Falling short of his own legend, Captain Charles A. F. Westman sealed the escape pod bulkhead from the cramped bridge. His hands trembled, anxiety saturating his brow with moonshine-fuelled sweat. Twelve hours to down a jar of that rocket juice was impressive work. The good Captain had already attempted to launch with the door open, a potentially vacuum-inducing, self-ending action, politely rejected by the computer. The control system would not ensure, however, that Toodles, his trusty first mate, was on the surviving side of the hatch. 

Captain Charles squinted, tapped in the launch code with surprising accuracy, and finished with a clumsy flourish. Against all odds and blood alcohol levels, the code was correct. He patted Toodles on the head as he often would, and saluted the departure of his only escape pod, its mass low enough to escape the turquoise beast below.

“Farewell, brave friend. May they write songs about you!” Charles turned to meet his companion’s eyes, tail thudding rhythmically against the wall. “We’ll miss him, won’t we?” He slumped, his sigh giving way to a gentle sob. “How did it come to this? All those close calls, all those adventures, snuffed by a gas giant being a greedy bitch.” 

Charles lifted his chin, pulling it from sadness. He squinted at Toodles, the doe-eyed pup content to be part of another grand adventure, unaware of its finality. “Toodles?” Charles said, wiping tears from his eyes, gravity now rolling them down his cheeks. “Your escape pod is up there, buddy.” His finger pointed toward the hatch porthole. Toodles continued to wag as Charles pressed his nose against the glass. “My brandy,” he sobbed. A weary smile of defeat crossed his face. Of course the brandy got rescued, while he was left to marinate in a grim swill of moonshine. Fate always had a twisted sense of humour.

The gravity well of a gas giant is a powerful beast, and Captain Westman’s craft was many things; reliable not being one of them. He intended to harvest fuel using a small drone. However, one engine failed, then another, then the backup. With the final backup long since sold for parts, his ship descended. Charles didn’t know the mining corporation he was attempting to steal from had watched the full spectacle of his failure from above. Even as he consumed his final jar of moonshine, and inexplicably ejected his only escape pod directly into the planet, the mining ship prepared to rescue him.

As Charles sprawled on the deck of his small vessel, shedding the last of his dignity in tears, a grapple hit. The loud clunk didn’t register at first, he chalked it up to the gas giant’s latest attempt at ship origami. However, he unmistakably recognised the metallic grind as drills chewed bolt holes into the hull. Wiping his face, he staggered to his feet as realisation washed over him like a hot shower; something now more myth than memory.

“Toodles, we might see the brandy again,” he grunted, straining to pull the captain’s chair into position while junk that hadn’t been strapped down blocked its every move. The craft barely qualified as a vessel, more of a pressurised coffin with delusions of grandeur, with only the bare essentials and, if the owner wasn’t too careless, a single escape pod. The bridge also served as the navigation room, mess, bunk, and anything else the head didn’t claim. The head was only separate to contain the shower, which had become purely decorative when the plumbing gave out.

While Captain Charles A. F. Westman was lacklustre at many things, he excelled at others, and of those skills, one was his lifeline: keeping his ship afloat against all odds. His ‘finest honed ability’, as he liked to call it, was his game-face. This trademark  game-face might be defined in a dictionary, if they dared, as ‘becoming the greatest lord of bullshit and deception ever known’. With a deep sniff of musty air, Charles began his process; clearing his throat, rolling his shoulders, radiating exaggerated confidence like an actor warming up backstage.

“Toodles, who am I?” he asked as the dog braced, anticipating another lurch from the winch far above. His first mate stared patiently. “Good, good. Stoic. I like that. But how can we convince them?” Charles picked his way through scattered junk until he found an old data pad, long since corrupted. 

“My companion, friend, buddy, I need you to take a leading role in this one. Are you going to hit your mark? You remember the song, ‘Escape that bitch and get to the front, I don’t know where just away from that—” Toodles barked in time as he was trained, completing the lyrics. “Good dog,” Charles beamed, patting Toodles’ soft head. As ever, he was more prepared than the captain.

