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Musings of a Space Trucker

It’s relaxing, doing what I do. Pick up cargo on distant relays, popping by ‘stations and lighthouses. Half the time, drones intercept my course with cargo, and we’re slingshotting off to the next drop off.

It’s relaxing. Beautiful. Lonely in a.. blissful sort of way. I sit, read, listen. My ship flies herself with prowess and grace, a trillion tons of hyperstrong glass, synth-chitin dark as midnight waves. Engines with hungry obsidian as black hole energies ripple and dance. I carry enough food to feed a thousand solar systems, enough bullets to fell a hundred billion soldiers, enough ore to build fifteen dyson shells.

Cargo hallways and storage spaces so vast they have their own silent, ghastly weather. Repair bays that could build cities with a flick of a lightscreen. Matter-weavers, forging cathedrals. On and on. A ship so immense she can drag comets and asteroids and half-worlds into looping, unsteady orbits. When we arrive in a System, our warptrail shines like a violet-crimson Star. Beautiful.

I love my job.