Rusty Space Junk

The cockpit of the SS Dumper smelled awful. It was the smell of a life spent picking up other people's leftovers. Pete sat in the pilot's chair, but he wasn't piloting. He was adjusting his headband. It was neon pink. It clashed with the grey metal and the flickering lights of the dashboard. Outside the thick glass, the asteroid belt looked like a bunch of dirty potatoes floating in a dark soup. It was Spring in the ship's calendar. That meant the vents pumped out a fake smell of cut grass. It didn't help. The grass smell just made the wet dog smell seem more suspicious.

"Pete," V-9 said. The robot was shaped like a trash can with spider legs. He was currently polishing a bolt on the floor. "The sensors are twitching. We are supposed to be scanning for scrap iron. Not staring at your own reflection in the tablet."

"I'm not staring, V. I'm visualizing," Pete said. He adjusted the tablet. It was propped up against the emergency brake. On the screen, a beat-up music app was open. A synth-heavy track started to play. It sounded like a robot having a hiccup, but with a catchy rhythm. Pete liked it. He loved it. It was his ticket out of the trash business.

"Visualizing what? Unemployment?" V-9 asked. The robot's red eye-light flickered. "The company needs twelve tons of debris by Tuesday. We have three. And a half. The half is a broken toaster I found near Jupiter."

"Vibes, V. You wouldn't get it," Pete said. He stood up. The cockpit was small. He had to be careful. He started to move his feet. Slide, tap, click. It was the 'Solar Flare' dance. It was trending on Mars. If he could just nail the transition from the moonwalk to the gravity-drop, his followers would double. Maybe triple. He might even get a sponsor for better hair gel.

"Your heart rate is rising," V-9 noted. "Are you having a medical event? Should I deploy the emergency smelling salts? They are expired, but they still have a bit of a kick."

"I'm dancing!" Pete shouted. He swung his arms. He felt the music. The synth went bloop-bloop-whirr. Pete spun. He felt like a star. He felt like he wasn't in a rusty bucket full of garbage. He was on a stage. There were lights. There were screaming fans. He reached out for a high note, his hand sweeping across the control panel in a grand gesture of artistic passion.

Thunk.

It was a small sound. A heavy sound. It was the sound of a very important lever being pushed all the way down.

"Was that the cargo release?" V-9 asked. The robot stopped polishing the bolt.

Pete froze. His hand was still in the air. He looked at the dashboard. The big red light that said 'CARGO SECURE' was no longer red. It wasn't green either. It was off.

Outside the window, a large, rectangular box floated away. It was painted bright orange. It was the High-Value Tech Scrap they had spent three weeks chasing. It looked very peaceful as it drifted toward a giant asteroid.

"Oops," Pete whispered.

"Oops is not a technical term," V-9 said. The robot’s legs clicked rapidly on the floor. "That container held the prototype fusion cores. They are worth more than this ship. They are worth more than your life. They are certainly worth more than that song about a lonely moon."

"It’s called 'Lunar Loner,' and it’s a bop," Pete snapped, though his stomach felt like it had been replaced by a heavy rock. "I can get it back. I'll just... steer."

"You ejected the main thruster fuel alongside the cargo," V-9 said. A small screen on the robot's chest showed a big zero. "We are drifting, Pete. We are drifting in a very expensive, very smelly circle."

Pete sat back down. The headband felt tight. He looked at the orange box. It was getting smaller. "Maybe nobody saw?"

Suddenly, the ship shook. A loud, metallic clack echoed through the hull. A shadow fell over the cockpit. A ship was hovering above them. It was big. It was black. It had spikes on it. It didn't look like a trash-collecting ship. It looked like a ship that collected other ships.

"Pirates," V-9 said. "How exciting. I’ve always wanted to be disassembled for parts. I hear the black market is very appreciative of vintage copper wiring."

"Quiet," Pete said. His hands were shaking. A voice came over the radio. It was scratchy and deep.

"Unidentified hauler. This is Captain Kwan of the Stellar Scythe. You just threw a very shiny box at my windshield. I find that rude. And profitable. Open your docking bay, or I’ll start using your ship for target practice."

Pete looked at V-9. V-9 looked at Pete.

"Do the dance?" V-9 suggested. "Maybe they'll die of embarrassment."

"Shut up," Pete said. He hit the comms button. "Uh, Captain Kwan? Hey. Hi. Big fan. Listen, about the box. It was a gift? Like a... space greeting?"

"The docking bay, kid," Kwan’s voice growled. "Five minutes. Or I start shooting."

***

The airlock hissed. Pete stood in the cargo hold, which was now mostly empty and very cold. He held his tablet in one hand and a small, portable speaker in the other. V-9 stood behind him, his spider legs tucked in to look smaller.

Captain Kwan walked in. She was tall. She wore a jacket made of shiny green scales and had a scar across her nose that looked like a lightning bolt. She had two guards with her. They held blasters that looked very heavy and very ready to be used.

"Where is the rest of it?" Kwan asked. She looked around the empty hold. "You’re a trash hauler. Where’s the trash?"

"We... had a bit of an accident," Pete said. His voice was an octave higher than usual. "But listen, I know you’re looking for value. And I have something way better than fusion cores. Those things are dangerous. They leak. They’re a liability."

Kwan leaned in. She smelled like peppermint and rocket fuel. "What could possibly be better than fusion cores?"

