Spectral voices echo through the abyssal dark where real time is truant. These ghosts drift within folded space and Quinn listens to them on runs between stations when the absence of her family weighs heavy on her soul. The voices are alternatively soothing and at times baffling; soothing because they replace the grim silence of family voices long silent; baffling because many speak languages Quinn doesn't understand.

It was Mama who taught her how to conjure the ghosts from their hidden realm when Quinn was young and unnerved by the shimmers.

Quinn wasn't yet like the older Bos'lls who'd grown used to the phantoms of the in-between that invade the ship on every run, playing hell with light and shadow. Some children thought the shimmers were the ghosts of the deep, but Mama said they were only hallucinations that prey on minds daring to defy nature's laws of time and space. Sometimes the shimmers were drapes of light and colour, sometimes wheels that spin and twist at the edges of your vision, sometimes they were people.

After Caravan Dreams threaded each departure lane—Papa calling them towpaths much to the frustration of station Control—and the fore and aft haloes spun up inside their magnetic containment, the hole in real space flashed open just off the prow and the long-hauler shuddered forward then jerked hard. Outside, the stars phased from ultraviolet to crimson and the far voyage began.

Far in lightyears but not in time.

That was when the shimmers invaded the bridge and Mama showed Quinn how to sit quiet with eyes closed and allow the ghosts to whisper.

Mama told her that ancient low frequencies travelled further than current ones so by opening the backup comm wide in the ranges below station bands she could find what lingered in the deep from ages past.

Quinn would curl her small body into a bridge chair as the in-between played its crazy games with light, bending it to pure chaos. She kept her eyes closed as the bridge watches turned, listening to audio artefacts transmitted centuries ago, now trapped in the stillness of the in-between. She imagined the ghosts' lives, in awe of the miracle that their voices persisted so long after their hearts stopped beating and their bones turned to dust.

Needing sleep this trip, Quinn ran the feed through the bridge sound plate so she could hear them where she lay on the rump-sprung lounger that bore the concavities made by generations of Bos'll arses.

The voices drove Pender to his bunk above her own in the Captain's cabin, his pillow pulled tight round his head to muffle his sensitive ears. Pender didn't like hearing voices of the dead, but Quinn preferred them to the silence of an empty crew ring. Foreign voices crackling with static and responding to arcane call signs with names slipped from memory, voices that now reminded Quinn that Caravan Dreams was once a vital long-hauler filled with the living voices of the Bos'll clan's long pedigree. For generations the ship sailed through folded space, the freight carousel in its throat always tight with cargo, its crew ring filled with brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles and cousins. A ship always alive with living voices. Family members posted to all six watches meant someone was standing watch, someone asleep, someone eating, someone laughing, someone watching EBN newsies or running entertainment sims in the rec bay.

"Who was Gagarin?" a young Quinn once asked Mama.

"He was a Russian man. The first in space." Mama told her.

"What systems did he visit?"

"Sol. Only Sol." Mama said, "He only orbited Terra a single time."

"Sol Prime."

"Yes, Sol Prime.

"It's dead now."

"The ancient home we knew is ruined, yes, but some humans survive there even today."

"But Auntie May taught us it was destroyed in the big war with the nukes."

"The cities died and most of the people who hadn't already left, but some yet live."

"Won't they leave?"

"No darlin', they fight each other. Horrible people locked in a cycle of vengeance sworn in the names of their ancient gods."

"Vengeance is bad?" Quinn asked, puzzled because even then she understood the clan's motto.

"Vengeance is a poison that kills your enemy and yourself at the same time."

"Bad then."

"Yes. Now off to your bunk, wee girl."

"Where is Tranquility Base?" Quinn slipped in another question in an oft-practiced gambit to stay on the bridge with Mama just a few moments more.

"It was where we first landed on Sol Prime's moon."

"Just one moon?"

"Yes, Quinn. Luna."

"And Bos'lls were there, Mama?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"You said we."

"I meant humans. Humans from His Majesty's Empire taking their first step into the galaxy." Mama said, "Now put an end to your questions and crawl off to your bunk."

