Clorita lunged, grabbing the tool from Blip’s mouth and sliding back to the reactor. Her hands moved faster than ever, connecting wires and jamming the makeshift stabiliser into place. Sparks flew, and the crystals pulsed brighter, casting eerie shadows across the room.
“Zog!” she barked. “Hold the containment field steady!”
Zog gritted his teeth, his circuits buzzing as he braced against the sparking reactor. “It’s not going to hold much longer!”
“Twenty seconds,” IND-E said, almost gleefully.
Blip darted around the room, barking. “Is this the part where we explode? Because it feels like the part where we explode.”
“Blip!” Zog yelled. “Shut up!”
Condense dripped from Zog’s brow as the ship groaned under the strain. Clorita jammed the scrap metal into place, sparks flying in every direction. The reactor’s hum reached a deafening crescendo.
“Ten seconds,” IND-E said smoothly. “Nine. Eight—”
“IND-E,” Clorita growled, “if you keep counting, I swear—”
“Seven. Six—”
With a final, forceful twist, Clorita slammed the stabiliser into place. The reactor let out a low hum, the crystals pulsed one last time, and then—silence. The lights stabilised, and the ship stopped shaking.
The crew collapsed onto the floor, panting and covered in soot.
“Did we…?” Zog asked, looking around.
“We didn’t explode,” Blip announced, flopping onto his back. “I call that a win.”
Clorita stood, brushing soot off her frame. “The reactor’s stable—for now. But we’ll need proper parts if we want this thing to last.”
IND-E’s voice crackled back, smooth as ever. “Well, that was invigorating. LubriCoffee, anyone?”
Zog groaned, rubbing his face. “I hate this ship.”
Blip wagged his tail. “I love this ship.”
Clorita smirked faintly. “Let’s get to the next planet before it kills us.”
The cockpit of The Indifference hummed with the gentle thrum of the newly stabilised crystals, though the air still carried the tension from their recent near-explosion. Zog sat in the captain’s chair, staring at the flickering star map on the console.
“Alright, SPAZE,” he said, tapping a button on the panel. “We need a planet with spare parts—something we can use to fix the stabiliser for good. Suggestions?”
SPAZE’s chipper voice filled the room: “Searching nearby systems… Ah! The closest planet capable of meeting your needs is Scindus Prime.”
“Scindus Prime?” Clorita leaned over the console, her glowing eyes narrowing. “That doesn’t sound promising.”
“Scindus Prime is renowned for its extensive scrapyard ecosystem, offering a vast selection of spare parts for intergalactic travellers. A treasure trove of mechanical ingenuity awaits you!” SPAZE announced almost proudly.
Blip barked, wagging his tail. “Treasure trove? That sounds fun!”
“Scrapyard ecosystem?” Clorita repeated, her voice laced with scepticism. “It sounds like a dumping ground for junk.”
“Oh, but such versatile junk! Where one traveller sees waste, another sees opportunity. Scindus Prime is known for its extensive merchant network and, of course, the iconic Rust Warden who maintains planetary order,” SPAZE replied.
Zog scratched his head. “Rust Warden? That doesn’t sound friendly.”
“Oh, the Rust Warden is quite effective at ensuring fairness and security for all visitors! There’s only a 16.4 per cent chance of permanent disassembly during your visit,” SPAZE responded.
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“Sixteen per cent?” Zog’s circuits buzzed nervously. “That’s… not nothing.”
Blip barked again. “I like those odds!”
Clorita folded her arms, her expression flat. “We don’t have time for this. If the stabiliser doesn’t hold, we’ll end up drifting into a star. And you want to gamble on a scrapyard planet with something called a Rust Warden?”
“If you prefer, I can continue searching, but I must inform you that Scindus Prime is the most cost-effective option within a three-lightyear radius,” the galactic route planner said.
Clorita sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Cost-effective? Great. We’ll probably end up trading a working part for something even worse.”
“Come on,” Zog said, trying to sound upbeat. “It could be fun. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?”
Blip barked. “We blow up?”
“Helpful as always, Blip,” Clorita muttered.
“Shall I set your course for Scindus Prime? It promises to be an unforgettable experience,” SPAZE asked.
Zog hesitated, glancing at Clorita. “We don’t have much choice.”
