I punched the airlock control pad. A wide rectangle, its dull red light shifted to orange.

  While the airlock cycled through its opening sequence, I checked my gun, the Starburst, in its holster, re-checked the personal shield clipped to my belt.

  The airlock finally opened. On the other side was a small chamber. The room was dark. I could see the glow of emergency lights on the floor, forming a path to a door on the opposite side.

  After I entered, the airlock cycled shut behind me, cutting the light from the Mahkkra. I fumbled my way to the door, guided by the path faintly glowing on the floor.

  Once I reached the door, it opened without a sound, sliding on the side. I froze at the doorway.

  The room beyond was massive. It was two decks high, dimly lit, utterly silent. What little light remained came from emergency strips on the floor and a faint golden glow seeping between hexagonal wall panels. In the shadows, I could make out the shapes of hovering chairs arranged around low tables, a bar with bottles glinting behind it. Hardwood floors. Crystal chandeliers overhead.

  This isn't a transport. This is a palace.

  Memories surfaced. Years ago, I'd experienced similar luxury aboard a corporate liner during a three-day executive retreat, a performative display of wealth designed to impress board members and key stakeholders. The technical director had invited me as recognition for a particularly successful project. I'd felt out of place then, surrounded by executives in tailored suits sipping thousand-dollar cognac.

  This vessel, however, surpassed even that ostentatious display. The craftsmanship evident in every surface spoke not merely of wealth but of refined taste accumulated over generations. This wasn't corporate luxury designed to impress. This was private opulence crafted for personal pleasure.

  The room had a majestic stairway going up on each side. The stern wall opened to a large dark corridor. The bow had a heavy reinforced door. It was raw metal, unadorned. It looked utilitarian with no thoughts given to aesthetics, a stark contrast to the rest of the room.

  I walked in, slowly, scanning the dark room. The lack of light and utter silence was getting on my nerves.

  Where is everybody? A ship docking should have raised alerts on every crew console. Why is there nobody to greet me?

  My boots sank in the plush carpeting as I made my way to the door. This should lead to the bridge and the crew section of the ship. If there is anyone left, that’s where I will find them.

  As I passed by a chair, I touched it. The chair seemed anchored to the floor despite hovering. It was soft, my fingers slightly sinking in the cushioning. The texture was smooth and very pleasant. I bet those are super comfortable. Too bad I don’t have time to try them.

  I reached the door. It was impressive. I was unsure how to open it when I noticed an access panel on its side. I shrugged my shoulders and touched, convinced it would not work. Loud clunks echoed as heavy bolts disengaged. A vertical seam appeared, and the two halves of the door hissed aside.

  Mouth opened, eyes wide, I watched it finish to open, incredulous. What the? How? Why is the security not engaged? This is weird. This door should be locked.

  Once the door finished opening, light blinked to life, harsh and blinding me for a moment after the soft darkness of the room behind me.

  I scanned the revealed room. Another reinforced door on the opposite wall, bridge in bright lights written atop it. One one side, an elevator door, on the other side, a recess with a ladder in its back, and access hatches on the floor and ceiling.

  What immediately caught my eye were the blood stains on the floor and scorch marks on the walls. Laser gun shots. What the hell happened here?

  I gulped, nervously trying to find clues in the visible display of violence. Without a thought, on autopilot, my right hand gripped the handle of my gun. I slowly drew the Starburst and cautiously walked to the bridge door.

  I was very confused. Did the pirates make their way inside? It doesn’t make sense. They wouldn’t be still firing at the ship if they had already boarded and looted it. Something was off.

  I reached the door to the bridge, but it refused to open when I touched the panel. It only glowed red then dimmed.

  I searched the room for another way in but could not find any. I went back to the access panel. Noticing a connection port, I got an idea and plugged my holobracer. In Life Among the Stars, I had used code breakers during infiltration quests. With any luck, they were still installed and would work.

  Sure enough I found them. A military breaker, made specifically for cracking military security. A standard multi-purpose code breaker and another one specifically designed for the terrorist organization I had stolen the Mahkkra from. I was convinced I would not need the last one in this world. But it never hurts to keep it. For nostalgia’s sake if anything else.

  I tried the second one. It was surprisingly easy to use. It immediately detected the connection to another device and started to try and open it. I watched a progress bar slowly advancing. Seconds ticking, I felt sweat dripping on my temples. I shifted uncomfortably. In order to keep my hologracer plugged, I had to keep my back to the room. The fear of someone sneaking on me was unbearable.

