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come from and what in this crazy galaxy was going on out there?
    A message prompt quietly lit up in the bottom left corner of her screen.
    â€œFinally,” Jalia said with relief. She’d left each of her crewmembers messages to get in contact with her as soon as they could and this was the first message she’d received back. She opened the message without thinking, belatedly realizing that the sender name was wrong.
    TRACKER, I NEED YOUR HELP.
    Jalia blinked as an icy chill ran down her spine. She checked the name of the sender. Killian Vertral. She pulled up the info sig on the name and saw the picture of a male, green-­scaled Presca, not a Cres female.
    Swallowing hard, Jalia typed a simple reply.
    I’M HERE.
    There was no immediate response. Seconds dragged into minutes, making Jalia even more nervous. Finally the message was returned.
    COME TO THE PLACE YOU FIRST SAW ME.
    Something inside her trusted the Cres, but she had a bad feeling about this. Her instincts said to lay low, avoid trouble, and ride this out. Then again, this was probably her only way of finding out what was going on and if she couldn’t run away and hide, then being proactive was her best bet. That, and she was just plain curious.
    I’M IN THE DOCKING AREA. IT’S BEEN LOCKED DOWN.
    Again, another long pause. This one twice as long as the first.
    Come out, Junta. This area is clear.
    Jalia bolted out of her seat, looking around for the sound of the voice. How did someone get inside here?
    She stopped, wondering. Had she really heard the voice?
    Do not be afraid. We are outside your ship. Come to us.
    â€œTelepathy,” she whispered to herself. Jalia had heard rumors, but never considered that such an ability was physically possible. She’d just put it down to hyperbole and mysticism.
    Jalia blew out a calming breath, steadying her nerves. This was so stupid.
    She walked back to the docking port and remote-­activated the umbilical bridge. It extended out from the bay ring and sealed against the Resolute ’s primary airlock.
    Jalia slipped her pistol out of its holster and held it point up next to her left shoulder, ready to use if necessary. She keyed open the airlock with her right hand and stepped back out of view.
    The circular airlock pin wheeled around and retracted into the wall in segments. Jalia waited four heartbeats then popped her head into view.
    No one was in sight.
    Taking small, measured steps, she quietly walked back onto the jumpship and surveyed the area. The shops were still locked up and there wasn’t so much as a whisper to be heard. She found the emptiness creepy rather than reassuring.
    Over here.
    Jalia kept from jumping, barely, and followed the directional urge within her mind down the bay ring to her right. Two shops down a figure stepped out from the shadows.
    It was a male Cres, dressed in some type of body armor and carrying a large rifle.
    â€œRelax, Junta,” a female voice said from behind her in the commerce language.
    Jalia spun about and stepped sideways out of reflex to find another armor-­clad Cres less than two meters behind her. This one was female, but not the same one she had encountered earlier.
    Jalia lowered her pistol, but didn’t holster it. “You said you needed help?”
    The Cres nodded ever so slightly. “Yes. You have a ship. We require transport for ourselves and minimal cargo. There is danger involved, but we will compensate you with 100,000 credits.”
    â€œOne hundred thousand credits ?” Jalia asked, not believing her headtails. Nearly all commerce was carried out in mics, short for ‘micro credit,’ meaning 1/1,000,000th of a full credit. The Resolute had cost clan Kella 212 credits. A new ship of similar size and make would run 800-­1,000 credits.
    But 100,000 ?
    â€œYes,” the Cres confirmed. “Our cargo is of significant importance. It must be delivered to a Cres world.