Wilder has finally finished his management degree today. Luckily, the courses were all theory and no practice, after all, what kind of leader could he possibly be? Leadership takes charisma, and school bullies had long ago beaten that 'foolishness' out of him. Let's just say his practical training was strictly limited to AI sims in the game. They mirrored reality almost perfectly, except for one detail, you could always reload a save if you made a mistake. He applied his management skills to those games with careful precision. Wilder didn't even bother looking for a summer job, as if he lacked any real desire for independence. And let's be honest, the job market demanded a level of socializing he just wasn't built for.
He'd paid his way with the money his father earned in the inter-orbital cargo delivery business. Some might think Wilder's family was well-off. But they weren't swimming in cash; they were just barely keeping their heads above water. For his father, everything was tracked down to the last cent, penny for penny. He lived on a razor-thin margin, with fixed amounts strictly set aside even for free time and illness. He handed out chitinous toothpicks with surgical precision, exactly one for every meal in a month.
They say his father is a business shark, but he's really just a "sharp" who cut himself on his own edge. He's always chasing the big catch, or making a splash in attempts to reach for the stars. He's obsessed with the next stage of his evolution — reaching the shore. He thinks that once he grows legs and can finally stand on his own two feet, that's the exact moment he becomes a tralalero tralala! But the reality check bounced. He can't even net a profit like a fisheralien. If he's a shark at all, he's more like "Baby Shark" stuck on that endless "do-do-do".
A long time ago, Wilder's father served as a first mate on a vessel. The owner, who was also the captain, was a heavy drinker, yet somehow he always had the credits to fund his own business and George's many schemes. George eventually talked him into taking on government contracts, spinning a tale about how the 'real profit' wasn't in the credits themselves. And one day, the captain bought an apartment in the "Green-Grass Lands" (a resort-like area) and sold George his old scrap-heap of a ship. Father adored that ship, especially tinkering with its repairs. George was an optimistic alien; he didn't think he'd bought a piece of flying junk, he saw it as a series of practical lessons. He used the ship to study mechanics and physics, but more often than not, he ended up studying traumatology, whether it was pinching a finger in a hatch or some other mishap. Wilder suggested dozens of ways to earn a decent income, but his father would only repeat the same thing: "If it were that simple, everyone would be rich by now." Then he'd head to the nearest kiosk for a lottery ticket.
Their arguments always went in circles:
"Dad, orbital routes are no longer efficient. We need to redirect our resources to interplanetary transport. It will require a complete engineering overhaul of the hull."
"Scrap the lower cargo bay and carry fewer goods?" His father frowned.
"The projected profit in this sector is much higher. My calculations confirm it."
"Oh sure, and are you going to provide the license?"
"There is an offshore planet..."
"We are honest alien. It might be little by little, but it's honest work."
Fortunately, Wilder found a sanctuary where he was actually heard — a community that allowed him to finally find his social footing: official debates within the university walls. He became an exceptional debater, managing arguments with ease and finding it pointless to engage in ordinary talk with populists. Debating with a show of respect was far safer. Especially since there was always an afterparty afterward.
"How do you find such arguments?" one of the debaters asked.
"My main source of knowledge is the internet. It is the perfect space for talking to alien: the risk of physical fighting is impossible there. Considering my past experience with injuries from other students..." Wilder's shoulders tensed for a second. "I use the internet as a safe simulator to neutralize built-up aggression."
"You talk in an interesting way, almost like a robot. Hello, Mr. Robot, I'm Phoebe!" She extended her hand.
"And my name is Wilder." He shook her hand.
The next round was on Phoebe. The drinks were coming.
"Oh, I completely get you!" Phoebe nodded strongly. "Bullying is total garbage, honestly. Went through it myself, so we're officially on the same team of 'badass survivors'." She squeezed his hand for a short second. "Speaking of being a badass! Colleagues, tell the truth: do you believe in the shortcut through wormholes?"
"Ah, that..." Wilder paused, avoiding direct eye contact. "I simply borrowed those arguments from podcasts. It seemed to me that if I repeated them in the right order, my speech would sound convincing enough to get a point. Familiar arguments provide a sixty-percent boost to efficiency."
"From Doctor Brans' podcasts?" Phoebe got excited. "You watch him too?! I absolutely love his theory! Imagine: you dive into a 'hole' like that and BAM! You're at another location, and you don't have to waste two or three years in travel."
Wilder wasn't a believer, but he practiced the smile that some 'Good Conversationalist' manual had advised for 'successful social interaction.'
"Wilder, don't do that!" Phoebe jokingly shook her finger at the laughing alien. "You're hurting me right in the heart with your doubt. Doctor Brans is a sweetheart! If you keep laughing, I'll use my best arguments on you. Better yet — just come to our wormhole study group. It's fun, it's scientific, and we might even have glitter soon!"
