Optima's capitol city Understone sprawled across miles of caverns, hollowed out over the years to excavate the valuable resources within and create living space for new residents on the planetoid. A domed crater at the city's surface level housed those who could afford the rent—others, like Fix, found cheaper space below.

The stocky mechanic slouched over his dwindling cup of lotus wine, tracing in his mind the route home from the bar. His single-room dwelling, little more than a pressurized cell, was one of hundreds that branched off a section of an old ice tunnel. Another one or off to bed, the familiar debate. His fingers found coin in his pocket. Fix downed the dregs and rose for another cup.

As he stood a gravelly voice from a corner table called out to him. "Hey, Fix! Didn't see you there. You heard the news from up top? Snub told me he passed the message along to all you scrappers."

An involuntary wince flashed across Fix's face. He removed it before he turned to join the table. "Tjarko. Didn't see you either. Yeah, Snub told me. Ten thousand coin—pretty good for one job."

"Great!" shouted Tjarko, raising his cup. "Looks like we got another recruit!"

A cheer went up from his crewmates and Fix swallowed as he shook his head.

"Sorry, Tjarko," he said. "I'm staying put this time. Family orders."

The five men lowered their cups in unison.

"You heard what Snub said," Tjarko said. "This is straight from Boss Hawk. You gone out with our crew before. We already got twenty grubs, two more ships. We need every pair of hands we can get, Fix—especially mechanics. Could be a long float going after Anson."

"Whoa, Tjarko. You gotta see where we're coming from here. Anson don't jack around and Starhawk, man—"

"What about Boss Starhawk?" Tjarko demanded, the question a challenge.

Fix glanced around the bar, took stock of the occupants. A handful of other Family members, none of them fellow Donovans, and Tjarko's men outnumbered them all. "Council ruled on it. Starhawk's no Boss—ain't even Family anymore. No reason for me to stick my neck out for him. Especially not going after Anson."

"Coward." Tjarko spat at Fix's feet.

Fix took a step back, crossed his arms. A firm stand was needed or Tjarko would walk all over him. He couldn't let the insult go unanswered, spoke loud and strong. "I'm not shipping out with a bunch of leaky-brain shitheads flying scrapheap floating coffins. Not against Anson. Not for Starhawk. Hump that, bud, I'll keep breathing. You want to go against the Council's ruling there'll be more than just Donovans after you—the Families are together in this."

"Fine, coward," said Tjarko and spat again, this time on Fix's boot. "You want to bend a knee to the Core-dwelling scum that's your choice. Starhawk's on his way out here, victorious after sieging Surface. After my crew takes out Anson for him we'll be rich, and after him we'll move on to the rest of the privateers. With the Core Fleet back home the whole outer rim will be ours. This is the beginning of a new age, Fix. You're with us or against us. Think hard one last time. Whose side you want to be on?"

Fix thunked his empty cup down on the table and met Tjarko's glare with unblinking hickory-brown eyes. "I'm a Donovan. Starhawk's not Family anymore and neither are you. Best of luck, though."

He turned to leave with his heart exploding in his chest, every muscle in his body goading him to run, but he kept his shoulders back and his head held high. Fix felt the target on his back, the hairs on his neck rigid in warning. Keep walking, he told himself, just get home. They see you run with your tail curled under you're a dead man anyway. After he entered the tunnel and started moving—with more than a few sly backward glances along the way—his heartbeat slowed and Fix relaxed.

The bag went over his head in an instant, darkness all around. Burly hands took him by the arms and legs. He tried to shout but they shoved a wad of the rough fabric into his mouth and the acrid taste of old vomit made him retch. Fix sobbed into the suffocating material and went limp as they picked him up and carried him away.

#

"We're being followed," Myra said into Captain Anson's ear. "Four junker attack craft. The recon drone we left behind picked them up a few seconds ago."

"Tail them." Anson turned his helmet to look behind Wanderlust from his perch on the outside of her hull. He couldn't see anything through the purple-black material of the radiation umbrella, but he stared all the same back in the direction of Optima for a moment. "Almost finished out here."

He would have preferred to use Ponzu for the job but the little droid took hours to do what Victor could in minutes. The ideal scenario would involve a pressurized docking bay but he didn't want to spend a moment longer on Optima than he had to. Now he knew he made the right choice.

