I drift along the outside of the Nova in the vacuum of space, watching pirates crawl over the top of the ship, pounding at thick sheets of metal with axes. Emergency lights flash from the windows. The crew shouts commands at each other. I hear them through my earpiece but I can't respond: the suit had malfunctioned on my way out and I had been waiting for someone to see me and open the door when the massive vessel approached from behind a Neptunian piece of rock. Not a problem now. I pull myself along by the cable tethered to the ship towards the hole they’re making and falling into. Each tug gently sways me left and right.

My gloved hands spread along the rip in the hull. Fucking sackers. Command had warned the ship, but not this close to home, so close I still see Pluto watching us. They normally target the merchant crafts, not a technical ship like us. Supposedly, we're one of the few ships safe from these kinds of attacks.

I see the crew donning suits in response to the breach of outside elements through the windows. Anyone who forgot to put theirs on before they went to sleep probably aren’t waking up. The first mate sheathes blades against his suit as I hurriedly float into the ship, knocking against walls until I've completely disorientated myself. I right myself in time to watch them bust open the emergency hatch and filter in as well as from the sides. They wear tight, dark suits and varieties of helms covering their faces. The extra pair of arms gives them away regardless.

The Nymphs greeted my ancestors when we escaped Earth centuries ago, having left our planet centuries before we popped up. Most are established on planets in structured societies and cities in the Andromeda Galaxy. They pitied our situation and helped us settle on the dwarf planets in the Kuiper Belt, effectively spreading us apart while keeping us safe. Historians have argued whether that decision was made in good faith for us, but we haven't figured out how to change history yet so we persevere, mining the ice in the belt for personal and trading purposes. Some of us, desperate for prosperity or adventure, sell ourselves to every sort of labor you can imagine. I was lucky in not being stupid and having parents that barely knew I existed, so I sold myself to the Nova. Everything had been going great for the last couple months.

Blood sprays from the first mate, scattering into beads and darkening to navy. The rest fall in domino fashion. Feedback dissipates. I rip the tether from my body and have just braced my legs to propel myself out into space when I'm yanked back into the many-armed grasp of pirates. They pass through the many hands until I’m thrown with the others of my crew.

"Captain Blass," a voice booms, "we've commandeered your ship. Some of your crew remains and you'll cooperate if you want it to remain that way."

The emergency lights and sirens cease as they're dragging me up the multi-story ship to the captain's quarters. They’re infiltrated every single part of the Nova now. More bodies lie here but I'm taken aback by the office's elegance. Completely devoid of personality, but elegant. A moving photograph of the Captain shakes hands with the head of Pluto’s economy rests above the desk, the Modesteepe family.

They yank off my helmet to get a better look at me. Sound and simulated oxygen fills my senses. I'm human, one of the only humans on this ship. I'd call myself average: built short but stocky, perfect for worming into smaller nooks and lifting heavier things, shaved blond hair and brown eyes. I could push out a couple kids with little issues. A tattoo on my cheek marks me as not much more than a laborer. Some of them poke at my body while others ransack the office, destroying everything in sight. They drag Captain Blass in and after a heated exchange over something referred to as "it," they cut him down. Their captain comes into the room in what I would describe as a welding hood attached to a dark skin cap. The hood will recede with the tap of a sensor. All the latest models do and even scavenging Nymphs pride themselves on the technology they acquire. One of the crew comes to the captain and whispers. With a nod the individual slinks away.

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They pull us to our feet and one asks, "Where is it?" We look at each other.

"We don't know what you're talking about, The food is in the pantry, supplies in the--

They're cut down. "Where is it?" The captain demands. Their voice has the telltale Nymph androgyny so I have no idea if how much of a man or woman they might be.

"What is it?" I ask. "I may be able to find it if I knew what you wanted." Another chokes on their blood, spraying on my cheek.

The captain faces me. "Who the fuck are you?"

I point to my cheek and say, "138000, Plutonian. I was assigned maintenance to the Nova."

"What security clearance do you have?"

"Enough to tell you we probably don't have what you're looking for. You killed the most expensive thing on this ship." I glance back at the Nova captain.

"Hardly. You willing to die for this, human?"

"I prefer mechanic."

"So be it, Miss Mechanic." the blade rushes up to my neck when one of the Nova's crew rushes forward.

"Don't. I'll show you," he says. It's 137879, one that came on with me. I raise my eyebrows.

"Now what are you talking about?" I ask.

The Captain laughs dryly and sheathes the blade. "Not enough clearance. Tough break."

The survivors and I follow the captain and their crew to the bottom of the ship. We slip past the engineering deck. Sparks fly from failing systems and sirens blare. The reactor pulsates in glows of purple and green. The light illuminates all the nooks and crannies in the room. We pass this and come to a tucked away room with an outdated door. Made of Plutionian material, but the lock is mechanical. No keypad in sight.

"Open it," the captain says. 137879 opens it and crumples with a mist of blood from a crewman's blade. We peer into the space. A crouched figure rests in the corner. Light reflects from a shackle's gleam.

“What--"

"Hush," they hiss. the captain removes the helmet with the tap of an unseen button.

He's beautiful. Disheveled honey blonde hair and matching beard, tall and slim but solid. His skin is flawless and a warm brown tone.

I straddle the entrance and peer in, only seeing shadows. The figure cowers until the captain speaks in the foreign tongue of the Nymphs, the voice more feminine in this manner than the gruff, heavy voice from earlier. The figure wraps long, delicate arms around the captain, skin dark and flawless.

“How long?” The captain asks. Plutonians said learning the language of the Cosmos was a frustrating, useless effort in the era of translators being widely available. Well, teaching myself the basics in the slums with the Nymph merchants doesn’t seem futile now, does it?

“Six weeks,” comes the response, androgynous leaning on the feminine side.

“Were you treated well?”

“They never touched me.” Captain Lister nods. The Nymph is released and comes into the light. She’s gorgeous in spite of the dirt on her skin or clothes. The Nova crew had put her in a casual top and slacks, ill fitting on her much taller, thicker frame. She must be a Deep Nymph, the old ones that rarely leave their homes. Her skin is black, black than any human I’ve seen, and glowing white/purple eyes. Those eyes pass me by but my heart skips a beat.

I’m dragged back up to the captain’s deck. Only the laborer humans remain. The nameless Nymph disappears in the crowd of the captain’s crew. Most of the Nymphs visible are female, dressed for battle with bioluminescent war paint on their faces and suits. The captain steps over Blass’s body and settles into the captain’s chair.

“For those of you who have never heard of us, I’m Captain Lister of the Siren, and here’s what to expect: the crew has been dispatched, but you don’t have to suffer the same fate. I’m in the business of liberation, with healthy doses of theft in and outside of celestial waters. You may become a part of our crew. You will sail with us, fight with us. Your success or demise will be shared. We only make one offer. It will not be extended again.”

We look at each other and then back to the captain. His eyes dare us to refuse, two orbs of bright purple tearing into our souls.