“For your price range, we got a real beauty.”
The salesman smirked at Joe’s credit chip; he led him into the dim, flickering recesses of the hold, to an ancient maintenance shuttle in flaking yellow.
It would do. Just a little conversion and it would be the perfect mule for his nasty, little dark matter bomb.
A short trip to the sun, and then... the final eclipse. A hole punched into another dimension – let’s call it hell, for the sake of argument. A gateway, for a race long fallen, banished.
For this betrayal, he had been promised his heart’s desires.
(Originally written for Lily Childs' Friday Prediction)