Stone Cargo

Intro

This flash fiction story was inspired by the following writing prompts:

• Evaluate & Limit (#2WordPrompt)
• Gargoyle (#thingstowriteabout)
• Bouncy (#vss365)
• Mystified (#vss365)

All but one of the prompts listed above are used directly in the story.

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Beckett nudged the stick and let the ship ease a few degrees to starboard. Nothing fancy. Just lining up the next burn.

The ship answered.

Then it didn’t.

The stick thickened for a breath.

He tried again.

Same drag.

Behind him, Fíona stopped moving.

“Tell me that was drift.”

Beckett didn’t.

She unstrapped and pushed out of her seat. The landing came out a little bouncy in the softened pull.

“That’s not external,” she said. “That’s us.”

Beckett killed the rotation and let the ship hang.

They listened.

The hull made no promises.

He stood.

—

The crate sat where they’d bolted it. Straps tight. Surface matte and unhelpful.

Fíona crouched. “Deck’s flexed.”

A hairline split ran from beneath the baseplate.

“You weighed it,” she said.

“I weighed what they showed me.”

The crate leaned.

Not much.

Enough.

“You see that?”

“Yeah.”

Silence settled between them.

“You said someone evaluated it.”

“At the station.”

“That someone wasn’t me.”

Fíona looked at the seal. “Open it.”

—

The latch gave.

The lid rose a few centimeters and stopped.

Gray mesh. Stone folded into itself. Wings tight. Mouth almost something.

The ship shifted.

A ripple underfoot.

Fíona grabbed the crate as gravity adjusted. Her next step came out bouncy again.

“That’s not mass.”

“No.”

Beckett pressed two fingers to the mesh.

Cold.

The console pinged down the corridor.

Mass variance.

Fíona didn’t look away from the crate. “We’re under the declared limit.”

“For now.”

The deck creaked.

Inside the crate, the weight felt different.

Or the ship did.

“You going to evaluate it?” she asked.

“Properly?”

“Yes.”

He let the lid fall shut.

“Properly is how people lose ships.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“There’s a threshold. If it crosses it, we turn around.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

Beckett resealed the crate.

The mass warning cleared.

The hull settled.

For now.

He headed back toward the cockpit.

“That’s it?” Fíona asked.

“Unless it starts flapping.”

She followed, steps light, still a little bouncy in the corridor.

Behind them, in the hold, the crate sat very still.

Waiting.