The North Star's landing struts groaned under the ship's weight as it settled onto the spaceport's weathered tarmac. The hiss of equalising pressure was accompanied by a concerning creak as the cargo ramp lowered, revealing the ship's interior — a patchwork of repairs and jury-rigged systems that spoke volumes about its colourful history.

Dr. Christine Sorrentino squinted at the battered vessel, her brow furrowing with concern. “Professor,” she began, turning to the older man beside her, “are you sure about this? It looks like it's held together with duct tape and prayers.”

A lanky young man behind Christine started nodding eagerly, his eyes wide as he took in the ship's exterior. “I've seen sturdier-looking museum pieces,” he mumbled, clutching an oversized sketchbook close to his chest.

Professor Glenn Wilson chuckled, resting a hand on the young man's shoulder. “Appearances can be deceiving, young master Tim. This ship and its crew come highly recommended... well, by those who matter, at least.” He winked, his wild grey hair catching the breeze. “Besides, beggars can't be choosers, and this expedition is too important to let a few cosmetic issues deter us.”

As his team exchanged sceptical glances, Wilson's mind drifted to the circuitous route that had led him to charter this particular vessel. The North Star and its crew had come recommended through back channels — whispers in dingy spaceport bars and cryptic messages from old colleagues who owed him favours.

The ship's and its crew were known for their reliability and discretion. More importantly, they were cheap. Their rates were a fraction of what more reputable outfits charged, a necessity given the shoestring budget of Wilson's expedition.

It was rumoured they were the best in the Professor’s price range due to a complicated history with various authorities across settled space. Something to do with the captain’s military service during the First Interplanetary War — though details were scarce and varied from source to source. Whatever their past troubles, they now found themselves on the fringes of respectable society, taking jobs others wouldn't touch.

For Wilson, whose theories about alien civilizations had reduced him from academic superstar to ridiculed outsider, the North Star represented more than just transport. It was a lifeline — perhaps his last chance to prove his theories and salvage his reputation.

As if responding to Wilson's thoughts, a rugged man appeared on the ship’s ramp and moved towards the team with a confident stride that drew all eyes to him. Captain Harry Sullivan's piercing gaze swept over the group, a disarming smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Professor Wilson, I presume?” Sullivan extended a hand, his grip firm and reassuring. “Welcome aboard the North Star. She might not look like much, but she's got it where it counts.”

Christine found herself smiling despite her reservations. There was something about the captain's easy charm that put her at ease. She caught herself paying a little too much attention to how the silvering five o’clock shadow played along his strong jawline and quickly looked away, a faint blush colouring her cheeks. Tim, noticing Christine's reaction, frowned slightly, tightening his grip on his sketchbook imperceptibly.

A thunderous crash from within the ship made them all jump. Moments later, a large, imposing man appeared at the top of the ramp, his muscular frame at odds with the slight paunch threatening to overtake it.

“Bull,” Sullivan called out in seemingly good humour, “stop stumbling around like a drunken rhino and help our guests with their gear.”

Martin “Bull” Vinick grunted in response, lumbering down the ramp. As he passed the uncertain group of academics, they couldn’t help but heard him mutter, “Fucking archeologists. Bags are probably full of rocks and bones.”

Professor Wilson raised an eyebrow at Sullivan, who merely shrugged. “Don't mind Bull. His bark is worse than his bite... most days.”

As Bull began loading their equipment, a young woman bounded down the ramp, with the long limbs and distinctive lean build of someone who was raised in space. Her jet black hair was streaked with threads of ever-changing colours that seemed to glitter in the sunlight.

“Hi there!” she chirped, her voice carrying a lilt that hinted at her Scottish heritage. “I'm Ally. Ally Ferguson! I’ll be your pilot for this grand adventure. Don't worry about ol' Bull. He's just grumpy 'cause I beat him at cards last night.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Christine found Ally's enthusiasm infectious, and soon the two were deep in conversation about the challenges of navigating uncharted space. Tim, meanwhile, had been cornered by an older man with grey hair who had emerged from the ship's bowels.

“Name's Andrew O'Reilly, but everyone calls me Sarge,” the man said, clapping Tim on the back. “Say, lad, you look like you've got a good head on your shoulders. How about lending me a hand in the engine room? Got a tricky bit of wiring that could use an extra pair of eyes.”

