Night fell. Evening breeze drifted across the plaza where tens of thousands of youths had gathered—perhaps more. Rex hadn't counted. He only knew the number was vast, and the corpses left behind in the buildings were vaster still.

  He'd never imagined reaching an oasis like this, not under such circumstances. Green Ark. His future stretched before him, unmapped and uncertain. Stars. Alien worlds. Colonization. The cosmos. Words that had driven generations to flee Turquoise Ring. Yet traveling with pirates, climbing over bodies—this wasn't the dream. Never.

  He found canvas, wrapped provisions, collected waterskins. As always, he prepared for the long road.

  No one should expect pirates to handle logistics. A planet designated only by number would likely prove worse than Turquoise Ring. This was the moment to secure supplies. If everyone took what they could, the plaza would empty fast. Hunger would follow.

  "Stop dragging your feet! Board the ships! Three minutes!"

  "Three minutes? You're joking." The youths had recovered some strength. Numbers bred courage. They clustered, pushing back.

  Vzzzt. Vzzzt. Vzzzt.

  Arcs of lightning lanced through the crowd. Several bodies launched backward, smoking. The price of defiance.

  Hostility isn't wrong, Rex thought. But know your capital. Meaningless sacrifice serves nothing. Wait for the moment to bury your enemy. If you can't destroy Red Storm in one stroke, hide your hatred. These are genuine killers.

  "Move!" The plaza erupted. The mass surged toward the escape pods, no longer testing pirate patience.

  Survival of the fittest was just the appetizer. The main course comes next.

  Rex moved fast. These ancient pods inspired little confidence. He studied, selected—one of the sturdier tin cans.

  "Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven... Ignition."

  The deck hammered beneath him. The meat can launched.

  Now the tin can had become a can of meat, packed with living cargo. Pirate vessels seized the pods with tractor beams thick as a man's arm. The pod engines couldn't manage atmospheric escape alone.

  Once airborne, the cabin groaned and shuddered, threatening to shake apart.

  Rex's palms slicked with cold sweat. His spine iced over. Atmospheric exit rattled his skull dizzy. Then—weightlessness. His body drifted upward.

  "God... is this... zero gravity?"

  Gas hissed from the walls, breathable atmosphere. Beyond flickering indicator lights: darkness. Rex felt inverted, his heart hammering against his ribs.

  A faint glow swept past. He turned instinctively. Through the viewport, the ochre sphere shrank, a pale ring encircling its equator. He stared, transfixed.

  Home receded. Impossible. Two weeks ago he'd been scrambling through Shipwreck Village, drafting grand plans, dreaming of desert empires and prosperous futures. Now? Departing Turquoise Ring. Entering the mystery of deep space. The feeling defied naming.

  Goodbye, home. Goodbye, Turquoise Ring. Perhaps forever. Mom and Dad's graves grow ghost mushrooms. Spore season now, probably. The scent would be thick. So thick...

  Half an hour later, acceleration mounted. Stars crowded the viewport, streaked past. His chest tightened. Each breath required effort. Even his gene-tweaked body strained. The others fared worse.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Rex regulated his breathing, recalling his studies. Understanding clicked. Escape pods carried capacity limits. Exceed them, and life support collapsed under the load.

  Interstellar travel demanded consideration of countless factors. Temperature extremes—near absolute zero in the void, stellar furnaces near suns. Ignore black holes, nebulae, singular phenomena. For human survival: temperature, respiration, pressure—all must remain within viable parameters. Cross the threshold, and consequences followed.

  Damned pirates. Treating lives like weeds.

  He maintained steady breaths, left hand locked to the cabin wall. Beside him, a burly youth gasped like an asthmatic, clutched his throat, eyes rolling white. Shock.

  The first case. Then the second. The third. The cabin became a theater of collapse.

  Severe hypoxia caused shock. Rex felt temperatures dropping. More "countrymen" slipped into unconsciousness. Grief flickered in his eyes.

