THE STORY

It is 2246, and you did something ridiculously petty. Reserved a whole orbital lounge with one towel
for eleven days. Returned a library holo-book 214 years late. Parked a cargo hauler across three
docking bays. The fine is absurd, and you will never pay it.

So THE CHAIR — a tiny, ancient ant judge on an enormous throne, with a gavel the size of a
toothpick — offers the alternative: Corporate Service. You may choose. (You may not.) Her clerk
Vael translates the clicks.

You get Licence N: StarCorp, an empty government shell company, dropped into a closed market run by
up to seven established corporations. Grow it until it counts as one of them and the licence becomes
a charter: the company is yours. Meanwhile the news, the café and your rivals quote your record at
every turn.

5 ways it ends:
- Charter granted: StarCorp is yours, and so is your freedom. THE CHAIR: “Congratulations. You are
now an incumbent. Tomorrow we draft an outsider against you.”
- Monopoly: Every rival is gone: you are the whole market. THE CHAIR: “You are now the market.
Tomorrow we break you up.”
- The market is closed: A rival reaches the winning share first. The purpose of your licence has
lapsed; you keep no debts. THE CHAIR: “The shell will be issued again. They always are.”
- Licence revoked: The banks pull the plug. The fine returns with interest — and you chip ice in
the Debtor’s Belt. THE CHAIR: “Mind the ice. It is also evidence.”
- Sentence served: Twenty years, no charter. You are free to go — with a cardboard box. THE CHAIR:
“Your box is by the door. The plant is regulation.”
