“Welcome, to New Ta’izz of the Rassid Waqf. We ask your patience as w/////////////////////ur business and faith. Any shipping cr/////////////////////tain order for the prosperity of our new acquisition. Assalamualaikum.”

Another chunk of bent ore hits the ship, producing an unsettling metallic echo. Between these speed bumps, nonsensical directions, and repeated welcome message brightly flashing on your screen from the space station below, you grip the controls into an uneasy spiral towards an available port—any available port.

“He’s trying to tell me not to go through with this harebrained scheme,” Dyle quips from behind his sapphire screen. Your AI assists the landing approach, softening your vibrating hands and correcting for nerves, chastising with a transatlantic burr. A dozen contradictory landing messages flash, demanding you dock at Bay 2-13, Bay 5-2, Bay X-XX - UNDER REPAIR.

With a final huff of impatience, you guide the Mr. Memory to the only unoccupied landing pad within range. Pinballing through debris, you land with a sharp dent against the station hangar’s rusted metal platform. The ship’s central lighting shuts down momentarily, your holographic screens disappearing, before unceremoniously flickering back to life.

“Doctor, I am gassed,” Dyle states as his internal processing recovers from the brownout. You and him both, you think as you lean back into your chair. Slowly, you accept that you have no idea where you are on the nine-kilometer-long installation. The thought of asking the central directory for more instructions is cut short by a flurry of communications.

A string of messages disparages both your parking choice and the inability to follow allegedly clear directions.

You decide to take a chance, sliding out of your captain’s chair to use your legs for the first time all cycle. Grabbing your navy windbreaker from the console, you close all communication channels in favor of a personal approach.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Dyle asks as you make for the cargo bay’s airlock.

“To ask for directions from the station personnel.”

“Then I suggest you call one of them.”

“Really? How about you call the central command for me. Are you sure you didn’t get enough of them on our descent?”

“Lord, you’re a pest,” your AI responds in his usual understanding tone. “I’m only next door—if anything happens, holler.”

“You got it.” You zip your jacket and exit into the open hangar. It’s cold, your breath materializing in the artificial air. You consider how many credits it would take you to spend a single cycle here of your own volition, if you had them.

The battered Mr. Memory is right at home in the dilapidated landing bay. Obvious points of laser discharge complement concussive shot holes large enough to maneuver your fist through. Exposed wiring hangs from the ceiling, held in place by makeshift scrap-metal scaffolding. They haven’t even painted over the vaguely human shadow near the stairway, clear evidence of recent vaporization.

Up the stairs and inside the clinic, however, some warfare is buffed out. The white walls and floors happily uphold a sterile façade as armed maintenance staff struggle to replace the ruined infrastructure, juggling red, green, black cords that cackle with electrical discharge. An antiseptic smell invades your nostrils. Coupled with the distant beeping of live-saving, costly machinery, the business assures you it’s back up and running.

A young woman sits at the brand-new circular reception desk, its structure offensively replaceable, devoid of pulse. The receptionist is a caprine bestiamoide. An anthropomorph's corporate barcode proudly displays on the side of her oblong face, beneath her rectangular pupils and curved black horns. She sifts through a batch of corrupted messages, and as she notices your approach, she flashes a wooden smile.

Her hip-length collarless indigo suit jacket, business skirt, and milli-cotton neckerchief fail to conceal the simple body armor that catches underneath. You assume the new uniform regulations are causing her bad posture. Her gait is wobbly. She’s a stranger to the extra thirty pounds of projectile-deafening pseudo-Kevlar.

“Welcome to SpiritCorp at New Ta’izz Station, formerly SpiritCorp at Xagaaga Station. How can I help you today?” For all her multitasking, she retains eye contact. Her forced tonality is bubbly but off-kilter. No doubt shaken from the recent localized warfare. But, it’s confident—ready to peddle any surgery or modification you can request.

“I’m just looking for directions. What port do I land at for The Red Moon?”

