The empty rum bottle clattered to the floor and rolled under Bull's bunk with a hollow sound. He had been cradling the bottle like a cherished childhood toy, but their embrace had been interrupted as the first mate's quarters shook with violent tremors that threw Bull from his bed.

Bull groaned weakly, rubbing the spot where his head had connected with the cold metal floor, and opening his eyes cautiously, more concerned by the harsh overhead lights than the unexpected movements of his surroundings. Through the fog of mild concussion and severe hangover, he slowly began to contemplate his current situation.

Nearly six months had passed since they'd dropped off Professor Wilson and his team of eager archaeologists on that remote moon. In that time the North Star had completed three resupply runs for the expedition — and as he lay spread-eagle on the floor, Bull tried and failed to recall a run where something hadn't broken down, blown up, or simply fallen off the over-engineered trash can he called home.

Forcing himself upright, Bull rolled his head a few times to release the tension in his neck and began to stumble around his cramped cabin searching for his boots. After less than a minute and more than a dozen colourful expletives, he gave up and staggered barefoot towards the bridge.

The corridors of the North Star were a maze of exposed pipes, flickering lights, and patched panels — a testament to the ship's long and turbulent history. As Bull made his way to the bridge, he absently noted the new scorch marks on the walls and the acrid smell of ozone that lingered in the air. Just another day aboard this flying junkyard, he thought.

"Bloody women drivers," Bull grunted, resting an elbow on the doorframe and his head on his forearm. "Even when we tear a hole through space and time, you still manage to find a way to crash."

"And fuck you too, Bull," Ally quipped back, her usual cheerfulness muted by intense focus as her hands danced across the ship's controls, and her eyes darted between the various blinking consoles in front of her.

Bull was trying to think of a comeback, but his thoughts were interrupted by a sudden bark of laughter from behind. Spinning around to confront the source, Bull instantly regretted the motion as the ship's corridor swam before his eyes, and the harsh lights drilled into his skull. Through the haze of his hangover, he made out the amused face of Captain Harry Sullivan.

The captain suppressed another laugh as he watched his dishevelled first mate shield his eyes. "I hear rapid decompression is a great cure for hangovers, Bull," Sullivan said with a smirk. "I'm sure Ally would be happy to show you the way to the airlock."

With a final laugh, Sullivan gave Bull a firm slap on the back and stepped around the big man and onto the bridge. Resting a hand on the back of the pilot's chair, Sullivan quickly took in the scene before him and asked, "What's the situation, Ms Ferguson? Are those stars I can see out there?"

"Just a scratch, Captain," Ally responded, glancing up quickly with a nervous smile. "The wormholes were getting a little tight back there, so I dropped us out to normal space before we tore ourselves a new observation deck."

Sullivan's expression suddenly shifted from upbeat to sullen. He'd hoped the problem was with the navigation systems, but an unstable wormhole meant engine troubles, and that could put them seriously behind schedule.

"Just what we need," Sullivan sighed. "If we're late with these supplies we're going to have some unhappy archaeologists on our hands. We already left them under-supplied on the last run after those navy bastards confiscated half our cargo."

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The memory of their last encounter with the Interplanetary Navy still stung. It had been a close call, with the North Star barely managing to outmanoeuvre the patrol cruiser. The loss of cargo had been a blow, both to their finances and to the expedition's supplies. Sullivan made a mental note to have a word with his contacts about finding safer shipping routes.

"I knew that check engine light meant something, Captain," Ally joked, trying to lighten the mood, "but I just thought that the ship wanted some—"

Ally looked up at Sullivan, the expression on her face causing his stomach to churn with worry. "What?"

"There's a distress signal coming from our destination."

"Is there a message?"

"No, it is just one of those generic S.O.S. broadcasts, and Captain, at this distance it has to have been sent nearly two weeks ago."

Sullivan moved to another console and took a seat. "How long will it take us to reach them?"

"It would only take about twenty minutes if we could open a wormhole, but we can't risk it with the engines in their current state."

"Then we better get them fixed," Sullivan responded levelly, reaching out to tap the intercom icon on his console. "Sarge, join us on the bridge. We've got a situation."

As they waited for the chief engineer, Sullivan turned to Bull, who was still looming in the doorway, though now considerably more sober than he had been minutes before.

"Looks like this resupply run just got interesting. Start prepping the emergency gear and let the Doc know we might have a medical emergency on our hands."

Bull nodded, his earlier irritation replaced by grim determination as he lumbered off to the storage bay. Sullivan stared out at the stars visible through the viewport, the excitement and optimism he had when they'd first transported Wilson and his little expedition on that remote moon seemed like a distant memory now.

"Ally," Sullivan said, his voice low, "run through the logs. I want to know everything about our last communication with the expedition. And see if you can boost that distress signal. There might be more information buried in the static."

"Understood, Captain," Ally replied, the upbeat persona she usually put on to better fit in now completely subdued by the gravity of the situation.

As Ally worked, Sullivan's mind raced through possible scenarios. A medical emergency seemed the most likely — an accident during an excavation, perhaps, or some unforeseen reaction to the moon's environment. But a nagging voice in the back of his mind whispered of darker possibilities. Pirate raids weren't unheard of in this sector, though attacking a small archaeological expedition seemed hardly worth the effort.

Sullivan’s contemplations were interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps announcing Sarge's arrival on the bridge. The chief engineer's face was streaked with grease, and he carried the unmistakable odour of ozone and burnt circuitry.

"What's the situation, Captain?" Sarge asked, his gruff voice tinged with concern.

Sullivan quickly brought him up to speed on the distress signal and the engine troubles. Sarge's brow furrowed as he listened, his mind already working on solutions.

"It’ll take me about four hours to get the engines back in a workable state," Sarge said, scratching his grey-stubbled chin. "But if we push them too hard after that, we might find ourselves stranded out here."

Considering the engineer’s words carefully, Sullivan nodded. "Take six hours, Sarge. We need to get to that moon as quickly as possible, but not at the cost of being unable to leave if things go south."

As Sarge headed back to the engine room, Ally looked up from her console, "Captain, I've gone through the logs, and there isn’t much to go by, but I might have found something. Our last communication with the expedition was thirteen days ago. No reports of any issues — but Professor Wilson was excited about some new discovery that he was excited to share when we returned."

Sullivan's frown deepened. A new find, just before all communication ceased? It could be a coincidence, but in his experience, coincidences were rare in the dark.

"Keep digging, Ally. And let me know the moment you pick up any more transmissions from the moon."

Somewhere ahead, on a desolate moon at the edge of explored space, Professor Wilson's expedition was in trouble. And whatever had gone wrong in the past two weeks, Sullivan had a sinking feeling that it was probably something far more sinister than dwindling supplies or a medical emergency.