Pete held up the tablet. "Art. Culture. The next big thing in the Martian underground scene."

One of the guards laughed. It was a dry, mean sound. "He’s giving us a tablet?"

"No," Pete said. He felt his face get hot. "I’m giving you a demo. This is my latest single. It’s called 'Nebula Nights.' It’s got a 120-BPM heart-thump and a bridge that will make you cry. In a cool way."

V-9 made a whirring noise. "I have calculated a 0.02 percent chance of this working. I suggest we start praying to the gods of spare parts."

"Quiet, V," Pete hissed. He looked at Kwan. "Just one listen. If you don't like it, you can take the ship. You can take the robot. You can even take my headband."

Kwan looked at the headband. She looked at Pete. She looked bored. "Play it."

Pete hit the play button. The speaker crackled. Then, the beat dropped. Thump-da-thump-whishhh. The synth melody started. It was bright and wavy. It filled the cold, empty cargo hold. Pete started to bob his head. He couldn't help it. It was a good beat.

Kwan didn't move. Her guards didn't move.

The song went on for three minutes. It felt like three years. Pete watched Kwan’s face. She didn't have an expression. She looked like a statue. When the music finally faded out, the silence was louder than the song had been.

"That," Kwan said, "was..."

"Bad?" V-9 asked. "I told him it was bad. I have a very refined ear for frequencies, and that was mostly garbage."

"That was catchy," Kwan said. She looked at her guards. One of them was tapping a finger against his blaster. "It’s been stuck in my head for thirty seconds and I already hate how much I like it."

Pete let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Right? It’s the hook. It’s the 'Nebula' hook."

"But," Kwan said, her eyes narrowing. "Anyone can make a recording. I’ve seen enough AI-generated slop to last a lifetime. I want to know if you’re real. I want to know if there’s a soul in that pink headband."

"I have a soul!" Pete said.

"Prove it," Kwan said. She stepped back and crossed her arms. "Sing it. Live. Right now. If you can’t hit the high notes, I’m taking the ship and leaving you on that asteroid with the orange box."

Pete’s heart stopped. "Live? Here?"

"The stage is yours, pop star," Kwan said. She pulled out a small chair from her belt and sat down. "Don't disappoint me. I have a very short attention span."

Pete looked at V-9. The robot looked back.

"Well?" V-9 said. "You wanted to be a sensation. Here is your audience. All three of them. Plus me, but I don't count because I don't have ears, only microphones."

Pete looked at the pirates. He looked at the empty space where his steady paycheck used to be. He looked at the tablet. This was it. The moment. He could be a trash hauler who died in a cold ship, or he could be a singer who might die in a cold ship.

He cleared his throat. It felt like it was full of sand. He hit the 'Instrumental Only' version of the track. The beat started again. He closed his eyes. He thought about the grass smell in the vents. He thought about the dirty potatoes in the sky.

He opened his mouth and began to sing.

At first, it was shaky. He missed the first note. The guards groaned. But then, he reached deep down. He thought about how much he hated picking up trash. He thought about the grind. He thought about how he just wanted to be somewhere else.

His voice got stronger. He hit the bridge. He hit the high note. It wasn't perfect, but it was loud. He did a little spin. He even did the moonwalk, and he didn't trip over a single bolt.

When he finished, he was sweating. His chest was heaving. He looked at Kwan.

She was quiet for a long time. Then, she stood up.

"You’re terrible," she said.

Pete’s heart sank.

"But," she continued, "you’re interesting. And in this galaxy, interesting is better than good. My crew needs a change of pace. We’re tired of stealing fusion cores. It’s stressful. The insurance is a nightmare."

She looked at Pete with a weird, bleak smirk. "How would you like a job, kid? Not hauling trash. Performing. We tour the outer rims. We play the rough bars. We rob the audience after the show, but hey, it’s a gig."

Pete blinked. "You want me to be a pirate singer?"

"I want you to be a distraction," Kwan said. "While you’re doing that stupid dance, my crew empties their pockets. You get a cut. You get a real stage. And we have a much better snack selection than this dump."

Pete looked at his ship. It was old. It was smelly. It was safe. It was a steady paycheck from a company that didn't know his name.

He looked at Kwan. She was dangerous. She was probably crazy. But she had a ship that didn't smell like wet dogs.

"What about V-9?" Pete asked.

"The trash can?" Kwan looked at the robot. "He can be the light technician. Or a footstool. We’ll see."

"I excel at light technology," V-9 said quickly. "I can blink my eye-light in sixteen different colors. It’s very rave-adjacent."

Pete took off the headband and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He looked at the dark soup of the asteroid belt. The fake grass smell suddenly seemed unbearable.

"Okay," Pete said. "I’m in."

"Good," Kwan said. She turned around and started walking toward the airlock. "Pack your stuff. We leave in ten minutes. And leave the toaster. We have standards."

Pete stood in the empty hold. He felt light. He felt terrified. He looked at the tablet.

"We’re really doing this?" V-9 asked, his spider legs twitching with nervous energy.

"We’re doing it," Pete said. "No cap."

He walked toward the cockpit to grab his favorite synth-keytar. He didn't look back at the orange box drifting away. He had a new setlist to write.

As he stepped onto the pirate ship, a new alarm began to blare from his old dashboard, warning of an incoming fleet.