Better Than Cheesecake - Chapter One - Part One

Chapter One: Unexpected Fortune (part 1)

Where it all began seems a distant memory now—yet still all too fresh and unmistakably real, like the scent of plasma burns that never quite leaves your flight suit.

I was flying solo grids on the edges of the Pyro system, that infamous frontier where hope goes to die and fortunes occasionally rise from the stellar dust. My MSR's engines hummed with the quiet desperation of a ship that needed maintenance I couldn't afford. I was hunting for something lucrative—an old wreck, an unmarked jump point, hell, even a forgotten cargo container jettisoned by some panicked hauler during a pirate raid would do. Really, I just needed something I could convert into credits or scrip to keep my ship running and fuel in the tanks. If Lady Luck smiled wider, I'd purchase actual spices to create food that didn't taste like kopion vomit and stock the pantry with anything other than the protein bars that the merchants insist are "nutritionally complete for human consumption." Complete bullshit is what it is.

I'm an explorer by choice, though jobs were rarer than an honest Hurston security guard. It had been that way since I tried my hand at it after my UEE Navy service ended—that illustrious career where I learned that the vast emptiness of space is remarkably creative at finding ways to kill you. I was trained to fly and fight, but there comes a point when you've seen enough comrades wake up on regen slabs with that thousand-yard stare that you start wondering if there's more to life than dying for corporate interests disguised as patriotism.

Don't misunderstand—I loved the adrenaline rush of service life. The thrill of skimming a planet's atmosphere at speeds that make physics professors weep, the satisfaction of a perfect quantum jump that lands you exactly where hostiles don't expect you. What I didn't enjoy were the memories of traumatic death in a million creative ways that space offers, only to wake up on a cold regen slab with phantom pains where your wounds used to be. Rinse and repeat until your psyche resembles Swiss cheese. There had to be a better way to find adventure without the recurring nightmares of explosive decompression.

So here I was, in what my old squadron commander would eloquently call "Another fine sphincter of the universe," looking for something that smelled better than my prospects. My father, a country doctor who treated outback residents from Microtech who never saw a bad situation he couldn't make worse with pessimism, always said if our family didn't have bad luck, we wouldn't have any luck at all. I was determined to change that cosmic equation and somehow craft something worthwhile from the scrap heap of my existence.

The distant ping of my scanner jolted me from philosophical musings that were getting dangerously close to self-pity. Something substantial was out there, returning a hit that made my instruments twitch like a Banu merchant spotting a wealthy mark. I adjusted course and eased toward whatever massive object was floating in the void. After some careful maneuvering—no sense announcing my presence to any lurking pirates or scavengers—I was close enough for my scanners to identify an unknown wreck. Something capital ship-sized that made my pulse quicken.

As I drew closer, dialing in my scans with the precision of a surgeon, the data readout nearly caused me to choke on my lukewarm coffee. A Banu Merchantman—not just any ship, but an almost mythical vessel known to exist in hushed conversations at spaceport bars. I'd never met anyone who actually claimed to have seen one with their own eyes, let alone discovered a wrecked specimen just floating in the void like a gift from the cosmos. Scans showed no life signs, minimal power reserves, with one wing completely sheared off and engines that resembled modern art rather than functional propulsion. The glittering debris field told a violent story—perhaps an ambush, an explosion, or a catastrophic nav error sending it careening into an uncharted asteroid. Whatever had happened had been spectacularly bad for the previous occupants.

I began recording coordinates and details while imaginary credits tallied in my mind like a malfunctioning MobiGlas. This discovery was substantial enough to set me up comfortably for months, maybe years, by selling the location to salvagers after I'd skimmed the cream off the top. Real Terran beef steak and genuine Radegast whiskey were in my immediate future! My lucky day had finally arrived, and I just needed to reach out and claim it before someone else did.

