The rare trade was booming, twenty stations in a cult spiral in my journal around the galaxy with a few pickups in each spot. The eighty tons of cargo hold full of low investment, high profit goods for sale at every other port. Blue pens outline exit vectors and pit stops should stars fail for fuel scoops mid hop. Green lines detail the mass usage and red the drop offs about the galaxy.
Jotting things in the journal I remember an old man jotting away in his journals. Grandfather was very alike, I wonder what he would do in this age of space. Would he be running good about the universe, or writing poems under binary systems watching the suns roll around in the viewport.
The minor scuffles came with the odd interdiction here or there, surprisingly nimble the six; it can hit that escape vector far more consistently than the cobra, which made little sense but is very welcome. After a couple of lovebirds decided to press the matter. Losing cargo this far out means burning a cool million of potential, and a hundred grand of the current fools' gold. The risk of rare runs comes in the time investment taken to gather the crop, not necessary the outlay to get involved.
Hitting the chaff, turn to vector, push the engines, distributor firing as heatsinks roast in their ports, ejecting as frost obscures the view! 3,2,1, Jump...
Submitting to interdiction when it starts to look bad, then turning tail as fast as you can. Traders who run get called names, traders who fight return to the void.
The upgrade to a type six came with tales of high profit runs out in the wilds. Time to check out of the grand tour, find some systems to write poetry in!
