Elara Vane never believed in the stars. As a senior logistics coordinator for the Intercolonial Bureau, she believed in tonnage, fuel efficiency, and the immutable physics of orbital mechanics. The glowing, interactive star charts on her wall were for navigation, not divination. So when her mother, a devout practitioner of the old Astromantic rites, sent her a faded parchment scroll for her thirty-fifth birthday, Elara almost recycled it.
"That's not a debris field," her co-pilot, a laconic man named Jax, muttered.
Jax was staring at the doors, his mouth open. "Elara, don't. This is some kind of psychic trap."
She smiled. Then she called her mother.