The Dead Sector lived up to its name.

  It was a stretch of void between the Core Systems and the Outer Rim where the stars felt thin and the comms relays were nonexistent. It was the perfect place to smuggle illegal goods. Or to die alone.

  Ford sat in the cockpit, eating a dehydrated apple slice. He was four hours into the flight. The heavy "Bio-Medical Waste" crate was strapped down in the hold. The payout was already sitting in his escrow account, waiting for the delivery confirmation.

  "Florida," Ford muttered, chewing the rubbery fruit. "Sun. Sand. No vac-suits."

  THUMP.

  The sound was dull, vibrating through the ship's hull.

  Ford froze. He looked at the dashboard. "Mother, report. Did we hit debris?"

  "Negative," Mother’s voice replied. "Sensors clear. Hull integrity 100%."

  THUMP. THUMP.

  It was louder this time. Rhythmic. Violent.

  "Source?" Ford asked, unbuckling his harness.

  "Cargo Bay," Mother said. "Container 47-Alpha. It appears the 'waste' is... agitated."

  Ford swore. He reached under his pilot’s chair and pulled out his shotgun. It was an ancient pump-action chemical thrower, loaded with non-lethal (but very painful) shock rounds.

  "If that thing leaks a xenomorph," Ford grumbled, racking the slide, "I'm suing Vex."

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  He moved through the ship's narrow corridor. The air grew colder as he approached the cargo bay. The banging was relentless now. Metal on metal. Something inside that crate was trying to get out, and it was strong.

  CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.

  Ford stood before the sealed door. He keyed the access code. The door hissed open.

  The cargo bay was dimly lit. In the center, strapped to the deck plates, the grey crate stamped HAZARD LEVEL 4 was jumping. It was literally hopping off the floor against its restraints.

  "Alright!" Ford yelled, aiming the shotgun. "That's enough! Calm down or I depressurize the hold!"

  The banging stopped instantly.

  Ford approached slowly. He kept the barrel trained on the lid.

  "I'm going to release the top seal," Ford warned. "If you jump out, I shoot. If you spit acid, I shoot. If you try to sell me insurance, I shoot twice. Clear?"

  Silence from the box.

  Ford reached out with one hand and flipped the manual release latch. He jumped back.

  Hiss of escaping gas. The lid popped up.

  Ford tensed, finger on the trigger.

  A hand grabbed the rim of the crate. It wasn't a claw. It wasn't a tentacle. It was a manicured hand with chipped nail polish.

  Then, a head appeared.

  It was a woman. She was young, maybe early twenties, with hair that was a majestic, tangled mess of gold. She was wearing a gown that looked like it had been spun from starlight, but now it was torn and stained with cryo-fluid.

  She pulled herself up, gasping for air. She looked around the dirty cargo bay. She looked at Ford. She looked at the shotgun pointed at her nose.

  Her eyes narrowed. They were violet. And furious.

  "How dare you!" she screamed.

  Her voice cracked, parched from the stasis, but the authority was undeniable. She climbed out of the box, stumbling slightly but regaining her balance with a terrifying amount of dignity for someone covered in sludge.

  "How dare you kidnap me!" she pointed a shaking finger at Ford. "Do you have any idea who I am?"

  Ford lowered the shotgun slightly. He looked at the 'waste' container. He looked at the girl.

  "You're supposed to be sludge," Ford said.

  "Sludge?!" She looked affronted. "I am Princess Seraphina of the Aldebaran star system! And you, you filthy pirate, are going to turn this flying garbage can around immediately!"

  Ford stared at her.

  He thought about his contract. "No questions asked." He thought about the 150,000 credits. He thought about the Florida beach.

  Then he looked at the angry, royal fugitive standing in his cargo hols.

  "Oh," Ford sighed, slumping against the bulkhead. "I am never going to retire."