Montar's man met us at the docks. He was a small, neatly dressed, elder gentleman, so incredibly at odds with how Montar looked in his black pants and suit jacket with a white, folded-collar shirt beneath, that I had to ask about how he'd gotten in league with her.

  "That would be privileged information," was all he was willing to say. After that he went silent as a dead com, and only spoke twice more, once to point to a meter-sized armor plate in the Bucket's hold and say "this one", and once to thank us.

  "What happens now?" I said, after loading the two chosen plates, and a random jar of vanilla on the gentleman's float cart. He merely smiled apologetically, gave me a formal-looking half-bow, and walked away down the steel gangplank. Even his footsteps were soft and measured.

  "Now what?" Hao said.

  "Now we wait," I said. "Right here, racking up port charges while Montar looks at our plates."

  Hao huffed.

  "One might believe that you have gained an economic sense, captain," she said.

  "One might be right," I said, leaning against the Bucket's open airlock. I suddenly wished for a sun, the feeling of dry wind against my face, or the gentle, strangely greasy vibrations of the warpstone engines as we slid through void space.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Anything but this strange, heavily guarded, insanely expensive station.

  "Let's go inside," I said.

  "No more soup?" Hao said, turning away from the docks.

  "No more soup," I said, keying the airlock closed behind us.

  We did eat soup. It was the only thing our depleted supplies managed on short notice. I didn't put any vanilla in it, though. That would have been too much. Better to suffer salted water with what carbohydrate scrapings the Bucket's vats could produce. If I never tasted vanilla again, it would be too soon.

  The com woke me with an incessant beeping. For a moment, I tried to remember where I was. I'd slept terribly, there being something subtly different about my cabin without the hatchling in it. But he was better off hidden in the Bucket's fake engine. I almost conjured a thread, just to feel his warmth in the void, but restrained myself. Bad idea to bring attention to the hatchling. You never know who might be around when you work with magic.

  Instead, I fumbled for the readout, slapping the cold surface with my palm.

  "Two kilos a piece," came Montar's voice. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes.

  "Six," I said.

  "Don't be ridiculous," Montar said. "I wouldn't get six. How many have you got?"

  "Look at the manifest," I said, raising the lights and searching for my shirt. My pajamas were shiny polymer velvet the blue of an oxygen sky. Luckily, my com's standard setting was voice only. The shirt was cold against my skin as I pulled it on.

  "Sixteen hundred is too many," Montar said. "I can't pay that much."

  "I'm willing to trade," I said. "Supplies, mostly, and some spare parts for my ship."

  "That I can do. Anything special you want?"

  I stretched, rolling my shoulders and cracking my neck, thinking.

  "How is your access to the local spices?" I said.