Chapter Nineteen
Far ahead, against the black sea of space, a crooked ring of lights rotated slowly around a battered central hub. Sections of the outer halo sat slightly out of alignment, giving the entire station a lopsided appearance, as if some giant had bent it and nobody had ever bothered to straighten it.
“That can’t be safe,” Jack muttered.
Madelaine glanced up from the navigation display.
“That is Crooked Halo Station.”
“The fact that it’s actually crooked isn’t reassuring.”
“Well, it stays in orbit and has for a long time.”
“That is an incredibly low standard.”
“Still, we need fuel. And this is our singular option.”
“When you put it that way, I can’t wait to get there,” Jack said.
For five hours, they’d flown toward the edge of everything known in the galaxy and in the opposite direction of their next delightful encounter with folks who wouldn’t talk to Madelaine because she was a girl. So foolish.
Crooked Halo Station appeared first as a smear of light against the black.
Then the smear sharpened into a battered ring of metal wrapped around the broken spine of an old mining platform. Docking arms jutted out at uneven angles. Rust-colored hull plating gleamed under patchy floodlights. A dozen ships clung to the station like vultures on a carcass.
The whole place rotated slowly, its outer ring flickering with neon signs in languages Jack did not know and one he unfortunately did.
“Live eels,” he read aloud.
Madelaine frowned. “That probably isn’t what it means.”
“On this station, I bet it is exactly what it means.”
A docking signal crackled through the speakers.
“Unregistered courier craft,” said a bored voice. “State your business.”
Madelaine touched the comm. “Fuel purchase. Three bauxite cubes.”
A pause.
“Dock seven. A word of advice. Don’t start any fights unless you can finish them and if you break it, you buy it.”
The line went dead.
Jack nodded. “Warm people.”
Madelaine guided the Paladin Seeker into dock seven. The ship settled into place with a metallic groan, clamps locking around the landing struts. The second the hatch opened, noise poured in.
Crooked Halo smelled like engine grease, scorched metal, spice smoke, and something Jack decided not to identify for personal growth reasons.
The concourse outside the dock was crowded with every sort of being he had ever seen and several he was going to need time to process later.
Tall, blue-skinned miners with luminous tattoos.
Short, square creatures wearing goggles and carrying welding torches.
If they’d been yellow, he would have thought they were Minions.
Women in glittering armor laughing over cards.
A vendor with four arms frying something that kept trying to climb out of the pan.
Jack stepped down beside Madelaine.
“Stay close,” she said.
“I was planning to attach myself to your elbow.”
She gave him a sharp look. “I mean it. Do not accept food. Do not make eye contact with anyone wearing bone jewelry. Do not gamble. Do not compliment anyone’s weapon.”
“That last one feels unfairly specific.”
“Jack.”
“I will be dull, silent, and deeply uninteresting.”
“We both know that you are incapable of all three.”
He grinned. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all journey.”
She shook her head and started forward. Jack saw the tension in her shoulders.
The mission clock was ticking. Every minute here was a minute stolen from the Paladin Courier errand, from whatever package, prophecy or nightmare waited for them at the end of this multi-galaxy chase.
And now they were walking through a station where the walls had knife marks.
A quick glance at a battered station directory sign said the fuel broker they were looking for was two levels below the docking ring. They took an overlarge freight elevator car down, staying close together even though they were the only two in the lift.
The Burnt Saint Exchange was marked by a raggedy sign and guarded by a heavy door made of blackened ship plating.
Inside, rows of fuel cubes were secured behind a transparent barrier.
Bauxite, plasma rods, ion salts, and half a dozen glowing substances in a variety of colors that Jack suspected were illegal in all of the known galaxies.
Behind the counter sat a woman with silver hair, copper skin, and eyes like polished obsidian. She wore a necklace of tiny keys.
Madelaine stepped forward. “We need three bauxite cubes.”
The broker looked them over. “Standard grade or deep-burn?”
“Standard.”
“Eighty weight each.”
Madelaine produced the Paladin Courier credit device. It was slim, black, and elegant, etched with a symbol Jack had seen only once before in a high-brow bank on Alpha-Prime. The device looked like it could buy a planet or destroy one, depending on which end you pointed at the problem.
The broker did not touch it.
“No.” She shook her head to emphasize her disdain of Madelaine’s payment method.
“Why not?” Madelaine blinked. “This is a recognized intergalactic emergency credit—”
“Not here it isn’t.”
“I’ll have you know that it is backed by—”
“Don’t care,” the woman said and stepped back from the counter.
