How to Destroy Your Ship and Ruin Your Reputation (Elite: Dangerous)
In space, nothing is more important than your reputation. It is your calling card, how you present yourself to people. It determines the kind of jobs you will get, and the kind of pay you will receive. Reputation is something you spend your life building: you take on jobs that will give you experience, you work hard, make sacrifices, push yourself to the limit to become one of the best. And to reward all that effort, you are recognized as a fearless explorer, a deadly bounty hunter, or, in my case, the guy you call to fetch those experimental chemicals you lost over at Alrai Sector IC-U B3–1.
Transport a few tonnes of biowaste a couple of times, and your reputation, never mind the smell, follows you. So you do the dirty jobs, because fearless explorers and deadly bounty hunters can’t be bothered to do an actual day’s worth of work.
For days now, all I could smell was the stench of industrial solvents and cleaning chemicals. I was not sure what The Shocked Frog, the tavern at Galvani Terminal, smelled like, but judging by the patrons, I was happy not finding out. I signed in on the local bulletin board so prospective clients with job offers would be able to see my qualifications, took a beer from the rusty old bartender, and sat down. I then did what every other pilot looking for a job does, and stared blankly at the local Galnet news bulletin. Some call it the official ‘killing time while at port’ activity, followed closely by ‘killing brain cells on the local alcohols’ on second place, and ‘killing your intestinal flora trying the local food’ a close third.
The man who approached me was dressed smartly, slick black hair that looked like a single solid piece, and wearing a grin that almost circumnavigated his head. He walked in long strides, and something about him seemed odd, like he was wearing his own skin like a too tight fitting costume.
“Greetings, Commander!” He said cheerfully, taking a seat opposite me. “My name is Mr. Hayes, and I hear YOU are looking for a job, yes?” I noticed he didn’t shake my hand. “My partners and I at the, eermm, Pandra Central Corp. are in need of a highly experienced requisition agent, yes? And you, my good sir, errrmmm, come highly recommended!” He said. I highly doubted that. I had not pissed off anyone in this system yet.
“We are looking for a freelance agent, one who shares our values of discretion, in acquiring a certain something for us, yes? And I believe you are just the right, errmmm, pilot for the job.” His light yellow eyes bored into the back of my skull as he finished the sentence. So that’s what it was about. Discretion. When it came to working, it was either my ability to haul shit, or my almost complete anonymity in the system, that got any attention. I took it as a compliment and agreed to the offer.
“Excellent!” He beamed, as I touched the screen he presented and made the contract official, and the information within it confidential. “What we have in store is an extremely, eemmm, time sensitive salvage mission. A convoy of ours seems to have been attacked by pirates, yes? It was carrying some experimental chemicals that we would hate to see fall into the wrong hands. We need you to find the wreckage and retrieve the, eerrmmm, canister. Clear? Great!” He said, not allowing me to utter a single word as he flipped his holo-tablet shut and got up in a single, fluid motion.
“One last thing, commander,” He said “Remember what I said about discretion? Those experimental chemicals will be considered, errmmm, illegal salvage by the local authorities, yes? Best of luck, commander!” He turned and left, leaving me holding my beer halfway between the table and my mouth, unsure what exactly had just happened.
I took the station transport toward the landing pad my ship was docked in. I always got assigned the worst places, like the pad that made it tricky to land by being too close to the station gate, or the one where you had to ride the transport tram for half an hour to the darkest, most remote part of the station. Looking at the Galaxy map, I set navigation to the system where the cargo ship had last been heard of. Salvage operations that only required you to jump one system over were usually cushy jobs. A short FSD hop, supercruise keeping your eyes out for signal sources, and pray it’s not a trap set up by pirates. Getting the salvage is usually the easy part. Getting it back can be trickier. The local authorities like to scan ships approaching the station, and the place itself will give your cargo a good look if you fly in too slowly. Penalties for getting caught are not so bad if you are a first timer and what is in your hold. Usually you get off with a fine. But do it enough times, and those trigger happy security officers start seeing you as target practice.
Paying for the fine comes out of your own pocket. Refuelling and maintenance come out of your own pocket. Supplies, meals, and junk food are also expenses that no one covers when taking up a job. Everything starts to add up, which is why pilots start to get resourceful. For example, if you have a fuel scoop module installed on your ship, you could, theoretically, never pay for fuel again. Fly close to a star and fill up your tank with hydrogen gathered from the star’s corona. Ships outfitted for exploration won’t leave station without it. Cheap pilots who have been stranded in space with an empty tank, like yours truly, will put one even if they don’t need it.