  Finally, with a soft chime, the code breaker finished. The access panel flashed green and the door started to open. Hurriedly I unplugged my holobracer and spun around, gun in hand, ready to shoot the attacker I was sure was trying to ambush me.

  Nothing. Apart from the door opening, there was only silence. I took several long and slow breaths, trying to calm my frantic heartbeat.

  You're being paranoid, Nicolas. Calm down and keep your cool.

  The bridge, initially bathed in darkness, lit up when I entered. It was big enough for a crew of at least six. I could see the shape of a man at the pilot’s station, slumped forward over the controls. His posture, the unnatural stillness of his body. Somehow, I instinctively knew the man was dead. I nervously shifted my weight on my feet, searching for hidden dangers. There was blood on the floor, on the windows and on several consoles. One of the stations was destroyed, small sparks sputtering from it intermittently.

  There was no sound. Slowly, cautiously, I made my way to the body. Gun raised, ready to shoot at any danger. My hands were steady. I was confused at the situation, anxious to discover what had happened and what I had walked into. But my mind was clear. I felt like I was doing one of the many missions of Life Among the Stars. I activated the scan function of my holobracer. No signs of life around.

  I reached the body. His rank was evident from the intricate insignia on his tailored uniform. He looked elegant. A pool of crimson had formed beneath him, staining the expensive wood framing the console. Dry. A smart bandage, clung to his abdomen, the nanites long since spent. An open first aid kit lay at his feet. There was a feeling of desperation in how the small box was opened and had its content scattered around on the floor.

  The scene told a grim story: severely wounded, the captain had applied emergency medical intervention before returning to his post, prioritizing his vessel's survival over his own. The bridge's environmental controls continued functioning perfectly, maintaining the same subtle fragrance of sandalwood that permeated the lounge, now incongruously mixed with the metallic scent of blood.

  This ship was made to have a crew of six. From the position of the stations, it would require a minimum of two at their post to fly safely. Only the captain was here. Alone. Where is the missing crew?

  I approached a secondary command station, careful not to disturb the deceased. The chair had genuine leather upholstery, dyed an azure blue and adjusted automatically to my body as I sank in it.

  The console activated at my proximity, holographic displays materializing above the polished surface with a subtle chime.

  I tried to access the ship’s status. ACCESS DENIED. Star charts? ACCESS DENIED. Security feeds. ACCESS DENIED.

  I groaned in frustration. Come one. Give me something.

  I sat back, drumming my fingers on the console. Classic lockdown protocol. But there's always a crack.

  I pulled up the system architecture, tracing data pathways with practiced ease. Years of IT security work had taught me where people got sloppy. And there it was: the supply access logs, completely unprotected but with privileged permissions to other subsystems.

  Rookie mistake.

  I grinned and started digging.

  A timestamp on the data caught my attention: Fifth day of the third month, year 7063. I investigated further and found the same date in another calendar: the seventeenth year of the reign of Emperor Ishan Elemein the 127th. I blinked, processing the implications. The comprehensive media library I'd discovered on Hyperion Deep was only a few months out of date.

  Grinning, I slowly, methodically wound my way into other systems. I still could not access most of it, but I had an idea of what was happening. There had been a sudden event. Logs seemed normal and routine, then stopped for two hours. Then only a few consoles activated. Someone was desperately trying to fix the shields when the pirates attacked. So that’s how they were able to disabled FTL. But they had been repaired after the initial attack and were powerful enough to prevent further damage.

  Every other system seemed perfectly operational. Good.

  Now, if someone was fixing the shields less than one hour ago, then I am not alone in the ship. Where are you?

  I thoroughly scanned every log. Here! Found you! Someone is accessing the engineering console near the main cheatlight drive. Someone is trying to fix it

  Before leaving the station, I once again tried to access the starmaps. But was once again thwarted by the security protocols.

  The drive system was in the lower deck. I made my way out of the bridge, toward the elevator.

  Its polished doors slid open at my approach, revealing an interior that maintained the ship's luxury. Wood paneling, a command screen housed in an ornate frame that appeared to be gold, with leaf patterns.

  The destination panel displayed the ship's vertical organization: Observation Deck, Guest Quarters Deck, Main Deck, Crew Quarters Deck, Engineering Deck.

