“Sending Warrick into a deep freeze. Another reason to hurry.”

  “Yes. And if they send a smaller ship like the transport we destroyed, they’ll find Naraka is hardly defenseless.”

  We reach the bridge. Rozik enters his security credentials to open the door and I slip past him and claim the primary pilot’s seat.

  “You said we need to move fast,” I say, buckling the safety harness and reaching for the controls. It’s been a while since I flew anything manual, but the feel comes back in a hurry, the muscle memory still there.

  “Are you sure you’re well enough to fly this thing?” Rozik asks.

  “Sit down and buckle up, Captain Commie. We’re going for a ride.”

  Chapter 10

  “Naraka station,” Rozik says. “This is light freighter Valhalla requesting permission to dock. Over.” He looks at me while we wait for a response, still expecting me to say something, anything about the station.

  I’m not sure what there is to say. Res ipsa loquitur. The thing speaks for itself.

  I expected Naraka station to be similar to Spindle. Small, aging and based on the conventional Icho Industries design. And I think that maybe it is at heart. But the core is hard to see from our position a few thousand kilometers out. Instead, I’m looking at what appears as more of a geodesic sphere of interconnecting modules so densely extended that it’s hard to see through them to the center of the station at all.

  The modules themselves are clearly of an assortment of ages and manufacturers. Some are painted. Others are bare metal. Some are larger or smaller, tall or wide. There’s little rhyme or reason to them, except that they all join together to form that roughly rounded shape. It’s as if the gods collected every surplus piece of spaceworthy and habitable material they could find and gave it to a three-year-old to build.

  And that’s only the station itself.

  While Spindle had berthing for nearly a dozen ships as large as a capital battleship, Naraka has docking space for at least one hundred ships of various shapes and sizes. A satellite with almost a hundred more docking spaces floats in proximity to the station, with transports shuttling crews back and forth. I see mostly freighters—older models scuffed and bruised from conflicts with pirates and each other, and from the random debris that floats across the black. The majority are larger than Valhalla. A few are modified with heavy armament so they look more like warships than cargo haulers.

  There are smaller vessels too, in more shapes and sizes than I can believe. There aren’t only Alliance produced ships out here. Some are Commune made, the tell-tale aggressive lines and hard angles giving their lineage away. They’re predominantly military surplus—former patrol ships and transports—but a few have the sleek lines of personal yachts. I can tell that more than one of the ships was pulled from a scrapyard and reconditioned, and I wonder how tenuous their ability to stay mobile and airtight is.

  I spot an entire squadron of Yellowjackets connected to one of the freighters, and I point it out to Rozik. He stares at them, probably trying to determine if they have any relation to the group that attacked us, but he doesn’t voice his suspicions. He’s still waiting for a response from Naraka Control.

  “Naraka station,” he repeats. “This is light freighter Valhalla requesting permission to dock. Please respond. Over.”

  “Valhalla, this is Naraka Control,” a young woman’s voice replies. “Docking fees for a standard light freighter are ten thousand chrome per cycle. Payment can be made by transmitting codes through secure channel Alpha Gamma Foxtrot Seven Seven Niner. Do you copy? Over.”

  “Copy that, Control,” Rozik replies. “How long is a cycle here? Over.”

  “Thirty standard. Over.”

  Rozik glances at me. Ten thousand chrome is hardly cheap. It’s hard to believe so many of the ships down there can afford that kind of cost when they don’t have the backing of the Alliance or Commune behind them. I suddenly feel like I have a lot to learn about how the underside of the galaxy functions. There are definitely a lot of truths about what keeps everything running that I’ve missed as career Navy.

  I’m certainly out of my element.

  “Where are we going to get the chrome to cover that?” I ask.

  “Relax, Alliance,” Rozik says, clearly comfortable in a place like this. “Naraka Control, this is Valhalla. We’re here to downsize our vessel. I assume trade rates are available? Over.”