"Yes, Mama."

To this day, when Quinn couldn't locate sleep on long runs she listens to the ghosts.

Quinn's memories tattered as the demanding tone echoed through the ship announcing the impending approach to Bengal system where Bengal Station hung above the fertile Bengal Prime.

Opening her eyes, Quinn looked to the curve of the bridge stations; Ops; Nav; Scans; Comms; Pilot; Ship Status, and in the centre; the Skipper's chair. Each once filled with Bos'll kin but now empty except for her and Pender. The shimmers of folded space surrounding it playing their tricks.

She swung her legs off the lounger at the rear of the bridge, sat up to collect herself. She was weary; the sleep she'd managed did little to make up for the long back-to-back watches and ship's business that devoured all of her waking moments and most moments she should be asleep.

In the faint dancing light of the shimmers ringed around the bridge stations, she caught brief flickers of family at their posts; Mama, brothers Ollie, Sturn, and Theo, sister Mags, with cousins Frey, Drake, and Donnell standing at the edges learning by observing.

Sometimes the shimmers even showed her Papa in drunken slumber on the lounger she sat.

They were nothing but phantoms from the past now; palinopsia caused by the trickster in-between space. All of them gone these years since she had the Captaincy dropped heavy on her shoulders through succession and tragedy.

Finding her legs, she rose and made her way to her chair, the shimmers pulling back from the bridge stations as they always did, keeping a distance between two and four metres from the human eye which could be fooled. No shimmer ever registered on the vid screens; they were occupants of minds disturbed by the folded space of the in-between.

Sliding into the skipper's chair, Quinn killed the backup comm silencing the voices, knowing that Pender would now unfold his pillow and make his own careful way to the bridge from his bunk. The shimmers played badly with his equilibrium so he always looked down at the deck when Caravan Dreams was between slip points.

Quinn and Pender slept in what was always the Captain's cabin; the closest to the bridge on the port side. After three of her kin were imprisoned as smugglers and Mama murdered by a boarding party of Marines, Quinn and Pender had muscled the wide Captain's bed down the curved corridor to the adolescent dorm and dragged a set of stacked bunk-beds back.

The bunks left room in the cabin for Pender's tree with its lashed cradle that he liked to climb and roost in when he was full of his own memories that needed tending. The tree was the same colour as his draped russet fur and Quinn knew he thought of it as home because when speaking about it in the Bos'll clan's finger-dance, the name he used was a variation of 'home' but with a subtle three-finger spread at the end that suggested tree branches. Pender had invented a word just for his tree.

They had epoxied its base to the floor and the upper limbs to the ceiling and bulkhead, and Pender was happy with the reminder of his home world and even slept in its cradle occasionally.

Quinn slowly stretched her head toward her left shoulder and heard the crackle in her upper spine release the sleep cramp that tightened there while lying so still on the lounger for too long.

She watched the navplot's countdown to system limits as Pender entered the bridge.

His long silken fur caressed the recycled air as he walked on feet and knuckles, making his way with long steps of his hands to two hops of his feet. Arriving at his station he climbed smoothly into the Ops chair and his wise, old-gentleman's eyes scanned the readouts.

'systems optimal' his right hand finger-danced.

"Thank you, Ensign." Quinn replied.

She often kept it formal on the bridge during maneuvers in case of an accidentally open comm. Once docked and exploring a station during downtime they could resume being Quinn and Pender just as they were when they first met and he'd come aboard. "System limits in five, four, three, two, one ..."

The ship shuddered its way back into real space and the external imager displayed the distant Bengal sun phasing from blue to white, and Quinn felt that whole body relief she always felt as the shimmers dissolved and visual sanity returned. The feeling was satisfaction for another long journey completed successfully but also trepidation of what awaited them on-station.

and the hidden package under the Captain's cabin deck plates

The Bos'll clan were Travellers from ancient Terran times and the British Empire had always branded them gypsies, pikeys, thieves, smugglers, and scofflaws, and most times still did. But Travellers were useful to the Empire in their legitimate business; moving freight from one station to another keeping Empire commerce flowing. The lifestyle fit Traveller clans because their ships were their homes.

