Eric Jiménez was playing Solitaire when the warning crackled over Hazard’s radio. It was only static at first, the signal barely strong enough to stand out from normal background radiation. The ship’s comm officer tapped at her control screen to his right. Nzube Ikande was the youngest crewmember, but she was a wizard with electronics, and it only took her a few seconds to clean up the static. What came through was a computerized voice speaking in a loop.

        Warning. Tartarus Station is under Level One quarantine. Do not approach. Warning. Tartarus Station is under Level One quarantine. Do not approach. Warning. Tartarus Station is under Level One quarantine. Do not approach.

        The message ended months of silence on the UNS Hazard. Sure, the crew talked, but conversation wasn’t the same as the everyday noise you heard back Earth side; cars in the street, birds chirping, wind rustling. In space, silence enveloped all. Even the rush of the engines had a sepulchral sound, as if the vacuum outside were leeching into the hull.

        “Red queen to the black king, and reverse thrusters.”

Jiménez flinched, and turned to see Captain Saigo Yamamoto standing over his shoulder, his trademark coffee cup in hand. The words “World’s Greatest Dad” were stamped on the side in English and Japanese, barely visible in the dim light of the bridge’s displays. Had the Captain really been standing there, watching him play Solitaire? Yamamoto’s sly grin said yes.

“Back us off to a safe distance,” he continued.

“Yes, sir,” Jiménez said, and keyed the commands into the autopilot. The Hazard rocked as her engines reversed thrust and negative G-forces kicked in, ending months of familiar forward momentum.

“Ikande,” the Captain said, scratching his salt-and-pepper stubble. “Kill the radio, and tell me what we know about this rock.”

“It’s an asteroid mine,” she said. “Property of the Aleph Null Corporation. Primary components are neodymium and cobalt. Sir, it’s twenty million miles from where it should be.”

Yamamoto nodded, and sipped his coffee. “I don’t suppose they’re telling us why?”

“They’re only broadcasting the quarantine warning. But,” she tapped her screen a few more times.  “I was able to connect with the station’s computer. Sir, I shouldn’t be able to do that. Aleph Null’s systems are privately owned, and they don’t offer access to UN ships. Someone’s manually changed the station’s access protocols.”

“Can we download their logs?” Yamamoto asked.

Ikande nodded. “Yes, sir, but the signal from Tartarus is pretty weak. I’m not sure what’s going on there, but it’ll take a long time to download all the log entries.”

“How long?”

“Days,” she said.

Yamamoto took another sip. “Download them. Start with the last entry, and let me know when it’s ready to play.”

Jiménez’s hands trembled. He had finally stumbled into danger, and he didn’t know how to feel. He hadn’t left his wife and daughter behind just for the hazard pay. That was a part of it, no doubt, but no matter what he told them — no matter what he told himself — he knew there was more. He’d signed up for the UN Fleet with visions of being a pioneer. Exploring the Solar System, getting an asteroid named after himself. Instead, his first mission had been as boring as any desk job. Identify asteroid composition. Search for rare earth elements. Store results in database. Rinse. Repeat.

And now, suddenly, he was investigating an industrial accident. When he said it in his head, it sounded less exciting than it felt. Page thirty-six of the UN Fleet Manual: Procedures for Contact with Quarantined Facilities. He’d memorized the whole book, just to pass the time. This was just another bit of standard operating procedure. At least, that’s how Captain Yamamoto seemed to feel, casually sipping his coffee as if he were enjoying a hot breakfast at home in Kyoto. To Jiménez, it felt like Omaha Beach and the Battle of Hong Kong rolled into one. This was action. The unknown.

And yet, for too long, nothing happened. The ship’s chronometer beeped once every sixty seconds. Plink. Plink. Plink. Ikande stared at her display as if it were a crystal ball. Finally, she broke the silence. “The final log entry is ready for playback, sir.”

“Play it,” Yamamoto ordered.

The face that appeared on the bridge’s main display was a familiar one. Galen Eriksson, the tech entrepreneur who had butchered his own girlfriend. The man had been all over the news. Tall, blonde, athletic, with the kind of muscles you couldn’t hide without wearing a parka. Jiménez could still recognize him in the video, but he looked like he’d lost a hundred pounds in sweat. Beads of it ran down his forehead from his sodden hair, and his face had gone so pale Jiménez could almost see through him. This man hadn’t just seen a ghost. He was about to become one.