The coffee tasted like burnt plastic.

Jarik stared into his mug—chipped ceramic that had survived three crash landings and one divorce—and wondered, not for the first time, why he'd chosen this life. The brown liquid inside had a film on top. It wasn't supposed to have a film.

"Status report Val," he muttered.

Val responded with a crackling wheeze. "All systems functional. The left stabilizer is vibrating at the wrong frequency again. Cargo bay door is stuck half-open."

"Can you close it?"

"It thinks it's already closed."

"That doesn't make sense."

"Take it up with the door."

Jarik rubbed his temples. The Marginal Profit limped through the Glitter Belt Nebula at half speed. Outside the viewport, space glittered with crystallized stardust—beautiful, but hell on the sensors.

"Shortcut," he muttered. "Save three days, they said. Avoid the toll stations, they said."

Val crackled. "I did warn you."

"You said 'this route has a fifteen percent chance of catastrophic malfunction.'"

"Exactly. Warning."

Jarik was about to point out that fifteen percent wasn't exactly reassuring when the proximity alarm went off. Not the polite chirp of passing traffic—the full panic-inducing klaxon for imminent collision.

THWUMP.

The impact threw Jarik forward. The mug tipped, spilling coffee across the console. A panel sparked—fine three seconds ago, now spitting fire. The lights cycled red, yellow, then settled on a purple that had no business being there.

Of course. Jarik's thoughts cut through the chaos like a blade. A shortcut to save three days ends with a hull breach. Perfect.

The coffee machine ground and rattled in the galley. It had been doing that for weeks.

"What—" Jarik lunged for the controls, "—was THAT?"

"We hit something."

"Hit something? We're in SPACE!"

"Yes. I'm recalculating the statistical likelihood of—"

"Just show me the cameras!"

Jarik pulled up the external feeds, cycling through views. Cargo bay: still attached. Hull plating: intact. Port side: nothing. Starboard: nothing. Forward view—

He stopped. His jaw went slack.

There pressed against the viewport like someone's idea of a practical joke was a cat.

An actual cat. Orange tabby. Plastered against the hull in hard vacuum, staring directly into the camera with enormous amber eyes.

Jarik blinked. The cat remained.

"Val?"

"Yes?"

"There's a cat on my windshield."

Pause. "Confirmed. There is a biological entity matching the classification 'domestic feline' on the forward viewport." Val's tone shifted, processing. "Sub-classification detected: Familiar. Mythological designation. Statistical probability of encounter: 0.00003 percent. Disregarding as sensor error."

"It's not an error. I'm looking right at it!"

"Then I have no explanation for its continued existence in hard vacuum."

"How is it alive?"

"Unknown. It's not wearing a space suit."

"I can SEE that!"

The cat ignored the vacuum. The cold. The several thousand kilometers per hour. Fur rippling in a breeze that shouldn't exist. Tail swishing.

Its mouth moved. Jarik leaned forward. Squinted. The cat's lips formed deliberate shapes—intentional communication. The words were obvious:

You missed the turnoff.

"That's impossible," Jarik said.

"Which part?"

"All of it!"

The cat raised one paw. Tapped the windshield. Three precise taps. Tink. Tink. Tink. The sound echoed through the cabin—through vacuum.

Jarik recoiled, then caught himself. The cat stared back, unblinking.

"Options." Jarik's voice was careful. "I can leave it there and file the weirdest insurance claim in history. Or..."

"You're considering bringing it aboard."

"I'm considering not having whatever-this-is stuck to my ship for the next three jumps."

"It doesn't look distressed."

It didn't. The cat looked mildly inconvenienced—a customer who'd expected better service.

The cat tapped again, pointed at the hull, at itself, made a gesture that said, Well? Any time now.

Jarik groaned. "Tractor beam?"

"Operational."

"Will it work on... that?"

"There's only one way to find out."

"Not just any hairball." The cat examined his claws. "A special hairball. With initiative."

The owl had gone completely still, staring at the debris field. The rabbit had its paws over its eyes, muttering something about early retirement and farming.

Jarik found his voice first. "How? How does a hairball—how does ANY hairball—do that?"

"Reality Residue," Greeb said mechanically, still staring at the viewport. "Accumulates in beings who've been exposed to too much dimensional energy. Temporal rifts. Probability storms. Quantum paradoxes." He turned slowly to look at Brentley. "Where have you BEEN?"

"Around." Brentley's tail swished. "I travel. See the sights. Visit places that may or may not exist depending on the observer."

"That's not a normal travel itinerary!"

"I'm not a normal cat." The cat hopped down from the console. "Though I am surprised about the whole implosion thing. Usually my hairballs just smell bad."

"USUALLY?"

"I don't cough them up often. Maybe once every few decades." Brentley padded toward the viewport, examining the debris with professional interest. "This one was particularly energetic. Must have absorbed more than I thought."

Greeb's eye twitched. "You've done this before."

"Not the destroying-a-ship part. That's new." The cat's whiskers twitched. "Though there was an incident with a filing cabinet once. It was unfortunate. There was paperwork everywhere."

"I'm going to be demoted." Greeb's voice went hollow. His ears drooped completely, hanging limp against his head. "They're going to demote me so hard I'll be back to guarding supply closets."

"Look on the bright side," Brentley offered. "You survived. Your team survived. No casualties."

"MY SHIP IS GONE!"

"Details."