"It's a mess," Hao said, sending me an image over the com.

  The Belithain slowly drifted away from the station, fifty meters of space separating us from the Huragian docks. The space was filled with dead men.

  The secs who'd stood near the Belithain as we tore loose, sucked into the void of space, already freezing over. A giant plume of ice crystals where the docks had voided before the station safety systems had shut them down, patching the leak in the most efficient manner possible - by cutting off all access to it.

  And all around us, military craft.

  Fed Navy cutters, smaller than the Bucket but studded with point-defense weapons and missiles. Trade Inspector frigates, large ships capable of hunting down and killing pirates. Rimont station security vessels, small two-man craft with a single plasma arc, more for cutting and welding than fighting. Still dangerous to an unarmed hulk like the Belithain, or the Bucket if they could catch it.

  None of them were happy. The chatter on the open channels was such that I couldn't make out the words. I wasn't the only one. Periodically, authoritarian voices would shout out for silence, for radio discipline.

  Not that it did much good. We'd become somewhat of a celebrity. Even the coded channels sometimes spilled over, filling the com with a whooshing background noise.

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, someone thought to hail us.

  "Belithain here," I answered, standing by the airlock com that Riina's repair crews had managed to make functional.

  "This is Vice Marshal Neol Trimen of the Rimont Station security and dispute settlement board," a firm, older voice said. "Turn off your engines and stand down. You are in violation of Rimont trade law."

  "We don't have any engines," I replied, suppressing a manic laughter. I'd moved a ship. It shouldn't have been possible. I'd moved a ship. And now we were going to get arrested for it.

  The no engines comeback silenced the marshal for a while. When he came back online he sounded somewhat subdued.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "You are in violation of Rimont trade law," he repeated. "You will not be allowed to leave until you pay your docking fees."

  The com flashed, rows of figures appearing on it. Marshal Trimen had sent us the charges for Belithain's berth.

  They were ridiculous. Beyond ridiculous. I could have bought this hulk ten times over for half that price.

  I was about to say that, when I remembered that I wasn't alone any longer. Calling a senior official a voidmunching crudburner when you are responsible for ten thousand Kylian lives wasn't a thing I was prepared to do.

  "We don't have that much," I said instead. "Is it possible to come to a settlement?"

  "I will inquire," Marshal Trimen said. He got back to me suspiciously fast. Likely, he had the Huragians on a separate channel.

  "An equivalent value in trade goods, certified by a trader in good standing, is also acceptable," he said, sounding almost apologetic. He knew no one would trade with us.

  Except...

  The terms didn't say bought by a trader in good standing, only certified by one. And I knew of a trader who by some miracle happened to be in good standing.

  I punched up Montar's com code.

  She answered on the first flash. Her hair was bright pink, and spiked. The amount of effort she put into those gross colors was amazing.

  "Sai Montar," I said, making sure that my voice was shared by both Montar and the marshal. "We have been informed by Rimont station security of the outstanding dues for the ship Belithain, which, I should add, has been stripped of her engines, coms, cables, and fusion core."

  At the word stripped, Montar leaned forward. By the time I got to core, she was gritting her teeth, her eyes bulging.

  "However," I continued, "we have been offered to pay our dues in trade goods, assayed by a trader in good standing. As you have assayed our armor plates, I would wish to know what value you put on them."

  For a fleeting instant, Montar's brows contracted. Then her face split by a grin that could rival a plasma cannon for lethality.

  "Why," she said, "I was about to offer you three hundred kilos a piece for them, but for form's and honesty's sake, I will state that they'd be worth three hundred and twenty kilos on the open market."

  Vice Marshal Trimen opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, barely hiding a smile.

  "For form's and honesty's sake," he said, "Trader Montar, do you stand by your assay?"

  "I do," said Montar, still grinning.

  "The Huragian Corporation will not be pleased," Trimen said.

  "To the void with the Huragians," Montar replied, and cut her transmission.

  Trimen fiddled with his com, and the secure channel mark flashed onto mine. No one but the marshal and myself would hear our next words.

  "Well, son, that was an inspiring play," he said. "I will personally stand as intermediary in your trade, so that should be safe. But I would advise you to leave Rimont and not return. The Huragians' got long memories."

  "So does Montar, it would seem," I said.

  The marshal laughed at that.