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Reward for delivery in good health: At petitioner’s discretion

At petitioner’s discretion was code for the favor Sjer wanted.

I turned my attention to the single image provided of our target.

At a glance, it had been taken in a crowd on what appeared to be a space station, though there were few clues as to which one. The target was indeed a human female. Not that I could see much of her given the quality and angle of the image, which had only captured her from the chest up, but her species was obvious just from her face. I expanded the image to take up the entire monitor screen.

In this clandestine image, Keela wore a black hooded cloak over what looked like a dark-colored flight suit—a common sight aboard stations. A few wisps of red hair had escaped intricate braids to frame her face, and her eyes were a startling shade of green. She was staring straight ahead, a slight twitch on her lips that might have been a hint of a smirk. I wanted to bite that plush lower lip and I had no idea why.

I stared at the image like it held answers to questions I hadn’t even asked yet.

According to my wristcomm, the Fancy was three and a half hours from Ghira Station. That was simultaneously not nearly enough time and an eternity.

I did not want to drag this female aboard the Fancy and deliver her to be tortured to death on…what planet had Sjer mentioned? Forval IX?

But given the demands of both my handler and my captain, what the hells other choice did I have?

CHAPTER 3

KEELA

Even in a packed and dimly lit bar, the Kurutan was easy to spot. That was one benefit of meeting someone who weighed nearly a tonne.

This bar’s name translated roughly from Beltraxian to Alliance Standard as Final Chance, though according to my translator the words in the original language carried a much-heavier connotation of doom. The name might reference its location at the far end of Ghira Station’s three-level promenade, or that its patrons might not be welcome at one of the station’s more reputable establishments. Or maybe the owner had ended up on this station after a run of bad luck. In any case, Final Chance was the kind of place where I tended to conduct business, so in a way I felt right at home.

My contact was sitting in a booth near the back, one designed for beings of Kurutan size and body type. Their enormous, multi-segmented, insectoid body rested on a padded seat designed so their jointed legs could fold and rest beneath them comfortably. A sizable bottle of green liquid sat on the table in front of them, clasped in one clawed hand. A tube as big around as my thumb ran from the bottle into their fanged mouth.

My entire body was so rigid that I ached from my clenched jaw to my stiff toes.

This is nothing, I reminded myself. This will be a dead end, just like all the other leads you’ve chased across the galaxy.

I couldn’t allow myself to hope. Even the smallest shred of optimism just made the pain so much worse when disappointment came—and it always came. Ten years of searching had led to nothing.

Sometimes I wanted to cancel every request for information I’d placed at intersector relays and comm sites and never post another one, but every time I started to take down the notices, my hand started shaking and I couldn’t go through with it.

And whenever I got a response to a posting, which wasn’t often—just twice this past standard year—I had to reply.

So here I was on another station, in another bar, with another mysterious contact who wanted to sell me information, because I couldn’t help myself. Because I had to keep trying.

Both of the Kurutan’s eyes, which were on long stalks, followed my movements as I approached the booth and dropped onto the matching bench on the other side of the table. Both were too tall for a human, but I didn’t let it bother me.

I studied the Kurutan from under my hood as they took a long drink from the tube. Judging by the way their eye stalks were wavering, this wasn’t their first bottle. “N’vera?” I asked.

They inclined their head and made a clicking sound. “You are Asta Irclion.”

I always posted the notices as Asta of Ganai, one of many alternative identities I maintained. After my near-miss at Daventi Station a standard month ago and finding out I had a bounty on my head, it was more important than ever for me not to show up anywhere as Keela Wren, red-haired human pilot of the Nivilus.

Instead, today I was dark-haired, brown-eyed Asta, pilot of the Stardust Flyer, with comm codes, Alliance identification, and ship’s registry to match.

“You can speak in your native language,” I said, indicating my right ear. “I have a translator.”

N’vera replied in a rapid series of clicks that my translator converted to Standard. “Much gratitude for meeting in my language, Asta Irclion. I have information you want. You have payment?”

I barked out a laugh. “Right to the point, I see.”

Which was fine. I didn’t want to stay on Ghira Station any longer than I had to. We were two sectors from Daventi Station, both my ship and I were disguised, and not a single soul had given me anything more than a passing glance, but the back of my neck had been prickling since I’d docked.

“I have payment ready,” I said. “But you know how this works. I need something I can verify before I pay you a single credit. So talk.”