Visibility was zero. The view outside the cockpit was a swirling wall of violent purple gas. Lightning arched across the windshield, illuminating the terrified face of Princess Seraphina.

  She gripped the armrests so hard her fingernails were digging into the faux-leather. Every bolt in the Millennium Seagull rattled. The ship groaned like a dying beast as it plummeted through the nebula.

  Sheila stared wide-eyed out of the viewport. She just knew she was going to die. She was going to die in a cloud of toxic gas, piloted by a man who dressed like a mechanic.

  Then, she heard it.

  A sound.

  It wasn't the scream of the engines. It wasn't the proximity alert.

  It was... low. Melodic.

  She turned her head slowly, fighting the G-force pressing her into the seat.

  Ford was... humming.

  He was leaning forward, one hand on the flight stick, the other adjusting the throttle. His eyes were half-closed, not in sleep, but in a strange kind of trance. He was tapping his foot on the rudder pedal in time with the rhythm.

  Hmm-hmm-hm-hmmmmm...

  It sounded like ancient Earth music. Something called "Yacht Rock."

  "Are you insane?" Sheila whispered, her voice barely audible over the turbulence.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  "Bandit at six o'clock," Mother announced. "Missile launch detected."

  "Copy," Ford said. He didn't stop humming. He just pulled the stick back.

  The Seagull didn't turn like a spaceship. It stalled.

  Ford cut the main thruster. The heavy freighter lost momentum instantly, the thick gas acting like a brake. The nose pitched up, the belly of the ship acting as an airbrake.

  WHOOSH.

  The Pirate Corvette, engines burning hot for vacuum speed, shot underneath them. It couldn't slow down. Its sleek, aerodynamic-less hull was designed for the void, not this soup. It skidded through the gas, struggling to find traction.

  Ford watched it pass. He slammed the throttle forward again.

  "Gotcha," he murmured.

  He rolled the ship, bringing the nose down. He was now behind the pirate.

  "He's stalling," Ford noted. "His intake manifolds are choked with ice."

  Sheila watched the screen. The black and red ship was wobbling. It tried to turn, but the gas pushed back.

  "Mother," Ford said, "Give me a firing solution on his engines."

  "We are a cargo ship," Mother reminded him. "We have no guns."

  "We have the mining laser," Ford corrected. "It's for breaking asteroids."

  "It has a range of fifty meters," Mother argued.

  "We're closer than that," Ford grinned.

  He pushed the stick. The Seagull dove, shaking violently. Ford was riding the wake of the pirate ship, surfing the turbulence. He hummed louder now, the chorus kicking in.

  What a fool believes... he sees...

  He triggered the laser.

  A beam of concentrated heat sliced through the purple fog. It hit the Corvette's port engine.

  The engine didn't explode. It just... coughed. The heat caused the ice buildup to flash-steam, expanding instantly inside the turbine. The engine seized.

  The Corvette spun out of control, tumbling deeper into the storm.

  Ford leveled the ship out. He banked gently to the right, finding a thermal updraft to gain altitude.

  "Threat neutralized," Mother said, sounding surprised.

  Ford sat back. He picked up his coffee pouch.

  "See?" Ford said to the pale, trembling Princess. "It's just like flying a crop duster. Heavy on the stick, easy on the throttle."

  Sheila stared at him. She looked at the gas swirling outside. She looked at the man drinking lukewarm coffee in the middle of a hurricane.

  "You enjoyed that," she accused.

  Ford shrugged. "Beats paperwork."