"You want to see them?" Myra asked. "They could actually catch up."

"When I get inside."

"See you soon."

Grunting an affirmative, Victor resumed the repairs. His sources on Optima told him Starhawk put out a bounty of ten thousand coin for him—luckily after Wanderlust left port and not before. Victor doubted Starhawk could actually pay that much but some were obviously tempted out of greed or desperation. The power-hungry pirate probably expected they'd all get killed and only hoped to use the attempt as a last ditch effort against the privateers.

Victor finished fixing the weakened repulsor unit and sealed its thick panel back in place, the midnight-purple nullsteel coat melding together with the rest of the hull until the panel's seam disappeared, leaving the surface a seamless shell. Myra had noticed some abnormal vibrations after leaving Optima and recommended the tweak before they got any further. Thanks to the recon drone he'd dropped in Wanderlust's wake they had plenty of time to keep out of their pursuers' combat range.

They'd get closer than he was comfortable with, though. Victor stood and grabbed the handle of the oversized foil umbrella, the bottom edge extending to the hull all around him. The multi-layered material shaded him from the ravages of open space as he walked back to the airlock, a lustrous wart scooting along the ship's smooth hull. His suit would have provided sufficient protection for such a short period but as a lifelong space pilot Victor knew better than to take unnecessary risks in zee.

"Ferro, change of plans. I want you to resume course as soon as possible." Anson said. They'd have to get moving—Wanderlust took time to get up to full speed without a launching tube.

"Yes sir," she said with a note of hesitation.

"We got dogs on our trail," Victor said. "Four attack ships from Optima. I'm coming inside so Myra will fill you in on the rest. Just want to get a head start."

"Moving out, Captain," said Ferro. "Come back safe."

"There's something else too, Victor," said Myra's voice in his ear again. "It's about Starhawk."

"Ugh," Victor groaned. "Spare me."

"No, you'll want to hear this. They've escaped Surface."

"Escaped! Don't any of those Core-suckling piglets know how to take down a pirate? Where's the damn Core Fleet?"

"Too far out to help. Pirates inside the city kidnapped a high-value hostage and bargained their way off planet. You're not going to believe this, but the hostage is Bee's boss from the hotel. The one who killed Jensen Lee."

"Useless! How did they manage to—" he began but stopped himself. "Never mind, just let me get inside. And don't tell the girl yet, for stars' sake. That's a direct order, Myra. Let me handle this."

#

Buttercup busied herself with cooking breakfast for her crewmates to avoid thinking about the fear which had once again become her constant companion. She thought she'd conquered fear a long time ago on Surface, before she ever set foot in the sanctuary of Midtown Hotel. She learned to kill it before it could sink its teeth in and bleed her dry—back then it was learn or die.

But once again Bee felt its talons inside her gut, cold slashing terror striking fresh wounds every time she thought about facing Starhawk. She wasn't ready. She'd never been ready. Whatever naive confidence of success she had before was gone. The reality of Starhawk's attack against the Core set in, the futility of her mission to kill a man who commanded an army of cutthroats.

Kill him, Mother echoed.

Mother whispered in her ear all the time since Optima. New things—more than her usual singsong phrases. Lately she'd been giving specific orders. Sometimes Mother stopped Bee from revealing certain things to the crew about her past or told her to lie. She always felt bad about lying but they just slipped out. Even Hargrove never got the truth from her. She'd gotten so used to listening to Mother it was second nature doing as she said. It had saved her skin more than once over the years.

And then there were the nightmares.

Thankfully Mother wasn't in those but they terrified Bee all the same. She could never remember anything but the falling. Every time she woke up in a cold sweat, sometimes screaming. Myra told her it was normal, just her body getting used to spending so much time in zero gravity. Bee read some articles Myra provided on the subject which made her feel better—but the shock of waking in what felt like free fall never faded.

Afraid of moving forward, incapable of going back, and horrified at the thought of failing Mother, Bee didn't realize she was serving breakfast to an empty table until she'd filled three plates. Even Silver, who usually led the cooking, had been absent the whole time. She'd been so buried in thought she didn't notice. Captain Anson kept a strict schedule and the crew missing a meal was a red flag. Bee left everything on the table and dashed from the dining room to the bridge.

#

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