Cargo and Conscience (part 3)

The survivor’s story is worse than Sparks imagined—and her cargo may be part of the plot.

The Rusty Nail dropped out of hyperspace into impulse with a jolt. The belt loomed ahead—an unstable drift of rock and wreckage, particle density just high enough to scramble radar.

Mina’s ship was barely intact. Radiation scorched the plating. Atmo was venting slow from a hull breach patched with thermal sealant and desperation. Sparks could see flickers of power reroutes still active, clinging to minimal life support.

Mathis coordinated the docking clamp manually. Sparks stood by the outer hatch, medkit in hand, eyes fixed on the pressure lock display.

The seal cycled green. The hatch slid open.

Mina staggered forward—helmet under one arm, breath ragged. Her hair was matted with sweat, one cheek bruised, a cut across her temple still fresh. Her eyes locked onto Sparks’.

“I knew you’d come,” she rasped, dropping into the nearest seat like the gravity had doubled. “I wasn’t sure who else was still alive.”

Sparks handed over a stim tab and waited. Mina downed it without asking.

Mathis checked the hatch seal behind her. “You’re alone?”

“For now,” she said, voice steadier. “Church hit me on approach. They knew I had the data.” She pulled a wafer from her jacket—standard-issue, but scorched along one edge. “This is it. Full logs. Test records. Deployment models.”

Sparks didn’t reach for it. “What are we talking about?”

Mina’s gaze sharpened. “They’ve engineered a targeted retrovirus. First-wave release causes neurological degradation and infertility. It’s gene-locked—only affects populations lacking specific genome markers. Guess which ones those are?”

Sparks didn’t have to.

“They plan to destabilize the Kepler colonies, then move in under humanitarian cover. Total resource acquisition under emergency protocol.”

Mathis swore under his breath. “And we’re the courier.”

Mina looked between them. “What?”

“The job. The cargo in our hold,” Sparks said quietly. “It’s shielded. Heavily. No manifest. High pay. Delivery into restricted space.”

Mina’s face went pale. “Then you’re carrying it.”

No one spoke for a moment.

Sparks leaned against the console, eyes fixed on the inert wafer in Mina’s hands. “What happens if it’s delivered?”

Mina’s voice dropped. “A million people start to forget words they’ve known their whole lives. Birthrates crash. Panic spreads. Church sweeps in with the antidote and ownership claims.”

Mina stood slowly. “If we can get this data to the Colonial Authority, we have a shot. But Church will track it. They’ll track me. And they’ll want that payload back.”

Sparks looked at Mathis.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The air between them felt colder. It held the kind of stillness that came between a decision and its consequence.

Sparks watched the nav console cycle through its routing sequence. The coordinates were still there, pulsing quietly like a heartbeat she no longer trusted. The container in the hold hadn’t moved. But she could feel its weight—mental, gravitational, ethical. A center of mass that pulled at every thought.

Mathis didn’t look at her, but he didn’t need to.

“You suspected,” he said. Not a question. Not a condemnation. Just a statement that stripped away the justifications she hadn’t dared voice.

Sparks adjusted the course vector, fingers stiff. “I knew it was questionable, but hoped it was about red tape and regulations. Nothing like this.”

Mathis exhaled—short, dry. “Hope’s not a protocol.”

She didn’t respond.

“I didn’t know,” she said after a moment. “I didn’t want to know.”

He looked away then. “That’s worse.”

Sparks turned, the ship’s ambient lights casting sharp edges across his face. “It's not like we haven't bent a few rules here and there—black-market meds, old weapons caches, stolen research…”

“None of them were like this,” he said. “None of them were designed to wipe out an entire population.”

Sparks flinched, just slightly. “And what would you have done? Back on Ceres, with Stew sitting there, offering a way out?”

“I've always trusted you to ask the right questions.”

The quiet that followed was heavy. Not angry—just exhausted. The kind of silence that meant the facts had outpaced the excuses.

She dropped into the pilot’s chair, staring at the nav overlay. “We’re past the halfway point. If we double back, they’ll flag us. If we push through, they’ll be waiting.”

Mathis pulled up the long-range scans. “Then don’t go forward. Go loud.”

Sparks looked over. “Broadcast the data?”

He shook his head. “They’d jam us. Scrub every relay between here and the colonies. But if we get the data to someone who still has teeth…”

“…the Colonial Authority,” Sparks finished, a spark of strategy breaking through the fog.

Mina stepped into the cockpit. She looked worse now that the adrenaline had faded—gray around the eyes, her movements cautious. “It’s not just the virus. It’s the way they’ve tied it to social compliance metrics. They’re not just killing—they’re reengineering.”

Sparks closed her eyes for a breath, then opened them. “We need a diversion.”

Mathis was already scanning nav projections. “We stay on vector. Make it look like we’re following orders—heading for the drop.”

“And we jettison the real cargo,” Sparks said, catching on. “Into the belt. Somewhere they won’t spot it right away.”

Mathis nodded. “With a beacon on a tight-band frequency pinging the Colonial Authority. Unencrypted. No delay.”

Mina looked between them, then down at the wafer in her hand. “You think they’ll respond?”

“They won’t ignore it,” Sparks said. “Not if we hand them everything they need to bury Church.”

“And us?” Mina asked.

“We make noise,” Sparks replied. Her voice had leveled out. “Draw fire. Stay alive long enough for that beacon to hit a relay.”

Mathis gave a thin smile. “Low odds. But we’ve worked with worse.”

“Anything else,” Sparks said, “is dying while pretending we still don’t know better.”

Mina exhaled slowly, then nodded. “Then let’s get it done.”

Sparks adjusted the course by a half-degree—just enough to track with Church’s delivery corridor, just subtle enough to sell it.

“Cargo bay ready,” Mathis said. “Beacon programmed. Ten-minute pulse cycle, staggered relay sync.”

“Do it.”

He tapped the release command. Deep in the Rusty Nail, the reinforced container detached from its mount with a hollow clunk. The outer bay doors opened just long enough to let it slip free, spinning silently into the shadow of the belt.

A second later, the beacon flared to life—narrow-band signal, tight-encoded, zero authentication. An electronic flare with teeth.

“Pod’s away,” Mathis confirmed. “Broadcasting.”

Sparks reset the nav path. “Then we fly like we’re still the delivery team.”

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