‘Uh, no,’ Sawyer said. He ducked, avoiding a low string of festival flags stretched across a doorway. The internal structure of the Silver Lining was as standard as the outside suggested, but it was crammed to the gills with crates, boxes, and barrels, sealed and stamped with the same multilingual export permits you’d find on any goods that had to cross a territory or two. On top of that, this ship was unmistakably a home, with all the weird decor and knick-knacks that implied. There were pixel posters of musical acts he’d never heard of, globulb strands wrapped around doorways, failing herbs planted in old snack tins and struggling up toward a grow lamp. It wasn’t a mess, exactly, but it was a lot. ‘What do you guys trade in?’

‘Oh, a little of this, a little of that. We’re not picky. If it’ll fetch good creds, we’ll haul it.’ He rounded a corner, and ran smack into the tallest, burliest woman Sawyer had ever seen.

Whoa, Sawyer thought. Was this the boss? Was this who he’d have to impress?

‘Whoops!’ Oates said with a laugh. ‘Sorry about that, Dory.’

Dory squinted wordlessly at him with her one organic eye. The plex lens in the other audibly clicked into focus. Her head was only about a hand’s length away from the ceiling, and her broad arms looked as though they resented what short amount of sleeve they’d had to push themselves through. Sawyer waited for her to smile, to offer her own cheerful apology, to do something resembling friendly Human behaviour. But no, instead, she moved her eye – and only her eye – to Sawyer. The squint evolved into a full frown.

‘This is Sawyer,’ Oates said. ‘He’s here about our empty spot. Sawyer, this is Dory. She’s terrifying.’

Dory let out . . . not so much a laugh, but a short chuff. And that was it. She pushed past them and continued on her way.

‘A real bundle of sunshine,’ Oates said. ‘Come on, let’s find some better company.’ He went a short way further, and they entered a kitchen. Three people were present there, two in conversation across a table. A clean-shaven man leaned against a storage cabinet, eating a large jam cake. He, too, was broad and muscled, but something about his stature – or maybe the sticky pastry he held – made him look far more approachable than his one-eyed crewmate. He nodded congenially at Oates, then continued to watch as the other two spoke.

‘You said nine hundred last time,’ one said in a testy tone. She was around Sawyer’s age – twenty, tops, he guessed.

The other was at least twice that, and cool as rain in her reply. ‘Last time, you brought me better merchandise. Nine hundred is what you get for quality. Not for this.’ She gestured dismissively at an opened box on the table between them.

Sawyer no longer wondered who was in charge here.

‘That’s not fair,’ the girl said. ‘We made a deal.’

‘Yes, and you’re the one who isn’t delivering, Una, not me. You can either take three hundred a pop now, or come back with something better. Or find another buyer, if you really feel you’re being treated unfairly.’ Her eyes flicked over to Sawyer and Oates. ‘My next meeting is here, so I’ll let you settle this with Len.’ She gestured to the cake-eating man. ‘He’ll let me know your decision.’

The man – Len, apparently – folded the last of his pastry into his mouth, brushed the crumbs from his hands with a neat one-two, and stepped forward to escort the young woman elsewhere. The woman sulked, but she grabbed her box of . . . whatever it was, and followed.

The boss put her hands on her hips and sighed at Sawyer with the sort of knowing smile he might expect if they’d already met. ‘Business,’ she said. She waved him over. ‘You must be Sawyer.’

Sawyer approached the table. ‘And you must be the boss.’

She laughed – a rich, honest sound. ‘Muriel,’ she said. She looked to Oates. ‘I like this one already.’ She made a short tipping gesture toward her mouth as a means of request. Oates went about fetching some mugs. ‘I have to say, it’s a trip hearing that accent on this side of the galaxy. Central space, Oates said?’

‘That’s right.’ Sawyer took a seat. ‘Mushtullo.’

‘I haven’t been myself, but I have a friend who’s done business there. A bit rough, is what I heard.’

The words came across as a question. ‘A bit,’ Sawyer answered.

Muriel leaned back in her chair. ‘So. You’re here after Livia’s job.’

Sawyer was confused. ‘Sorry, I don’t—’

Oates leaned over from the counter, where he was pouring water from a kettle. ‘I don’t think I mentioned Livia.’

‘Ah,’ Muriel said. ‘Livia was – let me back up. How much has Oates already told you about this job?’

‘I know it’s a salvage job,’ Sawyer said. ‘Recovering scrap, that kind of thing.’

Muriel gave a thoughtful nod. Despite her friendly demeanor, Sawyer couldn’t help but feel that every word that left his mouth was being weighed, measured, and scored. ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘And the trick with wrecked ships is, sometimes both they and their cargo pose challenges that require a bit of code.’ She turned her palm to Sawyer, silently adding: and that’s why you’re here.

Oates handed both her and Sawyer a mug overflowing with spicy steam. ‘Thanks,’ Sawyer said, setting it down before his fingers scalded. ‘What kind of challenges?’