The Weight of Wealth

The Morrigan drifted quietly in orbit above a nameless rock the crew had collectively agreed not to remember. The job had been simple by their standards: negotiate a salvage claim, avoid starting a fire, and escape without anyone losing a limb. Technically, they had succeeded.

The ship’s galley was unusually calm, filled only with the hum of life support, the soft clink of a spoon in a mug, and the occasional annoyed beep from Quinn’s data pad. Caitlin sat cross-legged on the floor, tablet in hand, scrolling through line after line of expense reports and repair estimates with the grim focus of a gambler watching her last chips vanish. Her boots were off. Her short tank top had a burn mark on the hem. Her expression hadn’t changed in an hour.

Scarred-Snout the Aslan loomed nearby, arms crossed, tail flicking with idle frustration. His mane still held a faint whiff of welding grease, and his armor bore the telltale scorches of someone who had once again attempted diplomacy by headbutting a turret.

He squinted at the numbers. “You keep saying ‘money,’” he rumbled, ears twitching. “But there is no sound. No clink. No weight. Where is the satisfying heft of victory?”

Caitlin didn’t even look up. “Digital, Scar. The future’s all numbers, imaginary interest rates, and people arguing about expenses.”

Scarred-Snout frowned harder. “You mean... we are paid in nothing?”

Quinn, who had explained this before and would undoubtedly explain it again, said, “Credits are a representation of value within a decentralized interstellar economy.”

Scarred-Snout grunted. “So it is pretend. Like cubs playing trader. Or female secrets”

Morwen tossed him a small pouch of actual gold coins looted from somewhere they were definitely not supposed to be. “Here. You earned these. Trade them for roast meat or something shiny.”

Scarred-Snout brightened immediately. “Now we are wealthy!”

He held the pouch aloft like a trophy. “These I can bite!”

Cathbad’s voice crackled from the overhead speaker. “Please don’t.”

Maltz, crouched over a half-disassembled diagnostics panel, didn’t look up. “He’s already bitten the medkit. Twice.”

Scarred-Snout purred, low and satisfied, and stalked off toward his bunk to gloat over his newfound treasure.