Jack leaned one elbow on the counter. “Ma’am, I don’t mean to interrupt a beautiful cultural exchange, but we are in a little bit of a hurry.”
The broker looked at him. “Then you should have brought real money.”
Madelaine’s jaw tightened. “What do you accept?”
“Gold. Silver. Palladium slats. Old empire coin. Blood opals if they’re clean, half-price if they’re not. Or station weight.”
Jack held up a finger. “When you say station weight, I feel like you might not mean a fun souvenir token.”
The broker smiled without warmth. “Labor. Collateral. Salvage rights. Secrets.”
“Secrets?” Jack repeated.
“They have to be very good ones to garner any kind of trade.”
Madelaine slid the credit device back into her jacket. “We don’t have those currencies or any viable secrets to share.”
“Then you don’t have fuel.”
“We have a ship,” Jack said.
Madelaine whipped her head toward him. “We are not trading the ship.”
“I wasn’t offering the ship. I was establishing that we arrived in one. For conversational context, let’s say.”
The broker’s gaze sharpened. “Paladin Courier craft? If it’s new enough, maybe. They’re small, but fast. I’d take the guidance core.”
“No,” Madelaine said immediately. “Not a chance.”
Jack held up both hands. “I am sensing the guidance core helps us not fly into any passing suns.”
“It does exactly that and so many more things that we need. The answer is no.”
Jack turned back to the broker. “Then I agree with the lady. Sorry, can’t give it up.”
The broker shrugged. “Then move along.”
Madelaine stepped closer to the counter. “There must be another arrangement we can make.”
“There is. Bring gold or one of the many other currencies I mentioned up front that we accept.”
“We don’t have gold or any of the many other currencies you mentioned.”
She shrugged. “Then bring someone who does or prepare to get a new vocation on The Halo to pay for what you seek.”
A low voice behind them said, “I have the currency required for the transaction.”
Jack looked at Madelaine, who met his gaze. Together, they looked over their shoulders to see who’d spoken.
A figure stood in the doorway of The Burnt Saint Exchange.
Tall. Taller than Jack by several inches.
Broad-shoulders rested beneath thick, layered robes the color of storm ash.
The hood was deep, casting the face in shadow, but beneath it was a smooth black mask with no visible mouth and narrow mirrored slits where the eyes should have been.
A faceless giant offering to pay for their fuel was certainly suspect, but Jack figured beggars couldn’t be choosers. They needed fuel right now and they didn’t have time to take up a new occupation to earn station weight.
The dark figure carried no obvious weapon, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have one. Jack and Madelaine shared another fraught look. Madelaine shrugged as if to say, “Let’s listen and see what this is about.” Jack nodded his agreement. Great minds thinking alike.
The broker’s expression had also changed when the stranger spoke. She didn’t seem fearful, not exactly. But definitely cautious.
“Veyre,” she said. “Haven’t seen you around here in quite a while.”
The masked stranger didn’t remark on his long absence. Instead, he moved forward, robes whispering over the scarred floor. “Three standard bauxite cubes?”
The broker folded her arms. “Yes. That is their request.”
“It is now mine. For them.”
Jack leaned toward Madelaine and whispered, “Do we know the terrifying giant mystery robed curtain person?”
“No. We do not.”
“Do we like him?”
Madelaine lifted one shoulder. “No idea.”
“Should we run?”
She shook her head. “Not without the fuel.”
“Right. Good point.”
The figure called Veyre placed one gloved hand on the counter. Between two fingers appeared a stack of thin silver wafers etched with red marks. The broker stared at them.
“That is too much,” she said.
“The extra is for speed,” Veyre replied. “And silence.”
The broker’s eyes flicked to Jack and Madelaine. “They must be very important.”
“They are very late.” Veyre didn’t turn to them, but Jack felt his regard all the same.
Madelaine stiffened. Jack straightened up without conscious effort.
The masked stranger obviously knew something about their errand.
That was not comforting.
The broker hesitated, then swept the silver wafers off the counter and turned to the secured barrier.
With a palm scan and two keys from her necklace, she opened the fuel vault.
Three bauxite cubes emerged in a hovering cargo sling, each one dense, blue-veined, and beautiful in the way only desperately needed fuel could be beautiful.
Not much bigger than a basketball, he knew they were far heavier. And he’d never seen anything so lovely.
Madelaine stepped forward, next to Veyre. “Why are you helping us?”
Veyre turned his masked face toward her.
For one impossible second, the lights overhead flickered.