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  Praise for Yahtzee Croshaw

  “Hilariously insightful.”

  —Slashdot

  “Yahtzee consistently makes me laugh, and even though I dig computer and electronic games, he has cross-genre appeal to anyone who enjoys a sharp wit, unique sense of humor and plenty of originality—not purely gaming fans.”

  —The Future Buzz

  “Mogworld is a triumph of storytelling and humor that just so happens to be perfectly keyed in to the wild world of video games. I cannot stress enough, however, that it can also be enjoyed by those who have never logged in or picked up a controller in their life.”

  —Joystick Division

  YAHTZEE CROSHAW

  Dark Horse Books

  Will Destroy the Galaxy for Cash © 2020 Yahtzee Croshaw

  No portion of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the express written permission of the copyright holders. Names, characters, places, and incidents featured in this publication either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, institutions, or locales, without satiric intent, is coincidental. Dark Horse Books® and the Dark Horse logo are registered trademarks of Dark Horse Comics LLC. All rights reserved.

  Cover design by David Nestelle

  Published by Dark Horse Books

  A division of Dark Horse Comics LLC

  10956 SE Main Street

  Milwaukie, OR 97222

  DarkHorse.com

  First edition: November 2020

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Croshaw, Yahtzee, author.

  Title: Will destroy the galaxy for cash / Yahtzee Croshaw.

  Description: First edition. | Milwaukie, OR : Dark Horse Books, 2020. |

  Summary: “With the age of heroic star pilots and galactic villains

  completely killed by quantum teleportation, the ex-star pilot currently

  named Dashford Pierce is struggling to find his identity in a changing

  universe. Then, a face from his past returns and makes him an offer he

  can’t refuse: take part in just one small, slightly illegal, heist, and

  not only will he have the means to start the new life he craves, but

  also save his childhood hero from certain death”-- Provided by

  publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020027283 | ISBN 9781506715117 (trade paperback) | ISBN

  9781506721569 (epub)

  Subjects: GSAFD: Science fiction. | Humorous fiction.

  Classification: LCC PR9619.4.C735 W55 2020 | DDC 823/.92--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020027283

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Mike Richardson President and Publisher • Neil Hankerson Executive Vice President • Tom Weddle Chief Financial Officer • Randy Stradley Vice President of Publishing • Nick McWhorter Chief Business Development Officer • Dale LaFountain Chief Information Officer • Matt Parkinson Vice President of Marketing • Vanessa Todd-Holmes Vice President of Production and Scheduling • Mark Bernardi Vice President of Book Trade and Digital Sales • Ken Lizzi General Counsel • Dave Marshall Editor in Chief • Davey Estrada Editorial Director • Chris Warner Senior Books Editor • Cary Grazzini Director of Specialty Projects • Lia Ribacchi Art Director • Matt Dryer Director of Digital Art and Prepress • Michael Gombos Senior Director of Licensed Publications • Kari Yadro Director of Custom Programs • Kari Torson Director of International Licensing • Sean Brice Director of Trade Sales

  Chapter 1

  It was raining in Ritsuko City. Which is no small feat inside a gigantic plexiglass dome on the surface of Earth’s moon.

  The council had set off the citywide fire suppression system. They did this every now and again as a service to the hydroponic roof gardens. Also, if any star pilots were opting to sleep rough, it would wash them into the gutters, from which they could be gathered en masse.

  I watched the water drool down the reception-room window and challenged myself to read the backward text aloud. “Oniris Venture Company,” it began, but that much I already knew. “Personnel wanted for deep space research, colonization, and . . . recog . . . reconnaissance! Expeditions.”

  “Impressive,” said Loretta, the Oniris representative who had just reentered reception. “We’re looking for a slightly broader skill range, of course.”

  I leapt to my feet and casually gathered my hands behind my back. Loretta was only slightly younger than me and not unattractive at first glance, but I wondered how much of her would spill out of that excessively tight blue uniform the moment it was loosened. And the jaunty angle of her pillbox hat didn’t go well with her sarcastic expression.

  “If you’ll follow me,” she said in a bored monotone, gesturing halfheartedly behind her to the interview room. “We can discuss your application.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I followed her into the small office. There was a simple desk set up with a computer terminal and two chairs, and a single window with a scenic view of some dustbins and a brick wall, but it was the poster behind Loretta’s chair that caught all my attention. A detailed schematic for an Oniris Galileo-class galactic explorer, fully diagrammed and labeled. It might as well have been wearing lingerie and making a kissy face.

  “So,” Loretta said while briskly pecking at the keyboard a few times as if she were brushing something nasty off it. “Oniris Venture is conducting a series of long-term deep space expeditions to expand the edges of the known galaxy and stake a claim on any resources or discoveries that are made. We are constructing Galileo-class explorers at a rate of one per year for the next twenty years, each requiring a full complement of bridge and security officers, as well as science and engineering staff, to blaze the trail of courageous pioneers.” She paused to stifle a little yawn. “And you would like to be added to the waiting list, Mr. . . .”

