"You get two choices. One: I dump you here to live or die as you please—this dump's so remote even the Company can't be bothered. Two…"
He stretched the pause until the pirates instinctively held their breath.
"Work for me." Caelus lifted his chin. "My company's short-handed—especially people who can endure filth, exhaustion, and have an eye for 'junk.' Job description: fly from scrapyard to scrapyard digging through garbage, and occasionally deal with 'colleagues' like you met today."
He pointed at Lancelot's engine-shot warship: "As for your ship—consider it your capital contribution. I'll patch it up; from now on it doubles as security patrol and scrap hauler for the firm."
"Scrap… hauler?"
How much money can trash-picking bring?
"What did you do before?"
"…Miners for the Interstellar Peace Corporation."
"Oh—miners. How many credits a month?"
"…At most, 1,500 credits."
"They really worked you like mules."
Caelus shook his head.
"Here's the deal: work under me, wages paid in advance—4,000 credits a head every month. No slacking. Non-working family get one-third of that as allowance. Break the rules, you're out."
"Y-you mean it?" a young pirate stammered.
"Sure—provided you keep your noses clean. Try anything cute…" He plucked a few twisted pipes from the trash, twisted them into a knot like twist bread. "Feel free to test if I can do the same to you."
The pirates all swallowed.
"We… need to talk," Lancelot said quietly.
"Be my guest." Caelus waved lazily, settled back into his rickety chair, and even produced an apple to munch while he enjoyed the show.
The pirates huddled aside, arguing in fierce whispers—hope, doubt, dread of the future, hatred of the present—until every eye turned to Lancelot.
"Captain, isn't that pay a bit low?"
March 7th scratched her head.
She and Dan Heng got room and board plus 8,000 credits base, after all.
"Stop it—prisoners and regular hires aren't the same,"
Caelus tapped her forehead.
The pirates buzzed like gnats until, hands still tied, Lancelot stepped forward.
"We… accept your terms," he said, voice low. "But clarify the work…"
"?"
Caelus blinked.
"Wasn't I clear? Dig trash, scavengers—ring a bell? You'll be the salaried kind. Nobody bothers you; most junk in this sector was dumped here. Keep what's valuable, stack the worthless, easy to process later."
"In short," Dan Heng said flatly, "we're… cosmic environmentalists."
Suddenly trash-picking sounded… acceptable?
Better than starving, being hunted by the Company, or rotting on a barren rock—especially with 4,000 credits a month plus family allowance, far safer and richer than mining or piracy.
"Boss, can you even pay that?" March 7th whispered. "There's a hundred of them."
"Why not? Yesterday some loaded regular bought a premium item—wired me a hundred million credits."
A hundred million!
March 7th's eyes widened as she counted the zeros.
"Dan Heng, go—read them our 'harsh' company rules." Caelus beamed the Prometheus-drafted regulations to Dan Heng's phone. "Cosmic Junk Company pays well, but the workload's no joke!"
"Yes. Daily shift: four system hours. Overtime only double pay. One-and-a-half days off per week. Clock-in at the brutal hour of 08:00. No slacking. Meals: prefab two-meat-one-veg, three times daily; drinks only at lunch. Lodging: your own ship. Holidays: two days."
Dan Heng kept a straight face only by recalling his saddest memory.
"…Huh?"
The pirates' faces slid from tense resolve to blank disbelief.
"What are you saying?"
Were they being sold to some backwater?
This was harsh?
After Camelot fell, the Company's six-system hour guard posts at 3,000 credits a month had been the best jobs around. "You're not sending us to labs or using us as cannon fodder?"
"If I wanted cannon fodder, would I bother dismantling your ship like Lego?"
He scanned their skeptical faces. "Anyone who thinks scavenging too low for proud 'gentlemen pirates' can choose option one—stay here. I won't stop you."
Silence.
Lowly?
What was lowly?
"Fair warning: I'll squeeze you so hard those four system hours will leave you too tired to crawl."
R-right?
Right!
Such cruelty—no, charity!
"Once your ship's patched, follow me to the scrapheap and see real work."
While Lancelot's crew stared, Caelus strode to the junk pile, tore down an arc armor plate taller than himself, and yanked out a scorched energy conduit.
He slapped the plate over the ship's gaping tear; energy rippled from his palm, fusing metal seamless—no weld visible.
He scrubbed the burnt conduit, chipped off char, aligned it with the exposed engine port, and—holding a second-hand engine in one hand—slammed it home.
Yes, he installed the engine while holding it aloft.
Clatter-clang—repairs done.
"Ancient model—no wonder you're broke with a ship this big."
He pointed, then began a literal refit.
Piece by piece.
"Big brother… is this still our ship?"
Kay blinked, nudging Lancelot.
"…Our components are all outside."
Practically a new ship.
