The shuttle ride away from Pyros was quiet, with half the team asleep and the other half focused on applying burn cream. The scent of sulfur faded, replaced by aloe and ozone.
Cal sat near the back, gazing out the viewport as the angry red orb of Pyros shrank into the starry background. His uniform was ruined, singed by ash and stained with violet dirt, but his arm felt surprisingly good. The heavy gravity had been a workout, but the lack of resistance in the shuttle's artificial atmosphere made him feel light, almost ghostly.
"Vibration," Gorth mumbled from the seat across the aisle. The giant Brontok was taking up three seats, munching on something that resembled a brick of glowing blue tofu. "My teeth still shake."
"You hit a triple, Gorth," Cal said, leaning back. "Stop complaining."
"Running is for prey," Gorth grunted, taking a big bite of the blue brick.
Nex walked down the aisle, tapping his datapad. He stopped at Cal's row.
"Check your datapad, Cal. Standard League procedure. Game checks clear as soon as we break orbit."
Cal pulled the slim glass tablet from his duffel bag and tapped the screen. A notification flashed in green:
PAYMENT RECEIVED: 4,500 CREDITS. (Deductions: 500 Credits - Union Dues, Uniform Replacement, Shuttle Snacks)
Cal frowned. "Four thousand five hundred? That's it?"
He calculated in his head from his minor league days. In the minors, he earned about $2,000 a month before taxes. If a credit was like a dollar, he'd just made two months' pay in one night. Not bad, but not 'Galactic Superstar' money.
"Don't spend it all in one sector," Nex said, moving on to check on Borp.
"We are docking at Transit Station 9 for a layover," the pilot's voice crackled over the intercom. "Refueling and bio-break. You have two hours."
Transit Station 9 was a city floating in space. It was a chaotic wheel of neon lights and docking clamps, filled with the smells of fried food and starship exhaust. It was like a truck stop on I-80, but populated by six hundred different species and selling laser parts alongside beef jerky.
Cal walked off the shuttle with Gorth and Zix, the three-eyed shortstop.
"I need calories," Gorth said. "Real food. Not blue blocks."
They found a food court that overlooked the docking bay. It was crowded. Methane-breathers ate from gas masks, insect-like creatures devoured bowls of live grubs, and a group of humans—miners, by the looks of their coveralls—ate what looked like pizza.
Cal's stomach growled. "Pizza. Oh man, pizza."
He approached the counter of a stall called Luigi's (Sector 7 Branch). The "Luigi" behind the counter was a robot with a mustache painted on its chrome face.
"One pepperoni," Cal said. "Large."
"That will be six credits," the robot buzzed.
Cal paused. Six bucks for a large pizza? That was cheap. He tapped his wrist-unit against the sensor, which beeped.
He took the pizza. It was greasy, hot, and smelled amazing.
"Hey, Gorth, you want anything?" Cal asked.
Gorth pointed a massive finger at a display of whole roasted avian creatures—space chickens the size of turkeys. "Ten of those."
Cal blinked. "Ten?"
"I am a growing boy," Gorth replied.
Cal tapped his wrist again. Sixty credits.
They sat at a metal table. Zix ordered a bowl of algae soup. Cal took a bite of the pizza. It wasn't New York style—the cheese was a bit too orange and the pepperoni tasted slightly gamey—but after the sulfur pits of Pyros, it was the best thing he'd ever eaten.
"So," Cal said, chewing. "What's the conversion rate for these credits? I'm trying to see if I can afford a new glove."
Zix looked up from his soup, his three eyes blinking in sequence. "Conversion to what?"
"US Dollars. Earth money."
Zix made a chattering noise that the translator in Cal's ear interpreted as a laugh. "Earth money is fiat currency based on debt. Credits are energy-backed. One credit represents one megawatt-hour of fusion energy."
Cal stopped chewing. "Okay, pretend I'm stupid. Because I am. What does that mean in dollars?"
Nex slid into the empty seat next to him, placing a glass of bubbling green liquid on the table.
"It means," Nex said, sipping the drink, "that the current exchange rate is roughly one Credit to three hundred and fifty US Dollars."
Cal choked. He coughed violently, nearly spitting pepperoni onto Gorth's plate.
"Three hundred and fifty?" Cal wheezed. "Wait. I just paid six credits for this pizza."
"Yes," Nex nodded. "A two-thousand-dollar pizza. Importing wheat and dairy to deep space is costly, Cal. You just ate a luxury meal."
Cal looked at the greasy slice in his hand. He checked his wrist unit.
4,434 Credits remaining.
He pulled out his datapad and opened the calculator app.
4,500 x 350 = ...
The number stared back at him: $1,575,000.
He had made one point five million dollars. In one night.
"I..." Cal's hand started to shake. "I made a million dollars tonight?"
"Technically, yes," Nex said. "But you can't spend it on Earth until you finish the contract and cash out. Here? It's just walking-around money. A hyper-drive coil for a small ship costs about ten thousand credits. A good suit of armor is five thousand."
Cal looked at Gorth, who was demolishing his third space-turkey. That meant Cal had just bought his teammate twenty-one thousand dollars worth of chicken.
"I need a drink," Cal whispered.
"You have one," Nex pointed to the water Cal had bought.
"I mean a real drink. Something that burns."
"Careful," Nex warned. "Alcohol on this station is synthesized. It hits harder."
Cal didn't care. He looked at the busy station, the alien faces, and the incredible view of a nebula swirling outside the window.
He thought about his bank account in Tucson, which currently had $412.87 in it. He thought about his dad's mortgage, which was underwater. He thought about the physical therapy bills he still hadn't paid.
He tapped his wrist unit again.
"Nex," Cal said, his voice steady. "How do I send money home?"
"You can't wire Credits directly," Nex replied. "But the League has a remittance program. We buy gold or platinum commodities at the station exchange and drone-drop them to a secure location on Earth. Heavy tariffs apply."
"Do it," Cal said. "Send... send two thousand credits' worth. To my dad's address."
Nex raised an eyebrow. "That's seven hundred grand, Cal. The tariff is thirty percent. You'll lose a fortune."
"I don't care," Cal said. He picked up another slice of the two-thousand-dollar pizza. "Send it. Tell him... tell him I found a job in the oil fields. Tell him the hazard pay is good."
Nex tapped a few commands on his datapad. "Transaction queued. Delivery in four Earth days."
Cal took a bite of the pizza. It tasted like financial freedom.
"Hey," Gorth said, wiping grease from his chin with the back of his hand. "You gonna eat that crust?"
Cal laughed. It was a genuine, hysterical laugh that bubbled up from his chest. He pushed the crust toward the four-armed giant.
"It's all yours, big guy. It's on the house."