  “Pierce. Dashford Pierce. Yes, I most definitely would.”

  Her eyes flicked to the screen and her eyelids began to droop as she droned the illuminated text aloud. “Do you understand that a position as an Oniris crew member will involve a long-term posting of a minimum of four years with Quantunnel access available only for emergencies, and as such you will be away from home and your loved ones for that period?”

  Before answering, I stared out the rain-spattered window at one of the many alleyways of my home city. There was a half-eaten sushi sandwich in the gutter, spilling out of its cardboard container. A small patchy dog was carefully pooing on it.

  “I think I could live with that,” I said, turning back to Loretta.

  “I had a feeling you could.” She sighed.

  I crossed my legs to stop them from jiggling, but it wasn’t enough. My whole body was fizzing with excitement. I was still surprised that I hadn’t thought of this sooner. No more money worries, no more tourists, no more adventuring. Just a nice long, quiet existence on the edge of known space, and all I had to do in return was move as far away as possible from everyone I’d ever known, as well as all the attached grudges and favors. Trac, that’s a tough one. How many nanoseconds do I get to think about it?

  “And how would you describe your personal skill set, Mr. Pierce?” Loretta propped her chin up on one hand.

  “I’m fully qualified to fly any kind of spacegoing vessel.”

  “Of course you are.” She rolled her eyes.

  I coughed, reaching for the inside pocket of
my flight jacket. “I don’t have my diploma anymore, but I’ve got the electronic records from my old flight school . . .”

  “Don’t bother, I believe you,” she said, typing something.

  I pouted in disappointment. I’d spent the last four hours editing my digital diploma to convincingly display my new name, and I’d been rather hoping for some feedback. “That easy?”

  She paused in her typing, fingers splayed out like spiders poised to strike, and her gaze did a complete circuit of the room before landing on me again. “You’re a star pilot, aren’t you?”

  “No,” I said immediately.

  Her eyebrow shot up like the birth rate nine months after a prolonged power outage. “You’re qualified to fly ships. You’re wearing a flight jacket that looks like a patchwork quilt despite being nowhere near a spaceport. But you’re telling me you’re not a star pilot.”

  She was staring right at the bright-orange diamond-shaped patch on my breast pocket. The one that read “Star Pilots Do It with Only 24 Hours to Save the Galaxy” in flamboyant letters. I awkwardly folded my arms to ­cover it. “All right, I was a star pilot. But I’m between jobs right now, and I’m looking for a career change.”

  “I’m sure. The next step is to establish what onboard roles you are qualified for and place them in order of your preference. Can I take a wild stab in the dark and say your first choice would be on the bridge crew?”

  “Uh, yep,” I said, clasping my hands and bobbing in my chair. “Helm, navigation, I can fly anything with at least one wing.”

  “And on that note, your second choice?”

  “Well, I flew my own ship solo for over a decade, and I had to do most of my own maintenance, so—”

  “Second choice, engineering,” droned Loretta, typing. It was at this point that I noticed that all the keys she was pressing had extremely weathered letters. “And I suppose next you’re going to tell me that you’re as good with your fists as you are with a wrench?”

  My nagging sense of foreboding continued to grow, as those were the very words I had been preparing. “Y—”

  “Third choice, security team.” She spanked the Enter key several times ­decisively. “You will be added to the waiting list and we will be in touch when a suitable placement becomes available thank you very much goodbye.” She had switched off her monitor, climbed out of her chair, and was holding the door open before she had reached the end of her sentence.

  I didn’t move from my seat. “So . . . how long do you think I’ll have to wait?”

  She checked her watch and tutted. “Mr. Pierce, I’ve had a long day and I just went off shift. Can I be honest with you?”

  I nodded, confused.

  She folded her arms primly, half rotated her chair, and angled her head toward the poster behind her. “How many individual bridge crew members would you say the Galileo class requires to function?”

  “Including subs?”

  “Oh, most definitely including sublieutenants.”

  I didn’t even need to look at the poster. “Six.”

  “The current waiting list for the bridge crew is ninety-eight names long.” She let that sink in for a moment. “We’ve had to staple two more pieces of paper to it.”

  “Oh.” I started feeling rather hot and embarrassed in my pilot’s cap. “What about engi—”

  “There are twelve berths on the engineering team. Six teams of two. And before you ask, the security division has eight berths. Both also have a waiting list that’s ninety-eight names long. The same ninety-eight names. All of them with bridge crew as first choice, engineering second, security third. Every single one.”

  I felt something inside me deflate, noisily buzzing around like an unsecured balloon before settling into my metaphorical breakfast cereal with a plop. “I’m . . . not the first st—er, former star pilot to have thought of this, am I?”

  “No, as I think we’ve established, you’re the ninety-ninth.”

