat, eyes long gone behind those red-blue lenses, and R3X powered down in the corner, flickering with faint life. The Encore had brought Spacetrucker back, but the ship was beyond resurrection. Some graves, even The JURN knew, cannot be dug up twice.
So they took him wandering again, until they dropped anchor at Stargrave Station, a floating monstrosity of steel, glass, and neon light. Half galactic dealership, half casino-cathedral, and all grift. Imagine a bazaar run by thieves and priests, where dice rolled beside docking clamps, and fortunes were won and lost at the bar before the ink on a contract dried.
Spacetrucker and R3X wandered through the docking arms, lit by holo-billboards:
“STARGRAVE SHIPS NO CREDIT CHECKS, NO QUESTIONS ASKED.”
“SPIN THE WHEEL, WIN A CRUISER.”
“ALL SALES FINAL, SOULS INCLUDED.”
R3X muttered in his low static drawl, “They’ll bleed you dry in here, boss.” His pumpkin-skull head glowed faint, flickering like a candle in a storm. “Don’t touch the tables. Don’t touch the slots. Don’t even touch the goddamn complimentary peanuts.”
Spacetrucker grinned anyway. The casino floor called to him. Neon skeleton dancers kicked in the air over virtual dice games, while alien dealers with too many eyes spun wheels in pits of smoke. He slid between gamblers and hustlers until he reached the showroom floor: a cathedral of chrome and possibility. Rows of ships glittered under spotlights, each polished to sinful perfection. A lizard-skinned salesman in a sequined vest slithered forward, teeth bared in a predatory smile.
“Looking to upgrade, cowboy?” the salesman hissed, voice like a slot machine’s rattle. “We’ve got corvettes, frigates, haulers, smugglers’ dreams. What’s your price range? Your credit score? Your tolerance for cursed warranties?”
Spacetrucker just pointed with two skeletal-painted fingers toward a beast squatting at the far end of the showroom. It wasn’t sleek like the others. It wasn’t polished chrome or dripping with neon. It was scarred, patched, ugly, a fusion of freighter and gunboat with its wheels still bolted on like it had rolled in from some back-road hell. A ship that looked alive. A ship that looked mean.
“That one,” Spacetrucker said, voice low and graveled.
The salesman blinked. “That one? That’s not even supposed to be on the floor. That’s a repo job. Bad history. Former owner never made it out of the casino tables, if you catch my drift. Thing’s hungry. Thing’s cursed.”
“Perfect,” Spacetrucker said. His grin widened under the black-painted nose, and R3X’s eyes flickered in disapproval.
The dealer tried to protest, but the band showed up behind Spacetrucker like the shadows of a storm. Vox lit a cigarette he didn’t need. Taz cracked his bony knuckles. Riff-Rot dragged his green mohawk against the ceiling sparks, and Sir Bonecrush slammed a hand on a console until alarms echoed like war drums. The salesman coughed, signed the papers, and vanished into the neon like smoke.
Spacetrucker laid his skeletal hands on the console of the new beast. The lights flickered alive like it recognized him, like it had been waiting. Engines howled awake, rattling the docking bay, drowning out the casino’s cheers and jeers. R3X plugged into a side port and muttered, “Well, guess the devil’s got new wheels.”
Spacetrucker raised his phone for a selfie: him in the foreground, the cursed ship behind, neon skeletons dancing in the distance. He grinned wide. “Home sweet hell.”
And Stargrave Station watched them go, dice still rolling on tables long after their engines tore away.
