Cargo and Conscience (part 1)

Sparks is down to her last credit when an old contact offers her a lifeline: one job, high pay, no questions.

The Rusty Nail groaned as it dropped out of hyperspace, the vibration rolling through her hull like a reluctant exhale. Sparks didn’t flinch. That sound—grating, uneven, slightly ominous—had become familiar over the last two years. The drive tolerances were holding, barely.

"Another jump survived," she murmured. The viewport reflected the weary lines around her eyes, blurred slightly by residual lens static.

Outside, a wash of violet and crimson nebulae swept across the starfield—dust and radiation dancing in slow, silent turbulence. Sparks cataloged it with mild detachment. Beautiful, yes. But beauty didn’t refuel the tanks or stall the station creditors.

She adjusted the comms array, recalibrating the channel bandwidth to prep for docking.

"Another step deeper into the void," she said under her breath, not quite dramatic, just factual.

"Always the optimist," Mathis replied, not looking up from his diagnostics.

He had a way of inhabiting silence that didn’t feel cold—focused, not withdrawn. Fingers smudged with trace lubricants moved over the touchscreen with habitual precision. Sparks had never seen him flustered. If something broke, he fixed it. If it couldn’t be fixed, he rerouted around it. That reliability had made him indispensable. It also made him dangerous to lose.

"Think of it as preventative maintenance for the soul."

"My soul needs a hyperdrive core, Mathis," she said, eyes scanning the incoming signal feed. "Not poetry."

"Then it’s a good thing poetry’s cheaper."

The comms crackled. Standard station hailing protocol.

"Rusty Nail, this is Ceres Station Control. Identify and state your purpose."

Sparks straightened in her seat, instinct overriding fatigue. Routine. Dock, load, launch. Pay down debt.

"Ceres Control, this is freighter Rusty Nail, ID Sierra-Nine-Four-Omega. Scheduled pickup: standard hyperdrive conduits. Destination Kepler-186f."

A pause. Standard database confirmation lag.

"Acknowledged, Rusty Nail. Proceed to docking bay seven. Standard procedures apply."

Of course it was bay seven.

Sparks exhaled and initiated maneuvering thrusters. Beside her, Mathis kept his attention on the energy distribution panel, his expression unreadable.

She didn’t comment. He didn’t ask. They both knew the real work started planet side.

Bay Seven hadn’t improved since their last visit.

The Rusty Nail drifted toward the assigned berth with gentle thrust corrections. The outer hull lights of Ceres Station flickered against their canopy—uneven illumination that revealed more neglect than function. Sparks kept one hand on the control stick, fingers tapping a quiet rhythm. The docking clamps wouldn’t align without manual input. She already knew that.

"Why is it always Bay Seven?" Mathis muttered, running a secondary scan on the umbilical interface.

"Because Bay Eight has atmosphere and dignity," Sparks replied. “We don’t.”

As they rotated for final approach, her gaze snagged on a second ship docked two bays over—sleek, matte black plating, no visible identification beyond a single sharp-edged logo etched into the forward hull.

Mathis noticed it too. He froze mid-scroll.

"The Cerberus," he said. The name landed flat. Not surprise—just unease, clinically identified.

"Church Industries." Sparks’ knuckles tightened on the yoke.

The ship’s presence shifted the station’s entire energy. Quiet, but watchful. Predatory.

“Trouble follows that name like vacuum follows a hull breach,” she said.

Church didn’t dock in backwater stations like this without a reason. That was what bothered her. They weren’t here for restocking.

Mathis leaned in, narrowing the external scan. “It’s fully powered. Internal energy signature reads low-grade containment field. No transponder signal.”

"Off-record," Sparks said. "Black contract, maybe. Resource grab."

"Or something worse."

She didn’t answer. There wasn’t a good answer.

As the Rusty Nail locked into place, the console chimed—internal comms. Sparks accepted without hesitation, and Stew Chipman's face filled the screen. He looked older. Not broken—just stretched thin.

“Good to see metal and pilot still attached,” he said. The attempt at casual didn’t mask the tension behind his eyes.

"Stew," Sparks said, startled. “Didn’t expect you to be tracking our jumps.”

“Didn’t expect to need to.” He glanced offscreen, once. Just once. A tell.

Sparks straightened. “What’s wrong?”

He hesitated. “Things are tight, kid. But I’ve got something. A run. High payout. Clean lift, if you’re quick.” He paused, lips thinning. “Could be your last ride on the Nail.”

Sparks didn’t blink. “Go on.”

He nodded once. “Topside. Last Stop. Usual corner. I’ll explain there. And I’ll buy. Hell, I’ll even spring for the good stuff, or at least as good as they have – synth-whiskey that tastes marginally less like paint thinner than usual.”

The screen cut before she could ask anything else.

Mathis raised an eyebrow.

She didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “He wouldn’t call if it wasn’t serious.”

“No,” Mathis agreed, looking back toward the Cerberus’s silhouette. “And serious jobs don’t wait in bars unless they’ve already drawn company.”

Sparks pulled her jacket from the side hook, thumbed the safety clasp on her holster, and headed for the exit ramp.

She didn’t like uncertainty. But she trusted patterns. And this one felt wrong before it even started.

The Last Stop didn’t advertise. It didn’t have to.

The bar’s signage was little more than a flickering panel half-obscured by soot and wiring. Inside, recycled air smelled faintly of ion residue, and the lighting was tuned to a hue that flattered no species. Sparks stepped inside and scanned the room automatically—exits, faces, proximity sensors—then moved to the back corner.

Stew was already there, nursing a synth-whiskey. The booth’s cracked upholstery groaned as she slid into the opposite seat.

“You’re late,” he said, though his tone lacked teeth.

“You didn’t specify a time.”

“Point.” He took another sip, winced. “Still tastes like floor cleaner.”

"So what is this miracle job, Stew?"

Stew exhaled. “It’s not conduits. Or alloys. Or anything you'd usually get clearance for. Long-range, low-profile. Off-manifest.”

Sparks leaned back, arms crossed. “Smuggling.”

“Not exactly.”

“‘Not exactly’ is what people say right before a tribunal hearing.”

Stew gave a short laugh, then sobered. “Client’s discreet. Untraceable. Doesn’t ask for names—just speed and silence. Payout’s in bullion. Enough to get you out of that ship for good.”

He didn’t say Interceptor-class, but it hung between them like bait on a line.

She didn’t respond immediately. The noise of the bar receded slightly, her mind already running probability trees. Time. Fuel. Threat models. Exit strategies.

“What’s the cargo?” she asked finally.

“Classified. Destination’s out past Kepler, in restricted territory.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Restricted means flagged sectors. Military zones. Corporate choke points.”

“I know.”

“You want me to run black cargo past fleet patrols with a buyer I’ve never met and a hold full of questions?”

“You want out or not?”

That landed. Sparks rubbed a knuckle against her temple. He wouldn’t offer this unless he thought I was desperate. Which, to be fair, wasn’t inaccurate.

“You’ve always talked about getting off the fringe,” Stew added, voice low. “This is that chance. No more patching grav coils with epoxy and luck.”

She studied him, but he didn’t flinch. No smirk. No oversell. Just tired eyes and enough guilt in his posture to suggest he knew he was asking too much.

Finally, he slid a slim datachip across the table. “Contact point. You say yes, they’ll send the pickup coordinates.”

She didn’t touch it. Not yet.

“You don’t have to decide now,” Stew said, standing. “But don’t take too long. Opportunity moves fast. So does risk.”

He left his glass half-full and didn’t look back.

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