  I selected the Engineering Deck. The doors closed. Without the notifications on the panels, I would not have been able to tell I was moving. No sound, no feeling of movement. Amazing.

  The doors parted, revealing a completely different world. No more wood paneling, or expensive furniture. Instead, bare metal walls with exposed conduits and pipework that traced complex patterns. Color-coded lines on the floor indicated the direction of various systems. Life support. Main generator. Emergency batteries. FTL drive. Plasma engines. Energy distribution…

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The air hung heavy with the scent of lubricant and the faint ozone tang of electrical systems under load.

  A cacophony of sounds filled the place. Loud bangs and whistling from various systems.

  I gripped my gun tighter and slowly started to make my way toward the cheatlight drive. Following the orange line with a checkered pattern.

  I approached a console. A regular screen embedded in a wall beside a junction. My fingers swept across its surface, bringing up the main menu. The display flickered briefly before presenting a stark message:

  INFORMATION RESTRICTED TO AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

  I gave up and continued my advance. The temperature was rising noticeably after every step, the environmental systems struggling to compensate for the heat generated by whatever was ahead. Sweat beaded on my forehead, threatening to drip down into my eyes. I wiped it away with my sleeve, leaving a smudge of grime across my brow. I checked the other lines and noticed the red one: “main generator”.

  I paused at the entrance to a vast chamber. The reactor core hung suspended in a force field. A sphere rotated on multiple axes, surrounded by flowing streams of blue-white plasma that traced hypnotic patterns through the air. It was beautiful. Alien. Nothing like anything I'd seen before.

  Focus, Nico.

  I tore my gaze away and kept moving, following the guiding line deeper into the engineering section.

  I shook my head and backed away from the propulsion chamber, reluctantly tearing my gaze from the hypnotic dance of plasma flows. The door sealed behind me with a hiss, cutting off the ethereal blue-white glow and plunging me back into the dim-lit corridors of the engineering deck.

  The temperature dropped noticeably as I moved away from the main generator section, the environmental systems finally able to compensate without the overwhelming heat of the plasma conduits. My skin cooled, the layer of sweat beginning to dry uncomfortably beneath my clothes. I went on, still following the guiding line on the floor.

  The shield generator at my belt suddenly activated with a high-pitched whine, the protective energy field materializing around me in a translucent shape flickering blue in the unmistakable pattern of weapons fire being absorbed.

  "Fuck!" I instantly dove behind a bulky piece of machinery, my shoulder slamming hard against the grating of the floor. My heart hammered against my ribs as I pressed my back against the cold metal.

  I strained to listen. Nothing. Just the pounding of my own heartbeat, deafening in my ears.

  “Hello!” I shouted. “I am Captain Beaumont. My ship, the Mahkkra, is docked to yours.”

  No response. Only silence.

  "I'm not a pirate. Can you please not shoot me? I’m a mercenary. I'm here to rescue you."

  The silence stretched for several seconds before a response came.

  "Oh yeah. And you think I'm going to believe you?" A feminine voice, tight with tension and skepticism. The acoustics of the corridor made it difficult to pinpoint her exact position.

  "I assure you I'm not a pirate. I'm a mercenary," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. "I received your distress signal and came to rescue you. Those pirates were small fodder, I took care of them all."

  My fingers twitched against the floor grating, betraying the calm I was attempting to project.

  "Listen," I continued, licking my dry lips. "I'm going to lower my gun and send it away from me, then I'm going to slowly exit. Can you let me do that and not shoot me? Then we can talk?"

  Another pause, shorter this time.

  "Ok. But any sudden move and you're dead, mister," came the response.

  I exhaled and slowly put my gun on the floor. Letting go of it was hard, but I steeled my nerves. Using the toe of my boot, I slid it across the metal floor, the scraping sound unnaturally loud in the tense silence. The weapon came to rest several meters away in plain view. Out of reach if things went sideways.

  "I'm coming. Please don't shoot me," I said, surprised by the slight tremor in my voice.

  I extended one hand slowly beyond the edge of my cover, palm open and fingers spread to demonstrate its emptiness. The limb remained attached to my body, which I took as an encouraging sign. I cautiously peeked around the edge of the machinery.

  The corridor stretched out before me, dotted with control panels and junction boxes. I could clearly see the business end of a heavy-caliber weapon protruding from behind a support column, a serious piece of hardware that would have turned me into scattered atoms if not for my shield.