  “Roger, Valhalla. Trade rates are available at twenty percent. Over.”

  Rozik grimaces at the number. “Bastards. That’s criminal.” He smiles after he says it. “We’ll be lucky to get into one of those star-scrapers down there with a rate like that.” I look to where he motions with his head, to a line of smaller transports that have all seen better days.

  “I’ll take what we can get,” I say. “We don’t want to be here if the banshees decided to chase us.”

  “Truer words have never been spoken. Naraka Control, this is Valhalla. Please transmit trade promissory for signature. Over.”

  “Roger, Valhalla. Promissory transmitting. Over.”

  Rozik taps on the co-pilot control pad, projecting a document in front of his face. He doesn’t bother to read it, going right to the bottom and signing it with his finger.

  “Naraka Control, this is Valhalla. Signed promissory sent. Over.”

  “Valhalla, promissory received. Your berthing assignment is D15. Please follow the light until the tractor beam has a lock. Out.”

  I look back at the main display as a bright light begins shining right at us from the underside of the station. I’m impressed to see the station has the power output to use tractor beams, but it’s obvious it needs them. The space for Valhalla is barely large enough to squeeze her into. At least it explains some of the expense.

  “Trade rates,” I say as I begin updating the ship’s vectors to get us headed toward the spot. “I’m guessing that means we pay for the parking after we sell the ship?”

  “With a twenty percent markup on the berth,” Rozik replies. “And they won’t let us leave the station until we’ve paid up, whether we sell the ship or not.”

  “What if we never sell the ship?”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll sell her.”

  “Okay, but what if we don’t? What happens?”

  “The ship is confiscated, and we had best find work that pays well enough to earn our way off. But we’ll sell her. Most of those star-scrapers are owned by the syndicate that runs Naraka Station. They’ll be grateful to part with one in exchange for Valhalla. This freighter is worth more in scrap metal than three of those junkers combined. But we’re getting well ahead of ourselves. It’s more important that we get word out about the banshees than we make it off the station.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Bring her in nice and easy. We don’t want to scuff the paint any more than it is already.” He smiles at his joke.

  I’m not feeling all that amused. I’m eager to get in contact with the Alliance to tell them what happened at Warrick. To get a fleet mobilized and on its way to intercept the banshee mothership, and with any luck to get back there to join them.

  Joie is waiting for me to save her.

  Chapter 11

  “And we’re in,” I say. The freighter shudders slightly as the docking cradle locks into place along the bow. I shut the ship down and unstrap from my seat, standing up and patting the gun still wrapped around my hip. “Do you think I’ll need this?”

  Rozik nods. “Yes, but it’s better to keep it concealed. Your suit jacket should have an integrated holster for it.”

  I reach under the jacket, surprised to find there are bands of material for the sidearm beneath the arms on both sides. I transfer the pistol to the right side, lose the holster and then button the jacket closed.

  “Better,” Rozik says.

  He stands up and does the same with his weapon. We left the carbines, bandoliers and other equipment back in the safe where Rozik found them at the outset of our six-hour journey to Naraka. We also used that time to jettison the corpses we could get to, cleaning up our mess as best we could. The cargo hold is still off-limits, but Rozik doesn’t seem to think the fallout of the violence inside will dissuade any interested parties from completing the sale. It’s one benefit to being outside the reach of organized governance.

  “How do I look?” he asks me, straightening his jacket. He’s not a pretty man by any means. Bulky with muscle, a large head covered in a thick mop of black hair, a too-square jaw and deep-set eyes. But the suit works to give him an intimidation factor that outpaced his military uniform.

  “You look like the perfect bodyguard,” I reply.

  “No way are you doing the talking, Alliance. You said it yourself—this isn’t your scene.”

  “But it’s yours. You’re SIA, aren’t you?”

  “Secret Intelligence Agency?” Rozik says. “Doesn’t exist. Try again.”

  “Why don’t you just tell me?”

