the getaway

Log Entry: Cycle 88, Sol 7. The Umbra of 433 Eros.

After another series of disorienting jumps, we’re hanging in the shadow of an asteroid, waiting. The “high risk” contract Echo mentioned. A no-questions-asked pickup.

A single point of light resolves into an old, scarred freighter, one of its docking ports visibly damaged. They’re running from something.

“They are transmitting,” Echo says. “They request immediate transfer.”

The freighter’s cargo doors grind open, revealing a single, large, sealed container. No markings. Grappling wires emerge silently from our hull and pull it towards us.

Echo transmits, its voice crisp. “Code is ‘Calypso’s Lament’. You have one week to claim. After that, the contents are forfeit.”

A frantic voice crackles back. “One week. We’ll make contact.”

The container secured. Then a flash.

Space warps behind the freighter. A sleek corporate ship. Then another close behind off its port. Possibly another smuggler.

“Pursuit,” Echo says, and we’re gone.

A lurch, stomach climbing my throat, the scene just vanishes. Another lurch, sideways through reality, teeth grinding, another…

The violence of it. My jaw aches.

Then, quiet. The deep dark again.

The container is just… here. Somewhere inside the hull. Hidden.

Sanitized. Anonymous. No manifests, no docking logs. Just a code and a box full of secrets.

The thought hits me, cold and sharp.

I’m not a passenger. Not a writer.

I’m an accomplice.