  When no shot came, I slowly extended my other hand and stood up, keeping my movements deliberate and telegraphed. One wrong move and I’m going. Slowly, Nico. Slowly and non-threatening. The weapon tracked my rise but didn't fire. I tried to maintain composition, but a sigh of relief escaped my lips. She didn’t shoot. Good.

  "I'm out and unarmed," I said, standing fully exposed in the corridor, arms held away from my body. Sweat trickled down my spine, but I resisted the urge to wipe my forehead. "Can you please come out too? I just want to talk. I swear."

  Gradually, a figure stepped into view. A woman. She was young, early twenties maybe and wearing a high-collared jacket of white fabric with intricate gold embroidery. Expensive. Tailored. And completely out of place in the engineering bay.

  Her hands, I noticed, were steady on the weapon. Not shaking. She looked at me expectantly.

  "After I took care of the pirates, I tried to hail your ship," I explained, maintaining my non-threatening stance. "But there was no response, so I boarded in case there was an emergency. I found the captain dead on the bridge. Where is everybody?"

  Her eyes narrowed, the weapon's aim unwavering. "Before I answer, tell me why you're here? Who are you working for?" Her voice carried the crisp enunciation of formal education, though fatigue had roughened its edges.

  "Well..." I hesitated, shoulders tensing involuntarily.

  "You're not gonna believe me, but I don't really know where I'm from."

  One eyebrow arched upward, skepticism etching deeper lines into her exhausted face. "And you expect me to believe that?"

  "Listen, I'm working for no one. Nobody sent me. I'm an independent," I insisted, palms still displayed openly. "I was doing some exploration when I reached this system and got your distress call. I swear, that's the truth."

  "But what about this, not knowing where you're from?" she pressed, fingers adjusting their grip on the weapon.

  I sighed, shoulders sagging slightly. "I was rather hoping you'd forget about that and focus on my exploration work and admirable space fighting skills. But to tell you the truth, I recently woke up on my ship. I had a hyperspace accident. My memory is very fuzzy. I found a space station and have been trying to figure out where I am since then. I was exploring and trying to find civilization when I detected your ship’s SOS."

  Something in my confession seemed to resonate with her. Perhaps it was the transparent absurdity of the claim. Too bizarre to be a calculated lie. Or perhaps it was simply the defeated honesty in my voice. Whatever the reason, a subtle shift occurred in her demeanor. The weapon lowered gradually until it pointed at the floor rather than my vital organs.

  "Do you know how to repair a cheatlight drive?" she asked, the question carrying a desperate edge.

  "No idea, sorry," I admitted, lowering my arms. "But it took a direct hit, from what I saw on the outside. I'm not sure it can be fixed without spare parts. Do you have some?"

  "No," she answered, her gaze dropping as her shoulders slumped.

  I studied her more carefully now that imminent death seemed less likely. The expensive clothing showed signs of recent distress. A dark stain marred one sleeve, and the hem of her jacket was frayed. A decorative comm device hung from a chain around her neck, its surface scratched. Despite her obvious exhaustion, she maintained a certain poise that spoke privilege and high society upbringing.

  "Also, I don't want to upset you or anything, but what happened here?" I ventured cautiously. "The captain bled out on the bridge and there's no one else apparently. But this is not a one or two crew ship, and no offense, but you don't look like crew."

  Her fingers tightened around the weapon again, but it remained pointed downward. The question clearly touched a nerve.

  I attempted a weak smile, forcing my shoulders to relax and keeping my hands visible. Careful Nico. Maintain a non-threatening posture. Do not anger the woman with a gun. She studied me, her calculating gaze unwavering as an internal debate played across her face. After some consideration, she exhaled deeply and squared her shoulders as she seemed to have come to a decision.

  She squared her shoulders, and when she spoke again, her voice changed—formal, deliberate, carrying an authority that hadn't been there before.

  "I am Rosalia Rainmaker. Royal princess of the Kingdom of the Blue Suns. Last heir to the throne."

  I blinked. Princess. Of course she is.

  "There was a coup," she continued, her tone flat now, reciting facts. "My father was murdered. My mother. My siblings. The rest of my family. I was fleeing when part of my crew, infiltrated partisans, tried to finish what the coup started. There was a fight. The captain was injured. He sent me here to hide and locked himself in the bridge." She gestured vaguely toward the upper decks. "Everyone else is dead."

