Chapter 3 Zara #2
"KR-7 freighter. Modified. Heavily."
I know the KR-7. I've routed hundreds of them. Standard bulk freighter, reliable, unglamorous, the workhorse of the Lattice freight system. The coolant regulators on the KR-7 series have a known failure point at the junction seal.
"You don't need a new regulator," I say. "You need a junction bypass. Reroute coolant through the secondary manifold, bypass the cracked junction entirely. The secondary manifold on a KR-7 has capacity for full load if you adjust the flow rate. It's a four-hour fix with standard tools."
Voss stares at me.
"I routed KR-7 freighters for two years," I say. "Every maintenance report, every part failure, every repair log. I know these ships by their numbers."
"You're a logistics coordinator."
"I'm a logistics coordinator who reads the maintenance reports. Most people skip them. I don't skip anything."
She puts her drink down. "Okay, logistics. Here's the deal. Fix my coolant system, and I'll take you and your glowing friend to Haven for four hundred credits and whatever work you can do on the ship during transit. I always need someone who knows the mechanical side."
"Deal."
"One condition. You tell me the truth about what happened. All of it. Before we leave this station."
"Why?"
"Because if Helix sends people after us, I need to know exactly how angry they are. Angry enough for enforcers is one thing. Angry enough for warships is another. I plan differently for warships."
Fair enough. I tell her. All of it. The manifest, the cargo hold, the cells, the seven prisoners, the escape. She listens without interrupting. When I finish, she's quiet for a while.
"Seven prisoners," she says. "And you scattered six and kept one."
"I didn't keep him. He followed me."
"Vorath imprinting."
I blink. "You know about that?"
"I've been smuggling refugees for twelve years. I've seen Vorath before. Not many, but enough. Imprinting is a big deal in their culture. Permanent, biological, unbreakable. He's bound to you. Not romantically, not yet, but he'll die before he lets anything happen to you. That's not a metaphor."
Something cold moves through my chest. "I didn't ask for that."
"Neither did he. It's biology, not a choice. You saved his life and now his entire operating system reorganized around keeping you alive." She stands. "Finish your drink. We leave in six hours. Bay 14. The ship that looks like it shouldn't fly."
"Does it fly?"
"It flies. It just doesn't look like it should." She picks up her datapad and pauses. "What's your name?"
"Zara. Zara Cole."
"Mira Voss. Welcome aboard the Rust Bucket, Zara Cole. Try not to die before we get to Haven."
She walks out. I sit in the booth and breathe.
Six hours. I need to fix a coolant system, buy additional supplies, and figure out how to spend weeks in a freighter with a smuggler I just met and a Vorath who has apparently bonded to me for life.
I look across the bar to where Kael is sitting.
He's watching me. His markings pulse faintly, blue threads under dark skin, barely visible in the bar's dim light.
He can't hear the conversation from that distance, but he felt it.
I'm certain of that. He felt every spike of anxiety, every moment of calculation, every decision.
I hold up two fingers. Universal signal. Two minutes.
He nods. One slow, deliberate movement.
I order a drink. Something strong. I've earned it.
The bartender pours something amber and slides it across. I drink it in two swallows and it burns all the way down and for exactly three seconds I feel something other than terrified.
Then I pull up my datapad and start making a list. Coolant junction bypass: tools needed, time estimate, sequence of operations. Supply inventory for a multi-week transit: food, water, medical, spare parts. Navigation variables: gate schedules, patrol patterns, fuel consumption rates.
The list grows. The plan takes shape. This is what I do. This is the only thing I do.
I finish the list, pay for the drink, and walk over to Kael.
"We have a ship," I say. "Her name is the Rust Bucket and she's exactly what she sounds like. We leave in six hours. I need to fix the coolant system first."
"You are a mechanic as well?"
"I'm a logistics coordinator who reads maintenance reports. There's a difference."
"The difference does not appear significant."
"The difference is that mechanics get paid more." I look up at him. Way up. "Can you carry things? Heavy things?"
"Yes."
"Good. I need parts from the salvage market. I'll give you a list."
"You have many lists."
"Lists are civilization, Kael. Without lists, we'd still be living in caves."
He tilts his head. "The Vorath have never lived in caves."
"It's an expression."
"Ah." He pauses. "Your people have many expressions that are not literal."
"You have no idea."
I hand him the parts list on a spare datapad. He takes it with one of his upper hands. His fingers are longer than mine by half, dark grey, precise. The datapad looks like a playing card in his grip.
"Salvage market, southeast concourse," I say.
"Ask for junction seals, coolant tubing, and flow regulators compatible with a KR-7 series.
Don't pay more than fifty credits total.
If they try to charge more, walk away. You're eight feet tall.
Walking away is very intimidating when you're eight feet tall. "
"I do not wish to intimidate merchants."
"You won't have to wish. It'll happen automatically. Go."
He goes. I watch him move through the crowded concourse, a head and shoulders above everyone, and I think about what Voss said. He'll die before he lets anything happen to you. That's not a metaphor.
I think about the fact that I opened a cargo hold because a manifest didn't look right, and now an alien warrior has permanently bonded to me because his biology interpreted my spreadsheet-based crisis response as a life debt.
I think about the fact that the most significant relationship of my life started because I read a maintenance report I wasn't supposed to read.
Then I stop thinking, because I have a coolant system to fix and six hours to do it in, and feelings are not on my list.
I head for Bay 14.