Page 54 of Galactic Sentinels: Vol 2
“We’ll see. Right now, I’m dead tired. Going to bed,” I say.
I climb into my bunk and pull the cover over me before hitting the lock button. While in motion, we seal our sleeping pods—just in case the AI has to pull an emergency maneuver. Better bruises on the ego than on the body.
Sleep comes quickly. And as I drift off, the only thing glowing in my mind is the intense blue gaze ringed in black that’s haunted my dreams for years. A look I’ve never managed to forget.
I'm sitting in the cockpit of the Impala. Next to me, Vlad is going through the standard checks, making sure everything’s running smoothly. Sure, the AI does that too—constantly—but nothing beats a good old human once-over. No matter how well we prepare, space always finds a way to mess with our plans.
“All systems nominal,” Vlad announces.
Time in space can feel like forever. Even with our top-of-the-line Polaris tech and its insane speeds, the journey between destinations includes these long, dragging stretches of nothing. So Vlad and I have our routines. Daily manual inspections—because trust is good, but control is better. And then, we play.
Vlad’s favorite? Chess. A game from Old Earth. He taught me five years ago, and yeah, I gotta admit—it’s brilliant.
With Logan, things were quieter—more individual stuff like reading. Which I liked too, but let’s be honest, it’s less social.
As we’re approaching a barren, rocky planetoid, an alarm pierces the quiet.
“AI, what’s going on?” Vlad asks, sounding alert.
I scan the screens and see that we’ve picked up a distress signal. A ship is stranded in high orbit above the lifeless rock.
“Looks like they’re in trouble,” the AI confirms.
“They’ve triggered an automated request for assistance.”
“Alright. Scan the ship and cross-check it with the database. Do we have a holographic or voice message backing the call?” I ask.
“Negative. Just a standard, anonymous beacon.”
Vlad and I lock eyes. This smells off. The ship is small—six to eight crew tops. Someone should’ve been able to send a more detailed distress call.
“AI, try contacting them for a status update,” Vlad says.
“Already did. No response.”
This is getting sketchy. Is it a trap?
We’ve seen this tactic before. The Slavers’ Coalition is infamous for it. Send out a distress call, lure in some do-gooders, then ambush them and strip their ship clean—crew included. If they board something bigger than theirs, they just play it off like the problem’s been fixed.
“Do we go?” I ask Vlad.
He nods and pops the hatch on our weapons compartment.
“Set the pistoblasters to stun. Wide range,” I say.
If it’s a trap, they’re gonna regret picking us.
We close in on the vessel. Once we have it in sight, we circle around for a recon pass—nothing stirs. We dock slowly, every movement deliberate.
The moment we open the hatch, the stench hits us like a gut punch. Death. Thick and sour. I gag hard enough to feel my last meal climbing back up.
The access bay opens straight into their cargo hold. Inside, rows of cages—and corpses. Rotting bodies locked in cells. Slaver ship, no doubt. These cells are their calling card.
Focused, we clear the level and head upward. No signs of life anywhere. It’s a ghost ship.
Everyone’s dead. Prisoners and captors alike.
“Shit… What the hell happened here?” Vlad asks, more to the air than to me.