Quinn activated the transponder's squawk code so Bengal Control could identify them. Then engaged the fore thrusters to dump Caravan Dream's forward velocity, taming her ship to become synchronized with in-system navigation lanes after its wild freedom of the in-between.

"Bleeding speed." Quinn reported as the ship leaned into the fore thrusters slowing on its way to Bengal Prime and its pirouetting station.

"Bengal Control for Caravan Dreams." a faint voice crackled on the skipper's comm plate.

"Read you, Bengal Control." Quinn answered, "This is Caravan Actual."

"Welcome back, Captain Bos'll."

"Good to be back, Control."

"Sending your vector via lane 5. Repeat; lane 5." Control instructed as a green square appeared on Quinn's heads-up display, a slow curved line piercing its centre tracing her path to Bengal station.

"We have two inbound in front of you, Actual."

Two red dots appeared on the vector curve far ahead of her ship, "Once we've got them docked and locked we'll assign your berth."

"Understood, Bengal Control. Third in line. Bleeding speed to system limits while vectoring lane 5." said Quinn as she followed the path toward the station while keeping an eye on Caravan Dreams' relative speed on the heads-up.

"Commerce Bureau asks how many pods you have for us." Control crackled.

"Eleven. Three chilled perishables and eight dry goods and machine parts."

and the cargo under the deck plates, Quinn thought to herself, always the nervous smuggler.

"Heard and understood. Our scan showed your entry point two degrees off. Time for a recalc, Actual. Out for now."

Systems are just small parts of a massive fluid orbit around the core of the galaxy, and though each sun maintains a constant orbital relationship with its planets, they are actually spiralling as they move through space. Because of this, navplots become less accurate over time and require replacing with fresh data when they do.

Quinn monitored ship navigation while Pender gathered the lading report and pulsed it to Bengal Control so they could coordinate the pods to avoid tangling cargo ring traffic while they off-loaded.

Contents of two of their three refrigerated pods were destined to augment what was grown on the planet below as were four of the pods containing equipment and dry goods. The rest would remain with station brokers to supply HRM Navy ships and other long-haulers at the docks.

Quinn watched the first then second red dot vanish from her tri-D display as the ships ahead of her were docked and mated to the station. Bengal Control crackled to life immediately after.

"Control for Caravan Actual."

"Go Control, you have Actual."

"We have you at berth 7 on D-ring."

"Understood, Control. Berth 7, D-ring." Quinn confirmed, "Could you relay an alert to Haster's Ship Systems that we need our onboard converters looked at. We usually use Specialist O'Malley. She's familiar with our old plumbing."

"Will do, Caravan Actual." Control replied, "We have an alert for you as well. HM Royal Commerce requests your presence in their office up the core at 0500."

Quinn glanced at the chronometer adjusted to Bengal station time; the meeting was three hours away and sparked a nervous tension in her core.

"Any reason attached to that request, Control?" Quinn asked, feeling familiar flutters in her belly.

"No further information was included, Actual."

"Understood. Please relay my compliments to their office. I will attend with my Ensign Pender."

"Will do, Actual. Happy docking. Control out."

'trouble' Pender signed, his eyes locked on Quinn's as his fingers danced 'royals' with a contemptuous flick of his fingertips.

"Most likely a contract review or changing one we already have." Quinn answered.

'careful'

"Always, Ensign."

'armed'

'not this time' Quinn finger-danced back, then; 'marines'

'guild solicitor'

Quinn nodded and composed a flash message to the station's Long-Haulers Guild Hall requesting a Solicitor accompany them to the 0500 meeting in the core.

A flash answer arrived from the Guild moments later; Jon Dankworth was their assigned Solicitor and would meet them at D-ring's berth 7 at 0430.

Glacially, Bengal Station grew in size on the display until the green square locked and followed berth 7 on the outer ring as the massive structure rotated above the planet. Most stations were home to thousands of people, Bengal being a hub for food stuffs was a busy one.

