Ford leaned against the cold bulkhead of the cargo bay, arms crossed over his chest. He watched the Princess of Aldebaran pace back and forth in the narrow space between two pallets of dehydrated nutri-paste.

  She had been yelling for fifteen minutes. Non-stop.

  It was impressive, honestly. The air recycling system on the heavy hauler was set to "economy," meaning oxygen levels were slightly lower than Earth standard. Most passengers got winded after a few minutes of exertion.

  Sheila—or Seraphina, or whatever—scarcely took a breath.

  "...and furthermore," she ranted, gesturing wildly with hands that were surprisingly clean for someone who had been in a box, "the blatant disregard for Interstellar Treaty 412 regarding the transport of sentient dignitaries is grounds for immediate execution! Do you hear me? Execution!"

  Ford nodded slowly. He wasn't really listening to the words. He was listening to the cadence. He was analyzing the situation like a mechanic listening to a bad engine knock.

  He ran the options in his head.

  Option A: The U-Turn. Take her back to Sector 7. Hand her over to whoever put her in the box. Pros: He keeps his head down. Cons: Vex keeps the money. Also, she probably gets executed (for real). Option B: The Drop-Off. Continue to the Outer Rim. Dump her at the coordinates. Pros: He gets paid. Cons: The Outer Rim is a shark tank. A girl like this, wearing a dress worth more than his ship? She lasts ten minutes. He's effectively killing her. Option C: The Airlock. Pros: Quiet. Very quiet. Cons: He wasn't a monster. Just tired.

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  Ford rubbed his temples. He hated moral dilemmas. They burned too much fuel.

  He looked at her. She was currently berating him for the lack of a proper vanity mirror in the cargo hold. Beneath the anger, though, he saw the tremor in her hands. The way her eyes darted to the shadows. She was terrified.

  "Are you even listening to me, peasant?" she snapped, stopping in front of him. "I demand a comms link to the Royal Fleet!"

  "No comms," Ford said. His voice was gravel compared to her crystal glass. "We're in the Dead Sector. No signal out here even if I wanted to call your dad."

  "My father is..." she started, then her voice hitched. She looked away. "My father is unavailable."

  Ford watched her. Ah, he thought. So that's how it is. A coup.

  He sighed. This was getting complicated. He calculated the fuel cost of diverting to a neutral station. Maybe Freeport 9? He could drop her there, anonymously. It would cost him the contract money, but at least he wouldn't have a princess's ghost haunting his retirement beach.

  "Look, kid," Ford started, pushing off the wall. "Here's the deal. I'm not a kidnapper. I'm a delivery guy. I didn't know you were in the box. If I did, I would have charged double."

  "You are repulsive," she sneered.

  "I'm practical," Ford corrected. "Now, I'm going to go to the cockpit. I'm going to check the nav computer. And then I'm going to figure out where to dump you that doesn't involve slaver gangs or..."

  Suddenly, the ship’s internal lights flashed red.

  WWOOOP. WWOOOP.

  The klaxon was deafening in the small bay.

  "Proximity Alert," Mother’s voice blared, stripping away the calm veneer she usually used. "Combat Vessel detected. bearing 1-8-0. Intercept course locked."

  Ford’s eyes snapped to the nearest monitor.

  Sheila froze. "Is that... is that the Royal Guard?"

  "No," Ford said, looking at the jagged, ugly silhouette approaching them on the screen. It wasn't a clean, white military ship. It was painted black, with red jagged stripes.

  "That," Ford said, turning and sprinting for the door, "is a Pirate Corvette. And they don't care about treaties."

  He looked back at the Princess.

  "Strap in," Ford yelled. "And stop talking."