Page 20 of Tarek

Security experience.

Relevant training.

Reason for applying.

I filled in the first sections without hesitation. Then I reached the final question, and I stared at it for several seconds. Why do you want to be sheriff of New Haven?

I thought about the cargo holds, the monitors staring at endless corridors and cargo holds, the fights, Rell asleep under tables. Above all, I thought about the captain's endless drive to plot shortcuts that were suboptimal, the warning flashing across my wrist again, and the sound of air escaping into vacuum and the terrified expression of the man whose leg I'd pulled free from a restraint while the ship was still taking impacts.

I typed my answer.

I want to spend the rest of my career protecting people instead of cargo.

I read it twice, then I submitted the application.

For the first time in years, I found myself imagining something that didn't involve another ship. A planet with real ground and an atmosphere that stayed put so you could breathe it, and the stars were above me instead of all around me, standing in silent sentry while we hurtled past, trying to not die on our way to deliver boxes of stuff. Maybe New Haven was exactly the kind of place I'd been looking for without ever admitting it, or maybe it would be another disappointment.

Either way, I was going to find out, as my gut told me that job was as good as mine. I closed the application screen and leaned back in my chair. For the first time in a very long while, I wasn't wondering when the next alarm would sound. I was wondering what it would feel like to wake up somewhere that didn't have one, and the only waiting I was currently doing was waiting to hear official confirmation with orders to report for my mate match test, despite it probably being a waste of time, but hey, I wasn't opposed. Perfect match and all that.

8

TAREK

Iwas halfway through a perfectly routine security shift when the bridge called for me.

“Security to bridge. Captain requests your presence.”

I checked the message on my wrist comm, frowned, and finished checking the corridor before handing the monitor over to the junior security officer covering the opposite section. After the asteroid field incident, I suspected the captain had finally decided to have another word with me about my damage report. He still seemed to think that documenting what had actually happened was somehow a personal attack on his command decisions.

I wasn't holding my breath for an apology.

The bridge doors opened, and I immediately noticed something was different. The captain wasn't in his chair, and neither was the first mate. Both were standing near the central communications station, where an official Dragonii Empire seal occupied the main display. The communications officer had the expression of someone who would rather be anywhere else in the galaxy.

“What happened?” I asked.

The captain turned toward me. “Tarek. Come here.”

I walked closer, looking from him to the display. “What's that?”

“The Empire contacted us.”

“I've gathered that.”

He didn't smile. “It's an official communication, delivered through priority channels. They want us to confirm our current course and destination so they can better coordinate a pickup for one Tarek Korvak.”

I stared at him for a moment, then at the display. The formal wording left very little room for misunderstanding. They wanted our location, our intended route, our projected arrival point, and confirmation that I was aboard.

I blinked. “I was not expecting them to contact you first.”

The captain's eyes narrowed. “What do you mean you were not expecting them to contact me first? Why would the Dragonii Empire suddenly take an interest in this ship? And why, specifically, are they asking about you?” The question seemed to be rhetorical in his mind as he turned away from me and began pacing across the bridge, his hands clasped behind his back, and kept right on talking. “We've done nothing wrong. Our manifests are in order, our cargo is registered, and our flight plans are filed. We've never had an issue with Imperial Customs, and now they're contacting a merchant vessel through priority channels to ask where we're going and who we're carrying.”

The first mate shifted his weight but wisely kept his mouth shut.

“Perhaps this is about the asteroid field,” the captain continued. “Someone has read your report and decided that our navigation choices require Imperial scrutiny because we have Dragonii crew. We were operating within normal business practice. We plotted the shortest course, which is what any sensible commercial captain would do. Time is credits, and time spent is credits spent. Every unnecessary hour in transit costs fuel, supplies, life support, docking fees, and opportunities to take on the next profitable cargo.”

He stopped beside the communications station, jabbed a finger toward the display, and resumed pacing.

“Now we're supposed to believe that the Empire can start questioning our route whenever it decides it doesn't like how we conduct business? What's next? Requiring approval for every course adjustment? Sending an Imperial official aboard to inspect our navigation calculations? This is overreach, pure and simple. Merchant ships cannot function if every routine business decision becomes a matter of imperial interference.”