Torian hunched, face burning.
She wasnotgood at this.
That thought made Torian’s ever-present fear resurface. For all of Amelia’s advice, despite the fact that Amelia was captain of her own ship, she’d refused to fly Torian to Rhymarra.
Trust me, Scrap. They’ll stop you at their fancy planet’s terraformed atmosphere,she’d snapped.
There was the chance that Amelia wasright, and she wouldn’t even be allowed to land on Rhymarra, much less ask the university’s headmaster for the biggest favor of their lives. But of course, Torian still had a backup plan: alien space. She’d only seen a fewaliens in her entire life, since they rarely entered the human solar system—but plenty of species weren’t hostile.
Somewhere out there, therehadto be a planet with cleaner air. Big galaxy, and all.
Either by the grace of the Heavens or her Super Intimidating (empty) Gun and Big, Booby Breasts, Torian reached the impound lot without being mugged. Torian wasn’t one to tempt fate, though: she hurried to push the red button on the side of a shuttered window.
A sharpBZZZZTechoed through the interior lot.
Almost instantly, a Magnium F82 drone slid over the gate, aiming two massive guns at her. Drones didn’t speak, and this model didn’t have cameras, but its heat sensors knew exactly where she was—and where to fire a pulverizing jelly bullet if she tried anything.
Torian went very still. “Ah, h-hello.”
A heavyclanksounded, and the metal shutter rolled away from the window. Behind the counter was a clerk—but not a bland, paper-pushing one. In typical Colony 13 fashion, this man had a pistol strapped to his chest and a scowl on his lips.
“That thing doesn’t talk.” His voice was gruff. “What do you want?”
Near the gate, the Magnium F82 analyzed impassively. It never lowered its weapons.
“I’m…” Torian’s voice died in her throat. With one careful glance at the people traversing the narrow hallway behind them, she whispered conspiratorially, “I’m here to buy a ship.”
The man quirked an eyebrow, assessing her.
To be fair, she probably didn’t look like much: ripped cargo pants, a lumpy bomber jacket zipped over a tank top. The empty pistol was holstered to her thigh, but even the holster was ripped and worn. Her long hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, and her pale skin was smudged with grit.
Torian wanted to defend her appearance—that she worked for the Fleet, the most infamous smuggling syndicate in humanspace. But then she’d have to admit that she worked as ascrap, a cargo hand, crawling through tight storage areas in the double walls of Amelia’s starship, hiding heavy boxes. Being a scrap wasn’t glamorous or prestigious, even if it paid well, so Torian kept her mouth shut.
The clerk frowned. “Minimum buy-in for ships is—”
“Twenty ionite bars.” Torian dug into her bra to retrieve the drawstring bag. The clerk didn’t even look surprised at where it was stored; he watched with disinterest as she dropped it on the counter between them. She gestured at the drawstring bag. “I’ve saved enough. You can count them.”
“Hmm.”
The man produced a short, prod-like tool, then clicked his tongue at the drone. It pivoted from her toward the street, guns ready in case anyone tried to rush the window. With appropriate discretion, the clerk sorted through the ionite bars behind a metal barrier, testing each with the prod to ensure purity.
Torian held her breath, her heart fluttering. This was the moment she’d dreamed about.
It was a bit anticlimactic.
The clerk grunted approval and swept the bars back into the bag, stepping around the corner of his office—out of sight. A distantbeepsounded, and then he returned empty-handed. Likely, there was a safe somewhere behind the counter.
Maybe another drone guarding it… or maybe one was enough. Magnium F82s weren’t cheap, and they definitely weren’t nice. Torian had a deep scar on her leg to prove it.
“You might not like our supply, at this price point.” But he dutifully pressed a button, and the gate slid open. The Magnium F82 drifted left, guns still aimed at the street, and allowed Torian to enter.
Her mind squealed in excitement, but she kept a composed demeanor as she followed him down a short hallway while the gate closed behind her.
What opened before them was a starshipwonderland.
The hangar was multilevel and far bigger than Torian ever expected, based on the low ceiling of the hallway. Ships big and small crowded the space. Some were sleek and shiny, each denoted with a golden light hovering beside it. The rest were in various states of decay or disrepair, with red or blue lights. Gangplanks of flimsy metal scaffolding led to each vessel.
Beyond the ships was a huge airlock. Torian had read that aliens used a different standard: a blue energy shield that protected them from the vacuum of space. But humans had never been able to replicate it, and the CSS—the Confederation of Spacefaring Species—didn’t share its technology with nonmembers.
