It started with the temperature logs. The container was supposed to hold dormant fungal samples from the Cygnus Reach, kept at a steady -40°C. But every third night at 02:17 ship-time, the internal temperature spiked to 37.2°C—human body heat—for exactly ninety seconds. Then it plummeted back to baseline.
The cargo bay lights flickered. The ship’s alarm began to wail—not a system fault, but the external proximity alert. A vessel was hailing them. No transponder. No identification. Just a single repeating message on all frequencies: juy 217
She’d logged thirty thousand hours in deep space. She’d watched starfish-like creatures dissolve their own skeletons to communicate. She’d held a sentient crystal that wept when it sensed loneliness. None of it unnerved her like JUY 217. It started with the temperature logs
Elara looked at the container’s manifest again. Beneath the buyer’s name, in tiny print she’d missed before: Delivery deadline: 02:17 ship-time, Day 218. Late penalty: forfeiture of biological assets and crew. Then it plummeted back to baseline