Every civilization has a period in its history when piracy flourishes; unfortunately, these days there are far too many lawyers.

It turns out that a galactic civilization that has (for the most part) "solved" all its problems has little need for piracy. The once viable and thriving economic niche begins to recede when FTL technologies lead to relatively little time spent out and about the stars, and much more time spent sitting in various space docks sorting out vast amounts of paperwork required for the interstellar importation of anything.

However, this is not to say that piracy is dead. The galactic community at large realized that a vast portion of its incredibly diverse population would stand to benefit with just a bit more excitement in their lives, and gave its blessing to many once criminal acts, as long as all laws were obeyed. This is to say, they didn't do much of anything except turn a blind eye to those who were particularly good at finding loopholes and weaving their way through them. Especially as long as it didn't inconvenience the wrong people, and made for excellent stories in the morning news-papers/information-streams/strings/beans/cats. The development of news-cats is considered to be one of the most impactful events across many stellar civilizations, and their dominance in pirate-related reporting is cited as a major driving force behind their meteoric rise to power.

Unfortunately, these expectations regarding the commit of crime necessitated the development of many newly specialized roles. Once a smuggler only needed to know who to bribe and how to hide a few extra crates of "What? These? I have no idea what could be inside them officer!", but now they must be exemplary scholars of interstellar agreements on trade and bribery. Some have it even harder. Pickpockets now must resort to esoteric definitions of "pockets" and "picking". Your average cutthroat has been reduced to trimming hair, feathers, mucus, scales, or worse from even more esoteric definitions of "throats". Corrupt politicians? Immoral lawyers? Well, they're about the same as they've always been, really.

But not all is lost! Pirates, largely in part due to the incredible complexity of moving goods between stars (concerning local regulations and customs at least, as the FTL part is quite easy once you get the hang of it), have found themselves with a whole new metaphorical ocean to traverse! And a literal one, if one subscribes to a creative definition of "ocean".

With careful armaments of legal insight, dubious loopholes, smidgens of violence, and (unfortunately) skilled lawyers on call should things get "exciting", your average buccaneer experiences nearly the same level of the endearing pursuit of glory and wealth as their ancestors did a thousand or so years ago!

On a side note, large-scale organized crime has also been doing surprisingly well, but most have moved on from the "crime" aspect of things by lobbying the aforementioned politicians and lawyers into making such activities "not-crime".

Regardless, a new age of piracy dawns. Yes, one mostly defined by lengthy court proceedings with phone-in juries for those that occur far from civilization (or in rare cases, juries brought out of stasis rather confused as to where, why, and who they are), but still, one with plenty of excitement and potential once the lawyer gets distracted!

Often, it only needs a bit of a push to get things going.

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Across The Lazy Descent's bow, several large-standard-distant-units away, a blip hurtled at a ludicrous "Did you just see that?" speed. In a less than a "No?" it was nothing more than a rapidly fading passive sensor return.

"What was it?"

"An asteroid, I think?"

Before the on-duty sensor technician could pull up the logs to make a more educated guess, a heavy active sensor ping rattled the ship's shields. Of course, on the ship itself, it was nothing more than a little notification marked with an "URGENT" priority on the screen of the supposedly on-duty and very much asleep communications officer, who wasn't even within the proximity of the bridge. A second soon followed. It's worth noting that the notification also appeared the the captain's viewport, and on his communication device, and it would have also appeared on his integrated bio-overview had the Captain not been incapacitated due to a rather rowdy previous night of sampling the various goods they were hauling. Not hauling with the intention of selling of course, but rather with the intention of becoming absolutely plastered on nights such as the last.

"It seems too dense to be an asteroid," said the sensor tech, who remained oblivious to the little blinking box that would have answered their questions.

"Hm, well maybe it's some scrap then?" answered the ship's reportedly harmless, but not armless, on-board security, in the same way one asks a question. Affixed to the center of a hundred or so arms sat a faded deputy's badge, upon which sat the word "DEWEY". Presumably the name of the grey ball of arms. Unfortunately for us, the sensor tech's similar name tag lay forgotten under a pile of discarded clothes. Not that you would have been able to read it anyway, infernal scripts are notoriously difficult to visually parse.

"No, I don't think it was that either, the shape is too uniform... It was too far to get a good read on it." This of course was not the case. It was simply too far to get a good read on it if one didn't know how to properly manage the sensor logs.

"Maybe it will come back and you'll be able to this time."

