As a spy, these are the moments you train for. You reach up and grab the captain’s wrist, pushing the gun upward. There’s a struggle. He fires into the ceiling.  

You manage to grab your electric prod, and use it to repeatedly shock the captain. His body collapses to the floor.

On the ship’s comm, you send a surrender signal. A tired old man with deep blue hair answers. This is Commander Ritsk, your direct report.

“Commander, I’ve taken control of the ship,” you state. “I’ll shut down the remaining energy shields.” 

“Those bastards said they had you in cryo,” he says. “I didn’t believe them. I’ll order a cease fire and send in the landers. Excellent work.”

The commander’s image zaps off-screen. Your knees buckle, so you crumple into the captain’s chair. Surrounded by ash and dead bodies, you begin to doubt whether this is “excellent work.”


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