Quinn took close control as they neared, her fingers light on the yoke and thruster controls patinaed by generations of Bos'll hands before her. She eased Caravan Dreams into a corkscrew path following berth 7 on the outer D-ring, cancelling the forward thrusters as the long-hauler slowed to a creep.

Just above on C-ring, Quinn counted three Royal Navy Frigates and a Destroyer waiting to on-board supplies. Dozens of civilian ships nursed at the station's teats around D-ring. Private transport ships and shuttles were locked above on B-ring. And under D-ring itself were the multidirectional station thrusters that kept it rotating and true.

Both she and Pender pulled on their lap belts and synched them tight.

She crept her ship forward dead slow matching the rotation of the large 7 in bright red tiles on the sealed hatches of her assigned berth. Feathering the starboard thruster and nudging the aft carefully, her practiced hands aligned her ship as she had done times uncounted, first as Pilot then as Captain. Just like Mama did, as Papa did, as Grandad and other Bos'lls had for generations.

Just above the large hatches sealing 7's main cargo port, there was a smaller sally-port for ship's personnel lit bright. This is what she used to guide her to final docking.

Quinn activated the docked configuration for the bridge section and felt the familiar gravity shifts inside Caravan Dreams as the bridge unbound itself from the crew ring and rotated forward. Then came the faint nudging as she aligned and nested the prow into its pocket. The ship echoed as dock clamps took hold and Quinn watched green lights on the control panel awaken to indicate positive seals on both ports.

"We have lock, Ensign." she told Pender who switched the relays to accept metered station water, power, and air through the umbilicals, a fresh row of green lights lit his panel.

'married' Pender signed.

"Caravan Actual for Bengal Control." Quinn said as she deactivated the ship's dampeners, turned off internal systems, and left Caravan Dreams to leech off the station and embrace its artificial gravity until departure. She frowned seeing the aft power cell array stood at twenty four percent as it took in its slow recharge. It was starting to fail.

as always, the ship was showing its age

"We have you docked and locked, Caravan Actual." Control answered, his signal crisp now with the direct link, "Please meet soonest with the CM awaiting permission to begin unloading as per your lading report."

"Will do, Bengal Control. Caravan Dreams out."

"Enjoy your stay, Actual."

Quinn smiled at Control's habit of always having the last word in every exchange as she made her entries in the Captain's Log to complete the voyage. The cargo roster was added as an attachment.

She locked all ship controls with a thumbprint, then unbelted and rose as Pender slipped on his green wrist bands showing his rank and ship.

Quinn stopped in front of the small mirror on the port bulkhead and practiced her most neutral expression, then together they made for the sally-port.

Quinn was already dressed in her muddy green Captain's jumpsuit with Caravan Dreams' spoked wheel sigil on each upper arm and three gold florets on her epaulets declaring her Captain. Boswell Q embroidered over her heart.

Bos'll legend was that the uniform's colour was chosen for the green algae in England's canals where the Bos'lls ran narrow-boat freight haulers when the human race was still captive on Sol Prime. Narrow-boats that were once towed by landed horses along the towpaths on either side of the waterways before they were replaced by internal combustion engines.

'light' Pender signed and grinned, always delighted by changes in gravity. Bengal Station's outer ring was kept at three-quarter standard to match the planet below.

Quinn led Pender toward the sally-port lock and as it opened and she stepped through, a small inner voice reminded her; I don't belong here

It was an old fear of childhood when she believed Caravan Dreams was disconnected from the rest of the galaxy; a safe world unto itself that was all her own. She was as familiar with every nook and passageway of her ship as she was of her own body. The ship was her harbouring world that made everything else foreign and confusing, made every station threatening. They called it agoraphobia; fear of the marketplace, a nervousness that arose when she was off Caravan Dreams in foreign places.

Made worse by her shame, buried but not deep enough.