  “Okay, well, six plus twelve plus eight, that’s twenty-six to a ship, ninety­-eight names, that’ll fill three ships, so I’ll just have to wait—”

  “More like six ships,” interrupted Loretta. “The company introduced a policy restricting star pilot representation to fifty percent per team. Apparently there have been recurring issues with bad language, crews voting to interfere with planetary wars and rescue captured alien princesses, that kind of thing. Would you like to offer me a bribe now? ”

  “Wasn’t planning to.”

  Her eyebrow, which had only just gotten back down to horizontal, suddenly spiked back up. “This is usually when a star pilot would offer me a bribe. We’ve started calling it the ‘bargaining stage.’ ”

  “My cash flow isn’t the healthiest right now,” I admitted. In fact, at the time that I had first noticed the sign outside the Oniris office, I had been on my way back from the bank, where I had parted with a depressingly large sum to resolve a legal dispute. I’d been determined not to let it get me down, though. After all, it’s not like it had been my money.

  My shoulders drooped. Loretta must have thought I was dejected, because something approaching a sigh of pity escaped from her tight uniform. She settled back into the chair opposite. “Well, it’s not like it would have helped,” she said, conversationally. “None of our ships are going anywhere until we fill the science and medical teams. Twelve berths per crew, and a waiting list of four.”

  I glanced up. My great scheme had crashed on an unknown moon and attracted a horde of hostile locals, but it sounded like there was beer in the cargo hold. Maybe there was still a chance of turning a hopeless situation into a keg party. “You need scientists?”

  “One head researcher, one chief medical officer, and enough associates and technicians to cover all the major sciences. My theory is that it’s a pretty good time to be a scientist right now, quantum tunneling has opened up so many avenues of research . . .”

  “Yeah, it’s great, that quantum tunneling, isn’t it,” I muttered.

  “So it’s harder to find scientists in the right kind of mood to want to disappear from civilization for years. We’ve only got four names on the waiting list because some postgraduates at the university took it as punishment for releasing a piglet into the air filtration system.”

  “All right,” I said, placing my hands flat and parallel on the desktop. “I’ve got a proposal for you.”

  She folded her arms, tightening up again. “And finally we reach the bargaining stage.” But she didn’t roll her eyes this time, just maintained expectant eye contact, which I took as encouragement.

  “Could you bump me up to the shortlist for the next ship? If you wanted to?”

  “Come on, Mr. Pierce. Why would I do that?”

  “Because you owed me a favor. Could you do it?”

  She gave a thoughtful little puff. “The company only wants to know that our waiting lists are full,” she said. “They don’t care if a few names have been swapped around. That’s technically a yes. But why would I owe you a favor?”

  “Because I’m going to get you a bunch of scientists for your next crew.”

  The eyebrow came up again with such violence that I thought it would knock the hat off her head. “I have to admit, this is a new one. You could do that?”

  “Would it get me on that ship?”

  “Mr. Pierce, if you really could do as you say, I could make you the captain.”

  I considered the idea for a moment, and just as quickly dismissed it with a wince. “Helm will be fine.”

  She leaned forward. “So, how soon can you get ahold of them?”

  I’d been tapping my chin thoughtfully, staring out the window again. By now the little dog had finished pooing on the sushi sandwich but had evidently concluded that this needn’t have affected its edibility. “Hm?”

  “Your scientists. Where are they now?” />
  “Oh, I don’t have any yet.”

  She frowned. “So how do you plan to get them?”

  “I don’t have a plan. But now I have a goal. The plan I just have to make up as I go along.”

  Loretta sighed and leaned back, rolling her eyes so hard I thought she might detach her retinas. “Of course. Why did I even get my hopes up? Imagine a star pilot being capable of foresight.”

  Chapter 2

  I stalked the streets of Ritsuko like a ghost, listening to the rain drumming musically off my pilot’s cap, letting my mind wander in time with my legs. There was a resting place for my troubled soul on the far end of an Oniris Venture Company deep space recon operation, and the only thing between me and it was the absence of some scientists.

  I went over everything I knew about scientists from my years of experience as a galactic hero. I knew that they were socially awkward and had bad hair. And that they had an alarming tendency to try to take over the universe with doomsday machines. If not, then they would probably get kidnapped by someone who did want to take over the universe with a doomsday machine, in which case they could usually be relied upon to have a distressed daughter who might be up for postadventure hookups.

  But none of the names that came to mind, villains and hot-daughter havers alike, were unattached, trustworthy, or sane enough for a mundane deep space recon job. Moot point, anyway. They’d all scattered to the four winds after the Golden Age of star piloting ended—when Quantunneling came along, making it possible to teleport across the galaxy instantly, removing all the danger and adventure from space travel in a stroke.

  I awoke from my reverie when I felt the glow of familiar fluorescent lighting, and realized I had absent-mindedly wandered as far as the spaceport in Ritsuko’s Arse. And that didn’t make any sense, because it was only star pilots who hung around the spaceport all the time hoping to be hired by tourists. I was no longer a star pilot, and it would be nice if my plying subconscious could get onboard with this development.