"Famous last words." But she's already approving the assignment. "Get your optimistic ass to the loading dock. And Krilly?" She doesn't finish the sentence, but she doesn't need to. If a bio-engineered gladiator wants something, not much will stop him.
Four hours later, the numbers on the cargo manifest don't add up, and my palms are damp against the console.
"Bebo, walk me through this one more time." Buttercup's displays glow steady amber, the cargo data arranged in columns that should be routine. "These crates are supposed to weigh how much?"
"Manifest indicates seventy-three kilograms per unit." Bebo's calm voice fills the cockpit. My ship's AI has gotten me through more tight situations than I can count, mostly by being relentlessly logical when I'm being relentlessly optimistic. I built his personality protocols myself during my first month at OOPS, because Mother said courier AIs don't need character and I said mine does. Four years later, Bebo has more character than half the couriers on Junction One. "Actual weight per unit: one hundred forty-seven kilograms."
"So double." The cargo hold sits behind me, six identical crates humming softly in their restraint harnesses, whatever temperature regulation is keeping their contents happy. "That's not concerning at all."
"Concerning is an accurate assessment. Additionally, thermal scans indicate the crates are maintaining an internal temperature of thirty-nine degrees Celsius."
Body temperature. The hum of the crates takes on a different quality in my ears, something organic and wrong. "Bebo, what's in those crates?"
"Manifest lists contents as biological specimens, classification restricted."
"That's not an answer."
"That is all the information available in accessible files."
My fingers tap the console, a rhythm I don't realize I'm keeping until Bebo's proximity alert chimes and breaks it. The coordinates for Ursuris Prime glow on the nav display. The planet where ApexCorp does the research they don't want anyone asking about, where the wildlife keeps corporate secrets by eating anyone who gets curious.
"Plot me the fastest route. And keep active scans running; anything bigger than a cargo pod crosses our path, I want to know."
"Course plotted. Estimated travel time: four hours, seventeen minutes. Warning: route passes through the Helios Belt. Automated systems recommend the longer approach."
"How bad is the belt today?"
"Current drift patterns are within acceptable parameters for experienced pilots."
"You think I'm experienced?"
"I think you are adequately reckless."
That startles a laugh out of me. "Might be the nicest thing you've ever said. Belt route it is."
Buttercup lifts off from Junction One's dock with the smooth purr of an engine I've maintained to obsessive perfection. My little yellow courier ship isn't the fastest or the prettiest, but she's mine; every repaired relay, every optimized system, every quirk and hum that means home. Through the viewport, Junction One recedes, that sprawling maze of docking bays and living quarters built from repurposed cargo haulers. The last outpost before the unknown. Somewhere in that station, Mother is already watching my departure trajectory and muttering about rookies with death wishes.
The jump to hyperspace is smooth, and for two blessed hours, nothing goes wrong. The cargo hums. Systems hold optimal. A ration bar goes down without choking on my own nerves, which feels like an accomplishment.
Then we hit the Helios Belt, and Bebo's voice goes clinical.
"Warning. Detecting multiple large masses on intercept vector."
"Asteroids?" My hands are already on the stick, threading Buttercup through a gap that's technically wide enough but practically terrifying. "You said the drift patterns were acceptable!"
"The drift patterns are acceptable. These masses are not asteroids."
My blood drops three degrees. "What are they?"
"Scanning. Preliminary identification suggests—"
The first Gorganth dragon slams past the viewport close enough to fill it. Every scale, every tooth, every bit of predatory intent in its eye before it banks for another pass.
"Nope!" Buttercup rolls hard, restraints biting into my shoulders. "Nope, nope, nope. Bebo, tell me those aren't—"
"Identification confirmed: Gorganth swarm. Count: seven individuals. Assessment: extremely hostile."
Seven. Space-faring pack hunters that see courier ships as convenient snack packaging, and there are seven of them. Another one hits the shields, and Buttercup screams in protest.
