"Left! Left! Cassian, for the love of the stars, pivot left!"Orion Stargrave’s scream was nearly drowned out by the groan of stressed metal and the frantic chirping of a dozen proximity alarms. He was currently gripped onto the back of the pilot’s chair, knuckles white, as a jagged hunk of carbonaceous rock whizzed past the viewport, missing their hull by a distance Orion preferred not to calculate."I am pivoting, Orion! Physics just doesn't work as fast as your panic does!" Cassian Voidmere yelled back, his hands dancing across the flight console with a calm that bordered on the insulting. He spared a second to blow a stray lock of dark hair out of his eyes, sighing audibly. "And could you stop breathing down my neck? It’s not helping the aerodynamics.""I’m providing moral support! And tactical oversight!" Orion adjusted his flight jacket, trying to regain a shred of dignity as the ship banked hard, slamming him against the bulkhead. "Did we lose them? Tell me we lost them."Cassi

The lead goat let out a sound that was half-bleat, half-burp, and spat a piece of the Captain’s charred leather hat onto the floor."Is that... purple fur?" Orion asked, his voice cracking. "Why is it purple, Lyra? Why is it looking at me like I’m made of hay?""Orion, look at the floor," Lyra hissed, her hand tightening around the heavy serving tray. "It’s not just your hat. They’re eating the insulation off the floor panels. They’re eating everything that isn't solid steel.""Hey! Hey! Get away from that!"A tall, broad-shouldered man with a scar running through his left eyebrow burst into the galley, skidding to a halt. Ronan Astervale, the ship’s weapons specialist, looked like he’d just woken up from a very long, very deep nap—mostly because he was still in his undershirt. He froze, his eyes widening as he spotted a particularly plump goat gnawing on the barrel of a sleek, black rifle."My Mark-IV Pulse-Rifle!" Ronan wailed, lunging forward. "That’s a custom-weighted stock! It’s

"My ship? My beautiful, falling-apart ship is a map?"Orion stared at the screen Lyra was holding, his jaw practically hitting the floor of the bridge. The glowing blue schematic of the Star-Skipper was overlaid with a complex lattice of golden lines—data points that didn't correspond to any standard flight system."Not just a map, Orion. It’s embedded into the structural resonance of the hull," Lyra said, her voice Tight with a mixture of professional awe and mounting dread. "Darius didn't just steal a file. He stole the key to reading the vibration patterns we've been putting out every time we jump.""So, the rattling? That wasn't just a loose bolt in the galley?" Orion asked, his eyes wide."It was a frequency, you idiot," a cool, feminine voice drifted from the ceiling speakers. "And honestly, it was an incredibly annoying one. I’ve been trying to filter it out for three years."Orion jumped, looking up at the nearest intercom. "Selene! You’re back online? And since when do you ha

"I told you," Orion grinned, adjusting his collar with a flourish. "It’s the hair. It inspires confidence.""Confidence is one thing, Orion. Glowing is another," Lyra said, her voice dropping into a register of genuine concern. She pulled back her sleeve, and the bridge went silent. The small red mark from the dart was gone, replaced by a web of pulsing, neon-blue veins that reached from her shoulder down to her elbow. "Is it supposed to look like I swallowed a star?""Vela! Theron! Get over here!" Orion yelled, his bravado vanishing instantly.Vela slid out from under a console, a wrench still in her hand. She took one look at Lyra’s arm and whistled through her teeth. "Yikes. That’s not just a tracker, Cap. That’s a Hegemony 'Leash.' It’s a neuro-toxin combined with a localized EMP broadcast. It’s designed to keep prisoners compliant by, you know, slowly shutting down their nervous system while screaming their location to every patrol within ten sectors.""Can you fix it?" Orion ask

"Dad," Orion said, his voice cracking slightly as he stared at the man he hadn’t seen in a decade. "Are you... are you seriously making toast right now?"Magnus Stargrave didn’t look up from the ancient, blackened heating element he was hovering a slice of synthetic sourdough over. "It’s a high-stress environment, Orion. My blood sugar is crashing, and this bunker hasn’t had a delivery of fresh supplies since the Hegemony forgot I existed. You want a slice? It’s a bit charred, but it’s got crunch.""We just ran through a field of hallucinogenic moss and dodged orbital lasers to find you!" Orion shouted, gesturing wildly at the heavy steel door that was still vibrating from the impact of plasma bolts outside. "I thought you were a political prisoner in a high-tech torture chamber, not a guy hosting a brunch for one!""It’s not brunch, it’s survival," Magnus grunted, finally flipping the toast with a pair of rusted needle-nose pliers. He looked over his shoulder, his eyes scanning Lyra