“The bar?” She asks with confusion, as if she hasn’t had time to consider such an innocuous question. “I’m sorry, but that establishment closed down just last week. Or, more specifically, it was destroyed in the fighting along with a good sixth of the installation. But maybe we can assist you?”

“I’m just trying to find a courier uplink,” you say, stymying the upsell. “The central communications array—”

“I understand. You’re not the first one to fly in here by accident. And, clearly, not the last,” she forces a polite laugh and points behind you. Through the hangar windows, another craft haphazardly descends. It clips its engine against the wall with a metallic scrape that bores its terrible sound into the base of your skull. The resulting cacophony of structural steel and engine disintegration signals the need for a mechanic.

The performance elicits a hum of disappointment from the receptionist.

“You’ll need to head a few hangars down for courier uplinks. Let me pull up a map of the station for you.”

“Sylvia!” A yell cuts your conversation short. The screech is from a man in a lab coat, sprinting across the tiled floors, his loafers squeaking and disrupting the din of reconstruction. He grabs the secretary’s shoulder from behind, the caprine tensing straight at his unwarranted touch. She unprofessionally lets out a bleat of confusion.

He coughs for a moment, bracing a hand against his knee, wheezing to regain his breath. His olive face is youthful, deceptively clean. Awash with anti-aging chemicals. Carefully crafted scar tissues amplify natural points of beauty and his whitened eyes cover the redness of insomnia. Adequate for his line of business.

After noticing your presence, he gives you a curt nod of politeness.

“Excuse me, sorry to interrupt. Sylvia, I need you to get me off-station to the Lakota branch, and first-class shipping for this data pad.”

“Dr. Taraki, of course, leave the package here. I’ll charter you a flight in a moment, once I’m done helping this gentleman,” she says in her professional air, shifting her shoulders to shake herself free.

“No Sylvia, there’s no time. I need this done now!”

Although he yells, the request neutralizes against her body armor. She steps away, crosses her arms, and gives a look of overt insubordination. Uncharacteristic for a corporate stooge.

“Well Doctor, this man says he’s a courier for hire. If I’m not fast enough, why don’t you ask him?”

“You! Nice to meet you. My name is Dr. Abdul Taraki, and I need to get out of here immediately,” he says with a wild handshake, threatening to rip your arm loose. Extra strength modifications, besides his plastic visage. “If you’ll accept the job, I can lock this datapad to your person, and we can be underway.”

The goat rolls her eyes and returns to navigating the unintelligible network communications and warnings rapidly raising themselves from the void, settling atop her multi-screen displays. He ignores his underling, as is protocol.

“Sure, but for the pay—”

“Yes, yes, the pay will come later, when we arrive at our destination. Handsome, I assure. Now, please, hold still,” he jostles with you, “this datapad will only unlock based on the coordinates of our destination, and I promise, you’ll have your credits in due time. Now please,” he shouts, “we need to leave this instant!”

You have no time to speak before he forces your outstretched palm onto the device. Rectangular, expensive. High-quality technology typical of legitimate business. Its hot screen scans your biology and encrypts the mechanism with your genetic signature. The doctor shoves, ushering you towards your shuttle, with little concern for your footing.

Coincidentally, another group enters as he spins you around, their three hazy silhouettes lurking in the hangar’s doorway.

Unlike you, these three are armed and open fire.

Reflexively, you dive behind the reception desk, colliding with Sylvia’s dense chest and sending you both tumbling. Dr. Taraki lurches towards the desk before dropping. His lifeless body slumps in front of you and the receptionist, the clinic’s alarms waking against the increasing gunfire. You feel around for your sidearm, which you recall is hidden beneath your captain’s chair. Trapped, you watch above, arcing lasers, plasma, and explosives exchanging from one end of the atrium to the other, the airshow concluding with the dying screams of security personnel, medical workers, and patients caught in the crossfire.

The receptionist stifles a sob. She crams her eyes shut as you listen to the sole noise of warning sirens. With a frustrated huff, another volley of shots. They manually turn off the buzzers and throttle the room to an uncomfortable silence, klaxons dying in baritone coos.

