ISOLDE
Okay, so—note to self.
When a man in a tailored suit offers you access to a legendary ghost ship in exchange for “logistical discretion,” that’s code forthis place is a dumpster fire in space.
I pull myself up from the command chair after the launch turbulence finally lets up, every vertebra in my spine screaming rebellion. My ass is numb, my glam is wrecked, and my stomach is only just starting to unclench from the queasy zero-G burps. Reflector hovers close to my face, twitching like a nervous chihuahua with a lens.
“Vitals stabilizing,” he chatters. “Stress levels trending downward. You appear... mostly functional.”
“Gee. Thanks.”
I stand. Sort of. The Scallywag lists slightly to port, or maybe that’s just the engines struggling to adjust after that rocket-assault of a takeoff. The air here’s thick with burnt ozone and some kind of spicy meat scent that’s been aggressively overcooked and then forgotten in a vent. There’s a slow, pulsing hum through the metal that makes my molars buzz. It’s nothing like the sterile, white-gold ships I’m used to on press tours or luxury liners.
This ship feels alive. And pissed off.
“You smell that?” I ask, waving in front of my nose.
Reflector spins a sensor node. “Carbonized protein residue. Possibly meat. Possibly not.”
“Comforting.”
I step into the corridor and immediately regret it. The lighting overhead strobes just enough to make everything look like it’s underwater, flickering shadows over the mismatched metal panels. The walls are patchwork—some plates are matte gray, others stained bronze, and one chunk is just literal duct tape and wishful thinking.
And then I hear him.
“Hellooo, gorgeous,” someone singsongs.
I freeze.
There he is.
Shorter than I expected. Maybe five foot four if he stands on tiptoes. Fur-covered from snout to toe—tan and scraggly and wildly unkempt, like a Frayvoyan who partied through the apocalypse and came out smiling. He’s got one droopy ear, a crooked tooth, and a vest that’s been through more bar fights than it has wash cycles.
“Bokis,” he says proudly, sticking out a paw with fingers covered in glittery pink nail polish. “Smuggler, survivalist, and your official on-board entertainment. Pleased as pie to make your acquaintance.”
I don’t take the paw.
He doesn’t seem offended.
“I’ve been watching your stream, ya know,” he continues. “Love the whole glam-thrill-seeker thing. Big fan. You got guts, girly.”
“It’s Isolde,” I say automatically. “Not girly.”
“Right, right. Isolde Verrix, galaxy’s favorite daredevil with a billion-cred smile and a dangerous sparkle in her eye.”
He winks. I step sideways to let him pass. He doesn’t, of course. Instead, he falls into step beside me as if we’ve known each other for years.
“Don’t worry,” Bokis says, voice dropping to a faux whisper. “I know what you’re thinkin’. You’re wonderin’ if we’re gonna eat ya.”
“I wasn’t wondering that.”
He shrugs. “Still. Don’t worry. We’re not. Unless you count dinner invites, which in my case, are also pretty terrifying.”
Reflector chimes in: “Elevated heart rate detected. Would you like to activate self-defense protocols?”
I wave him off and keep walking. Bokis trails after me like static cling.
“Who’s piloting this death trap?” I ask.