"Done. Here's your new ride—not brand-new, but leagues better. And I upgraded the hab-module—go look."
"All right, family members line up here, employees over there. Come up one by one to register. I may be a heartless boss, but our company is completely legitimate—employees must sign employment contracts... You're underage, go stand with the families."
Caelus set up a wobbly table and placed a stack of contracts on it.
"Form a line, one at a time. Listen up! Once you sign this contract, you're my employees! From now on you'll be crawling through garbage every day, tasting the pain of my exploitation!"
"Are you telling the truth? You're not tricking us?"
Caelus glared: "Trick you? I, Caelus, have never cheated old or young in business! I say four system hours of exploitation, and I won't let you off at three hours fifty-nine minutes! I say double overtime pay and not one extra credit—no sir! That pain—you'll feel it soon enough!"
Everyone: "..."
Somehow... they felt even more reassured?
Dan Feng stood half a step behind Caelus, expressionless, cradling his spear, faithfully playing the part of the 'cold-faced overseer.'
"Families, line up over here!" March 7th waved.
When all registrations were done and contracts signed, Caelus nodded with satisfaction at the thick stack in his hand.
"Good! From this moment, you're officially part of the Cosmic Junk Company!" He rose and raised his voice. "In a minute you'll find out just how hellish this job can be!"
————
Hellish?
The employees followed Caelus around the dump.
Apart from the stench, the workload felt like an after-dinner stroll compared with their old jobs—there were even tricycles for transport and hauling junk.
They simply rode tricycles between mountains of refuse, scanners beeping as they tossed items into separate bins, then pedaled a few hundred meters to designated drop-off points.
No overseer's whip, no brutal timing—and soon Caelus himself wandered off to 'discover special goods,' leaving Dan Feng napping against a stack of discarded tires.
"This... is four system hours of hell?"
Lancelot pedaled in silence, his bin already full of sorted metal sheets. Gazing across the endless trash, he felt a swirl of emotions. After his homeland fell he had been a miner, burning his life in sunless tunnels; to feed his younger siblings he had turned pirate, tasting blood on the blade's edge. Yet he never imagined he and his people would one day survive by picking trash.
The catch was—picking trash paid well.
It felt absurd, yet weirdly peaceful.
No pursuers, no life-or-death fights—just... garbage.
"Big brother!"
Lancelot turned: his brother stood clutching a wad of blue credits, looking conflicted.
"Hand it in..."
Lancelot considered, then shook his head.
Caelus accepted the credits with a puzzled frown.
"We found these credits while working..."
"If you found them, keep them. It's not like one of your own dropped it—why give it to me? Do you rush over after work every time you pick up credits off the ground?"
Caelus tossed the money back.
"Keep it! Finders keepers!" he said irritably, as if scolding them for making a fuss. "Remember: low-value ownerless stuff, deal with it yourself; anything valuable, report it for appraisal. I take ten percent of the sale, the rest is yours."
"You... sure?"
Caelus raised an eyebrow. "Why would I test you? To see if you'll fight over a few hundred credits? Quit wasting work time—pick it up and get back to it! We're not even halfway to today's scrap quota!"
Lancelot held the credits uncertainly; their slight warmth and texture felt real.
As the dim star neared the horizon, Caelus finally called an end to the day's 'hellish torment.'
Lancelot didn't board at once; he stopped Caelus, who was heading back to scrap iron.
"Boss," he said, changing form of address.
"Hm? What's up?" Caelus paused and looked back.
"About the future—I have a few questions." Lancelot's face was grave. "Will we stay with your company for good? And our families—and this ship—will you really let us manage it ourselves?"
He asked bluntly, both as a leader's duty and as a final probe into Caelus's intentions.
"Yes. Why do you think I went to all this trouble to hire you and fix your ship—just for you to run off after a few days? I don't care who you were before; on my ship you follow my rules and work hard. The vessel is company property, but you have use and internal control—just don't fly off or misuse it."
"As for your families," Caelus went on, "they can live aboard; the company will supply basic necessities. If they like, they can help with logistics and get paid too."
Lancelot listened in silence; the last trace of doubt in his eyes seemed to fade. He bowed solemnly. "I understand. Thank you."
"Cut the ceremony," Caelus waved impatiently. "From today you run your own accounts. I've linked into your ship's system—I can tell real numbers from fake. Slackers get pay cuts; it's on you to police them. Cook the books, try tricks, and you'll all regret it. If management has holes, report them."
"Big brother, are we really... doing this forever?" Kay asked, sounding lost.
The day's events had been too surreal: from captives with blades at their throats to employees with'steady jobs.'
"...What else? Pass the word," Lancelot ordered. "Follow the boss's rules. Set up shifts and patrols, keep the books straight. Anyone who slacks and ruins our livelihood—"
"Yes, big brother!"
Time to speak of loyalty indeed.