“That’s him, huh?”

  The wide man doesn’t respond.

  “I was told he might be able to help me. I need to find a ship.”

  The wide man has stopped looking at Nixon. He is watching the people on the landing. A crowd of three Snapsit women had just finished the climb up the stairs. They are paying no mind to Nixon’s new friend, but he is paying them all of his.

  And then Nixon says what must have been the magic word. He mentions the name of the Snapsit woman back at the bar. Suddenly, his voice is audible again. His friend turns back to him. “Who did you say?”

  He repeats it.

  The man puts up a meaty hand and knocks on the door. It sounds thick, made of the same stuff as the bay doors.

  All the noise coming from behind the door stops. A moment later a woman opens it. The wide man turns and looks past her to the man sprawled on the couch. He starts speaking in Snapsit.

  They exchange a few words then Keet looks at the woman and wags a finger toward the door. She spits a few words at him in Snapsit then goes, glaring at Nixon as she passes.

  Keet looks at Nixon after she’s gone. “Come in.”

  Keet sits himself up on the couch. He’s shaped like most other Snapsits, tall and lean. But he doesn’t look like most others. Scars run diagonal across his face, making him look almost like an animal.

  “So how do you know my cousin?”

  “She didn’t tell me she was your cousin.”

  “My cousin. My bar. And if she sent you here then you must have made an impression.”

  Keet gestures for Nixon to sit in the chair that’s angled toward the couch. “I think it’s more pity than anything else.”

  “Knowing her …” Keet doesn’t finish his sentence. “What can I help you with?”

  “I need a ship.”

  “And she sent you to me? That’s a pretty big request.”

  Keet leans back into the couch and tips his head to the ceiling. He folds his hands together, thin fingers interweaving themselves in a complicated pattern that steals a moment of Nixon’s focus.

  “Honestly, I don’t know who you are,” Nixon says. “I’m in a spot. She said you could help. I came.”

  Keet continues to look to the ceiling.

  “I can help,” he says and then pauses. He looks back to Nixon. “But can you pay for a new ship?”

  “I have an old ship to give in trade.”

  Keet laughs that bouncy laugh Nixon heard through the door. It’s deeper on this side, coming from his toes.

  “That’s funny.” He gestures Nixon out of the room. “You can go.”

  “This is serious. I need a new ship.”

  Nixon’s mind starts playing out all of the scenarios it can conjure up. Future battles where EHL is dipping and diving away from trailing ships piloted by bounty hunters looking to turn Nixon into space debris. They are all playing out at the same time, so Nixon is seeing dozens of these fights taking place all at once. Some end in wins, the other ships exploding in fantastic balls of blue light. Most, though, don’t end that way. Most conclude with the bright white flash of a ship exploding all around him and then everything going black.

  “You think I’m not serious?” Keet asks. “I don’t have a ship to sell you, but I know people. That’s why my cousin sent you here. She knows I can help you find someone who will sell you a ship. I go to them and tell them I have someone who wants to swap ships with them, like they are kids playing in the dirt and trading toys, they’ll never talk to me again. That can’t happen. So if that’s all you have then there’s nothing I can do for you.”

  He gestures Nixon out of the room again with the wave of a couple of fingers. Nixon hears the door open behind him and the broad man steps into the room. Nixon’s mind starts working again. He’s mentally walking through the ship, looking for anything of value, and it takes only seconds to get to the only thing he has that anyone else would want. He blurts it out.

  “Fuel rods,” he says. The broad man hooks a hand under Nixon’s arm and lifts him from the chair. “I’ve got fuel rods.”

  Keet looks back up at him and holds up a hand, palm out, telling the broad man to wait.

  “What?”

  “I’ve got fuel rods.”

  “OK. That’s something. Not much, really, but it’s a place to start. Unless, they’re …”

  Nixon interrupts. “They’re Bastic fuel rods.”

  “Put him down. Now we can talk.”

  09

  The conversation didn’t take long, but Nixon didn’t expect it to. Mentioning Bastic fuel rods is like hitting fast forward. Keet’s eyes got wide when Nixon told him he had some. They got wider still when he told him that he had more than just a few. It was a lie. Nixon only had the five, but that didn’t feel like enough of a stash to keep Keet’s interest. So five became a handful. And when Keet pressed, that handful became a case.

  Once Nixon says he has a case Keet is eager, ready to start arranging a meeting with the gentleman he knows. So they quickly head out into the night. Back down the stairs. Back through the crowd and the bay doors. Back past the man still working the grill. Smoke disappears into the dark sky. The scent of the meat reminds Nixon how hungry he is, and the prospect of a meal that isn’t rehydrated nearly causes Nixon’s stomach to stop him dead there so he can shove sloppy fistfuls of meat in his mouth, grease slicking his hands, covering his cheeks, and dripping from his chin.

