“Have a seat. Dinner should be up in a second.” The captain didn’t look up. He simply pulled a metal hand away from the bridge of his nose and pointed at the seat next to him. A direct solution to making Brug sit at the far end of the table. 

He knew he looked annoyed. Exhausted. They all did.

Long hauls through deep space were like that. Cramped ship. Minimal sunlight. Breathing each other’s stink and the greasy smell of rehydrated protein. They were sick of it. Sick of the small tasks. Sick of the small talk. Tired of just trying to stay busy. For a new crew, he knew they were handling it well.

The ripe odor coming from the underside of Brug’s hairy arms swirled its way in from the galley. The captain rubbed his nose again, unable to escape it or put it from his mind.

Translation points weren’t supposed to be long slides like this. Someone wanted to keep the volume down on new arrivals. That someone had dragged the buoy out farther than it was supposed to be.

Someone since last visit. He didn’t like the thought of that.

“Hey can I…? Sorry to interrupt.”

The captain’s face sunk into a glower his hands couldn’t hide.

“Shit… Listen, Cap. I… I don’t want to start trouble, but I got back to my rack this morning and… I really think he’s going through my things.”

“What’d he take?”

“I’m missing a ring… It was from my dad and…”

“Good way to lose a finger out here. You get your hand caught. Decompression or a swell.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I didn’t have it on. Had it in the bottom of my duffle and… ” 

“Yeah, yeah alright.” He looked up at the kid. “Listen, I’ll talk to him when we dock. If he took anything, I’ll get it back to you. Just let me handle it, alright? We’re almost there. It’ll be fine.”

“It’s just that.”

“I said it’ll be fine.”

Richter nodded and shrunk back into his chair.

Good kid. Tough too. Just… not now. He didn’t mean to snap at him.

He wasn’t bad for some brown-eyed, greasy, black-haired kid that’d hit him up for work on the last stop. Surface brat with broad shoulders, probably signed on with some orbital crew originally. Whatever it took to get to space.

It couldn’t have been more than his third or fourth rotation. Big eyes, looking for adventure. Still a rook. Only new guys brought personals on the hauls.

Brug knew it too. He’d been around. Knew what he could get away with and would know how to deflect accusations. He’d make it the captain’s problem, before he took any blame for it.

The round bastard came out of the galley and put the stir pot in the middle of the table with spoons already in it. His other hand slid some plates onto the table.

“Made it a bit drier than usual. Added some heat to it, too. Almost tastes like Papi’s chicken.” 

Brug had some of the food in his whiskers. Each spoon looked like it had been used already. 

“Ol’ camp recipe. Said it kept ‘im warm, eatin’ this way.”

Starving, the kid dove at the pot. Equal measures of the stringy goop landed on everyone’s plate. The captain took a taste.

Too much salt.

Brug leaned forward and grinned at him. “Good, right? Jus’ like chicken.”

The captain looked down. Food is food. Just eat it. No matter how bad it was going to mess up their stomachs, they’d swap air at the next stop.

He pretended to not see the ring hanging from the hairy man’s neck chain. Knew the kid would see it soon.

When he looked up, Richter was already on it, trying to slide him a look while Brug stuffed another heaping spoonful in his mouth. The captain nodded and waved the kid down with his hand.

“Brug, mind lifting your chin off the table for a moment? Need to show the kid something.”

Bowls up, the captain turned on the acid green table display. Rudimentary at best, and nothing in comparison to the instruments in the cockpit, it would suffice for what he needed to show them.

“This is us. This is Hurlant-3A,” said the captain.

“That’s where we’re headed?” asked the kid.

“Aye.” The captain nodded.

“I’ve heard of it. It’s an old backwater podunk,” said Brug. “Heard tales, too.”

“Like what?” asked Richter.

“Like it ain’t no spaceport.”

“That’s exactly what it is,” corrected the captain. “We’re going to dock in less than an hour, you’re going to unload, and then we’re going to get paid. Simple as that.”

“Yeah, if the damn cat don’t get us first.”

“What cat?” asked the other two at the same time.

“Heard some say there’s a beast on that Hurlant-3A. I’m sure that’s the name, yeah. Some old science lab with a team of quack docs. Heard they was workin’ on some critters. Some cat got loose. Thousand-eyed cat, they call it.”

The captain watched Brug finish his last sentence, exhale, and lean back in his chair. The kid watched too and then turned to look at him. 

They both burst out into laughter.

“Had me going!” hollered the kid.

“Thousand-eyed cat! The hell are you talking about?” The captain rocked back in his chair. “Here kitty, kitty! Want some chicken?”

They laughed. The captain watched the kid’s eye water. He watched Brug cross his arms. It made them laugh harder.

“Tellin’ y’all. Cat s’posed to be trouble,” tried Brug.

They started laughing again.

Catching his breath a little, the captain asked, “How do you put a thousand eyes in a cat’s head? Can’t be room in there for more than an extra pair at most.”

Richter kept laughing. Doubled-over, he was having a hard time breathing. “Where the hell did you hear that tale?”

“Couple stations back. Old guy told some young bucks at the bar.” Brug knew it sounded ridiculous, now that he said it. “Old man seemed real serious about it.”

Brug even chuckled as he explained himself.

The captain waited for everyone to catch their breath and then looked at the big man’s deflated expression.