Before Tim could protest, he found himself being steered towards the ship's interior, his nervousness giving way to a mix of curiosity and resigned acceptance.

As Tim was led away, Sullivan turned to Professor Wilson. “Shall we discuss any last-minute details before we depart, Professor?”

Wilson nodded, following Sullivan up the ramp. “Indeed, Captain. I have a few concerns about our timeline and the specifics of our resupply arrangements.”

The two men made their way to the ship's small conference room, a space that looked more like a storeroom for the ship’s spare parts. As they sat down, Sullivan pulled out a battered datapad.

“So, Professor,” he began, “let's go over the basics. We're to transport you and your team to this remote moon of yours, help you set up your base camp, and return every few months to keep your little expedition supplied. Is that about the size of it?”

Wilson nodded, his expression barely hiding the excitement and relief of his expedition finally becoming a reality. “Precisely, Captain. A supply run every two months would be ideal. Though I hope you understand the importance of discretion in this matter. Our research is... sensitive.”

Sullivan leaned back in his chair, a knowing smile on his face. “Professor, discretion is our specialty. Whatever you're looking for out there, that's your business. We're just the delivery service.”

As they hammered out the finer details, the rest of the crew and expedition members busied themselves with preparations. Bull, still grumbling, but efficiently stowing away the expeditions’ equipment. Ally running through her pre-flight checklist with meticulous care, her usual cheer amplified by the excitement of a new mission.

In the engine room, Tim found himself unexpectedly engrossed in Sarge's impromptu lesson on starship mechanics. The older man's gruff exterior belied a wealth of knowledge and a surprising patience for teaching.

“See here, lad,” Sarge explained, pointing to a complex array of wires and circuit boards. “This beauty's the heart of our wormhole generator. Finicky as all hell, but treat her right, and she'll take you to the edges of the dark and back again.”

Tim nodded, hanging on the old man’s every word with wide-eyed fascination. For a moment, his anxieties about the expedition faded, replaced by the thrill of hands-on learning.

The next hour passed in a flurry of activity. Quarters assigned, supplies checked and double-checked, and the archaeologists given a crash course in emergency procedures. Christine found herself impressed by the efficiency of the North Star's small crew, despite their rough appearances and unorthodox customer service.

Finally, with everyone settled into their quarters, Sullivan's voice crackled over the intercom. “Strap in, folks. We're about to head out. Ms. Ferguson, start your final checks.”

In the cockpit, Ally's fingers danced across the console, her face a mask of concentration. “All systems nominal, Captain. We're good to go.”

Sullivan nodded, settling into the captain's chair. “Alright then. Let's get this show on the road. Ms. Ferguson, initiate the wormhole cascade.”

Ally grinned, her hands moving with practised precision. “Aye, Captain. Spinning up the generator now.”

Outside, space began to warp and twist. A brilliant flash of light heralded the formation of the wormhole, its swirling vortex a testament to the marvels of faster-than-light travel.

“Here we go,” Sullivan murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “Punch it, Ally.”

With a lurch that sent stomachs rising, the North Star plunged into the wormhole. In a heartbeat, they were gone, leaving behind the familiar and racing towards the unknown.

As the ship settled into its journey, Sullivan allowed himself a small smile. He wasn't one for grand adventures or scientific discoveries — that was the archaeologists' department. His concerns were more pragmatic: keeping his ship flying, his crew fed, and avoiding any trouble that would draw the attention of the authorities who still held grudges from the war.

But this contract with Professor Wilson? It was a godsend. Steady work for months, maybe even years. It meant he could keep his ragtag family together, flying the stars on their own terms. For Harry Sullivan, that was victory enough.

He glanced around the cockpit, taking in the familiar sight of worn consoles and patched panels. The North Star might not be pretty, but she was home. And now, with a hold full of starry-eyed scientists and their mysterious mission, she was carrying them all towards a future that, for once, looked a little brighter.

“Well,” Sullivan said, turning to Ally with a grin, “I'd say we're off to a good start. Let's hope the professor's moon is as interesting as he thinks it is. Might make for some entertaining stories during those long resupply runs.”

Ally laughed, her hands still dancing over the controls. “Aye, Captain. Who knows? Maybe we'll even stumble upon some alien artefacts ourselves. Stranger things have happened out here in the dark…”