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Three sets of footsteps dominate, the first of which approaches the desk above you.

“Hello? Anyone home? I’d appreciate some service here,” a feminine voice demands in a polite, plummy tone, impatiently rapping the desk. The nails are sharp like fingerpricks, gaining in speed as moments pass, perfect in rhythm. Eggshell white, complimenting the desk’s finished exterior, which smokes from super-heated plasma residue. One of her compatriots reloads a weapon in the distance, discarded equipment cracking tile.

“You sure you didn’t space them Reggie?” a male voice calls out with a chuckle.

“Yes, I’m sure. I’m still reading two sets of vitals, both of which should slowly stand up and put their hands above their heads.” She emphasizes her command with a shot that lands above you, shattering a light fixture and peppering you with bits of broken glass. The gaping hole in the ceiling twitches, spitting debris. After briefly locking eyes, the secretary hyperventilates, the both of you standing as innocuously as possible. “There we go. That’s not so difficult.”

It’s the feminine voice. A humanoid, blonde hair twisted into a bun, skin pale and devoid of blemishes. Her emotion is invitingly vacant. The lack of physical armor, which is only a formal, semi-elasticated pseudo-cotton flower print blouse and high-waisted, pressed, khaki pants beneath two bandoliers of shotgun shells, tells you that this is an android.

Either that, or someone without a sense of self-preservation.

She gives you both a political smile and reloads her Parker-Hale PL203 concussive shotgun, just a meter’s length, lovingly polished, while continuing her questioning. Focused first on the secretary.

“Now, we’re looking for a Dr. Abdul Taraki. Does he happen to work here?”

She lets her question hang for nearly ten seconds, allowing the chamois enough give the inquiry proper thought. The goat stammers, her mouth opening and closing at random, swallowing with confusion, unable to maintain the corporate conduct expected of her. With a reflexive, learned fear, she tilts her head to the side, obscuring her facial barcode to avoid identification.

The interrogator is statuesque. She smiles, nodding, utilizing the nonverbal negotiation tactics that could work, if not for the still-sizzling shadows of vaporization littering the walls. With a sigh, she once more aims towards the ceiling. A second warning shot fires, the noise making you jump in place, your ears ringing, before training the gun on the worker, its barrel still smoking with from super-heated ammunition. “Just once more, where is Dr. Taraki?”

“Right there,” you interject, gesturing at the floor. The smile turns to you. She walks with intent, gait and posture immaculate. With purposeful nonchalance, she holds her gun to your stomach, jerking it upwards into your diaphragm and ribs with a nod, registering the slight vibrations of fear that travel along the barrel.

“Serac, would you be kind enough as to check the body?”

Another set of footsteps enters your field of vision, too uneven and imperfect to be anything but human.

He’s portly. Larger than average, puffing for breath. Shoulders relaxed, his face flashes through a handful of distinct emotions within ten seconds, expressive to a fault. Beneath the antiquated flak jacket, his white-collared shirt is spotless, despite the sweat on his collar and underarms. His yellow, semi-reflective sunglasses track to the lifeless body on the floor. With a groan, he draws his hand from his shoulder-strapped plasma Darne and runs it through his thin black hair. Grimacing, he takes out a crumpled kerchief and dots his forehead, jaw contorting with a morose chuckle.

“Serac?” Your assailant asks. Her tone is higher now, begging importance. “Serac, what’s the condition of the target?”

“Spaced.”

“What?” the woman spits. “Are you certain?”

“Well, there’s no sense in saying who may be at fault.”

“Are you joking?” The android sneers. Her sentences quicken, her shrill tonality climbing, threatening to shatter the thirty-centimeter-thick floor-to-ceiling hangar windows. “Look, look at that thorax of his. The plasma’s still liquefying! And that grouping, just awful that grouping, nothing close to my handiwork—”

“Well Reggie, next time, let’s ask a few questions before firing.”

