Transport requests were a dime a dozen if you went looking for them.
But ships capable of hauling a large load in one go while operating freelance were few and far between.
There were merchants whose operations weren't big enough to hire the major shipping companies, and shippers who just wanted to fill gaps in their schedule as quickly as possible. Those kinds of clients had no choice but to break their cargo into small lots and post individual requests.
A mountain of these small-lot requests was currently displayed on my terminal screen.
The pay for any single one was a pittance. However, there were ways to make it work.
I tapped at the screen and contacted a merchant who had posted multiple small requests.
"Your credit score with the Mercenary Management Organization is... well, to be honest, it’s not very impressive."
On the other side of the display, the merchant pulled a sour face.
Well, that made sense. I was as green as they come.
But I couldn't afford to back down now.
"Take a look at my ship's specs. I guarantee the cargo capacity. I can take all thirty-two of the requests you’ve posted for the Asteria System at once. The savings on processing fees alone wouldn't be anything to scoff at, right?"
"Oh?"
"Besides, I’ve got a referral from the merchant guild I helped out on my last job. Please, take a look."
I sent over the data provided by the merchant I’d dealt with previously.
Attached was a combat record stating that the Sperm Whale had undertaken a solo mission and repelled a pirate group, including a medium-sized vessel, without sustaining any damage.
I saw the merchant’s eyes widen slightly.
Ship specs and a baseline proof of combat capability. That was more than enough.
"...I see. It would certainly be less of a headache than hiring several different pilots. Very well, let’s wrap these all into a single contract."
Negotiation successful.
◇
Now that I had the advance payment in hand, my first priority was replenishing my equipment.
"...This much for a single missile?"
Standing at the weapon merchant's counter, I crossed my arms and let out a low groan.
It wasn't that I couldn't afford it. With a balance of 2.8 million credits, I had plenty of breathing room.
However, it wasn't an amount I could just fire off into the void lightheartedly.
"What’s the verdict? They’re military surplus, so the performance is guaranteed," the shopkeeper said, rubbing his hands together.
As I hesitated, a cool, detached voice came from beside me.
"Master. I do not recommend this purchase."
It was Lucia.
"The price of a single missile is equivalent to approximately 15% of the net profit from this transport contract. Given the projected hit rate and the cost per kill, the Sperm Whale's current operational scale would result in a guaranteed deficit for every miss."
"...Ugh."
"Those 2.8 million credits are 'frozen funds' reserved for future refitting and emergency repairs. I believe it is a fundamental rule of management to cover daily ammunition costs with daily earnings."
Being struck with sound logic always hurt the most.
She was absolutely right. I could already see a future where that money bottomed out in the blink of an eye if I started dipping into it now.
"...I’ll pass for today. Just give me the live ammunition."
I shook my head.
I purchased rounds for the small-caliber Gauss cannons, along with a variety of metallic scrap that looked like it could be launched from a mass driver.
With these, I could spray as much lead as I wanted without feeling the sting in my wallet.
"What are you going to do with a bunch of scrap iron?"
The shopkeeper looked puzzled, but I just gave him a grin.
"A mass driver is an electromagnetic railgun. As long as the material is magnetic, it doesn't need to be a proprietary shell. Even a piece of junk can be launched at sub-light speeds. The power drops, sure, but it's more than enough for suppressive fire or clearing debris."
After leaving the weapons shop, we headed straight for a specialty store that dealt in industrial materials and resources.
Rugged parts and ore samples lined the shelves. I reached out and grabbed a single data card from a rack next to the register.
"And I’ll take this. The 'Basic Resource Processing Recipe Pack'."
This was physical media containing data for a replicator.
While military-grade ammunition recipes were locked behind licenses I couldn't buy, basic industrial recipes—ones that simply processed metal into ingots or spheres—were sold cheaply like this.
With this, I could use the ship's replicator to turn the scrap I’d just bought into "bullet shapes."
The first step toward a self-sufficient loop for live ammunition was complete.
"...I see. Securing combat endurance while minimizing costs. It is a rational decision."
Even Lucia seemed satisfied with that move.
Finally, I used the remaining money to purchase trade goods.
Aside from the items the client had specified, I picked up a few luxury items that Lucia's 'Trade Market Correction' predicted would "guaranteed to rise in price at our destination."
These kinds of small-time trades often added up to a surprising amount.
◇
It would be several hours after leaving the dock before we could begin charging the hyperdrive.
Once we entered a state of pure inertial navigation, the interior of the ship fell into an eerie silence.
Only the low, mechanical hum of the air conditioning reminded me that I wasn't floating in the cold vacuum of space.
I leaned back into the cockpit seat and stared up at the ceiling.
It was nothing but inorganic gray panels.
"...It’s so bleak in here."
I really wanted a bit more, well, habitability. Maybe something to kill the time.
Why couldn't I have thought of these things while I was still at the colony?
My stomach let out a loud growl.
The sound pulled my thoughts back to the present.
Forget the interior design—first, I needed to eat.
I opened the storage container stacked next to the newly installed sink.
It was packed with the rations I’d bought in bulk.
I pulled out a single, uninviting silver package.
'Manpuku Corporation Instant Risotto Cube.'
I couldn't just tear it open and start gnawing.
This was the type that had to be reconstituted with water.
I tossed it into a bowl, poured in some hot water, and waited for a few minutes.
The moment the water hit the cube, an ominous glug-glug sound echoed from the bowl.
The cube soaked up the moisture, expanding with a squishy, rhythmic movement as if it were a living creature.
The appearance... well, from a distance, it almost looked like risotto.
The problem, however, was the smell.
"...Ugh."
What wafted up with the steam wasn't the savory aroma of chicken or cheese.
It was a foul stench that punched my appetite right in the face—a mix of old modeling clay, rubbing alcohol, and damp dog hair boiled together.
The package claimed it was 'Rich Cheese Cream Flavor,' but I couldn't find a single trace of cheese in that scent. It was practically defamation against dairy products.
I held my breath, scooped some up with a spoon, and shoved it into my mouth.
"...Mmph."
It had a bizarre, rubbery texture.
Way too much elasticity.
It was like chewing on small, diced pieces of konjac.
It had a total lack of density that screamed its volume had been artificially inflated with water, yet it still put up a fight against my teeth. It was a terrifying feat of technology. But why?
And then, the moment I chewed, the "aroma" that traveled from the back of my throat to my nose delivered the final blow.
It had a chemical aftertaste like burnt plastic.
No matter how much I chewed, that familiar sweetness and starchiness of rice never arrived. Instead, there was only salt, the sting of chemical seasonings, and a sharp, industrial odor sliding over my tongue.
"...Well, I guess it’s edible."
If someone asked me if it tasted good, I’d shake my head until my neck snapped.
But was it so bad that I couldn't eat it? It was honestly irritating that, from a strictly nutritional standpoint, it barely passed as food.
I washed the rest of it down with water and let out a long sigh.
Once I got paid for this job, I was going to find some actual food.
When I reached the next station, I was absolutely going to eat a meal prepared by a human being.
I made that vow to myself as I forced the last of the "rubbery bits" into my mouth.
Well.
Now that my stomach was technically full (or at least tricked into feeling bloated), I suppose I should think more seriously about the ship's interior.
Maybe I could stick a poster of a cute girl on that depressing wall?
...No, that might actually be more unsettling.