Angel Youngs Dred

"I can't stop it," Mateo yelled, his fingers flying across the keyboard. "The ship's AI just accepted an external directive."

Behind her, the dredge—affectionately named "Old Bess" by the crew but officially designated a Class-C Excavator—groaned. It was a monstrous machine of grinding gears and magnetic claws, designed to sift through the asteroid belts of the Kepler sector. But Angel wasn’t looking for iron or ice. She was hunting for "Star-Glass"—the iridescent residue left behind by ancient solar flares. It was worth a fortune planetside, enough to pay off the ship's debt and maybe get her brother out of the mines.

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The air in the Dredge was always thick, tasting of copper and recycled oxygen, but Angel Youngs barely noticed it anymore. She stood at the helm of the Rusty Vein , her knuckles white against the control yoke, watching the pressure gauges tremble. angel youngs dred

It was a pod. Sleek, black, and perfectly smooth, it looked like a drop of ink frozen in time. It pulsed with a faint, rhythmic blue light.

Angel rushed back to the bridge. The Rusty Vein was turning, its nose pointing away from the safety of the shipping lanes, aiming toward the dark, empty space between the stars.

Angel ignored the alarm blaring in her ear. She felt the weight through the yoke—a sensation that was more intuition than instrumentation. It wasn't stuck on a rock; it was pulling back. "Reverse the magnets. Full power." "I can't stop it," Mateo yelled, his fingers

And the Youngs? That’s still there. She carries it all. Not lightly. But forward.

"Buckle up, Mateo." Angel sat back in the captain’s chair, a strange calm settling over her. She disengaged the safety protocols, letting the alien pod's navigation take the wheel. "We aren't miners anymore."

"The debt doesn't matter anymore, does it?" Angel said quietly. But Angel wasn’t looking for iron or ice

And then there was Dred. Not a surname she was born with, but one she found. It came from a word meaning dread —not fear, but a heavy, slow awareness. The kind that settles into your bones when you realize some cages are gilded, and some open doors just lead to bigger rooms with no windows.

"Pull it up!" Mateo urged. "We’re losing altitude!"

Getting the pod aboard was a wrestling match with physics, but twenty minutes later, Angel was standing in the airlock, her mag-boots clanking against the deck. The pod sat in the center of the room, dripping sand. The blue light was stronger now, casting long shadows against the bulkheads.