I eased my ship to a stop near a gaping hull breach that offered direct access to the interior. Standing from the pilot's chair with joints popping like old hull plating under pressure, I headed to the gear locker to suit up. This wasn't my first salvage rodeo, though it might be my last. A multi-tool with various attachments went onto my belt, alongside a couple of MedPens (because optimism never hurt anyone, but space debris certainly could), a backup light, and a sidearm with a spare battery—because if there's one universal truth in the 'verse, it's that anything worth finding is worth someone else trying to kill you for.

These all went into holsters, pockets, and a small pack I wore over my flight suit and medium armor. The armor was a patchwork of surplus and aftermarket modifications—not pretty but functional, like most things in my life. I performed the habitual helmet seal check and cycled the ramp, stepping into the embrace of zero-g. My MobiGlas chirped something from my ship's feed, but I ignored it, assuming it was just additional scan information. You know what the old hands say about assuming anything in space, right? It's like grabbing a handful of ass in zero gravity—you think you've got a good grip, but suddenly you're the one who's floating away while that nice ass just drifts off into the cosmos.

I jetted toward the breach, a hole large enough to accommodate a Nova tank with room to spare. My headlamp cast long shadows in the cavernous space that I initially took for the market area—the heart of any Merchantman and the stuff of smuggler legend. Instead, as I floated deeper, I discovered what appeared to be scientific and medical bays. The walls displayed genetic maps and anatomical drawings of different species, predominantly human. This wasn't a traditional souli ship of Banu traders—this was something rarer: a scientific vessel geared toward selling medical "miracles" to humanity.

Holographic advertisements, still flickering on emergency power, promised nothing short of biological miracles for a price. Just my luck to discover a wrecked snail oil salesman's ship instead of a treasure trove. I moved methodically through the space, finding little of obvious value to my disappointingly non-mad-scientist mind. One particularly unsettling chamber contained specimen jars that would make excellent props for next year's Day of Vara celebrations—or nightmares. I examined them with the morbid fascination of a sideshow visitor. Some displayed partially formed appendages with musculature blending into unnatural shapes; others preserved what appeared to be hybrid organs floating in viscous yellow solution. The centerpiece was a full torso specimen—masculine shoulders tapering to feminine hips, with anatomical features of both sexes meticulously preserved. According to the awkwardly translated labels, they were "Happy Harmony Journey Essences" and "Supreme Balance Achieve for Ultimate Character Building (Results May Vary)." One jar even boasted: "Now with 30% more satisfaction!" That knowledge only multiplied my confusion, but not enough to prevent a shiver crawling up my spine like a determined space mite.

I continued my exploration, passing through chambers that suggested cutting-edge research rather than typical Banu trade goods. In another bay, I discovered a massive vat of luminous blue-green substance that pulsed with an almost hypnotic rhythm. As I leaned over to make out the dim shape suspended within—something vaguely humanoid but with distinct non-human characteristics—then things went catastrophically sideways.

A light beam sliced through the darkness over my shoulder. I spun around, adrenaline spiking, to face a nightmare in heavy combat armor. The figure wore a skull-faced headhunter helmet with glowing red photoreceptors and carried a shotgun that looked like it could punch through my chest and a couple of the hulls behind me. Before I could reach for my sidearm, the weapon flashed, and a round slammed into my chest armor with enough force to launch me backward onto the vat. The duraglass cover shattered, and I plunged into the viscous, glowing goo before consciousness mercifully fled.

I expected to wake up on the familiar regen slab at Orbituary Station, where my last imprint had been recorded. That depressingly kind-of sterile room with its antiseptic smell and the medical tech who always seemed annoyed at having to process another idiot who'd gotten themselves killed. Instead, I cracked open eyes that felt like they'd been sandblasted to discover a dimly lit cell. I groaned, wiping dried goo from my broken visor that crumbled away in a final bioluminescent flash before becoming just more grime on the floor of what was obviously a pirate ship's holding pen.

It turned out I wasn't alone in my misery. A Banu dressed in what had once been an immaculate white coat helped me sit up, triggering a blast of pain that reminded me with crystal clarity of the shotgun blast that had introduced itself to my chest armor. Each breath felt like inhaling broken glass.

...continued in part 2