"What do you mean, 'there's no way we can turn around?'" a man shouts as he desperately fiddles with the console, "There must be some way to haul this gigantic metal piece of-- s**t!!" He flies out of his chair and into his head navigator. The navigator grunts as she lurches forward.

"I told you, captain. We can't possibly reroute ourselves this far into such unstable terrain. We have no choice but to stick to the path we've set ourselves on." The captain huffs indignantly.

"I'll be damned if we all die on a bounty hunt, Lieutenant Obed," he says, "C'mon, isn't there something? This ship flies, for God's sake." If only to damn him further, the intercom crackles on, a rough, belching voice reverberating through the ship.

"Peters! Translate!"

"I'm on it, sir!" A young man types rapidly and the disgusting unknown language turns into disgusting English.

"Aryhaofgh kunupte and you will die! We shall find your children and feed them to the lake wyrms! We will snap your bones and dry them for picks! Step into our lands and there will be no survivors!" The captain rolls his eyes. These warlords are always too dramatic. He waves at his communications officer to send an audio message. Pressing a button, he speaks.

"I am the captain of the starship Riverwake. We mean no harm, we only mean to navigate past your planet and to the next star system. If you allow us passage, we and the Intergalactic Federation will be forever grateful. However, if you choose to engage in combat, we will show no mercy."

"The Federation?!" the voice shrieks, "You are nothing but scum! Are you saying you believe our planet to be nothing worth mentioning?! That we are simply a 'pit-stop' as you infinitesimal humans say it? Fire everything!"

"Well, s**t," says the captain. Today, Lars Tucker is twenty-eight years old, and sweat breaks over his dark skin. Being a captain of a class Beta government vessel is turning out to be a lot harder than people said it would. Worst birthday ever.