Even after so many years, she still felt that anxiety facing each station that held its own culture and customs and heartbeat; Bengal with its exotic spices and foreign tongues; Van Diemen's with its personality split between the lush jungles of New Borneo and the Royal prison on New Tasmania. Loudest of all was Marketer's; a Free Port dedicated to traders throughout the empire, its crowded rings filled with joyous noise and argued negotiations hiding the lurking danger in its dimmer corners.

She felt Pender's reassuring knuckles stroke the small of her back. His way of saying he was with her and sensed her anxiety.

They descended the narrow, reckless steps of the gangway, each squared metal rung rounded on its leading edge by generations of Bos'll feet.

Reaching the bottom, they moved around the small desk there and stepped onto the dock.

Like most D-rings, the dock was a loud and perilous place with people dodging between freight trolleys as they hauled heavy cargo from and to ships. The air smelt of burnt metal and ashes which is the smell of space itself, on-station blending with stale human smells and the clashing aromas from pubs and food stalls along the curve of the ring. Trails of condensation painted slanting stripes through the grime down tall wall panels, obeying the artificial gravity but bent off course by the Coriolis effect from the station's spin. The air was saturated with a melange of fried food, mysterious rot, and the musty reek of dock rats.

Of all the creatures on Sol Prime humans sought to leave behind, it was the rats who unfailingly followed them into the galaxy, adding their musk to all cargo rings grimed with litter, filmed with worn synthetic dust from trolly tires, and the unsavoury smells generated by too many people.

Because of the universal foulness of outer rings throughout the Empire, Caravan Dreams, like many Traveller long-haulers, had a brass plate on the wall of their sally-port that demanded; 'Wipe your sodding feet and shut the bloody hatch'. The best jokes contained a good measure of truth.

Caravan Dreams' sally-port also sported the clan motto, but that is another tale.

Shouting voices and the distant rumble of carousels turning inside freighters and the thudding clank of cargo hatches echoed off bare metal walls devoid of the sound insulation the inner rings were blessed with. From somewhere to starboard came the sounds of a zither and a djembe's dum ka tek beat accompanying a female voice singing in an exotic foreign tongue.

D-rings were always loudest and heaviest. The closer you rose to the core of any station the more luxurious it became. The wealthy and those fortunate enough to be gifted rank enjoyed their comforts in weaker gravity on upper rings that were cleaned and perfumed daily by station swabbies.

Like it was in ancient times on Sol Prime, the toffs lived in the towers while the peasants laboured below in the cellar.

Aside from Naval Military outposts, all Empire stations were built following a common design; the largest outer ring for commerce, the next for military and station management, and the smaller one's above for government, trade offices, company owners, and on-station residential. But Quinn wondered how safe people living on B-ring felt looking down at the sterns of Frigates and Destroyers with their aft missile tubes pointing at their feet. Yes, they lived clean, but destruction and mayhem lurked just outside their viewports.

The Cargo Master stood just outside Caravan Dream's berth in red overalls, sporting a jaunty red beret with His Majesty's crest above his substantial grey eyebrows. Quinn assumed he was new to Bengal because she didn't recognize him.

"CM Archer." the man said as Quinn looked up at him, she only being as tall as his shoulder. She knew by his familiar scowl that he considered her no more than a teen arriving to harry him at his post with a large pet trailing behind. His expression was common among station dwellers when facing Travellers. He saw her uniform as a costume and judged her short hair as indicative of a young age; not understanding short meant easy maintenance and prevented it from getting in her eyes when using both hands to pilot the heavy long-hauler in tight quarters. In his dark eyes she knew he saw her thin body and small breasts as evidence of an immature girl, not knowing she was lean from a life scampering through narrow passageways aboard Caravan Dreams on light rations and skittering along D-ring walls trying to be invisible.

"Why'ncha fetch your Da', luv?" he suggested gruffly.

"Dead these years." Quinn said with more confidence than she felt, "And don't 'luv' me."

"Your Captain then." he said, "And less of your sass."

"I'm Captain Bos'll." Quinn told him, then indicated Pender, "Ensign Pender, also my security detail."

Pender showed the CM his wrist bands.