Some jobs are simple. Some cargo is ordinary. And some things should never be smuggled.
This story comes from the writing prompts “unicorn” and “astronaut.” I wanted to blend noir with a touch of the unexpected—an ex-astronaut turned smuggler, a routine deal gone sideways, and cargo that defies belief.
One challenge I set for myself? To describe what is unmistakably a unicorn… without ever using the word.
Some things are too rare, too powerful, to be caged.
The Last Smuggle
The joint was the kind of place where good deals went bad, bad deals got worse, and the beer tasted like someone had threatened water with the concept of hops.
Calloway had been a lot of things—pilot, explorer, war hero, washed-up astronaut with more regrets than medals. He’d walked on moons, drifted through asteroid fields, and once spent six months in a malfunctioning cryopod that left him dreaming in slow motion for a year. But of all the mistakes he’d made, this one might top the list.
He sat in the back, one boot on the table, a cigarette dangling from his lips, and a drink in his hand so strong it could peel paint off a bulkhead. The lights flickered just enough to make everyone look guilty of something.
Across from him, the buyer fidgeted. “You sure it’s the real deal?”
Calloway exhaled a long, smoky sigh. “Kid, I’ve run contraband through meteor storms, I’ve sweet-talked customs agents with nothing but a winning smile and a forged badge, and I once smuggled a crate of stolen antimatter by stuffing it inside a diplomatic fruit basket. If I say I’ve got something special, I mean it.”
The buyer swallowed. “So let’s see it.”
Calloway let the moment stretch, then—slowly—he reached under the table, pulled up a battered black case, and set it down between them. It was reinforced, triple-locked, and humming softly. Things that hummed softly in locked cases were never good news.
The buyer hesitated. “It’s… safe, right?”
Calloway chuckled darkly. “Safe is a strong word.”
With a flick of his wrist, he unlocked the case and cracked it open.
A glow spilled out—soft, iridescent, too damn whimsical for a place like this. The light hit the buyer’s face, reflecting in wide, terrified eyes. They inhaled sharply.
“What the hell is that?”
Calloway snapped the case shut. “We don’t say what it is.”
“But it’s—”
Calloway leaned forward, voice low and hard. “Listen, rookie. You say the word, and within five minutes, this place will be crawling with agents from at least four intergalactic agencies and a handful of private collectors with very large guns. So if you wanna walk outta here with your kneecaps unperforated, you keep your mouth shut.”
The buyer nodded. Slowly. Sweating. “O-okay. But… does it… you know… do anything?”
Calloway sighed, running a hand through hair that had gone gray for very specific reasons. “It does a lot of things, none of which are particularly conducive to a quiet life. You think I look like the kind of guy who deals in rainbows? In daydreams?” He gestured to the dimly lit bar, the crack in his glass, the old blaster burn in his coat. “I’m a man who deals in misery. But this? This is worse.”
The buyer frowned. “Worse… how?”
A long, haunted pause. Then Calloway muttered, “Let’s just say I’ve seen grown men break into song. Against their will.”
The buyer recoiled. “That’s… horrifying.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” Calloway took another slow drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke curl through the stale air. “I saw a guy get redeemed, kid. In real time. One minute he’s a cutthroat smuggler, next thing you know, he’s sobbing into his own reflection, vowing to open an orphanage.” Calloway shook his head. “We lost a damn fine getaway driver that day.”
The buyer looked at the case like it might explode. “Then why the hell are you selling it?”
Calloway smirked grimly. “Because I sure as hell ain’t keeping it.”
A sharp clack of boots on metal. Voices outside. Calloway’s smirk dropped.
The buyer went pale. “That’s them, isn’t it?”
Calloway exhaled through his nose. “Took ‘em longer than I expected.”
The door slammed open. Figures stormed in—uniformed, grim-faced, carrying weapons built for less whimsical problems.
At the front, their leader stepped forward, removing her helmet with slow, deliberate precision.
She was tall, with a no-nonsense expression and the energy of a woman who had been chasing Calloway for far too long.
“Calloway,” she said, voice dripping with exhaustion. “Again?”
He spread his arms innocently. “Commander. Fancy meeting you here.”
Her jaw tightened. “You know why we’re here.”
“Look, I was just about to be rid of it. Strictly business. No funny business.” He nudged the case forward with one finger. “We can all just walk away, nice and easy.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You opened it, didn’t you?”
Calloway hesitated. “…Define opened.”
A flicker of something—terror—passed over her face. “Oh, you idiot.”
The buyer, shaking, whispered, “What’s happening?”
Calloway sighed. “Worst-case scenario, kid.”
A low hum filled the air. The bar lights flickered—then shifted to a soft, pastel glow. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of a harp echoed from nowhere at all.
The buyer gripped the edge of the table. “Oh, hell.”
Commander Yang whipped around. “Shut it down, Calloway!”
Calloway threw up his hands. “You think I control it?!”
A tremor rippled through the station. Dust shook from the ceiling. The walls seemed… brighter.
And then—
A sound.
A high, ringing, ethereal sound. Somewhere between a triumphant trumpet and the pure, unfiltered essence of every childhood dream ever crushed by adulthood.
The buyer’s voice wavered. “Was that—”
The entire room, in unison:
“Don’t say it!”
But it was too late.
The case burst open. A shape streaked through the air, weightless, luminous, aggressively fabulous. The room filled with a glow that ignored physics, logic, and the very concept of cynicism.
The last of its kind. The myth. The legend. The highly-illegal, cosmic felony.
It neighed.
The agents groaned. Calloway grabbed his cigarette and took the deepest drag of his life.
“Well,” he muttered, watching disaster unfold, “so much for slipping out the back.”
(c) Eric Montgomery
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