The ship fell the way dead things always do

  The impact was short, brutal, crude.

  Silent alarms, sparking panels, the hull vibrating with an almost animal groan. The floor tilted. Something tore loose behind her. Metal against metal. Then sand. A lot of sand.

  Red.

  When everything stopped, the silence was absolute.

  It took Nébula several seconds to understand she was still alive.

  She unfastened the harness slowly. The air smelled of burned wiring and mineral dust. What remained of the pirate ship was nothing but twisted metal, holes everywhere.

  She forced the hatch open and the desert heat struck her like a dirty hand across the face.

  Red dunes stretched to the horizon. Half-buried ship wrecks. Rusted towers marking old mining settlements. A pale, depthless sky and a star that heated the surface without mercy.

  She loaded what she could find. A few weapons. Plates. And a still-warm power module. She walked toward a nearby settlement, guided by columns of dark smoke.

  A market without a name.

  Scrap piled into unstable mountains. Generators roaring as if begging for mercy. People with too many implants and far too few intact eyes. No one asked questions, no one even stopped to look at her.

  She approached a scrap stall, handed over what she had. The pieces were examined. The offer was poor. She accepted.

  Enough credits. Nothing more.

  With that she bought water, dermal patches for her wounds, and a place to sleep—filthy, but enough to rest. She didn’t sleep well. She no longer did.

  At the center of the settlement stood a kind of circular —arena— surrounded by bars. Fights for money in the middle of the plaza. Passersby placed half-hearted bets; the same one always won.

  But they paid in cash.

  —I want to fight — Nébula said to the bookie, sliding over enough credits to get his attention.

  He looked her up and down.

  —You’re sick— he laughed. —I like you. Get in there and last a few minutes, yeah?

  His dry laugh was swallowed by the market noise.

  Her opponent emerged from the crowd: a brute they called Bull. Torn shirt plastered to sweat, arms like tree trunks, scars crisscrossing his chest.

  The bookie raised his hoarse voice.

  —No rules. Until one of them stops moving.

  Bull advanced slowly, confident, fists hanging loose. Nébula stood still at the center. Knees bent. Breathing controlled.

  The first strike came fast: a wide punch to the face. She saw it coming from the tightening shoulder. She ducked and countered low—a hard blow to the exposed stomach. Bull growled, barely stepping back. His skin felt hard as a ship’s hull.

  The crowd murmured. A few bets changed hands.

  Bull charged, furious. A flurry of wild blows. She retreated, dodging, measuring every step. At the right moment, she drove a knee into his ribs. Bull gasped.

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  Now the crowd woke up. Isolated shouts. Credits moving fast.

  Bull grabbed her by the clothing, lifting her off the ground. Nébula didn’t fight the grip; she used the momentum. Fast fingers to the eyes. He roared and released her. She landed badly, knee hitting the sand, but rolled before his stomp could crush her ribs.

  She got back up. Bull was bleeding from one eye; rage had erased his grin.

  He charged again, slower now. Heavy breathing. Nébula waited. When he clumsily extended his arm for a hook, she slipped to the side and answered with a punch to the liver, a knee to the groin.

  Bull staggered. Legs unsteady. One last strike from Nébula to the chin snapped his head back. He fell face-first into the red sand with a dull thud. Dust rose.

  Brief silence. Then noise: shouts, curses, dry applause.

  The bookie stared at her, stunned.

  She said nothing. Collected the doubled credits. Pushed through the crowd that now looked at her differently.

  In the settlement, things changed fast. That afternoon, the one who always won was no longer the same.

  With the credits in hand, she didn’t return to the cubicle.

  She walked the market until she found what she was looking for.

  The weapon was old, ballistic, heavy. No visible serial number. The vendor didn’t explain anything; neither did she ask. She tested the weight. The recoil. Nodded.

  The helmet was different.

  Newer. Fully sealed. An opaque visor that cleared when powered on. Flexible internal fit, comfortable, almost organic. It covered her entire face. No one would ever see her features inside it.

  She paid without haggling.

  The implant cost more.

  It wasn’t on display. The vendor hesitated when she asked for it. He glanced around before pulling out a narrow, unmarked case.

  —That’s not civilian— he said. —Military series. Pulled from service.

  —Why?

  He studied her, assessing.

  —Makes people aggressive. Reflexes too fast. The body can’t keep up. Rage episodes. Skin damage. Burns some of them from the inside.

  —Does it work?

  —“Does it work? — He scoffed. —This is the best thing in this dump.

  That was enough.

  As night fell, she looked for a clinic among the scrap. What she found instead was a cubicle driven into the sand, held together by beams from old ships. The medic had more age than equipment. Reused scanners. Needles sterilized with dry heat.

  She showed him the implant, wrapped in dirty plastic.

  —Do you detect trackers?— she asked first.

  —And this. Put it in.

  —Do you know what this is?

  Nébula looked at him.

  The medic slowly shook his head.

  —No. You don’t.

  He nodded and led her into the treatment room.

  He ran the scanner along her neck, the base of her skull, her sternum.

  Nothing.

  He frowned.

  —No trackers here.

  He put the scanner away.

  —Take off the helmet.

  She hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then did.

  The medic looked a little longer than necessary.

  He injected local anesthetic at the base of her skull. The implant slid in with a cold click and a burning sensation that raced down her spine.

  —This…— he murmured. —That must’ve cost you.

  She didn’t answer.

  —Fine work done on you. Bones. Proportions. Exceptional craftsmanship.

  She put the helmet back on.

  —No.

  The medic shrugged.

  —You look like a Veyra— he said with a humorless smile. —Nobody spends that much to resemble a dead race without a reason.

  He took the payment and turned away.

  She stepped outside the shop and a shadow cut off her path.

  A big man. Broad shoulders. Deformed jaw. Copper teeth visible when he smiled, crooked, as if he’d earned them one by one. He wore a heavy coat despite the heat, and the implant in his neck pulsed with a slow rhythm.

  The wind dragged dust and metal fragments across the ground. The market remained alive around them, but no one looked. No one intervened.

  The brute pulled something from an inner pocket of his coat: an old black earpiece, the foam worn thin.

  He offered it to her.

  She took it. Examined it for a second. Put it on.

  Static.

  —You fight well. You buy better. I like that— said a voice with no clear accent.

  She didn’t ask who it was.

  —We don’t meet in person— the voice continued. —We don’t see each other. We don’t know each other. I find little jobs, and capable people carry them out. You think you’re capable?

  The brute stepped back, satisfied. He was no longer part of the conversation.

  —What kind of job?— she asked.

  A brief pause. Measured.

  —Recover something that must not break.

  —Pay?

  The voice smiled. She could hear it in the tone.

  —Enough to justify the blood.

  Silence.

  —Depends”— Nébula said.

  Another pause.

  —It always does”— the organizer replied. —That’s why I’m calling you.

  The transmission cut out.

  The brute stepped aside.

  Nébula stood still for a moment. The helmet reflected a shuttle.

  She boarded without looking back.

  Red sands.

  Invisible contracts.

  Dirty work.

  Inevitable blood.