  Most hadn't slept in days, minds shattered by trauma, bodies bearing wounds from the slaughter—some critical. Unconsciousness here meant death. Permanent sleep. Half might perish before arrival.

  Hours passed. Rex discovered he'd adapted to the hostile environment. He could doze against the cabin wall now.

  He studied the others covertly. Physical quality, adaptation speed—clear hierarchy. The strongest had stabilized their breathing. The weakest sweated pale, twitching at every vibration, neurotic with fear.

  Days blurred. Ten, perhaps. Cabin temperature held at minus three degrees—walking into a massive freezer. The living stripped the dead, wearing their clothes for warmth.

  Food turned to stone. Water froze. How far to SK937? No one knew.

  On the twentieth day: "Look! A new star system! We're decelerating!"

  The boy at the viewport was an early adapter. Since some youths had permanently "slept," oxygen had marginally improved. Brief conversation became possible.

  The boy's eyes widened. "Fascinating. Three planets visible from this angle. Why is the star so small? So dim?"

  Rex glanced, unsurprised. "Red dwarf. Most common star type in the galaxy. Weak gravity means planets usually keep one face permanently toward it. Eternal day on one side, eternal night on the other. Red dwarfs live hundreds of billions of years, relatively gentle temperament. Many First Galaxy factories orbit them. I'd visit, given the chance."

  "Wow. You know so much."

  "Lucky to know anything. Countless celestial bodies—humans call it the Star Sea. Pack your gear. Given pirate methods, this place promises danger."

  The survivors scrambled, bundling food, securing packs. Soon the vessel entered a crimson world—like a sphere soaked in blood, sinister and strange.

  SK937's atmosphere was extraordinarily thin. Landing brought no turbulence. The ship settled in a northwest-trending rift valley, a turbid river threading through. Flame-shaped shrubs grew sparsely along its banks.

  The vegetation ran entirely red. Careless observers might mistake it for surrounding rock. The hatch rotated open. Scorching air flooded in. Gravity exceeded Turquoise Ring's. His body felt heavy.

  Standard protocol for hostile environments: decompression chambers, sterilization, acclimatization. Pirates possessed no mercy. Brutal elimination ruled. Adapt or die.

  Survivors emerged. Three dozen pirates deployed long tables, bellowing: "Memorize this map. Ten days to reach the designated point. Everyone gets an explosive anklet. Miss the deadline or try removal—pop—blood paste. One more thing: don't cluster. More people attract more danger. Move! Stop acting like women!"

  Holographic displays flickered above the tables. Five minutes of terrain demonstration. Rex frowned. The transitions were too rapid. Several sectors remained unclear.

  No second chances. The pirates didn't care who remembered what. Ankles locked with electronics. Miss the window, die horribly.

  Fear drove many sprinting forward. The journey was long. Early departure meant hope.

  Rex studied his surroundings, grave. The valley emitted faint luminescence—similar to the red dwarf's light, yet distinct. His skin desiccated rapidly. He plucked hairs, examined them. The shafts lost luster immediately, yellowing within thirty seconds.

  Radiation. Severely elevated. This rift contains radioactive elements. Water. Massive amounts. Soap, if possible.

  He recognized the crisis, wrapped clothing around his head—useless against radiation, but psychological comfort counted. Perhaps.

  He ran, periodically testing with plucked hairs. Discovery: the flame-shrubs marked safe zones. He diverted immediately, hoping to endure the ten days.

  An hour later, his legs felt leaden. SK937's gravity exceeded Turquoise Ring's. Internal organs strained. Dehydration accelerated.

  Rex pushed forward, locating secluded flame-shrubs to study. If the branches purified radiation, he'd wrap himself like a mummy without hesitation.

  He drew the ceramic dagger from his breast. Against pirates or in the warehouse slaughter, he'd never revealed this weapon. Perpetual insecurity had taught him to hold reserves. Always.

  The branches were tough. Against the blade, nothing. Soon he carried a bundle toward higher-radiation zones, observing carefully.

  His face changed.