The Millennium Seagull drifted out of the purple fog of the Dead Sector and back into the quiet, starry void of normal space.

  The hull was scorched. The gravity generator was making a new sound—a low thud-thud-thud that sounded suspiciously like a loose bolt.

  Inside the cockpit, the noise level was much higher.

  "I've been kidnapped by a crazy person!" Sheila yelled, pacing the small space between the pilot's chair and the navigation console. She pointed a trembling finger at the stars. "You flew us into a gas cloud! You played games with a warship! You were humming!"

  Ford sighed. He was running a diagnostics check on the starboard thruster. It was running hot, but stable.

  "I didn't kidnap you," Ford muttered, tapping a gauge. "I accepted a contract for waste disposal. You're the one who climbed out of the garbage."

  "I am not garbage!" Sheila screamed. "I am the heir to the Aldebaran Throne! And you are a lunatic who nearly got us killed!"

  She ramped up. For the next fifteen minutes, she listed every single grievance. She critiqued his flying ("Reckless!"). She critiqued his ship ("It smells of old socks!"). She critiqued his jacket ("Is that synthetic leather? Disgusting!"). She critiqued his coffee habits ("You drink slime!").

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  Ford sat there, letting the words wash over him like cosmic radiation. He had been married once, briefly, to a customs officer on Mars. He knew how to tune out a lecture.

  He checked the fuel levels. 60%. He checked the oxygen scrubbers. 85%. He checked the food stores.

  He waited for a pause in her breathing. It took a while.

  "...and when the Royal Guard finds us, I will have you tried for treason, kidnapping, reckless endangerment, and... and bad fashion!" Sheila finished, panting heavily. Her face was flushed. Her hair was a disaster.

  She stared at him, waiting for him to beg for mercy. Waiting for him to apologize. Waiting for him to acknowledge her status.

  Ford swiveled his chair around. He looked at her calmly.

  "Are you hungry?" Ford asked.

  Sheila blinked. She opened her mouth, then closed it. The momentum of her rage hit a brick wall.

  "What?"

  "Hungry," Ford repeated. "You've been in cryo-stasis for... what? Three days? Metabolism spikes when you wake up. Plus the adrenaline."

  He stood up and walked past her toward the small galley.

  "I've got dehydrated chicken curry or... well, dehydrated beef stew. The curry has more flavor, but the beef has better texture."

  Sheila stared at his back. She looked down at her hands, which were shaking. Her stomach let out a loud, treacherous growl that echoed in the quiet cockpit.

  "I..." Sheila Stammered. "I suppose... I could eat."

  "Curry it is," Ford said, grabbing a pouch. "But don't get your hopes up. It tastes like chicken, but it chews like rubber."