“Not long now, we’ll be up there soon. You’re gonna need this. Yeah, I know you don’t like it,” a small suit was slid up and over the dog’s back legs and fastened round his chest. It was stained, off-white, and the only way a ship would accept a canine aboard. The suit would contain any accidents and most importantly it allowed Charles to ensure Toodles’ safety, which he did after engaging the last clip. Toodles looked unimpressed, firmly affixed to the wall by the sticky strips of the suit, letting out a whimper at the feeling of restraint. “I know, guy, you’re a free-floating space-dog, but everyone else has rules. Today we didn’t die, that’s the trade.”

Junk became airborne as gravity slipped away, a familiar weightlessness returning. Charles took a medical injector from a small wall-mounted cabinet and pushed it into his forearm. The regrav drug was cold as it rushed into his bloodstream, numbing his limbs as it coaxed his inner ear into recalibrating. Any boat big enough to pull him from the planet’s grip certainly ran huge spinning habitat rings so the long-haulers didn’t turn into soup. He tossed the injector, adding it to the debris, and puffed out his chest, steeling himself for his upcoming role.

A crunch sounded as the airlock engaged. Crunching wasn’t the usual sound. A small air leak had allowed ice to form on the Damascus’ airlock seal; water that would otherwise have gone to the shower. The seal held successfully despite the build-up, and decontamination chemicals pumped in. Both occupants coughed briefly from the acrid air, the only hint the ship was now full of questionable gas. Charles pulled a box-like instrument from the control system, normally heavy under gravity but now sliding out effortlessly while docked with the rescuing ship. The box pulsed a slow green light. Charles patted it. “There ya go, girl. We’re safe.”

With a hiss, the airlock seal cracked at the rear. Outside, a young crew member floated with trepidation. Charles waited through the door opening process with a stern look; the crew member ahead of him attempted to talk twice. However, the extreme stink-eye thrown his way cut him off, silence filling the air. Charles held Toodles tucked under one arm, the heavy box’s handle gripped beneath.

As the door clanged into place, Charles spoke firmly, thrusting the corrupted datapad forward. “Soldier! What kind of rescue do you call this? Is this your best work? Had I been down there any longer you would have had to explain the death of an inspector for—” Charles eyed the boy’s uniform. “—Unicorp Mining.”

The crewman faltered, attempting to respond to the unexpected abuse. “I… we rescued you, sir. I’m not a soldier, sir.”

“Damn right you’re not, boy. If you were, I’d have been hauled up here in half the time. What kind of operation are you running?” Charles pushed off slightly to move into the big ship, leaving his home behind. He made sure to kick the airlock close button, preventing the crewman from seeing the state of things inside. As expected, the younger man reached for the datapad. As Charles offered it, he muttered, “Glad I’m out… I don’t know where, just away from that—” prompting Toodles to bark loudly, right on cue. The crewman snapped his arm back in fear. In the confusion, Toodles had gone unnoticed. Like many, especially younger crew, he’d never seen a dog, let alone heard one bark.

“Where’s the captain?” Charles commanded as the crewman found himself utterly overwhelmed and unexpectedly compliant.

“I can call him right away, sir,” the crewman said, nervously pressing a call button on the wall.

“This is the Captain,” a stern voice came through the crackled speaker.

“Yes, sir, I have a Mr —” The boy panicked, eyeing Charles as he realised he’d not read any papers to know his name.

“Inspector!” Charles corrected loudly. “Inspector Charles A. F. Westman.”

The captain’s voice buzzed through, “Jones, has he been verified?”

Jones froze again, realising the oversight. Charles locked eyes with him, sighed and nodded confidently, as if to support the kid. “Yes, sir,” Jones spoke to his captain. Another supportive, agreeable nod from Charles put the kid at ease that someone more senior than him had his back.

“Send the inspector up to me, Jones; Captain out.” The speaker went quiet as Charles stuffed the datapad into a side pocket of his overalls. He looked into the gleaming white ship, an expansive compartment five times larger than the metal closet he’d lived in for months; too bright, too clean. He drew a slow breath, hiding his reaction to the sudden openness and fixing his game-face on for the long haul.

“This way, sir,” Jones indicated as he floated toward the gravity ring. Charles followed slowly, buying time to work out his angle while keeping him, Toodles, and Esmerelda safe. He looked at the box under his arm, its green light softly blinking next to the handwritten label: ‘Esmie’.