I'm no hero. I realized that about myself a long time ago. If someone had asked me when I escaped the Academy on Shaya whether I'd risk my life for someone else, I'd have laughed at them. I'd fled the Academy because I didn't want to risk my life, didn't want to play in anyone's power games.

  Then I'd encountered the hatchling and things had changed. I'd cared. I had a responsibility.

  Talking to the Santa Kylians, I felt that same type of responsibility.

  Maybe it was the way they'd assumed I was one of them, however they defined it. Maybe it was because I hadn't belonged anywhere for so long, and here I'd been part of something, even if it was only in their own minds.

  Or maybe it was because I hated the way the secs had treated that Kylian kid, like an animal, a thing to be played with.

  It echoed too much with my own experiences at the Academy.

  "Rimont's a major mining hub," I said. "There are plenty of ships. Why not hire one?"

  "Who would hire out to us?" Riina said, her melodious voice incongruous against her sober expression. I had the impression that the Kylians would make great singers.

  "Anyone liking money?" I said.

  "Money is not the problem," Maiko said. "If we pool our resources, we have several hundred kilos. But anyone who helps us out risks getting the secs on them. Or getting banned from the trading consortia. With last year's directives forbidding us to hold property or engage in trade, that goes all the way down to the smallest trader. If it wasn't for Sai Montar, we'd have starved a long time ago."

  "Montar likes you?" I said.

  Maiko and Riina looked at each other and started laughing. Even Maiko's brown-clad bodyguards, who'd faded into the background while we talked, started giggling. The laughter spread in quiet circles around us.

  I liked it.

  "Oh, sandy skies," Riina said when she managed to compose herself, "I needed that. No, Montar doesn't like us. Montar doesn't like anybody. But she hates some people, especially the secs and the patricians. How she can remain a trader in good standing is the Blue Sky's own miracle."

  "So let her get you a ship," I said.

  That got me an indulgent smile from both of them.

  "Not going to happen?" I said.

  "Not for a kiloton of helion," Maiko said. "Even if we had that kind of money."

  I chewed on the inside of my cheek. My smarts wanted me to walk away. I had the hatchling to care for, and enough troubles of my own. But my gut wanted to help the Kylians. And any additional troubles would be left behind the moment I undocked from Rimont station.

  I weighted my options, trying to be smart. A girl, no older than ten, brought us a pot of hot tea. Good, full-flavored, only slightly bitter. Either this was the leaves they saved for special occasions, or they had a magic tea bush hidden away somewhere. I wondered if such a thing could be created. Maybe. There was a lot I didn't know about magic, for all my years of study. The more I learned, the more I realized how little I knew.

  Hao and Riina talked about mechanics and defensive positions in low voices. Maiko held his cup in both hands, staring at the opposite wall.

  I drained my cup, savoring the last drops of flavor. My smarts tried a final assault, reminding me that I was only one man. But my gut had already won.

  "You need a goat," I said, standing up.

  Silence blanketed the gathering as everyone looked at me.

  "A what?" said Riina.

  "Goat," I said. "Like in the story."

  That got me more confused looks. Sometimes I forget how large the galaxy is, and how different the legends.

  "There was a town," I said. "On a planet. A pack of wild dogs menaced it, killing the people and eating their children. None of the hunters could track them, because they were so stealthy even warded scanners couldn't pick them up. But one of the hunters had a goat. The goat would speak in the language of the dogs, calling to them until they could stand it no longer. Then all the dogs came, and the hunters captured them and tamed them."

  "You want us to tame the secs?" Maiko said.

  "Not the secs," I said. "The traders. Well, one."

  "You want Montar to sell us a ship?"

  "Exactly. And I'm going to be your goat."

  Maiko and Riina shared a look.

  "Hope is the last thing to die." Maiko said. The statement sounded like a question.

  "Sometimes it survives," Riina replies.

  Their words had the feeling of ritual. They gave each other a small, stiff-necked bow, then turned in unison and gave me one as well. I nodded back, not knowing if I was doing it right, but feeling that I was doing the right thing.

  And after that, there was very little left to say.

