“We’ll be back soon.”
Those were the last words you heard from your parents before they boarded their Lander to make a routine delivery to a outer rim planet. During their journey, they were hit by a freak nebula storm, never to be seen again. You were left an orphan at nine-years old and placed in the hands of the space state. When you turned 18 you left the orphanage and took the only job you could find; a paper-pusher in Outer Ring Shipping; a mid-level space delivery company with the tagline, “Fast Service. Fast Delivery.” It should have included “Fast Pilot Turnover Rates”. There you spent your days authorizing express transit requests and dismissing “Wrongful Pilot Death” claims, whittling away the hours of your young life. When a proton spill off the 405 Interstellar was too big to cover up that blamed you submitting a wrong authorization form making you the scapegoat and promptly fired you.
Blackballed from the space Landing industry you were put in a bad situation. Out of the blue, you get a strange call. Old Silas “Red Giant” Bixby, the owner of the local lander junkyard, wanted to talk. “Red Giant” Bixby was always a weird old coot, but you don’t believe it when he offers you an ancient lander to set up your own low-rent delivery service. It’s battered, rusted and so old it lacks a landing computer, meaning you’ll have to use your wits to survive each landing. You’ll need to coast the Outer Parsecs, where the planets won’t care that your lander is leaking fuel or if your license or paper work is “authentic”; they just want those supplies, pronto! It’ll be dangerous, tiring, and above-all, illegal, but “Red Giant” Bixby says he can get some experience and apply for an actual lander license and upgrade your computer landing system if you complete a hundred deliveries. Without dying of course.
You sell all your possessions, withdraw your meager savings to buy a space suit, a forged Lander Pilot license and a full tank of fuel.
Lander8b, you are clear to drop.