  But they don’t stop. He follows Keet past the stragglers standing at the edge of the crowd and out into the dark and empty streets.

  Keet hasn’t said much. He’s mostly been typing into his datapad, sending messages back and forth with whoever it is they were going to meet, Nixon assumes.

  The glow of the screen makes everything else around them seem extra dark, and Nixon keeps close to Keet. They turn a couple of corners, enough for Nixon to lose track of where they are. And without being able to clearly see any kind of landmarks, he realizes how bad of an idea this is. He doesn’t know Keet. This guy clearly has some level of influence, and it doesn’t seem like he uses it for the better. He could be walking him into some kind of ambush. Leading him into some dark alley with a team of more broad men waiting to lay into Nixon. Beat him into submission, get him to take them back to his ship, then lay into him again when that case of fuel rods isn’t there waiting for them.

  Keet puts his data pad in his pocket, and a few moments later Nixon’s eyes have adjusted to the dark. He still can’t see well, but he can see better. They walk in quiet for a few minutes more when Nixon speaks.

  “I need you to do something for me,” he says.

  “I think I’m already doing something for you.”

  Nixon gives that statement a nod that Keet can’t see.

  “I need you to do something that’s not going to have a lot of payback for you.”

  “I’m not really in the business of doing things that don’t benefit me.”

  Nixon nods again and says “I need you to let me lead these discussions. Introduce me to your friend then let me do the talking.”

  Keet is quiet for a moment, the only noise is their breathing and the grinding of small gravel beneath their feet.

  “So I say ‘This is …’. What’s your name?”

  “Trevor.”

  “ ‘This is Trevor’ and then you want me to back away. Not knowing anything about this guy, who he is, or what he’s done. Just leave everything up to you.”

  “Didn’t think this would be a difficult concept, but yes. That’s what I’m asking.”

  Keet has walked them back toward the downtown section of Ibilia where the lights are still shining bright and, from Nixon’s experience, they probably will burn like that all night. They cast a glow over everything a couple of blocks this side of the arches.

  Keet points to a tall building only a couple of windows wide. It shoots above all of the other squat buildings, like a weed stretching to the suns.

  “Top floor.” Keet says, then leads the way down a narrow alley to a working door that opens to a small landing. It’s lit by a pair of small lights mounted in the ceiling, and it takes a moment for Keet and Trevor’s eyes to adjust to the sudden addition of direct light.

  Nixon follows Keet up the stairs, staying a step or two behind. They get to the landing for the fifth floor, and Keet knocks twice on the door across from the top of the stairs.

  There’s a moment where Nixon wonders what he’s asked to be brought into. There’s nothing happening behind the door. Keet knocks again, and Nixon begins to fear again that this is all some kind of ruse, a scheme to take a sucker for whatever they have. It’s the kind of thing that he and Shaine would have tried to pull off in a previous life.

  Previous life? No, not for him. Earlier life, maybe. Previous for Shaine. But here Nixon was stuck in the same life. The same schemes being pulled, but he’s on the rube end of them this time. Some sucker that looks like an easy mark.

  Keet looks at Nixon and shrugs with his eyes, “I don’t know what’s going on.” He knocks on the door a third time, and a moment later a voice comes from the other side. Locks disengage, clicking open. A Snapsit woman opens the door.

  She sees Keet and her eyes narrow. He says something to her in Snapsit and she barks something back, anger dripping off every word. Nixon doesn’t understand a thing either of them say, but he can tell that none of it’s good. They trade barbs, voices raising. Nixon watches the other doors in the hall, waiting for one of them to crack open and a set of curious eyes to peer out from inside.

  Then there’s another voice from the other side of the door. It’s bigger, louder than either Keet or this woman. Both of them stop arguing, and Nixon can hear footsteps approaching. The woman looks over her shoulder into the darkness behind her then steps away from the door.

  Taking her place is a Snapsit man that is bigger and broader than any Snapsit Nixon has ever seen. He fills the door frame from edge to edge.

  He starts talking to Keet, and Keet responds. His head is lowered. His voice more hushed, almost contrite.

  After a couple moments conversation, the man turns to Nixon. “He says you have a ship you’re looking to unload.”

  Nixon nods. “And I’d like to also acquire one.”

  “We might be able to work something out.” He steps to the side and gives Keet and Nixon enough room to pass through the door. “Come inside. Let’s talk.”

  Keet keeps his word. He lets Nixon lead.

  The man introduces himself as Marko and tells Nixon to take a seat. There’s a wide chair set against the wall diagonal from the door. Two other smaller chairs sit across from it. A table, long and low, sits in between.

  Marko, after everyone is seated: “What kind of ship are you looking at?”

  “I’m not particular. I’d love something fast. Nimble.”

  Marko listens and nods along, like he’s doing a mental inventory of the ships he has access to.