“Best tale I’ve heard in a while, Brug.”

“Yeah. Har har.”

“Those rooks probably went straight planetside after that,” added the kid.

The captain and Brug turned and looked at him. Their humor disappeared from their faces.

“Those rooks?” asked the Captain.

Brug was right on his heels, “Boy, you better get these dishes back in the galley and start scrubbin’. Rooks! You’re the rook. Git.”

Richter was on his feet and struggling to hold the dishes.

“Don’t you drop those. You find a beer in there, bring me one.”

“Me too.”

As bad as Brug smelled, the captain knew he had enough experience to help keep the kid on task.

Brug smirked at the Captain and then looked down at the table.

“Pay attention while you scrub those, eh.”

“Alright. We come in here. Dock at this berth and unload to either side of the corridor entrance. Here, I think.” Captain jammed his finger into the schematic. “Should be someone on the dock to sign off. 

“Ah-aight.”

“Have the kid work the dock end. I’ll tally the shipment. You feed him pallets at the airlock. Simple?”

“Simple.”

“We drop the cargo, get paid, and splash back the way we came. Better beacon location on the way back. Shorter trip home.”

“Thank the Lord. Kid smells awful.”

“Kid, you hear all that?”

“Yeah, put the pallets on the dock. Brug doesn’t know how bad he smells.”

“Exactly.”

“Ay!”

Before Brug could argue, the ship’s open intercom started to bleet out the docking instruction from their destination.

The captain reached under the table, flipped off the green display, and left Brug picking food from his teeth.

Hurlant-3A’s exterior was a tangle of antennae and flat radiator panels, wrapped around an algae green hull. The shape was fluid as solar winds dispersed the thin astral debris, creating patterns reminiscent of ripples in a cosmic sea.

The captain pulled back on the ship’s controls and raised the leading edge of the vertical ship. The implants in his head allowed him to make finer adjustments to his speed, pitch, and yaw. 

Looking down, between his feet, he could see the docking mechanism on the side of the hull rotate around to the front. The magnetic cleats unfolding, he needed to align with the station perfectly to prevent damage to either vessel.

He eased the ship forward and made the small corrections needed to adjust for the turbulence around the station. With a hollow Kchonk, the station clamps reached out and connected with the cleats on his ship.

“Secure,” he said into the ship’s intercom. “Let’s get this unloaded and get paid.”

As he unbuckled from the pilot’s chair, the captain could hear the freight elevator engage. Brug was already moving the extrusion pallets to the airlock.

He found Brug and Richter waiting ship-side at the airlock.

“Thought you’d wanna take a look before we unload,” said Brug. “Pallet five and pallet two, here. Still wrapped tight.”

“Alright. Go ahead and move them. Three more after that. I’ll be in the hold.”

The crew nodded and opened the airlock. Even with his back to the hatch, there was an immediate sense of cleaner air drifting into the ship.

The captain was logging the contents of the final pallet and watching Brug push it away, when the intercom beeped on the wall of the cargo hold.

He walked over to it and answered. The video connection on the dock changed from a blizzard of static to a grainy pictfeed of the kid.

“Cap, there’s no one out here on the dock to sign for these.”

“Last pallet is on the way out. Go ahead and look around for someone. I’ll have Brug bring the pallet to you.”

“Sounds good.”

The captain followed Brug to the freight elevator. It was a tight fit for the two of them and a full pallet. The mechanisms complained as they lifted the cargo up a deck to the corridor. He tried not to look at the ring.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. Kid called and was looking for someone on the dock to sign. Let’s walk this down and park it. We can wait for him in the corridor.”

“Aight.”

The captain helped Brug straighten out the pallet and gave it a good push. Then, he followed the big man to the far end of the corridor.

“Say. Kid thinks you’ve been going through his gear. That true?”

Brug pushed the extrusion pallet so it was next to the others and tapped the button on its side with the toe of his boot. He took his time making sure the pallet set down exactly where he wanted it, before inhaling to answer.

He didn’t get the chance to speak. When Brug looked up, the captain was staring him in the eye – straight down the length of a cold steel barrel.

Crackkk!

When the kid came running back, the captain was already standing on the other side of the airlock. The hatch finished sliding shut before the kid could take a step. They both watched the light on the wall turn red and flashed the word locked.

Richter came running to the inside of the airlock. Arms out, he didn’t understand yet.

The captain pointed to the bloody mess slumped against the backside of the nearest pallet.

“What happened?” The kid’s voice was a bit muffled, but he could hear him well enough.

“Got you your ring back. Just like I said.”

“I didn’t expect you to shoot him!” He leaned down and retrieved his father’s ring from the corpse.

“You’re a good kid, but you gotta understand.”

“Understand what?”

“There’s cargo, and then there’s cargo.”

“What?”

There was nothing left to say. The captain watched as the kid’s expression changed from disgust to horror.

“No. The cat?” asked the kid. “That can’t be real.”

The captain simply tapped one of his metal fingers against the glass and pointed behind the kid.

Brown eyes, wide as the corona around an eclipse, turned to see the intercom screen on the other end of the corridor.

The screen, a plane of yellow struck through with a sliver of black, flickered once. Then twice. Each time the image divided in half.

When the kid turned around, the captain was gone from the other side of the airlock.