Briggs's Shadow

The hum of the TSV Ironmule was Briggs’s lullaby, a symphony of straining conduits and overworked plasma coils that he knew better than his own heartbeat. For years, this ship, this collection of aging metal and stubborn defiance, had been his sanctuary. It was a far cry from the sleek, sterile warships he’d once served on, but it was home. And Hampton, the old Admiral who’d found a second life amidst the grime and grease, was the closest thing to family he’d had since… well, since before.

He was deep in the guts of the primary drive, wrestling with a recalcitrant thermal regulator, when the comms unit on his workbench chirped. It wasn’t the crisp, official tone of a Hyper Highway authority or the usual garbled chatter of a fellow hauler. This was a low, furtive buzz, the kind that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He wiped his greasy hands on a rag that had seen better days, and keyed the receiver.

“Briggs speaking.”