  The Kylians put me and Hao face down on a minuscule electric monorail that whirred away into the piles of junk, taking a winding route that terminated in a half-dismantled building five hundred meters spin-ward from Montar's storefront. We were unloaded by a slim kid of fifteen or so, who said that they'd find us when we were done. Who they were, he wasn't willing to tell. If that was what passed as security among the Kylians, it was lousy.

  "Stay safe," he said. The saying sounded familiar.

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  "You got friends in the port authority?" I said, but the kid only gave me a confused look.

  "The secs been all over the place for the last cycle," he said, then faded into the labyrinthine steel guts of the dismantled building.

  Hao and I walked the rest of the way. The streets were well-lit, the workers in orange and yellow vests back, which I took to mean that no secs were around.

  "You think this is a good idea?" Hao said, looking over her shoulder for the fifth time since we'd climbed off the monorail.

  "No," I said. "If you want to leave, I can pay you a share of the armor and we part ways."

  She raised a bushy eyebrow, giving me one of her icy-blue glares.

  "I signed up," she said. "I stick to my word."

  "I appreciate that."

  "Besides, you're the first captain I've met who can cook."

  That made me smile. Her own cooking was less than stellar.

  "But try not to get us killed," Hao added, which sobered me up fast.

  "I'll do my best," I replied.

  We walked the final meters in silence, the street empty around us.

  Montar's storefront was still grimy, her blue sign still missing the o and the d. Before mounting her loading dock, I made sure to conjure a thread of force. I wasn't about to walk up to a razor ward without the means of burning it out.

  The ward stayed dormant, the door squeaked.

  "Whaddya want?" yelled Montar from behind the steel counter. Her hair had managed to change color in the hours since I last saw her, to a shade of migraine-inducing neon-green that made my eyes water. If the lights broke, Montar could act as an emergency flare.

  "I want money," I said. "Your man has verified the plates?"

  "Crud work," Montar said, setting one of her suck-sticks on fire. "Isn't worth defacing the nano-form steel it's cut into."

  Which was a lie. I hated this form of negotiation. For a moment, I considered asking for a ship immediately, but thought the better of it. Then I decided to go with my gut. It had served me well so far.

  "How do you do it?" I said, pointing her hair. "Manage to find such perfect shades of crud?"

  She blew a cloud of smoke in my face, causing me to stumble back, coughing at the stench, dry rust mixed with burnt orange cake. Her crudmucking sticks changed stench every time she lit them. I tripped on a loose bolt on her floor, waving my arms before Hao grabbed me and helped me regain my balance. Montar laughed.

  "Fifteen hundred," she said. "Not a gram more."

  "Crud," I said. Let her choke on her stick. She didn't.

  "Fifteen-fifty," she said. "For uncertified plates of ancient and micro-cracked armor."

  "How about a ship?" I said, studying her face.

  Montar betrayed nothing, merely sucked on her stick, blew the smoke at her grey-stained ceiling. Apparently, blowing smoke was her way of passing time.

  "I can give you two hundred kilos for that rust-heap," she said.

  "Buying, not selling," I said, fuming. The gall of calling the Bucket a rust-heap.

  Montar's eyes narrowed to slits, her gaze drilling into me.

  "What do you need a ship for?" she said.

  "None of your business," I countered.

  "It will be my business, if I give a ship to a bullhorn."

  "Not a bullhorn," I said.

  "So you claim."

  We could have continued that way for a long time, except that the door squeaked.

  It was a tiny squeak, the kind that worms itself into your brain, the kind Hao's co-pilot's couch could produce if she was annoyed with me.

  It was followed by a tink, and my body spun into motion.

  There are several types of tink. A fork against a glass plate. A loose bolt against space-ship armor.

  A grenade against a steel floor.

  Tiny grenade, rolling along toward us. Montar collapsed backward, disappearing behind the counter. I was already moving, drawing on the threads around me, conjuring up a warp punch.

  I pushed half the threads of force into my armor, up-tuning the wards. The rest I shifted in the void making the force flow in a specific direction, causing a minuscule tilt in the void around me. Minuscule but focused on the grenade.

  It went flying away from me, as if I'd shot it from a canon, shattering one of my wards, cracking into the still-closing door and rebounding against the frame. It stuck.