Wilder finally found his alien by joining an almost occult-like comunity. There were strange songs, readings of strange literature, and letters written to themselves from "parallel worlds." Yes, like a camp. But you know what? Wilder had his own strange habits. In this company, he felt as natural as butter on toast. They searched for proof of their theories much like "Texas sharpshooters" who paint targets around bullet holes after they shoot. Even dreams here were considered more than just the brain's playground; they were seen as "small views of another Wilder" from an alternate world. While others excitedly described their visions, he lied, making up colorful plots. In reality, he was haunted by the same old nightmares: Bucks Bands.
To avoid getting stuck in their own ideas, they regularly invited outside opponents. The debate centered on wormholes. Wilder represented his club's perspective — that a wormhole is a tunnel shortening the path between planetary systems. The opposition argued it was only an anomaly that did nothing but swallow everything around it.
"Date: 3253. The Admiralty fleet's signal was cut off in exactly zero point four seconds. This was not a slow fade. Our data analysis shows an immediate move to another dimension or planetary system. It is the only logical conclusion based on the available data. If it were different, as you suggest, colleague, they would have sunk slowly. Like quicksand."
"If anything, you're proving our point: wormholes are nothing more than sites for group suicide... and they were simply pulled into the anomaly fast! If your version were true, then where is the Scientific-Admiralty flagship?" The opponent responded.
"Ship pieces from a human civilization, found in the area, provide real proof of this theory. This is not just a guess; it is a set of facts in a space waiting for study. Our civilization stopped using such materials a long time ago."
"Or it's proof that it's a normal anomaly. That piece is probably just a twisted part of the hundredth ship that tried to enter. Here's a tornado raging it pulls things in too, and trash flies out of it. Care to jump in there?"
"There is a clue, and if we decode it, we will get a clean set of facts, not theories. It is our only chance to replace guesses with real information."
"Flying in for the flight recorder is total madness; it'll pull in any ship, no matter the size."
"It is the only chance to know the truth!"
"If you want it that badly go and get it. You'll be the thirteenth on the missing list."
"Colleagues, stop the arguing. No points for either side; both teams have lost." The judge intervened.
On a very hot evening, Wilder sat at the dinner table with his parents. They were celebrating his graduation, not with honors, of course, but simply with a certificate of completion. The minimum credits had been earned, and the time had come to choose a career. His father, nervous, was fidgeting with something under the table, and during the toast, he formally handed his son the keys to his ship.
"Son, congratulations on graduating! You're a grown alien now." His father's face broke into a wide, beaming grin. "To celebrate, I'm giving you my orbita... starship!"
"Hooray!" Wilder replied in a flat, colorless voice, forcing himself to hug his father back.
"My heir!" The older alien exhaled, and the awkward, heavy hug began.
Included with the vessel was the crew — a strange group of troublemakers who had spent their entire miserable lives working like slaves on that rusted tub. Anyone smarter or luckier had long ago been hired away by big corporations. For Wilder, this "gift" was a crushing burden. He had never dreamed of being a captain. Wilder had watched for years as his father worked himself to death on this ship, giving up literally everything. The ship had eaten not just his strength, but every cent of the family's money.
"Son, look, I flew her all the way to [City Name]," His father waved a hand roughly at the horizon. "And from there, even further, to [State Name]. And the stories we had back then...
"Wilder, how do you like this wine product? It's processed with natural flavorings," His mother interrupted, filling his glass.
"Anyway, I'm continuing..."
"Would you like some carbs?" His mother asked, completely ignoring her husband's story.
"No thanks, I'm full." Wilder's full a stories.
"That's how we live..." His father concluded.
Wilder walked out to his "gift," shaking slightly. He knew this ship by heart — every flaw, every worn-out part. Not because he dreamed of space, but simply because he had helped with the repairs. The keys burned his palm like a pirate's black spot. His boring but stable life was over. His father approached from behind and gave Wilder's thin shoulders a "manly" squeeze, as if he were an athlete with a mountain of muscle.
The name "Main CP-01" was painted clearly on the hull. Ships like these are like cheap fishing gear from a local Walmart... or a Jeep Patriot. They don't worry about the names; they just use something military-patriotic that doesn't match the reality at all. No generals or even junior officers had ever sat in this ship. It was just an old cargo with an arrogant name. And that would have been fine, if not for one problem: it was the first model. You rarely get anything decent in the first series — usually, things only get good by the fourth.
"With a ship like this, you could conquer the world!"
"Yeah? Then why did you only ever fly in the orbital?"