Grabbing the leather of the pilots’ chair, the courier pulls himself to his knees with a groan, cursing as his other hand lands in the broken glass and spilled whisky now glittering across the floor. Warning lights flash across most of the displays, the crystalline kaleidoscope outside fracturing as the 5UN-FL0R keels out of the Leystream and back into open space. Peeking over the edge of the dashboard, he watches as a vast white and black ship, many times the size of his own, pirouettes elegantly to face her forward guns directly at him. She is sleek, graceful, and looks nothing like a Thuliv Authority vessel.

“. . . Pirates?”

As if on cue, a bright blue flash bursts from the opposing ship and his own lurches violently under the powerful blast. He ducks—as though ducking would be of any help—peeking back over the dashboard as his shield display begins to strobe in time with the panic searing through his chest. One more strike like that will be the end of him. Frantically, he slams a finger down on the communicator switch and yells into the dashboard.

“Hey, I’m just a courier! And my shields are shite. Lay off the artillery!”

. . . Silence.

The opposing vessel begins to drift closer, looming whale-like over the 5UN-FL0R, which is beginning to feel very, very small.

“That is . . . quite a ship,” he says, his voice quivering an octave higher than usual. Silence is still the only reply, with just the faintest crackle indicating the comm line is open.

‘Are they goin’ to answer,’ he wonders, with a spark of annoyance, as though the attacking pirates ought to at least have better manners. “. . . Hello?”

A reply comes in a girlish voice, trying—unsuccessfully—to sound intimidating. “Transport vessel. Um. Drop your shields and prepare to be boarded.”

“Aye,” the courier grumbles, not bothering to hide his irritation. “Stop shootin’ at me and I’ll do that.” Realising belatedly that he should probably strike a more agreeable tone, he adds, “I don’t want trouble, lass . . . and I doubt ye want your loot blown into space.”

Rising to his feet, he slides his fingers across the shield display, reducing their tattered strength to zero.

“There,” he says. “Shields are down. Ye can come in through the cargo bay. I’ll get the door.” He cuts the comms, shoving his hands in his pockets and stalking out of the cockpit. “Keeper’s oath . . .” he mutters, glancing back through the door at the mess of liquid amber and glass across the cockpit floor. “Waste ‘o fine whisky.”

“Waste o’ my time, for that matter,” he grumbles to himself, trudging down the staircase to the cargo bay. He lights a new cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating the dim stairwell. “Never should o’ come here. This whole galaxy gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

He can feel it even now—the Thuliv galaxy holds a kind of hollow blankness, like the ashen remains of a burnt forest. He’s visited many places where the Leystream flows thin and slow, but this isn’t quite the same. Those places felt natural. There is magic here, but it’s muted. Repressed.

It’s unsettling.

He shudders. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Not right now.

The cargo bay is a bare expanse of bronze metal, lit with the same dim, red emergency light as the rest of the ship. Shipping crates are piled in the corners and a long, brown door stretches across the far wall. He strides toward a small control panel beside it. A light blinks on the screen, indicating the presence of a shuttle on the other side.

Well, they’re certainly not wasting their own time.

Taking a slow drag from his cigarette, he tries to calm his agitation. He knows how to deal with pirates. He hasn’t survived so long without a few tricks up his sleeve. This is annoying, but they’ll be on their way soon enough, and he can get far, far away from this creepy galaxy.

He taps a button on the panel, resetting the lighting to its normal, warm hue—far too abruptly for his taste, a nuisance he recalls a moment too late as he swears under his breath, blinking away the sudden brightness stinging his eyes. A second button summons a shimmering golden forcefield across the door, while a third opens a short-range communication channel to the shuttle outside.

“Alright, I’m openin’ the door. Barrier’s just for atmosphere, ye can stroll on through.”

He takes another calming drag from his cigarette as the door rolls upward with a ponderous groan, revealing the silhouettes of his unwelcome guests beyond.