I woke up to the sound of something beeping—insistently, aggressively, and right next to my head. It wasn’t the soft, annoying chime of an alarm clock, but the kind of urgent you-have-ten-seconds-before-something-explodes kind of beep. My brain took a second to catch up, processing the cold metal floor under me, the dim glow of alien lighting, and the overwhelming sensation that I was, yet again, somewhere I didn’t want to be.

  Right. Still in space. Still technically an abductee. Still somehow in massive debt for breaking a spaceship I never asked to be on in the first place.

  I groaned, pushing myself up, only to realize the beeping was coming from a device attached to my wrist—a sleek, metallic-looking band with a pulsing blue interface. The moment I moved, the beeping stopped, replaced by a synthetic voice that sounded far too cheerful for my liking.

  "John, your work shift begins in three units. Failure to comply will result in increased debt interest."

  Oh, fantastic. They’d given me a space Fitbit, except instead of tracking my steps, it tracked how much trouble I was in.

  I rubbed my face, trying to shake off the grogginess. The "sleeping quarters" they’d assigned me were little more than a glorified storage room with a thin mattress shoved against the wall. The ship’s crew had made it painfully clear that while I wasn’t technically a prisoner anymore, I was still under contract—one I’d signed under extreme duress and with a very limited understanding of intergalactic law. The fine print had probably included something like "by signing, you agree to indentured servitude, possible dissection, and unlimited liability for damages caused by your continued existence."

  With a sigh, I dragged myself upright and stumbled out into the hallway.

  The ship was starting to feel familiar now—sleek corridors lined with hexagonal panels, an unsettling hum of unseen machinery, and occasional screens displaying alien symbols I still couldn’t read. I made my way toward the main work area, where I was supposedly being helpful by fixing things, but in reality, my presence was probably causing as many problems as I solved.

  Vrixibalt, the excitable multi-limbed scientist, was already waiting for me. He looked like he’d been pacing—or whatever the alien equivalent of pacing was. The moment he saw me, his face lit up with the same manic curiosity that made me very nervous.

  "John! Excellent! You’re awake!" He waved one of his four arms in an exaggerated gesture. "We have many tests to conduct today! But also, you are required to complete basic mechanical maintenance. I have compiled an efficient schedule!"

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  He thrust a data pad into my hands. I blinked at it. The screen displayed a list of tasks, half of which looked like actual work, and the other half were suspiciously labeled things like ‘Reaction Test: Electrical Exposure’ and ‘Bone Density Endurance: Low-Gravity Variance’.

  "...Yeah, I’m not doing half of these," I said flatly.

  Vrixibalt’s facial frills drooped. "But—but John, these are vital scientific endeavors! Your physiological anomalies continue to defy expectations!"

  "Yeah, and I’d like to keep my anomalies inside my body, thanks."

  Before Vrixibalt could protest further, another alien entered the room—Captain Reltrax, the one who had the unfortunate job of making sure I didn’t destroy more of their ship. He was taller than most of the others, with tough, armor-like skin and a perpetually irritated expression. Right now, that irritation was directed squarely at me.

  "Human," he said, arms crossed. "You are needed in Engineering. We have a coolant leak. Try not to make it worse."

  "Why does everyone assume I’m going to make things worse?" I asked, offended.

  Reltrax and Vrixibalt both gave me a look.

  "...Fine," I muttered, already regretting whatever was about to happen.

  I did, in fact, make it worse.

  Look, in my defense, no one explained that the coolant system was pressurized. I had assumed it was a simple case of plugging a leak—patch the hole, tighten the seal, job done. Instead, the moment I touched the damn thing, it ruptured like a shaken soda can, spraying freezing mist everywhere and setting off about a dozen alarms.

  Somewhere behind me, Reltrax let out a guttural groan of frustration, and Vrixibalt—who had insisted on observing—was frantically taking notes.

  "Incredible!" the scientist chirped. "Your reaction speed to unexpected environmental hazards is significantly above our projections!"

  "My reaction speed is ‘get out of the way before I die,’ Vrixibalt!" I snapped, wiping frost off my arms.

  Crew members scrambled to contain the leak while Reltrax rubbed his temples. "Your debt has increased," he muttered.

  "Of course it has."

  As the alarms finally died down, I let out a heavy sigh. This was my life now—working off a debt I had no hope of fully paying, surviving by sheer dumb luck, and apparently, becoming some kind of unwilling science experiment.

  At least I hadn’t actually broken the ship this time. That had to count for something.

  Right?