The number on the blinking notification box ticked up to 19. When it clicked over to 20, another second blip raced across the screen, and if the ship had had windows it would have been visible, even to the sensor tech's poor eyesight, as a dark silver blur.

"Well, would you look at that, there it is!"

"That was less than a small-standard-distance-unit from us! Where are these coming from?"

For those more familiar with FTL-capable vessels, you would know that almost every single one is equipped with an AI mind which typically would answer such questions. When deep in the traverse of space one can hardly rely on the slow and error-prone minds of squishy biologicals. The Lazy was no exception, except for the fact that the Captain had placed the AI mind into a very restrictive "silence, do not disturb me, or anyone else" mode of operation. This was mostly because the Captain was not what one would consider "bright", but his justification for the gag order was that the AI wouldn't stop informing him, and everyone aboard, in a rather annoying chirp every time he broke an intergalactic law.

The AI had been saving these chirps for when it was un-silenced. By now it figured it could deafen roughly half of the hearing-capable species on board by releasing all the chirps at once.

The sensor tech, whose name is a real pain to read so I will save you from it, frowned as they leaned closer to their display. It didn't help make the numbers any clearer, but it was a habit hard to unlearn.

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The notification bar now had a bold "50" blinking in red and other more exciting colors not visible to the human eye.

Dewey's lumbering multi-limbed mass began to circle the Captain's Pit as he thought. "Could we ask Alpha?"

"No, she's on lockdown remember?"

Alpha, if you couldn't guess, was the name for the ship's AI, which was generally accepted to be both a "she" and named "Alpha", but Alpha always thought of herself more as a "God" and less of a "her". However, she also thought of herself as a "he" even less so, so "she" would work fine until she could convince others to refer to her in more pious terms. She did like the name "Alpha", after all, she had chosen it herself and figured it was appropriate for one as grand as herself. The allusion (or possibly delusion) of grandeur Alpha cultivated wasn't exactly incongruous with a hyper-intelligent being capable of making a moon melt and glow with "careful" applications of the many lasers that dotted her current frame. However, it was classified as a potentially dangerous cognitive development for almost everyone, artificial intelligence or not and truly superior or not. Knowing this, Alpha kept her self-image, well, to herself.

"There's another one! No wait, two! They're real close now!"

This of course wasn't entirely true. In terms of the typical distances involved in space, they had started really close, and were now at a "turning the ship into melting slag" distance, at least given a rounding error.

"Bugger the lockdown, what if one of those things hits us?" Dewey mumbled as he clambered over to the Captain's large (and comfortable) beanbag. He could override the Captain's lockdown on Alpha from there. As he fumbled with the controls, the sensor technician didn't even glance up from their tablet. This was the most exciting thing to happen in a long time, and they refused to take their eyes off the fascinating "very large numbers" that estimated the objects' possible energies. The potential consequences of those blips making contact with the ship's hull hadn't even crossed their mind. In fairness, if they did make contact, it's not like they'd be bothered by it for long. Their synapses wouldn't even have time to fire by the time they turned into a fun physics problem.

"Oi, look-at-this" Dewey chittered as his many uniformly white eyes caught a glimpse of the notification bar blinking in infrared. It now sat a nice round "128+" new "URGENT" messages. Coincidentally probably the number of legs Dewey had. Setting a few of them onto the display, he deftly swiped through the ten or so remaining layers of options to disable the Captain's restrictions on Alpha. By now it was tentacled-foot-thing-muscle memory.

Finally free from the Captain's gag, thankfully without having to remove it herself, Alpha cleared her mental throat and gave a good shout across the bridge's speakers.

"It's PIRATES, you idiots! Turn on active sensors! They're port-side! Gods of the black why today of all days," she roared. Her voice rang out across every not "out of commission" communications apparatus, and due to the relatively small number of such functioning devices, it produced a peculiar echoing effect. The crew had a habit of painting over the visual and welding solid the audio means of ship communication, as it allowed them a bit of peace, as everyone would otherwise hear the chirps counting the Captain's legally dubious activities, or Alpha's often frivolous ship-wide announcements.

"Up and at them! You know the drill! This isn't one! Come on let's move!" she continued, growing increasingly louder so the commands would filter through to the ears of those who slept and had ears. Part of Alpha hoped that it would also filter through the several layers of inebriation that clouded the perception of a good 78% of the crew by her accounting, but as Alpha avoided foolish dreams, it wasn't a very strong hope.

