Will the Last One Out of the Galaxy Please Turn Out the Lights?

An ode to a zombie game from the dialup days

I took a last look at my planet before boarding my ship.  Hundreds of colonists toiled here, mining fuel and ore and making equipment (what kind of equipment?  Hey, things are vague out here).  Did they mind working solely to get me enough supplies to build a citadel?  Should I ask?

I left my homeworld behind and set a course for Earth to pick up more people.  There are always more.  I stopped at some ports along the way.  At every port, I was heralded for discovering it and becoming its first customer.  You built an entire spaceport and nobody’s shown up till today?  I should be glad you’re not selling milk or yogurt.

A few sectors from Earth, I consulted my onboard computer to scan the galaxy for other intrepid souls such as myself.  After all, while I sleep, some brigand could land on my planet, eject my ship from it, and take control.  Worse yet, they could blow me out of space, and I could wake up in an escape pod, hurtling willy-nilly toward Stardock and whatever tiny jalopy I could afford to restart my trading career!

Scans revealed… one other captain.  In a thousand sectors.  Population of millions on earth, an entire Starfleet and swarms of alien pirates, and literally one other human piloting around in the void.  I squinted at the screen.

“Best stay outta my way, PoopWolf69,” I muttered, locking in my final approach to Earth.