“Serac,” she groans. The killer idly taps her manicured nail against the receiver, her annoyed face instantaneously departing, replaced with a visage of political clarity. “Well, where’s the datapad that the good Doctor allegedly held?”

“I’ve got it here, but he geocoded it before right you two goons spaced him,” you interrupt.

“I’ll take that,” Serac says, holding a sidearm to your neck, ripping the pad off of your person. He shrugs his shoulders, snorting with laughter. “Merde, he’s right. I should have spaced the guy earlier!”

“Serac, just take it and we’ll hack it back on the ship.”

“No good Reggie, it’s biocoded as well.”

“Biocoded? Well, don’t tell me the Doctor was the clown. You’ve already shot him. The pad’s worthless!”

“Actually, this guy, the one we’re holding guns to,” the mercenary peers through his sunglasses, grinning, “he’s the clown, by the looks of it.”

“What are we supposed to do, then? Just take him along with us?”

“Yes,” a third voice penetrates the conversation. The two thugs freeze in place. Serac holds his breath, the mercenary’s nervous thumb tracing along the datapad’s glassy corners. His chewed nails dig into the ergonomic ridges. Reggie, too, becomes dormant. Her joints are rigid with an inhuman stillness.

The voice projects from another bestiamoide. An equid with a sorrel coat. Two meters tall. Her speech is smoky, body athletic. She’s ten paces behind, sauntering, every step of her hooves clacking off the medical tiling. Her eyes dart from corpse to corpse, scanning for twitching from the dispatched bodies littering the clinic’s stained floor.

Her skintight black bodysuit and ivory cropped jacket are no doubt reinforced for extra protection of her extremities, while tastefully leaving her décolletage unguarded. Their sixteenth-generation polyaramid construction nearly vibrates with tension, torqueing at stylistically preferred muscle points. Instinctively, your eyes draw towards the diamond of white fur on her chest, complemented by an unknown tattoo.

“Take the datapad, take the clown, leave the goat. The shuttle’s fried on landing. We’ll need to hoof it to the main dockyard on foot.”

She investigates the body at your feet, prodding the Doctor’s corpse with an idle hoof. Her subordinate was right in her assessment. Taraki’s chest is cavernous. A grouping of random holes, visibly drilled through, still drip with plasma projectiles that melt and cauterize their way to the floor. Every drop leaves the tiling pockmarked with unsightly divots, audibly sizzling and stinking of sulfur.

A pair of ears flatten against her head. Her snout wrinkles, nostrils flaring, eyes hooded with purpose. Maybe she feels movement. An improbable, final twitch of life from the Doctor. Some miraculous survival that lurks at her hooves, begging for mercy. But, as she aims below, firing round after round at point blank, nuclear-tipped rounds splintering remaining bones and disemboweling him completely, reducing the corpse into an unrecognizable mass of carbon, you have a realization.

The mare’s just plain mad.

She whips the empty rifle onto the mass of gore. It’s the spiking throw of the sore loser. Someone at their wit’s end. Impatiently, she glares at both her lackeys, snorting.

“I said secure the clown.”

“You got it, Capitaine,” the mercenary says with a grin.

He grips your windbreaker’s collar, the antique fabric straining against his sweaty digits. With a heft, he pulls you over the desk and pins you to the floor. In tune, the female android places a foot on your spine. Somehow, as they affix the tungsten handcuffs around your wrists, you know they’re not strangers to the maneuver.

The one with the bun winds up a leg. Her stance is gyroscopically immaculate. Balanced and graceful. Unsurprisingly, her foot’s descent to your ribs gains speed in its downward arc.

The kick you receive produces a sound almost loud enough to be confused with the explosion. One causing the set of double doors on the opposite side of the atrium to fly off their hinges. The room fills with smoke as security forces pour through the opening. Red armor, lightweight, turbaned soldiers, bandaged and still recovering from the previous cycle’s battling, firing indiscriminately.