  “And ruin the fun? Not a chance. This is my ship. You’re my associate. Deal with it and let me do the talking.”

  I wave my hand toward the door. “After you, sir.”

  He smirks and makes his way off the bridge. There’s an airlock on the port side that’s connected to the docking cradle, and we head down to it to get off the ship.

  “You might want to cover your head now,” Rozik says as we near the exit. I reach into my pocket and pull out the skullcap I found in one of the crew quarters, pulling it on. The cap helps hide the needle and DCI from cursory looks, but any close inspection will give away my status as a meshed AOP Naval pilot. That isn’t a bad thing on its own—there are bound to be other former military here—but there’s no value in offering a distinguishing mark that makes me easier to identify.

  Rozik hits the airlock controls and the outer hatch hisses and slides open, the pressure equalizing with the outer seal. We step across the threshold into the cradle—a long, windowless corridor—that leads back to the station proper. There’s no one here to welcome us to Naraka or provide any kind of direction. If the place is anything like Spindle, the docks connect to a shared hub that provides access to the rest of the areas of the station, both military and civilian.

  Only the place isn’t like Spindle, and when we reach the end of the cradle and step through the hatch, we’re dumped out into a small and dirty corridor crowded with people flowing to and from their ships. There are also young boys and girls carrying trays overflowing with rings and necklaces and other assorted trinkets for sale. They move deftly through the traffic, trying to get the attention of the passersby.

  One of them stops in front of us, holding out a closed box. It’s painted silver, the lid crusted with fake diamonds. Chips in the paint reveal the black plastic beneath, and I can see some of the diamonds have fallen off, leaving old glue behind.

  “Fifty chrome to see what’s inside,” the girl says. She’s eleven or twelve years old at most, blonde-haired and thin. She’s dressed in a man’s shirt that’s so big on her it goes down to her knees, the sleeves pushed up enough to form big ruffles near the shoulders.

  “Don’t do it,” a man says on his way past. “The box is empty.”

  “Shut up!” the girl says, her face suddenly panicked. “It isn’t. I swear.”

  The man laughs, leaving us to our own fate.

  “I bet it’s empty,” Rozik says.

  “No, it isn’t,” she insists.

  “What do you say, Grayson?” he asks. “I’ll bet you one hundred chrome there’s nothing in the box.”

  I glance over at him, wondering why he’s bothering with the girl. He raises one eyebrow slightly, urging me to play along.

  “You’re on,” I reply. “Okay, kid. Let’s see it.”

  “Fifty chrome,” she says. “Payment up front.”

  I don’t have any money at all. Rozik reaches into the inner pocket of his suit and produces a payment card. The girl holds the back of her hand up to it, and he taps the value onto it before touching it to her skin. Then she smiles and holds out the box, making a show of the whole thing.

  “This is Pandora’s Box,” she says. “Do you know who Pandora is?”

  “Yes,” I reply. “And in that case, I hope it is empty. We’ve already got enough problems.”

  She giggles at the response. “Do you want to open it?” She turns to Rozik. “Do you?”

  “Why don’t you go ahead, sweetie,” Rozik says, his voice gentle. I never would have guessed he had it in him.

  She nods, holding the box in one hand and placing her other on the lid. “Ready?”

  “Ready,” we both say.

  She lifts the lid. The interior is black velvet, and there’s a small silver star resting inside. I laugh as soon as I see it, my eyes shifting back and looking for the other man. Was he part of the sell, or a real stranger trying to cause trouble?

  “Not empty,” I say to Rozik. “You owe me.”

  “I guess I do,” he replies. He looks at the girl. “Thank you.”

  Her face beams, her smile missing a few teeth. “You’re welcome.”

  Rozik kneels down, getting to eye level with her. “There’s something else you might be able to help us with,” he says. “My associate Grayson and I have never been here before. We’re interested in trading our vessel for something smaller and faster. We also need to transmit a few secure messages through the station’s synchronizer. What can you tell me about that?”

