Space Pirate And The Universe’s Secret

The stolen crate bucked against Riven Kestrel’s shoulder as Vanta Dock-9’s cargo belt hurled her toward the outer locks.

A red docking beacon strobed across the crowded pier, turning faces into flashes of blood and bone. Freighter crews scattered between stacked containers. Vendors dragged tarps over illegal engines. Somewhere behind Riven, a siren screamed three rising notes - the Galaxy Police Force had found the empty berth.

“Move!” she shouted.

A dockhand swung a shock-pike at her head. Riven ducked. The pike cracked against the crate, sending a blue spark across its black metal shell. She drove her elbow into the dockhand’s ribs and kept running.

The crate was heavier than its size allowed. It pulled at her arm like a small moon, its surface cold through her glove. She had stolen it from a smuggler called Vey Orrin, who had paid six armed guards to keep anyone from asking what was inside. Riven had asked anyway. Then she had taken the answer, the crate, and Orrin’s favorite pistol.

The pistol was tucked into her belt. The crate was still trying to break her shoulder.

Her ship, the Needle’s Mercy, waited beyond Dock-9’s pressure gate. Forty meters of patched armor and bad decisions, its landing struts already retracting.

“Mercy,” Riven snapped into her comm, “open the bay.”

Her ship’s artificial voice answered through static. “Bay sealed. Police interference detected.”

“Then interfere back.”

“That is not a recognized command.”

“It is today.”

A pair of police drones dropped from the ceiling ahead, their white shells unfolding into gunmetal limbs. Blue identification beams swept the dock. The crowd surged away from them, knocking cargo carts into one another.

Riven veered left.

A cargo hauler rolled across her path, its driver shouting as she vaulted onto the hood. Heat blasted from the machine’s vents. She landed on the far side, slipped on spilled coolant, and caught herself against a stack of fuel canisters.

The crate struck the canisters with a deep clang.

Every drone turned toward her.

“Riven Kestrel,” one announced. “Place the stolen property on the deck. Kneel for restraint.”

“Put it in writing.”

She shoved off the canisters as the first drone fired.

The pulse scorched the air beside her cheek. Heat crawled over her skin. Riven slid beneath a swinging loader arm, boots skidding through oil, and came up behind a wall of freight pods. The second pulse punched through the pod above her. Metal fragments rained down.

She ran harder.

The outer gate stood thirty meters away, its iris doors closing as the police locked down the pier. Beyond it, the Needle’s Mercy hung in the docking cradle, engines spooling with a hungry whine.

“Mercy,” she said, breath tight, “if you leave without me, I’m selling your left thruster.”

“You have threatened that three times.”

“And meant it twice.”

The ship’s ramp dropped.

Riven sprinted for it.

A police drone rose over the freight pods and fired. The blast struck the crate.

For one instant, the dock vanished inside white light.

Riven hit the deck on her back. The crate landed beside her and split open with a hiss.

Not broken. Unlocked.

A smell rolled out - hot metal, burnt paper, and smoke trapped inside old stone.

Riven stared.

The crate held no weapons, no contraband engines, no sealed narcotics. It held a thin sheet of dark glass wrapped in silver cloth. Lines glimmered beneath the glass, forming a web of stars. Some burned red. Others pulsed in a sequence too slow to be random.

A star-chart.

The first line of symbols appeared across its surface.

NULL TREASURE ROUTE: CONFIRMED.

Riven’s mouth went dry.

Another pulse struck the deck. The ship lurched. She grabbed the chart and kicked the crate down the ramp.

“Mercy, lift!”

“Boarding incomplete.”

“Now!”

The Needle’s Mercy tore free of the cradle.

Riven caught the edge of the ramp as the ship rose, her boots swinging above the dock. Police drones fired again. One blast shattered the ramp’s outer rail. The impact tore the crate from her grip.

“No!”

She reached for it.

The crate dropped toward the crowded pier.

A smuggler lunged from beneath a cargo awning and caught the handle. Vey Orrin’s narrow face appeared through the smoke, his eyes bright with fury.

“You stole the wrong box!” he yelled.

Riven swung from the ramp with one hand. The crate hung between them, its broken lid spilling red light over Orrin’s face.

“Then stop keeping better boxes!”

She fired Orrin’s pistol.

The shot struck the crate’s handle. It snapped. Orrin fell backward, and the crate plunged into the crowd. Three dockworkers scrambled after it, while the police drones dove through the confusion.

Riven hauled herself into the ship.

The ramp slammed shut beneath her boots.

“Airborne,” Mercy said.

“Get us out of the dock.”

“Police craft are sealing the approach lanes.”

“Then find a lane they forgot.”

The ship pitched forward....