Rye sat in the pilot seat of the Cargo Swan, chewing the last of his protein bar and watching the stars drift past like lazy fireflies. Space trucking wasn't glamorous, but it paid the bills. Most days were boring. Just you, the hum of the engine, and endless space.
But today was different.
His cargo wasn't food packs or replacement parts. It was locked tight in a chrome container, marked with red warnings in five languages: DO NOT OPEN. CLASSIFIED. DELIVER DIRECTLY TO EPSILON STATION. NO STOPS.
Rye didn't ask questions. People who asked questions in this part of space ended up lost, or worse.
He leaned back, feet up on the console. Only five more hours to Epsilon Station. Then he'd drop off the package, collect his credits, and head back to Earth for a real meal and maybe a week of sleep.
Then the lights flickered.
"Come on," Rye muttered. The ship's systems were old, but not that old.
The comms crackled. Then a voice.
"Help... please... anyone..."
It was faint. A woman's voice. Tired. Scared.
Rye sat up straight, scanning the area. Nothing but empty space. No ships, no beacons, no signs of trouble.
"Cargo Swan to unknown signal. Identify yourself," he said.
Silence.
Then again: "Please... it's so cold... I don't want to die out here..."
It hit him in the gut. Space was unforgiving. No one deserved to freeze to death alone in the dark.
But the cargo. The warning.
"No stops," he whispered.
The voice came again, weaker now. "Please... I'm... drifting…"
He checked the signal source. It was close. Less than fifteen minutes off course.
Rye made a decision.
ns18.190.207.221da2
and then Add to home screen.