A silence descends over the group as the front of the container begins to slide slowly upward, hissing, a cold mist spilling out from behind it. The courier squints. He can make out vague shapes within.

“What . . . are those?”

The mist clears slowly, revealing stasis pods, neon green, a tangle of tubes feeding bubbling liquid through the glass.

“No . . .”

Figures float within the pods.

“No—”

Small figures.

The pirates, the cargo bay, everything disappears as the courier’s world shrinks to the size of a shipping container and three little stasis pods. He can’t breathe, he can’t think, can’t see anything beyond the shadows in the glass, as the vile truth of his ‘cargo’ burns itself into his soul.

“Are those children?”

He stumbles back, shaking, horrified, sick.

“I— I didn’t—”

The words catch in his throat, choking him in their unwillingness to leave. Blood rushes through his ears, washing away all other sounds in a muffled roar as his knees give out and he drops to the floor with a thud he doesn’t feel.

“What have I done?”

Merry watches with pity as the courier—a nuisance mere moments ago—breaks. All colour is gone from his face as he kneels on the floor, paralysed by the sight before him. He looks at her for the briefest of moments, his face a mask of desperate confusion, but he can’t hold her gaze and his eyes drop to the floor.

Just a fool, tangled in a net between forces far greater than himself. But, fool or not, she can’t let him leave.

“Blues?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Take him to the brig. And bring over the cargo shuttle.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Blues Scale nudges the man, but he makes no move to stand. Never one for patience, the powerful naga grabs his jacket collar, hauling him roughly to his feet with a force Merry will most certainly be discussing with him later.

“Wait a sec!” Glitch’s voice rings out from beside Duke as she fishes a small metal object out from his pocket. Swooping over to where Blues Scale stands with the courier, she grabs the man’s limp wrist and snaps a single shackle on it, engraved with a rune spell. 

“This dude just split open a huge metal wall without breaking a sweat.” She flicks the shackle, a few sparks flying from it. “He’ll need a siphon.”

Merry nods her approval, and Blues Scale leads the captive man away.

The courier’s mind is a fuzz of numb static. His legs barely hold him. He glances back toward the pods where the children are sleeping—Leyspring’s mercy, please let them only be sleeping—and swallows down the urge to vomit before a firm shove urges him forward. Everything blurs. Through the barrier. Onto a shuttle.

He sits and watches his ship grow small.

Then the numbness cracks open as the abhorrent reality of what he has seen, what he has done, takes hold of his heart and grips it, hot and barbed and fierce, and all tangled in the memory of another little girl with a spray of freckles and candle-flame hair. His chest burns. His throat tightens. His hands shake.

Breath hitching, he begins to quietly weep.

Blues Scale lights a cigarette with a spark from his finger, the curling smoke blunting the sharp edge of adrenaline still thrumming beneath his skin. He lets the shuttle drift slowly, enjoying the moment of quiet, before he hails the sleek white vessel growing slowly larger through the window.

“Aquarius, this is Blues Scale. Shuttle B, inbound. Can you prep a cell?”

A cheerful, girlish voice responds in a sing-song tone. “What’s the magic woooord?”

“Seriously, Petal . . . ?” A slight smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Ah, fine. Pleeeease?”

“Okay! Fly safe!”

He closes the comm line with a soft laugh. In all the gloom of the galaxy, at least some lights never seem to dim, despite the Authority’s best efforts. Speaking of which . . . he glances back at the captive. The man is slumped against the window, hands laced together in his lap.

He’s crying.

Well, good. Fuck him. He’s only crying because he got caught. And if not, he's an idiot who should have known better. What the hell kind of mage—what the hell kind of person—works for the Thuliv Authority, let alone agrees to do so without checking what’s in their damn cargo?

Blues Scale rubs a hand along the side of his hood, angry and conflicted. He glances back again.

The man is either the finest actor Blues has ever seen, or—

Or maybe he really did have no idea, says a small voice in the back of his mind—the one he attributes to his sister’s influence.

Compassion wins. He rummages through a drawer before turning back to his passenger.

“. . . Hey man. You want a cigarette?”