  Then it exploded.

  Bright flash. Wards shattering in my jacket as they absorbed the force of the blast. Hot wind striking my face. The world going silent as my wards protected my hearing.

  I collapsed to my knees, drawing my M3. The door flew open, rebounded, came slamming back against the frame. I felt the residues of a ward, someone else's and poorly made, shatter. I stayed still for two breaths, then put my gun back in my holster. Door had closed. Nothing to point it at.

  Smoke filled Montar's office. It actually smelled better than her sticks, a clean mix of carbon and powdered silicates. Not even hint of sulfur.

  Good quality explosives, not something cooked up in a home chem-lab.

  "Crudmunching voidmunger," Montar yelled, coming up from behind her counter, her hair like green flame around her, a twenty-five millimeter assault shotgun in her hands.

  I dove into Hao, barreling her to the side and out of Montar's direct line of fire, expecting pellets to start ripping into the depleted wards of our magearmors at any moment.

  Instead, I got a knee in the chest, flinging me away.

  "Get off me!" Hao yelled, crowbar in hand, but she let me crawl away without bashing my head in. Proof of our ever-lasting friendship.

  Heart hammering, I conjured a thread of force, ready to up-tune the wards I had left. Then I got to my feet, hands in the air. No better way to display your good intentions, right?

  "Crud, boy, you alive?" cackled Montar. She held the shotgun, a Caravel replica if I was any judge, pointing off to the side. Which was good. The Caravel assault shotgun is what the Federal Marines use when boarding pirate ships. Except they used belts, not drums. A Caravel ate ammunition the way a void wyrm hatchling ate kibble. Rapidly and messily.

  "Hard to kill," I said. My hands shook. I put them behind my back, drawing myself up into a Navy at attention posture to hide how jumpy I was.

  "I'll say," Montar said, putting her shotgun on the steel counter. "Crudmunger."

  I couldn't tell if she meant me, or the people responsible for grenading her office. Considering the Caravel on her counter, I hoped for the later. The gun showed signs of use, but was well-cleaned and oiled.

  "This happen often?" I said. For someone who'd just been hit with a grenade, she seemed awfully calm.

  "First time," Montar said. "Last time they shot a breaching round at my windows." She cackled, her green hair bouncing around. "It bounced. Hope the crudmungers were surprised."

  "Why don't you go to the trade inspectors?" I said. That got me a cloud of smoke from her stick. I backed away before it could reach me. My hands were still shaking, my mouth dry. The smoke smelled of burnt organics, like a frying pan left too long on a hot stove.

  How could she be so calm? Was Montar on drugs? Not bluegrubs, but maybe some sort of crammers or hajj?

  "How can you not care?" I said. "You just got a grenade thrown at you, and you're sitting here laughing about it."

  The shotgun scraped against the steel counter, a sound like grinding teeth.

  "What do you know, bullhorn?" Montar said, her voice the quiet of the calm before a storm front. "I grew up on the eighth tier. Eight. Now I sit on the third and trade with grave robbers and vat workers. But they couldn't kill me, couldn't take away my license. Trader in good standing, oh how they tried, tried so much. I'll show them. I'll show them all."

  She kept going, her voice growing softer and softer, mumbling to herself. I kept watching the Caravel. If it started to move, I was going to flare my wards and try knocking it from her hands. And if that failed, I'd shoot her.

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  Hao had another idea.

  "Get even," she said. "Stop hiding. Do something."

  "Are you crudmunching insane?" I whispered. "She's off her planet and deep in the void."

  Montar stared bullets at Hao. The Caravel trembled in her hand, but she didn't try to lift the gun.

  "Get a ship," Hao said. "Give it to the bullhorns. Your power to choose. That will show everyone."

  A tiny smile rose on Montar's lips, grew into a full blown grin and exploded into a nova-like laugh.

  "Where would I get a ship?" she said. "If I could get a ship, do you think I would sit on the third?"

  "Steal one," I said.

  Montar's gaze shifted to me. She flicked her stick away to the side. It flew through the air, shedding embers.

  "Steal a ship," she said. "No, I couldn't do that. But you will."

  I wondered what we'd gotten ourselves into.