  Despite the gravity of her words, I noticed something unexpected in her demeanor. Rather than raw grief, her expression conveyed a complex mixture of sadness and what appeared almost like... relief? The tension in her shoulders had eased slightly as she shared her story, as though unburdening herself of a secret had provided some measure of solace. Her eyes remained downcast, certainly sorrowful, but lacking the devastation one might expect from someone who had just witnessed the annihilation of their entire family line.

  "Oh. Hmm. Sorry for your loss,” I replied automatically. “And thank you, your highness. For answering, I mean," I stammered, suddenly aware of the diplomatic inadequacy of my response. "And for trusting me."

  The revelation recontextualized everything. The luxury vessel. The missing crew. The desperate flight through pirate-infested space. Not a wealthy merchant or corporate executive as I'd assumed, but royalty in exile, taking a desperate gamble by traveling through pirate-infested regions and having the misfortune to encounter them.

  I contemplated our situation for a moment, mentally cataloging resources and possibilities. An idea crystallized, offering a potential path forward.

  "You know, I'm pretty sure the station I found has cheatlight spare parts," I ventured. "I could get back to get the parts, or you could come with me, then we'd get back here."

  Her expression hardened immediately, suspicion returning. "You want me to accept going on your ship? I can trust you with my identity, but that's asking a lot," she replied, the diplomatic veneer momentarily slipping to reveal anxiety.

  "Well, we can hash out the details, but I think I can help," I persisted. "Maybe I can try to tow your ship to the edge so you can use your hyperdrive. It didn't look damaged from outside. Then you either come with me to my station, or take your chance to pilot this ship to wherever you were trying to go?"

  She considered the proposition, her eyes narrowing slightly.

  "Or maybe you can accompany me to my destination, mercenary," she countered, a calculating gleam replacing the exhaustion in her eyes. "I can lock my ship's nav to yours while we are in hyperspace. I can compensate you. Escort is standard mercenary work, after all."

  The suggestion caught me by surprise. That’s right. I’m a space mercenary. This could be my first job. The start of a glorious career. I could not help the smile forming on my lips. Then it hit me. Desperate princess, alone on a ship. Rescue from pirates. Escort to safety. This definitely sounded like a quest from Life Among the Stars. Maybe even the start of one of those long quest lines. Although if it were a game, now would be the time for an alarm to blare and warn us of more pirates coming, or the failure of a critical system of the ship.

  I waited for a few seconds, maintaining the appearance of thinking about her proposal. Nothing happened.

  I was on the verge of agreeing when my holobracer emitted a sharp alert tone.

  I glanced down at the holographic display, my expression souring as I processed the information scrolling across the interface.

  "According to my ship, a very small craft decloaked and boarded this vessel," I reported, tension returning to my muscles. "Did you expect company?"

  Rosalia's head jerked in a sharp negative gesture, her knuckles whitening around the weapon's grip as she raised it to a ready position once more. "Cloaked means trouble," she replied, her voice low and steady. "Probably assassins, sent to finish the job. We can hash out long-term payment later, mercenary, but for now... how about I hire you as my bodyguard?"

  "Fine by me. But the name's Nicolas, not Mercenary," I replied with a smile. I moved toward my discarded weapon, maintaining eye contact with Rosalia as I slowly retrieved it. "Any idea where they might have boarded?"

  The princess was already moving toward a nearby console, her fingers dancing across its surface with unexpected technical proficiency. She now seemed more focused. Calmer. As if the danger closed the hints of vulnerability that our discussion had brought to the surface.

  Our unlikely alliance had formed just in time to face whatever new threat had arrived. As I checked my weapon, I couldn't help but appreciate the absurd familiarity of the situation. Rosalia's voice cut through my thoughts without her looking up from the console: "As my bodyguard, what is your tactical advice? Stealth or direct confrontation?"

  The question was so perfectly aligned with my mental gaming reference that I almost laughed. Instead, I moved beside her and asked her what she was seeing on the feeds. She looked at me like I was an idiot.

  “There’s no security feed. It’s a royal ship, often used for diplomatic functions. Feeds can be hacked. Besides, we could not access those from here if there were any. I’m putting the ship’s systems on lockdown. If they want to access anything, they’ll need time to hack it.”

  I nodded sheepishly. “Are you ready?”

  She nodded and we moved toward the elevator.