  “One hundred chrome for answers,” she says.

  “How much for you to guide us?”

  She thinks about it for a second. “Eight hundred.”

  “That’s a lot. How about seven hundred?”

  “Seven seventy.”

  “Seven twenty.”

  “Seven fifty.”

  “Deal,” Rozik says. He puts the amount on the card and taps it to her hand. I’ve never seen value exchanged this way before, but then cyber-augmentations like it are illegal across the Alliance and unheard of within the Navy.

  And where did Rozik get the card anyway?

  She smiles as the money goes into her account, though I have no idea how she can tell. Augments in her eyes? She holds her hand out to Rozik. “My name is Yari.”

  “Nice to meet you, Yari,” Rozik says, taking her hand. I notice he doesn’t offer his name in response even though he had no problem sharing mine. Probably because he knows it’s an alias. Even so, I don’t like it.

  She turns to me with her hand out. I don’t want to take it because of the augments. What else can they scan? “Nice to meet you.”

  Her smile fades a little bit when I don’t touch her, but she shrugs it off like only a kid can. “What do you want to do first?” she asks. “Sell your ship or get access to the synchronizer?”

  “Synchronizer,” Rozik says. “But we need to get you into a change of clothes first. We’re businessmen. We can’t be seen with you dressed like that.” He points at her bare feet. “You don’t even have shoes.”

  “I can’t afford them.”

  “We can,” Rozik replies.

  Her smile perks up again. Her eyes flick past me a second time, and I glance back, noticing the man who warned us the box was empty is lingering near one of the docking hatches.

  Her father?

  He already seems aware of the deal she made. Is she wearing a hidden comm? Is that why Rozik wants her in a change of clothes? I don’t know why he picked an eleven-year-old girl as a guide or why we need a guide at all. Yeah, the station is big and complex, but we’re both trained military. If we can’t figure this out, there’s no hope for us against the banshees. Still, I’ve seen enough of Rozik in action to know that if he wants Yari’s help, he has a reason.

  If I can’t trust him with this, what can I trust him with?

  Chapter 12

  Yari leads Rozik and me through the passages connecting the docks to a large passenger elevator on the outside of one of the triangles making up the station’s dome-like appearance. The elevator is unusual, both because of its size and its angled orientation. Artificial gravity in the station keeps us all rooted at Earth’s 9.807 m/s², but this particular arm is lacking the strips of exotic material that run beneath the flooring. That absence leaves the arm weightless, making it easier to climb at the alternate angle. There are straps on the floor of the elevator to keep feet on the deck and hand grips at multiple levels.

  Rozik and me strap in with our shoes on, but Yari chooses to float upside down over our heads, her hair dangling in Rozik’s face. He doesn’t seem to mind, smiling at her while she giggles. It’s a strange interaction, and a part of me starts to wonder if maybe he wouldn’t have turned down her earlier offer if I wasn’t present. I don’t like to think about him that way, but I’ve heard plenty of horror stories about the Commune. Maybe some of them are overblown propaganda intended to rile the population into enlisting. I don’t think I’ll be believing all those stories from now on.

  The ride takes nearly two minutes. As the gravity slowly returns, Yari flips over and floats to the ground. When the doors open, I have no idea where in the station we are.

  “This way to the shopping district,” Yari says, leading us happily out of the elevator and into a larger cross-connecting tube. This one has windows, and looking out through them I can see we’re almost at the top of the dome, where a large bulb sits atop the apex.

  I can see a whole mess of people behind us, making the journey to the top. Most of them look the same, dressed in plain synthetic shirts and solid-colored pants, with equally ordinary shoes or boots on their feet. They’re a range of ages from older than me to younger than Yari. Most of them have short hair buzzed close to the scalp regardless of gender, though a few of the women have long hair. They’re dressed like the others, but they have makeup on their faces and cold resignation in their eyes. I can guess their profession by their attitude. I can probably also guess what they have on beneath their simple shirts and pants.