Clorita’s shoulders sagged slightly, but she nodded. “Fine. But if this goes south, I’m blaming you.”
“Blame away,” Zog said, tapping the control panel. “SPAZE, set the course. Scindus Prime, here we come.”
The lights flickered briefly as the ship lurched into motion, and IND-E’s voice crackled over the speakers.
“Scindus Prime,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Where dreams go to rust. LubriCoffee, anyone?”
The cockpit buzzed with subdued activity as The Indifference hurtled toward Scindus Prime. Clorita, seated at the main console, stared intently at the screen displaying their remaining balance.
“Zog,” she said, her tone sharp, “how much did you say we had left?”
“About 85 credits, last I checked,” Zog replied, busy fiddling with the navigation controls. “Why?”
“Because,” Clorita said slowly, “the account says we have… 1,089,326 credits.”
Zog froze. “What?”
Blip perked up from his spot on the floor, his tail wagging. “What’s a million?”
Zog wheeled around in his chair, scrambling to lean over Clorita’s shoulder. “Are you sure? Did we get hacked? Is SPAZE running ads again?”
“I’m positive,” Clorita replied, her eyes narrowing. “The account activity shows a deposit into a savings account. With interest.”
IND-E’s voice crackled over the speakers. “Fascinating. Who in their right mind would trust a galactic bank with this ship’s finances?”
Blip barked, his tail wagging faster. “Oh! I did something with the credits! It was fun.”
Clorita’s fingers froze mid-typing. She turned slowly to Blip, her expression unreadable. “What did you do, Blip?”
Blip tilted his head innocently. “I pressed the shiny buttons on the electronic wallet! It made a beep, and then a ‘ping!’ I thought I was playing a game.”
“A game?” Zog repeated, his circuits buzzing with alarm. “What kind of game?”
“The kind with numbers,” Blip said proudly. “And the wallet said something about savings. So I put it on a planet called… uh… Otaceni?”
Clorita blinked. “Otaceni? Isn’t that the planet where a year is—”
“Ten seconds,” IND-E interjected smoothly. “Their economy is built entirely on rapid compounding interest. Ingenious, really.”
Zog slumped back into his chair. “So… you’re telling me Blip accidentally turned our 85 credits into over a million by depositing it in a bank on a planet with absurd time dilation?”
“Looks that way,” Clorita said, still staring at the screen. “The bank account logs show that interest has been compounding for the equivalent of two million years Earth time.”Just a thought.”
Blip barked happily. “I’m a genius!”
“Okay,” Zog said, sitting up straighter. “This is good, right? We’ve got over a million credits. That means we can buy everything we need on Scindus Prime.”
Clorita pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling sharply. “It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?” Zog asked, frowning. “We’re rich!”
“Because Otaceni is notorious for its bureaucracy,” Clorita replied, folding her arms. “To access the money, we’d need to go there personally and verify our identity through their Banking Ministry. And by ‘verify,’ I mean to fill out an absurd number of forms, attend hearings, and probably sit through a ceremonial goat dance.”
Blip perked up. “Goats? I like goats.”
“Otaceni’s on the other side of the galaxy,” Clorita continued, ignoring him. “There’s no way our stabiliser will hold for that long. We’d burn out the reactor halfway there.”
Zog slumped back in his chair. “So… a million credits are useless?”
IND-E’s voice crackled through the speakers, sounding uncharacteristically chipper. “Not entirely! Otaceni allows for limited online withdrawals, up to 200,000 credits.”
“Really?” Zog said, perking up. “That’s perfect!”
“Unfortunately,” IND-E continued gleefully, “you’ll need all thirty-seven permits from Otaceni’s Ministry of Virtual Transactions to release the funds. A process that takes twenty Otaceni years.”
Zog frowned. “Twenty years? Isn’t a year there only ten seconds?”
“Correct,” IND-E replied. “Which means three and a half Earth minutes. Unless the Banking Ministry classifies the transaction as ‘administratively complex,’ in which case the review process doubles to forty Otaceni years.”
Blip barked happily. “That’s seven minutes! That’s not bad!”
“It is bad,” Clorita snapped, cutting him off. “We’re not waiting seven minutes for a maybe. We’re almost at Scindus Prime and running on borrowed time as it is. The stabiliser could fail any second.”