Memory was slow to return. At first, there was only the hum. A deep, bone-rattling vibration, like an old diesel engine stuck between gears. Then the pain came. Throbbing. Searing.
Jace opened his eyes. The cockpit was dark, emergency lights casting a sickly red glow. The control panel flickered weakly, barely alive.
He swallowed. Dry as dust. “Ship?” His voice cracked.
No response.
The last thing he remembered—hyperspace. The run was routine. Haul cargo from the Mars station to Alpha Centauri. Twelve-day round trip. Nothing weird. Nothing special. But something had happened. Something bad.
He forced himself up, head pounding like a hammer on steel. His co-pilot, Briggs, slumped over the console, mouth slightly open. Jace reached out.
Cold.
He swallowed hard. “Shit.”
A crackling voice sputtered through the comm. “Jace…? You there?”
His heart lurched. “Who’s this?”
“You don’t remember, do you?” The voice was wrong—familiar, but warped. “We took a detour.”
His hands shook as he pulled up the nav. Coordinates flashed—no star charts matched. The black outside the viewport wasn’t space. It was… thicker. Moving.
“Where are we?”
The voice laughed, hollow and distant.
“The last stop.”
Something knocked on the hull.
From the outside.
Jace stopped breathing.
The lights cut out.
The hum stopped.
And something opened the airlock.
