“So what’s the plan?” Zog asked, glancing between Clorita and the flickering controls.

“We land on Scindus Prime,” Clorita replied, her tone firm. “We barter, scavenge, or beg if we have to. Anything to keep this ship running. Forget the credits for now—Otaceni is out of the question.”

“Barter?” Blip wagged his tail. “Does that mean we get to trade shiny stuff?”

Clorita shot him a flat look. “It means we survive. Barely.”

Zog sighed, gripping the controls. “Alright, Scindus Prime it is. Let’s hope this scrapyard lives up to its reputation.”

IND-E’s voice chimed in smoothly. “Ah, Scindus Prime. It is a paradise for scavengers, a nightmare for anyone who values cleanliness or sanity. LubriCoffee, anyone?”

Blip barked happily. “I’ll take mine extra shiny!”

Zog shook his head, adjusting the ship’s course. As the metallic surface of Scindus Prime loomed closer, the Indifference shuddered ominously, its stabiliser already threatening to give out.

“Just hold together,” Zog muttered, his hands tightening on the controls. “We’re almost there.”

The cockpit of The Indifference was unusually calm as Clorita worked on the console, navigating through the dizzying maze of forms from Otaceni's Ministry of Virtual Transactions. The planet was nowhere near its current position, but the banking system was notoriously accessible—if you had patience.

“Alright,” Clorita said, her tone clipped. “The good news is, we can withdraw up to 200,000 credits without physically going to Otaceni.”

“Fantastic!” Zog said, grinning. “What’s the catch?”

“The catch,” Clorita continued, “is that it requires thirty-seven permits from the Ministry of Virtual Transactions. Standard procedure.”

Zog groaned. “How long is that going to take?”

IND-E’s voice crackled through the speakers. “Roughly twenty Otaceni years. The planet’s time dilation translates to seven Earth minutes.”

“Seven minutes?” Zog blinked. “That’s… weirdly manageable.”

Blip barked happily. “Seven minutes? That’s like, two naps!”

Clorita rolled her eyes. “Fine. Let’s get this over with. IND-E, start the process.”

The console screen lit up with a dizzying array of digital forms. A progress bar appeared at the top, crawling forward at a snail’s pace.

“Permit 1 of 37: Processing…”, the Otaceni Ministry System app counted.

IND-E’s voice cut in. “This would be an excellent time for LubriCoffee, wouldn’t you agree?”

Zog sighed, slumping back into his chair. “Fine. Coffee break.”

Clorita sighed but reached for the brewing station, pouring three oily, shimmering liquid mugs. Blip wagged his tail, sniffing excitedly at the cups.

“Sorry, Blip,” Zog said, handing a mug to Clorita. “You’re already hyper enough.”

“Rude,” Blip muttered, flopping down with a huff.

The crew sat in relative silence, sipping their LubriCoffee as the console buzzed with the slow march of progress.

The Otaceni Ministry System app kept counting: “Permit 17 of 37: Processing…”

“So,” Zog began, staring at his cup, “why does a planet with ten-second years even need bureaucracy?”

Clorita shrugged. “Time may move faster, but bureaucracy always finds a way to slow things down.”

Stolen novel; please report.

Blip barked. “Maybe those guys do it for fun!”

Zog shot him a look. “Nobody does bureaucracy for fun.”

The app calmly continued: “Permit 29 of 37: Processing…”

IND-E chimed in, smug as ever. “It is fascinating how, even across galaxies, paperwork remains the ultimate universal constant.”

Clorita sipped her coffee. “That, and idiots.”

As the last seconds ticked by, the progress bar finally filled to completion. The console pinged brightly.

Finally, the Otaceni Ministry System app stopped counting: “All 37 permits approved. Transaction complete. Two hundred thousand credits have been transferred to your account.”

Zog nearly choked on his coffee. “It worked?”

“Of course, it worked,” Clorita said, setting her cup down. “It’s bureaucracy. It might be slow, but it gets the job done.”

IND-E chimed in. “Congratulations, Captain Nemo. You’re now a wealthy windbag. Shall I prepare another round of coffee to celebrate?”

Blip barked. “Let’s go shopping!”

Zog stood, adjusting his belt. “Alright, we’ve got 200,000 credits. That should be more than enough to get the parts we need.”

