Rimont station was built in a traditional style, with a large central wheel extruding perpendicular spikes. Most of those held gigantic gas shuttles, low orbit craft the size of small moons that dipped into the outer parts of the metallic hydrogen layer of nearby gas giants, most notably Rimont II, the big, puke-green ball Rimont station orbited.

  I tried to get a sense of scale on the station, looking at the numbers on my captain's readout and failed. Dropping out of void space a hundred and twenty thousand kilometers away, it had been a tiny black speck against the gas giant's swirling clouds. At twenty thousand kilometers, it was the size of my fist. Up close, it was immense, a mountain of liquid gas tanks, helion extractors and refinery gadgetry that dwarfed the Bucket.

  We were assigned a shuttle berth, a dock reserved for small personnel craft. I was about to object, when I saw the size of one of the gas transports approaching the station and realized that the Bucket could have fit inside the bulge of its cockpit. Size means something different when you're mining gas giants.

  I shut up, accepting the berth Rimont control had given us.

  We stopped by my gun locker on the way out. This time, both Hao and I were wearing mageshields. Not our combat sets, which I hadn't finished warding, but moderately warded, soft leather jackets with a few armor plates covering our vitals. Something a successful small trader with contacts on a habitable planet might wear.

  I considered taking my stockman, the hat's worn leather smooth and comfortable in my hand. It was warded, and would add to my defenses, but it would stand out. Rimont Station wasn't a place people wore wide-brimmed hats.

  I didn't want to stand out. Which was the reason I left both my foil and my magerifle, taking only pistols. I selected an M3 for me, figuring that while the heavy-caliber combat gun might cause me some trouble with the port authority, it would still be plausible for a small trader who wanted to appear big. Hao got my Chimer, a short-barreled gun better suited for a game table than a battle. Still, she didn't like it.

  "Give me the fire knife instead," she said, pointing to my flameblade. "Or let me carry a club."

  "You already have a knife," I said, remembering the wicked efficiency she'd shown with the short blade hidden in her belt. "And a quick-fading mageblade would be mighty uncommon on a small trader. Besides, imagine the size of the bribes we'd need to pay to get it on station. Stick with the gun."

  She gave me one of her looks and grimaced, but stopped objecting.

  I walked to the cargo bay and gave my wards a final scan. We now had two engines mounted in the top engine bulge, but only one was operational. The other one hid the sleeping void wyrm hatchling, and the fake engine casing had enough wards on it to keep a small army at bay until I could get there.

  After that, the army better be running because I wouldn't be happy.

  But nothing like that was likely to happen. Rimont station was a Federal hub, a banking hub, and a transmission central for the validation of the trans-space codes that underpinned all economic transactions across Federal space. The only army allowed on Rimont would be Federal Marines and Trade Inspector strike teams. I gave the false engine pod a pat. The metal was cold. Nothing at all like patting the hatchling, but it brought me comfort anyhow. I imagined feeling his hot, black scales beneath my fingers. Sometimes, knowing you're not alone in the world is all it takes.

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  The docking bay was fairly standard with grey, non-slip floors, mobile steel gantries thick as my torso to hold down the shuttles, and an airlock equipped with a pair of industrial-size scanners blocking the way deeper into the station. I expected smaller scanners, and possibly a dowsing rod, by the gangplanks, but didn't see them. Either they were built-in, or we were going to get scanned by hand.

  The gangplank was surprisingly sturdy, and the air pleasantly fresh, slightly cool and smelling just a tad of grease and polymer sealant. I had to remind myself that this was a passenger lounge, not a regular loading dock. No porters, no loading mechs. Instead, we were met by four black-clad guards carrying discreet black submachine guns on discreet black slings across their backs. Rimont took their security seriously.

  We were greeted by a pair of port authority inspectors, a man and a woman, in blue uniforms trimmed with gold. Fancy, although not quite Navy dress uniform fancy. Both were tall, but not Hao's height.

  "Your purpose?" the woman said. She was attractive, with a ready smile that flashed by whenever she stopped talking. The man was half her age, with the kind of puppy-like honesty only exhibited by trainees. He was clearly infatuated with her, hanging on her every word.

  "Trade," I said, tapping my com readout and sending a command to remotely highlight the relevant lines on hers. The security protocols didn’t object, which was a good sign. "Edible organic compounds, and armor plate."

  The woman nodded, smiling briefly. "That real vanilla?" she said.

  "Grown so close to the ground you can still smell the dirt on it," I said. "And feel the sunlight. Would you like some?"

  She shook her head, the smile turning momentarily sad.

  "Couldn't afford it," she said.

  "You might," I said, pulling a thirty gram sample jar from my pocket. I had another three secreted on my person, together with two hundred grams of helion, just in case. I handed the jar of vanilla powder to the woman. "A gift."

  She palmed it without batting an eye, while the trainee gaped. She poked him gently with her elbow, and his cheeks colored.

  "Would you like another?" I asked.

  "For forgetting to note that monstrous pistol you have in your hip holster?" she said. "Or for that magearmor you're wearing?"

  That gave me pause. We hadn't passed any obvious scanners, so they had to have some really good tech built into the gangplanks.

  "I was thinking more along the lines of a permit," I said.

  "Depends on what you're selling," the woman said, her voice turning cold.

  "Nothing illegal," I said. "It's all on the manifest. But I wouldn't want to walk around the station unarmed."

  The woman tapped her nail against the metal lid on the vanilla jar. She didn't seem surprised. Tap, tap-tap. More like she was going to turn me down.

  "I can write you a license to carry, but you'll have to accept a tag," she said.

  "I'd rather not," I said. Having a beeper on me that told the Rimont station com where I was at all times wasn't my idea of being secure.

  "Those are our directives," the woman said. "A trace on all incoming weapons."

  "I'd still rather not," I said.

  "Then the best I can do is give you free rein of the port," the woman replied.

  After that, the rest was haggling. Five minutes later, we settled for two jars and twenty grams for a license to carry valid in all low-sec areas. Which was fine by me as I didn't intend to rub elbows with the bankers and patricians. I bumped the woman's fist and handed over the payment. The woman tapped her readout, sending a coded license to mine. I opened it and checked its validity. Sometimes official will try to bilk you for another bribe to correct so-called problematic permits. This one looked in order.

  "Welcome to Rimont station," the woman said.

  "Stay safe," said the trainee.

  Which was a mighty strange thing to say for a port authority official.