  “And how much do you have to spend?”

  “I want a one-for-one trade.”

  Marko fails to stifle a laugh.

  “I’m serious,” Nixon says. “I have a ship. Good condition. Engines have been recently tuned up. Did it myself. It’s a good ship. You’ll be able to get something for it.”

  “That’s not how this works.”

  Nixon knows that. He knows no one is looking to break even. No legit businessman will make this deal. But he’s banking on the illegitimacy of Marko’s business to make it work.

  “Tell me more about your ship,” Marko says.

  Nixon begins describing EHL. He talks about her speed. He talks about her agility. Her internal intelligence. Her cargo holds. He spins up enough of a tale that for a brief moment he thinks he might be better off hanging onto her and taking his chances.

  Marko nods along then stands. Nixon and Keet do too.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Marko says and pulls his datapad from his pocket as he begins walking toward the door. “Pull out your datapad.”

  Nixon does and hands it to Marko. Marko taps his own device and gestures his way to a screen Nixon can’t see. Marko places the devices back to back. He holds them there a moment until there’s a chirp that fills the room. He hands Nixon back his device. Nixon looks at the screen.

  “Come to that address in the morning and we can talk. You can look at what I have. I can look at your ship. We’ll see if we can’t work something out.”

  Nixon and Keet step back through the door. Marko says something to Keet in Snapsit and Keet nods.

  “See you in the morning,” Marko says and closes the door.

  10

  Nixon heads back to his ship just as the first of Ibilia’s suns is starting to show signs of waking. He watches the glow on the horizon grow as he walks back past the bar and then back through the arch that leads him back into Ibilia’s business center.

  The streets aren’t crowded, but they will be soon. For now, it is all young and eager businessmen hoping that the boss seeing them already at their desks when they arrive at the office will count for something down the road.

  Tychon hasn’t gotten it’s claws fully into Ibilia, but it’s creeping shadow is starting to loom. Nixon counts a half dozen bisected Ts just in the few blocks since he’s passed back through the arch. He counts a half dozen more by the time he gets back to his ship.

  He steps off the elevator and back onto the roof where he’d left EHL. She is still there, light from the first sun bouncing off the metal of her engines and highlighting the seams that Nixon had to fix. The dull putty he used was supposed to blend in imperceptibly with the original surface. That was the promise on the canister. The canister lied.

  He punches his access code into the panel near the ramp then steps back. The ramp unfolds, and Nixon steps on and looks around, taking a version of the tour he gave himself just after he left Exte. He gathers things as he goes.

  On the main deck he grabs the card Mira gave him that night when she gifted him the ship. He grabs the case, of course.

  In the mess, he quickly rinses a pair of mugs he used the last two days and throws them into the cabinet like they are actually clean. He wipes down the small counter top and the sink.

  In the crew quarters he grabs, well, nothing. He’s only slept in here, so he runs a hand across the thin mattress that was his bed. He smooths the wrinkles out then looks to the closet. It’s empty. He only has one set of clothes. Something new to wear has to be the next on his list of things to acquire.

  He moves back to the main deck. He brushes some sand still left from Umel out of the ramp and then seals the ship back up.

  “Take us up and head us west,” he tells EHL.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Up and west.”

  The ship lifts from the roof and Nixon looks back to the ground. It’s more crowded now. The city is waking. EHL quickly finds the traffic lanes and forces its way into the flow.

  “Where are we headed, sir?”

  “West.”

  That’s all Marko told him the night before as he and Keet left. He shouted the directions back down the stairs.

  “Just west?” Nixon asked Keet.

  Keet nodded. “Yeah,” he said as they got back to the street. “You’ll see it. Trust me.”

  They fly out of the main business district, but there is still plenty of city below them. It’s all old Ibilia, like where he’d spent his day yesterday—mismatched and makeshift.

  Then, even farther west, that disappears into a mess of mining operations. There’s no order to most of it, just rigs working to pull and haul ore from under the surface of Ibilia. It’s all dotted with the large and professional looking rigs of Tychon. The company is coming.

  Then, past all of that, Nixon sees it. It’s a field of busted ships lined up in neat rows and ship parts gathered in tall piles. It is a ship junkyard, and it spreads on seemingly forever. The smaller ships, the little personal crafts that let you hop around a planet, are all at the front of the yard.

  EHL begins to drop down out of the traffic lanes, but Nixon stops her.

  “Higher,” he said. “Let’s get a good look at the place. And get me an external camera shot of what’s below us.”

  The ship climbs higher and Nixon gets a better idea of the size of the yard. There are a dozen rows of those small ships. Then after those are the small haulers, a couple of dozen rows of ships that were like EHL. And beyond that is the big stuff, the military-class haulers that can carry a battalion of troops and all their gear.

 

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