The downside of the fuel scoop is that instead of risking freezing to death while out of gas, you risk melting your ship trying to fill up your tank. Apparently, everything in space can be reduced to slow and painless or quick and painful, or any combination of the both. So, experimental chemicals in tow, I fired up my Frame Shift Drive and zoomed off to Galvani Terminal to deliver my illicit cargo. But not without first trying out my newly installed Fuel Scoop.
It is vitally important for pilots to carefully consider what modules they install on their ships, and are versed in how to operate them to their maximum capacity. I, unsurprisingly, had no clue as to how to operate a fuel scoop other than ‘fly close to a star and keep an eye on your heat meter’. As soon as I was close enough, my heads up display lit up with a notification showing how much hydrogen I was collecting, how fast, and my heat levels. It wasn’t too hard. I throttled up to scoop a bit faster. I had illicit cargo, after all, and was in somewhat of a hurry.
Do you know how fast heat builds up in a ship flying close to a star? I had no idea. So imagine my surprise when temperatures jumped from 70% to 90% in under five seconds, and my systems started to smoke. Temperature hit 100% and kept rising as I angled away from the star and hit the throttle to get as far away as possible. Sparks started flying, alarms blaring, smoke filled the cabin as the temperature kept rising and if there was a meter for it, my panic would be reaching borderline levels.
I could hear my ship creaking and groaning as I limped away from the star. The inside of my ship felt like a busted station gas vent, full of smoke and heat. I avoided talking a close look at my systems for fear of further breaking something or realizing how much I would have to pay in repairs. So much for saving a couple of hundred credits in fuel.
Despite all the noxious gasses and flashing warning lights, my ship still flew. I dropped out of supercruise nine kilometres away from the station, and slowly made my way to dock, not caring if security forces scanned me or not. I wasn’t about to do some reckless manoeuvre with my ship falling apart as it was. The authorities must have taken pity on me, since I made it to dock without an incident. As soon as I touched down I dialled in the unloading services, but decided to postpone the damage check to sometime after I had gotten paid and was reasonably drunk to cope with it.
Mr Hayes stepped into The Shocked Frog a few minutes after I contacted him. His Cheshire smile flickered for a fraction of a second when he saw the condition I was in, and like that it was back, ear to ear as he approached me. I was covered in sweat and soot stains, which made me fit right in with the rest of the clientele. He didn’t bother sitting down this time, just produced a small tablet from his coat pocket and presented it to me. I signed off the cargo to him through his secure channels, and I saw a modest sum go into my account.
“You did good, Commander, real good, yes?” he said, his tablet vanishing into his coat. “This stuff sells quite well in certain, eerrm…, unsanctioned markets. Your share, of course, in your account. Pandra Central Corp. is grateful for your services. Let me know if you are, eerrm, looking for a job, yes?” And like that, he turned and left.
What I had earned would barely be enough to handle the repairs. Depending on the damage, really. My ship was fine, I figured. Cobras are resilient chunks of metal, and things often look worse than they really are. Most of the time it’s just a question of tightening a few bolts, soldering some bits here and there, and good as new. Smokes and sparks make everything look worse than it really is. I flew back to station fine, didn’t I?
“Your ship is junked” The mechanic said bluntly.
“What do you mean junked?” I asked, as if language comprehension was another thing I had not quite mastered yet.
“I mean every system, module and component is damaged, burnt, shorted out or broken in one way or another. To be honest, I’m surprised you could fly that thing into the station.” The mechanic said, with the tact and gentleness of an irritated hippopotamus.
I came up with a list of reasons why he, a professional at his job, must be wrong and should trust the opinion of the pilot who killed his ship through sheer incompetence. The mechanic was having none of it. “You’re not understanding,” He said “Your ship is a half-molten heap of junk metal. Even if you replace all the modules that cannot be fixed, and repair all the ones that can, you would end up paying almost double what a new one costs. Cut your losses, sell the scrap, and be thankful you made it this far alive.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do now?” I asked, not directly to him, more to myself out of sheer desperation.
“Tell you what,” The mechanic said. “I’ll take the junked Cobra out of your hands. I have a Diamondback Explorer you can take. 15% off, plus what you get for your broken down ship. How does that sound?”
“Diamondback Explorer? Do I look like an explorer to you? What am I supposed to do with that?” I asked, trying to keep my voice from betraying my fear of deep, uncivilized space.
“Listen, man. It’s all I’ve got for you. It’s got a bit of cargo space on it. You won’t be doing some heavy trading, but unless you want to fly out of here on a second-hand Sidewinder, or have a couple of million in your account for one of those high end ships, you are out of luck, friend.”
I should have learnt how to use a fuel scoop before trying it out for the first time. I almost die in space by running out of fuel, almost get killed trying to scoop fuel by flying close to a star. And now my ship was junked and I was out of choices.
Well, I guess this ugly thing will have to do.
