“You’re late,” the girl said. Her voice was soft, but it filled the cargo bay like a bell. “I’ve been counting. Two million, three hundred thousand, eleven seconds.”
“Sensor ghost,” said Chief Engineer Mikkel, not looking up from his diagnostics. “Thermal coupling with the engine manifold.” juy 217
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. “You’re late,” the girl said
She checked the ship’s clock. It was 02:16. Two million, three hundred thousand, eleven seconds
And the temperature inside JUY 217 had just begun to rise.
Elara felt tears she hadn’t shed in years burn behind her eyes. “How long were you in there?”
“I’m JUY 217,” the girl said, as if it were obvious. “But my real name is Anya. I got lost in the Rift. A man in a silver suit put me in the box to keep me safe. He said someone would come. He said you’d be kind.”