Clorita leaned back in her chair, smirking faintly. “Just remember, we’re shopping on a scrapyard planet. Credits or not, we’re still at the mercy of whoever’s running the market.”

“Great,” Zog muttered. “Nothing like getting gouged on spare parts.”

Blip wagged his tail, bouncing toward the hatch. “Come on, come on! Let’s see what shiny stuff they’ve got!”

IND-E’s voice followed them as the crew prepared to disembark. “LubriCoffee, anyone? You’ll need it to survive the haggling.”

The Indifference entered Scindus Prime’s atmosphere with a shudder that rattled every bolt in its hull. Outside, the planet’s surface stretched like a metallic desert, glittering under a hazy, smog-choked sky. Towering piles of junk loomed like mountains, their edges sharp and pointy, while massive conveyor belts slowly carried scraps from one heap to another.

The ship groaned as Zog fought with the controls to find a flat spot to land among the wreckage. “Hold together,” he muttered, condense dripping from his brow. “Just a little longer…”

Blip wagged his tail nervously. “This place looks like a chewing hazard.”

“Forget chewing hazards,” Clorita snapped, gripping the armrest of her seat. “I’m more worried about landing hazards.”

The ship jolted violently as it skimmed over a mountain of old spaceship hulls. Sparks flew from the undercarriage, and an alarm blared.

“Warning,” IND-E announced dryly. “Hull integrity compromised. Perhaps I should initiate the ‘Prepare for Crash’ protocol? LubriCoffee, anyone?”

“Not helping!” Zog shouted.

With a final lurch, the Indifference touched down on a relatively clear patch of ground. The landing gear groaned in protest, sinking slightly into the rust-coloured dirt.

Zog slumped back in his chair, exhaling sharply. “We’re down. Barely.”

Blip barked, his tail wagging cautiously. “Do we call that a landing or a crash?”

Clorita unbuckled herself, already checking the systems. “Let’s just call it survival. Now let’s see what this scrapyard has to offer.”

The market on Scindus Prime was a chaotic labyrinth of makeshift stalls, each stacked high with rusting machinery, outdated gadgets, and half-disassembled robots. The air was thick with the acrid tang of burning metal, punctuated by the occasional hiss of acidic rain hitting hot scrap.

A Scindus merchant clattered toward them, his metallic body a patchwork of mismatched plating and exposed wiring. His glowing eyes blinked asynchronously, and he rubbed his spindly hands together as he approached.

“Welcome, welcome!” the merchant chirped, his voice crackling like a poor radio signal. “Looking for parts? Rare treasures? Or perhaps a story to go with your purchase?”

“We’re looking for a stabiliser,” Clorita said flatly. “Mark VII.”

“Ah, stabilisers,” the merchant said, nodding sagely. “I have just the thing! But first, let me show you something extraordinary. A relic of ancient history!”

He gestured grandly to a pile of battered equipment. Amidst the rusted debris was a long, cylindrical object covered in faded markings. The merchant crouched beside it, his tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “This, my friends, is Voyager 1.”

Zog blinked. “Voyager… 1?”

The merchant straightened up, clasping his hands. “An artefact from a tiny, unremarkable planet called Earth. The species that found it—can’t remember what they called themselves, something with too many vowels—picked it up while it drifted through the Milky Way.”

“It was still working?” Zog asked, his circuits buzzing with curiosity.

“Indeed!” the merchant said, nodding enthusiastically. “Its transmitter was sending back footage of what it saw on the trip.

Blip tilted his head. “So, what’d they do with it?”

The merchant grinned, his teeth flashing like broken cogs. “Oh, they connected the transmitter to an intergalactic stream of “Milky Way’s most boring travels, hooked it up to a solar panel on a space rock so it could keep broadcasting for eternity.” The footage—endless streams of nothing but stars on a black backdrop—is completely devoid of excitement. But strangely hypnotic.”

“And the rest?” Clorita asked, already sounding unimpressed.

“They stripped it for parts, of course,” the merchant chirped. “What you see here is what was left behind. Yours for a reasonable price!”

Blip sniffed at the rusted cylinder. “It smells old.”

“It is old!” the merchant said, offended. “But still historic. Imagine owning a piece of Earth’s legacy!”

Clorita waved a hand dismissively. “We’re not here for history lessons. Take us to the stabilisers.”