Once upon a time, there were three little piggies who amicably parted ways to start each their own separate lives.
The first little piggie was a lazy bum, so he just found himself a haystack, dug out a hollow chamber, and lived there. The second little piggie was an industrious little guy, so he chopped down a little stand of trees, dressed the lumber, and build himself a cozy little shack. The third little piggie was the Harper, and, of course, the Harper was good. So he found a Glorious-Heritage class battlecruiser stuck in around a black hole, dragged it out, and set up shop.
One day, the big, bad wolf got hungry, and he went to the first little piggie. "Little kludge, little kludge, open this miserable mockery of a domicile or I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll call a deorbiting kinetic warhead down on your inferior little arse!" cried the big bad wolf.
"No, not by the hair of our chinny-chin-chins," replied the first little piggie, who had been huffing and puffing for quite some time now and gotten himself completely banged.
And the big bad wolf huffed and he puffed and he called in the aforementioned kinetic warhead, and the little piggie went running for his life just seconds before a half-ton of meteoric pig iron smashed his haystack to flaming chaff.
He ran into the house of the second little piggie, and together they cowered until the big bad wolf tracked him down. And the big bad wolf, who wasn't the brightest of fellows, cried again, "Little kludge, little kludge, open this miserable mockery of a domicile or I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll call a deorbiting kinetic warhead down on your inferior little arse!"
"No, not by the hair of our chinny-chin-chins," replied the first little piggie, who was still completely banged, before his brother could stop him. And so the two were forced to run for their lives yet again as another load of thrustered pig iron fell from the sky.
This time, they ran to the Harper, and when the big bad wolf tracked them down again, they had the youngest little piggie securely gagged.
"Little kludge, little kludge, open this miserable mockery of a domicile or I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll call a deorbiting kinetic warhead down on your inferior little arse!" cried the big bad wolf.
"Go to hell!" Harper replied.
So the big bad wolf huffed, and puffed, and after quite some time finally remembered that deorbiting kinetic warheads, by definition, stay in orbit around a planet—to be precise, in orbit around the planet from which the big bad wolf had come.
Meanwhile, the Harper picked up a few local girls, invented a machine to instantly end Flash trips, and cured the common cold.
No, actually he drank Sparky Cola and laughed himself silly.
Finally, after much confused head-scratching and the help of both hands, the big bad wolf found his arse. Emboldened by this achievement, he put on a pressure suit, floated over to the Andromeda Ascendant, and let himself in by the airlock.
"What are you going to do now, little kludge?" the big bad wolf gloated as he stomped through the inner lock. "I'm still wearing my pressure suit, you know."
"You're still wearing your pressure suit, huh? Wow, that really throws a wrench into my plans," Harper replied, "but off the top of my head, I'd say that I'd shut the AG down, have a Marie droid open up a crate of nuts and bolts at the intersection ahead of you...and decompress the corridor."
And he did, and the nuts and bolts were accelerated to a good many meters per second, and the big bad wolf would have suffered an explosive decompression had he not already taken a helical coupler to the heart.
The moral of this story? Trust in the Harper. The Harper is good.