The asteroid belt surrounding the KQ-03 sector was, by galactic standards, a pauper's graveyard. It lacked the exotic isotopes found in the nebula-clusters of the Core Worlds or the hyper-dense core-shards of the Supernova Remnants. However, even the low-grade Energy Crystals occasionally birthed in this jagged river of rock were enough to make Vance's heart race.
In the early stages of a warship's evolution, the Auxiliary System was like a starving hatchling—it didn't need the refined, high-purity nectar of the gods; it needed raw, high-density caloric intake. Low-grade crystals were perfect for laying the foundation of the ship's neural network.
Vance pushed deeper. Thirty minutes after leaving the broken spirit of Silas in his wake, the Ore-Tyrant MK-II began to decelerate. The vibration of the main engines transitioned from a violent roar to a low, rhythmic thrumming that resonated through the deck plates and into Vance's boots.
"This should be the sweet spot," Vance murmured, his eyes scanning the multi-spectral display.
He was now deep within the "Amber Zone," the transitional space between the safe outer rim and the lethal Red Zone. Beyond this point, the density of celestial debris increased exponentially. Even for a pilot with [Peak Elite] reflexes, navigating further in a civilian-grade mining rig was a gamble against the laws of probability. If it weren't for the desperate need for Energy Crystals, Vance would never have risked bringing a "thin-skinned" vessel like the MK-II this far into the meat-grinder.
Wealth in the belt followed a simple, cruel rule: the more likely a place was to kill you, the more likely it was to make you rich. The outer rim had been stripped bare by generations of desperate men. To find the "tears of the stars"—the crystals—one had to enter the labyrinth where the scanners went blind and the rocks moved like guided missiles.
Vance toggled the sensor array from Navigational Mode to Mineral Deep-Scan. A localized particle stream erupted from the ship's external antenna, invisible to the naked eye but appearing as a ghostly blue cone on his tactical overlay.
Mining was a test of patience as much as skill. To get an accurate reading, the pilot had to keep the particle stream focused on a single tumbling rock for a specific duration. The larger the asteroid, the longer the "soak time" required for the particles to penetrate the core and bounce back with a spectral signature.
This required Vance to maintain a perfect relative velocity with every target. He had to dance in sync with a spinning, multi-ton hunk of obsidian while dodging the "chaff"—the millions of micro-fragments that could strip the paint off his hull.
It was a grueling task of technical precision.
Scan 1: 32 seconds. Result: Iron-nickel composite. Junk.
Scan 2: 28 seconds. Result: Low-grade Copper. Trash.
"Come on, you bastards," Vance hissed, a common habit among star-miners. In the oppressive silence of the void, where the only sound was the hiss of the life-support and the mechanical groan of the ship, the sound of one's own voice was a tether to sanity. Long-range comms were useless here, drowned out by the electromagnetic interference of the mineral-rich belt.
He remembered the old "Miner's Dirge" they used to sing in the colony bars:
"One, two, three, four, five... digging deep to stay alive. All I find is copper ore, purity level five and no more."
In the star-faring age, common metals like iron and copper were worth less than the oxygen it took to mine them. You could fill your entire cargo hold with copper, and after paying for fuel, docking fees, and the "protection tax" to the Barony, you'd be lucky to afford a decent meal and a clean pair of socks.
An hour passed. Then two. Vance methodically cleared the sector, his eyes burning from the constant strain of monitoring the gravitational fluctuations.
The results remained bleak. Not a single trace of Energy Crystals. Not even a high-value rare earth deposit. But Vance didn't let the frustration take root. He was a survivor. He knew that the universe didn't owe him a miracle just because he had died once.
He gripped the eight-axis yoke and slammed the thrusters, shifting his search grid to a cluster of asteroids caught in a slow-motion orbital whirlpool.
Then, the "Luck of the Reborn" finally kicked in.
The sensor hummed. The data-bar on his screen began to fill, the timer ticking upward with agonizing slowness.
85 seconds... Result: Condensed Gas Pockets. (Methane-Hydrogen mix).
Vance's eyebrows shot up. Gas ore was a solid find—literally. It was gas trapped in a crystalline lattice, worth a thousand times more than iron. It was a "payday" rock.
