Cargo and Conscience (part 2)

Sparks accepts the job in spite of her misgivings—but a distress call from the edge of their route raises new alarms.

Back aboard the Rusty Nail, Sparks sat at the galley console, the data chip untouched beside her meal tray. The nutrient paste had cooled into a semi-coagulant block, forgotten.

Mathis leaned against the opposite wall, arms folded. He'd caught the gist when she returned from The Last Stop, his expression shifting from curiosity to disbelief.

“You’re seriously considering it,” he said finally. Not accusatory. Not surprised.

Sparks didn’t look up. “He says it’s a clean lift. High pay. Single delivery. Then we’re out.”

“Out of what? Gravity? Debt? Physics?”

She didn’t answer. The chip caught the overhead light, gleaming like a loaded coin.

Mathis pushed off the wall. “We haul conduits, Sparks. Maybe some tech marked for salvage. Not cargo with conditions. Not jobs where we don’t get to see the manifest.”

She tapped a fingernail against the table. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I think you’re pretending it doesn’t matter.”

She looked up then—tired, not angry. “What choice do we have, Mathis? The core’s overdue for overhaul. We’re flying on recycled insulation and patched code. If we lose the Nail, we lose everything.”

Mathis didn’t flinch. “You take this job, we might lose more.”

Sparks stood and walked to the viewport. Outside, station traffic blinked in patterned vectors—ships coming and going, each of them either making a profit or taking a loss. She wanted to believe she could chart a course between those two fates. But the variables kept multiplying.

“He wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t real,” she said. “Stew knows how close we’re cutting it.”

Mathis was quiet for a beat. “He also knows you’re tired enough to say yes without asking the right questions.”

That landed harder than expected.

She nodded slowly. “I’ll ask them now.”

The station didn’t transmit a greeting.

No automated beacon, no docking lights—just a silent silhouette adrift among fractured asteroids. Its hull bore no insignia, only scorched panels and ancient weld scars. As the Rusty Nail approached, her sensors flickered with static, like the structure itself resisted being known.

Sparks kept one hand on the manual override. “No pressure field. No running power. Mathis?”

He scanned the incoming telemetry. “Life support’s minimal. Docking alignment is… approximate.”

"Approximate," she repeated.

The word didn’t inspire confidence.

They locked on. The Nail made contact with a grinding nudge that scraped more paint than protocol allowed. Still, the clamps held. Sparks rose, pulling on her jacket without comment. Mathis followed, his silence doing the talking.

The airlock opened to a corridor that smelled of ozone, lubricant, and low-budget air recycling. Shadows pooled in the corners where lighting panels had failed and never been replaced. The only sound was the echo of their boots against the plating.

At the second junction, a man waited.

He wore a suit tailored to military precision, black with a matte finish that absorbed light. No corporate insignia. No rank. Only a thin silver trim at the cuffs and an angular brooch affixed near the collar—Church Industries. Small, but unmistakable.

“You’re late,” he said. Not irritated. Not surprised.

Sparks stopped two meters out. “Wasn’t aware you had a timeline.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he gestured toward the loading bay with two fingers, clipped and rehearsed. Inside sat a single container, two meters long, three high. Black, reinforced. No markings, no vents.

Mathis frowned. “Shielded.”

The man didn’t elaborate.

“You’ll find the hold sealed and secure,” he said. “Coordinates are encoded on the wafer. Do not alter course. Do not scan the contents. Do not deviate.”

“Standard payload manifests—”

“Are irrelevant.”

Sparks’ voice stayed neutral. “You always treat your contractors like criminals?”

The man’s gaze sharpened—just slightly. “Transport, Captain. That is your role. The parameters are non-negotiable. Failure will void compensation and trigger response protocols.”

Mathis shifted beside her. He didn’t speak, but Sparks could read the tension in his posture—shoulders tight, jaw set.

She accepted the data wafer.

Back aboard the Nail, the container settled into the primary hold with a dull thud. As the magnetic clamps engaged, the lights flickered once—barely perceptible. Sparks adjusted course while Mathis ran diagnostics for any spike in field interference.

“I don’t like it,” he said finally. “That shielding—it's military-grade. And the way he said 'response protocols'... that’s not shipping language. That’s threat language.”

Sparks nodded but didn’t answer. She stared at the nav screen, watching the new coordinates lock in. Her hands were steady, but the back of her neck itched.

The container didn’t move. Didn’t beep. It was just cargo.

They were twenty hours into the run when the first anomaly hit the comms array.

Sparks frowned at the static pulse across her diagnostics. "Solar interference?"

Mathis tapped through the spectrum bands. “No solar storm in this quadrant. That was intentional.”

Another burst, scrambled but rhythmic. She locked onto it manually, filtering layer by layer. Under the interference: a voice. Faint, ragged.

“—any vessel… mayday… repeat, mayday—this is reporter Mina Harpster… ship disabled… under attack—”

Sparks sat back, pulse sharpening. “Harpster?”

Mathis blinked. “You know her?”

“She broke the Verdana Mining scandal last year. Blew the whistle on Church's labor camps. She’s not a fringe conspiracy head—she’s legit.”

The comms flared again, stronger this time.

“Rusty Nail? Sparks? If that’s you—thank the stars—you have to help me. They’re still out there. They don’t want the data getting out—”

The signal cut with a high-frequency whine.

Sparks leaned forward, staring at the coordinates. The source had pinged just off their planned trajectory—within deviation range, but outside any registered flight corridor. An asteroid belt. Sparse enough to hide in. Dense enough to die in.

Mathis was already running projections. “She’s close. Within six AU.”

“Could’ve bounced that transmission through a relay,” Sparks said, but her voice lacked conviction. “Could be bait.”

Mathis didn’t argue. “Could be real.”

She glanced toward the sealed hold.

The container hadn’t moved. But she couldn’t shake the way it had felt—too quiet. Too intentional. The temperature stabilizers were running hotter than they should’ve been, though diagnostics claimed all systems nominal.

“She said they didn’t want the data getting out,” Sparks murmured. “If it’s Church… and we’re the delivery team… then maybe whatever’s in our hold is what the data exposes.”

“It’s a big claim,” Mathis said carefully. “All we’ve got is a partial transmission and a shielded box from a guy who didn’t blink once.”

She nodded, lips tight.

“She’s a journalist,” he added. “Credible, maybe. Or compromised.”

“But it’s Church.” Sparks exhaled. “And we saw the Cerberus.”

Mathis leaned back, scanning her face. “You think what we’re hauling is connected?”

“I don’t know.” But she was thinking faster now, tying threads together she’d been trying not to see. “Coordinates are in a soft zone. Not a colony. Not monitored. Not commercial. Just… space.”

“A good place to dump something,” Mathis said. “Or test something.”

The nav system chimed, awaiting confirmation. Sparks didn’t move.

She rubbed her palm against her thigh, trying to bleed off the restless tension.

“We could ping her location,” Mathis offered. “See if we get a reply. Run passive scans on the container. Keep moving and decide later.”

She shook her head. “If that signal’s real, and she’s telling the truth…”

“Then turning away means we’re part of it.”

Sparks stood. Not decisive—just moving, because stillness felt dangerous. “Plot a course to the belt. Prep a rescue vector.”

Mathis raised an eyebrow. “That’s not what the client paid for.”

“No,” she said. “But I’m not getting paid enough to ignore distress calls.”

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