Thank fuck for the short layover at that shithole of a way station. Of late, it seemed every port they stopped into had some kind of commotion happening. Stricter inspection of cargo. Flaring tempers.

It had all started a few weeks ago at La’zuun and followed them.

The latest port had a stolen vessel being argued over by authorities and the pirates who claimed it. The entities with stern expressions were less concerned with the entrepreneurs who’d acquired the ship and more with where said pilot went. Someone wanted the thief of the slick, emerald-skinned craft.

The rumor mill at the docks claimed a father was looking for his daughter. The reward was sizable. Seemed like an awful lot of expense to go through for a runaway kid.

Crank stomped out onto the elevated platform that gave him a view of the entire engineering section, what some called the bowels of the ship. He knew it for what it truly was. The brains and heart.

And they were beautiful.

The energy cores had an ethereal appearance to them. The power—contained within clear, diamond cylinders—went several stories high. They glowed, their color not on the human spectrum. Whatever it was, it made his nanobots very happy. It wasn’t unusual to see those who’d truly gone ’borg stroking the exterior. Even leaning their faces against it.

Much like the nanotechnology that adopted them, the origin of the energy cores was alien in nature—and expensive. Luckily the cost came out of Captain Jameson’s pocket, but Crank got to enjoy it.

Taking the stairs down to the lower level three at a time, Crank didn’t bother greeting anyone. This was work time. Not a social event.

The main control area for the engine room was within sight of the energy cores— a circular hub, ringed in consoles. He strode amidst the crew bent over their stations, eyes scanning, fingers flying. Always work to be done.

“Chief!” Someone called for him overhead.

He didn’t reply. He wasn’t a pet you hollered at.

Ensign Zane trampled down the steps and ran to Crank. He then almost saluted. He tucked his hands behind his back before making that mistake. “There appears to be a problem with that last crate we ordered from La’zuun.” Which contained silicia, an organic material that resembled a fluffy pile of leaves. Purple ones with hair-like filaments that were valuable in the creation of holochips for a variety of items.

“What the hell is wrong now?” Crank muttered as he stomped over. The La’zuun cargo should have been fine. They’d checked it at boarding.

“There’s something alive in the crate.” The ensign indicated with a pointed finger. “Should we shoot it?”

Alive after weeks of being in space? Probably a rodent. Pesky buggers were hard to kill. “Don’t shoot.” Firing into the silicia would destroy them. Given their cost, and the use he had for them, they couldn’t afford to lose even a single one. “Is it a rat? A bacoon?” Which resembled the raccoons of old Earth but with spiked tails and much sharper teeth. Funny how the universe might be vast but certain bottom feeders existed in every culture.

“If it’s a rat, then it’s a big one,” the ensign said as he kept pace with Crank. “There’s a huge flat spot at the back. Didn’t see nothing, but the feathers were moving. Something is in there.”

“Get the inoculation kit ready.” They kept a few in engineering at all times because of the rodent problem. Being in space didn’t make the rats immune to disease, and humans were highly susceptible.

It didn’t take long to make it to the cargo bay. The large space showed various stacks of boxes and pallets. Strapped in so they wouldn’t shift. In the middle of the room, the open crate. And no one watching it.

“Didn’t you set guards on it?” he asked.

“Yes.” Zane looked around. “I wonder where they went.”

Probably for a snack. Or a nap.

A nap would be just perfect right about now.

Crank frowned. Nap in the middle of the workday?

“Check the cameras to see if your rodent escaped.”

While Zane peeked at the logs, Crank stomped over to the open container, hands held loosely by his side. It wouldn’t be the first time he caught a lively bugger, although if he did, he’d have to make sure he crushed it without spilling any blood. Blood and silicia didn’t mix well.

“Nothing exited the box, Chief.”

“And those left to guard?” Crank asked, crouching down to see if he could spot anything. Not a single leaf quivered.

Nothing to see. Move along.