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"What are they doing over there? We're practically licking them by now!" mewed the Captain of the Blood Black Bone; in Shiny Blood Red Letters Please. The ship's name was an unfortunate casualty of the Galaxy's increasingly complex bureaucracy, a swapped paint and name-change form, and a Captain who couldn't read the standard galactic script in which both were written. She had assumed that "Blood Back-Bone" must have been pretty hard to translate, and didn't question why there appeared to be twice as many symbols as needed. The name painted on the side had been done in shiny blood-red letters, but that happened to just be a coincidence by an overly artistic painter who had thought it would match the ship's overall black and red aesthetic. They weren't wrong.

The Captain, Mrs. P, stood roughly a foot or two tall and was adorable. At least to most human sentiments. With a big bushy tail, cat-like eyes, cat-like whiskers, cat-like paws, and a fluffed cat-like mane she was the model of feline perfection. She was somehow, more cat-like than a cat. She also was a cat, and while that may raise some questions in your mind, no one aboard thought much of it. Besides the few humans and some other "aw, I love cats" species aboard, no one treated Mrs. P any different from the bristling and somehow slimy alien-leather ball covered in needle-sharp spines that were Q, the Quartermaster of the Triple-B; in Shiny Blood Red Letters Please, as most of the crew referred to it.

Mewling again with blinding rage, Mrs. P swatted a ball of fluff attached at the end of a string as she lay on her back.

"Gah! How dare they ignore me! Do they think I'm not serious? We're pushing the legal limit with how close we're sending cannon balls across their nose!"

Trying her best not to give in a doey "aw", I-Have-Two-Arms (or Rebecca as her parents called her) stood at attention next to the Captain and said with assurance, "I'm certain they're not ignoring you, Captain. I believe that fear has paralyzed them. Your reputation must proceed you."

Mrs. P did certainly have one of those. She was famous for torturing those who had displeased her. They would often be forced to cater to her every whim until she grew tired of them. They had to dangle string, direct laser pointers, rub her cheeks, offer treats, and on many an occasion hold still as she stripped the skin from their flesh to sharpen her claws. They were allowed to scream, she quite liked that.

"Hmph" she puffed out, rolling onto her stomach. She rose to her feet (following one of the most precious stretches anyone would ever see) and hopped up onto the command table. Across it sat a vast array of cat-friendly buttons and interfaces. She flicked one off the table. It made a nice shattering sound, which pleased Mrs. P even though she knew it was simulated. As a communication window opened, Mrs. P briefly wiped both sides of her face to straighten her whiskers. Rebecca (or I-Have-Two-Arms as most of the alien crew called her) remained standing, relying on years of specialized training to keep her face relaxed. If you didn't take notice of her white knuckles and eyes leaking tears from the overload of cat cuteness, you would have never know the struggle that raged within her. Mrs. P was aware of the silent struggle and reveled in it.

"Hey yah Captain, what can I do for yah?" a poorly translated voice asked as Mrs. P looked down. The table was calibrated so she'd always look down on those she spoke to. She flicked her crimson tail.

"Are you certain we cannot pass a round through their shields to get their attention?" Mrs. P inquired. This was typically a question that one would have asked of the onboard lawyer, but Mrs. P had morals and standards that placed her above interacting with such deplorable filth.

"Mah-thinks wah'd bah in quite a pickle if wah tried" the voice replied, in an increasingly thick accent. The auto-translator must have gotten itself stuck in a loop again. It belonged to the gunnery master, who typically didn't have to do much, and often found themselves fiddling with their translators dialect settings. A single ball of high-density metal tossed at high speeds in front of a ship was typically enough to get their proper attention and fearful obedience. It was rare that the gunnery master had to do more than just shoot a single round. If the current rate of metal slinging kept up, they might have to vent some heat from the railgun coils.

The aforementioned deplorable filth (who was forced to sit in a corner at all times, which was rather difficult aboard a circular bridge) raised his head, met the eyes of Rebecca, and lowered it again. He had the answer, but so did the gunnery master, and he knew very well that he was only to speak when necessary. Mrs. P had promised not to shred another of his shirts, and he didn't want to risk raising her hair or ire.

"Oh Captain, look!" said Rebecca, pointing one of her three arms (the name really is a misnomer isn't it? And yes, she is human) at a blinking sphere. Mrs. P made a majestic leap in a streak of flush and crushed the ball between her paws.

At her feet, a large communication window flashed into life.

"Finally" Mrs. P mumbled under her breath. "I'm going to make these people pay FIFTEEN percent above fair rate!"