“Discard your weaponry and come with us. Do not resist arrest. Disca///khlus min ‘ashlr///weaponry and come with us. Do n///qim alaietiqal.///Discard...” The speakers blare with mangled attempts to restore order. They scratch and screech to no avail, adding to the confusion. Sylvia dives once more, cowering under her workstation.

The mare yells. Buttressed against the worn-down reception, the three bandits let loose another salvo. The kidnappers use your spine as a stepping stone, their heels digging into your vertebrae with every blast of recoil. You share Sylvia’s fate, pelted with flying debris and ejected casings that sting your skin and char her fur.

“Change of plans," the mare nickers, “get the clown down to the ships!”

Serac drags you by the wrists, whipping you through the hangar doors. Out, down the stairs, letting you unceremoniously hit every step along the way. All the while, the stupid smile on his face, entertained at the prospect of more violence.

Once at the base of the staircase, your kidnappers fire into the observation deck. It lurches. Only after continued patience does the mezzanine collapse, spitting corpses and rubble into the hangar proper, a familiar she-goat hanging onto her desk for dear life, dangling at a precipitous forty-five degree decline.

With renewed teamwork, the android lugs your feet and the man your torso. In a feat of criminal precision, they haul you through your cargo bay’s airlock and back to your familiar captain’s chair. The controls reboot themselves, Dyle acknowledging your return. His familiar glow awakens, wearing its subdued, energy-saving, two-dimensional cobalt projection.

“Forgive me for being obvious, but what the devil is this all about?” The AI chirps, background processes coming online and registering three new signatures aboard the ship.

“Get moving, you hunk of garbage,” Serac says. He impotently pounds his fist against the console. Caveman-like.

“We don’t know each other, do we?”

“Listen machine, I don’t have the patience for this. Get us off this station, or there’s going to be trouble.”

“Well, somebody call the police.”

“Listen Dyle, security’s already here, and they’re not doing us any good,” you say with a foreign distillation of fear.

Another string of detonations. Shrapnel knocks against the cockpit’s windows. The security forces have destroyed the landing craft next to yours, saving the station’s mechanic a trip. Crudely repaired architecture falls into your view, spurred by an electrical fire that grows across the floor.

You remember the Rassidi reputation of collateral damage. So, you decide to take a chance.

“Take over the controls and get us out of here. No weapons, just evade them somehow.”

“The police aren’t going to like this one bit,” the digital assistant murmurs. The ship disengages its landing gear, sling-shotting itself once more into the cold abyss surrounding the space station, weaving through the intermittent traffic of traders and maintenance vehicles. After politely tilting your head to toward the input console, Reggie places the datapad, uploading information to Dyle’s navigational systems. Greedy for data, he trills with satisfaction.

“I see you’ve got the pumpkin.”

After a moment of digestion, Dyle initiates his own maneuvers, acting as a single blip on the screen in front of you. One that is threateningly close to being swarmed by the tens of hostile signatures that materialize around the console. For these few seconds, all four of you place your hopes on the snide computer system. The two underlings nervously toy with their firearms as the ship rocks from glancing hits, your cheap shields threatening to break at any sign of direct fire.

You freeze. Two equine hands weigh on your shoulders. They grip your clavicles like handlebars and press you downward into faux-leather of your seat. Unsure of where to place your own, you hold the arms of the seat for leverage. In your cockpit window’s slight reflection, the mare’s face, teeth gritted and brow furrowed.

Furred digits strain against her violet-painted fingernails, carrying her heartbeat, threatening to break through the skin beneath your jacket. Her labored breathing slows to match yours, rhythmic. Fearful and uncertain. As the two of you lock eyes, mutual profiles awash with the refracting spectacles of laser and tracer, exploding anti-air creating violent plumes of ochre within the oppressive darkness of space, you wonder if you’ve seen her somewhere before.

But, before you can investigate her subtle look of confusion, you’re assaulted with the blue-white auras of a light-speed jump to what you hope is safety.