He shook his head. It was probably hiding at the back, under all the fluffy leaves filling the space. He began to dig them out, gently scooping them behind him into a pile on either side.

Nothing there.

The thought was in his head, and yet his eyes disagreed. As the last of the leaves dropped low enough for him to see the very back, he spotted a shape. Huddled in a cloak. Bigger than a pest. Wearing clothes, which meant it wasn’t a rodent.

A stowaway. Worse kind of varmint there was.

“You,” Crank barked. “Hiding in the crate. Get out here.”

The hooded shape didn’t move, but it did waver from sight.

Nothing to see. But you are getting very hungry.

He blinked. He could go for an old-fashioned wiener on a bun with sloppy condiments.

What a strange thought. “Let’s go, whoever you are. Don’t make me drag you out.”

Slowly, the hood turned, and he saw straight through the shadows hiding the face to the giant, violet eyes inside.

Eyes that widened upon seeing him.

“Who are you?” he snapped.

The figure in the cloak didn’t reply, and yet he could have sworn he heard someone whisper, Your destiny.

No mistaking the voice inside his head this time. The kind meant to control his thoughts. If there was one thing Crank wouldn’t tolerate, it was mind games.

“Don’t you fuck with my head. I said get your ass out here.” He reached in and grabbed hold of an arm, noticing how slight it was. He yanked the figure free from the box, dragging it through the remaining silicia. Only once they cleared the container did he remove his grip.

Arms crossed, he stared down at the cloaked figure. “Who are you? How did you get on my ship?”

Those enormous violet eyes met his gaze. The shadowy cowl of the cloak hid most of the features. Only a pointed chin and a pink bottom lip peeked. “I seek sanctuary.” Help me. The words were soft and fluttery. They curled around him, as if trying to bind his mind with cobwebs.

He glowered. “Stop that shit right now, missy. You want help you ask for it. You don’t force it.”

Already wide eyes grew bigger. “A million apologies, Commander.”

A sneer broke free. “I ain’t no commander. I work for a living. Name is Crank Abrams. Chief engineer on the Gypsy Moth.”

“I am Ghwenn.”

“Whatever. Don’t care. March your ass this way.”

She began to walk in the direction he indicated, her slight figure enveloped by the voluminous cloak. “I seek asylum.”

“I’m sure you do. And you might have gotten it if you’d asked the proper way. I don’t do favors for stowaways.”

She whirled before the door that he opened with a slap of his hand. “I couldn’t come to you via normal channels. You don’t understand the danger I am in. Those who hunt me—”

“Will stop once we present them with your body.” Maybe even claim a bounty if there was one out there.

“Body? I don’t understand…” The words trailed as she glanced over her shoulder at the airlock he’d led her to. “You’re planning to kill me.” She said it with surprise.

“Kill implies I’m physically laying a hand on you. This is more just getting rid of the trash.”

“But I don’t want to die.”

“Then you should have thought of that before stealing a berth on my ship.”

“I told you I didn’t have a choice. And by your own admission, you are not in charge of this ship.” Her chin lifted, pointed and proud. “Take me to your captain.”

“Captain’s busy. Besides, I got jurisdiction down here, and I have a rule about stowaways.”

“This is ridiculous. I demand a fair hearing with the owner of this vessel.”

“Stowaways don’t get to make demands.”

She stomped her foot. “Then you leave me no choice.” Her hand flung from her robe, the fingers long and straight, the nails blunt and unpainted. “Kneel before me and obey my command.”

The force of the demand hit Crank like a wrecking ball. Literally stole the breath from him, which was impressive considering he had one synthetic lung.

It trembled through him, this need, this desire, to kneel. To bow his head and promise obeisance.

Perhaps if he didn’t have so much metal running through his body it might have worked. Or she wasn’t that strong. Either way he fought against her demand and instead grabbed hold of her, yanking her close.

Only when she stared up at him, those violet eyes frightened—her lips never once begging—did he feel something inside crack.

He didn’t kneel for her.

Nope. He did something just as implausible.

He let her live.