But the sensor wasn't done. He pivoted the ship, locking onto a jagged, obsidian-colored asteroid roughly three hundred meters in diameter. It looked like a charred skull floating in the dark.
112 seconds...
The ship's computer let out a sharp, digital chime.
"Haha! Look at that! Ghost Titanium!" Vance barked a laugh, the tension in his shoulders finally beginning to bleed away.
Ghost Titanium—so named because of its shimmering, silver-white luster after refinement—was a high-tier strategic resource. It possessed an incredible weight-to-strength ratio and a natural resistance to thermal degradation. It was the primary material used in the armor plating of Imperial-class warships.
Its market value was thirty times that of gas ore. In this sector, Ghost Titanium was as close to "gold" as a miner could get without finding a crystal.
While his primary goal was the system's fuel, Vance knew he had to bring back a "legitimate" haul. Returning with an empty hold after diving into the Amber Zone would raise too many questions. Ghost Titanium was the perfect cover.
He began the approach. This was where the "art" of mining truly began.
The target asteroid was three hundred meters of dense, spinning mass. In the low-gravity environment of the belt, the gravitational pull between the Ore-Tyrant and the asteroid was a tangible force. As Vance closed the distance to under a hundred meters, the ship began to "lean" toward the rock, pulled in by the asteroid's mass.
In the hands of a rookie, this was the "Deadly Embrace." If the ship moved too fast, it would slam into the rock. If it moved too slow, the gravitational tug-of-war would stall the engines and leave the pilot stranded.
Vance's fingers moved with surgical precision. He used the eight attitude thrusters to counteract the gravitational drift, sliding the ship into a "Parallel Sync Orbit." He wasn't just flying next to the rock; he was becoming a part of its rotation.
The ship's computer began to scream with data-warnings, the "486-era" processor struggling to calculate the N-body physics of the surrounding debris. Vance ignored the blinking red lights. He didn't need the computer to tell him where the gravity was pulling. He could feel it in the soles of his feet.
Clang!
The first of the four heavy magnetic lassos fired from the ship's belly. The tether, a high-tensile cable infused with superconducting magnets, slammed into the asteroid's core.
For five minutes, Vance held his breath, his hands steady on the yoke as the magnetic field stabilized. The Ore-Tyrant and the three-hundred-meter giant were now tethered, moving as a single, unified entity through the void.
"Initiating extraction," Vance whispered.
From the ship's underbelly, massive, diamond-tipped drill bits extended. These weren't the precision instruments of a laboratory; they were industrial monsters designed for "destructive harvesting."
Driven by the ship's primary heavy-duty engine, the drills began to scream as they bit into the asteroid's crust. Even in the vacuum of space, Vance could feel the bone-shaking vibration as the high-strength alloy tore through layers of ancient rock.
The magnetic lassos held firm, preventing the asteroid from shattering or spinning out of control under the force of the drills.
The process was long and grueling. For five hours, Vance sat in the cockpit, monitoring the power distribution and the hull integrity. He watched the cargo-log update in real-time as the automated collectors sucked up the pulverized ore.
10 tons... 40 tons... 80 tons...
By the time the drills retracted, the Ore-Tyrant's hold was groaning with over a hundred tons of high-grade Ghost Titanium ore. The target asteroid now looked like a hollowed-out shell, an eighth of its mass stripped away and replaced by a chaotic cluster of loose debris held together only by the lingering magnetic charge.
Vance took a deep breath, his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his back. He disengaged the magnetic lassos, the "snap" of the breaking field sending a jolt through the ship.
He didn't linger. A hollowed-out asteroid was an unstable variable. Within minutes, the internal stresses of the rock would cause it to shed fragments, creating a localized debris storm that could attract bigger, more dangerous rocks.
He slammed the eight-axis yoke, the Ore-Tyrant banking sharply as it sped away from the "corpse" of the asteroid. Behind him, the rock began to drift, its trajectory permanently altered—a silent monument to the greed of man.
This was the life of a star-miner. Brutal, direct, and meticulously dangerous.
Vance checked his system interface. The Ghost Titanium was good for the bank account, but his eyes were already scanning the horizon for the next glint of light.
The Energy Crystals were still out there. And he wasn't leaving until he found them.