The converted rescue ship Prosperity's Edge docked at Grey Stone Station with the precision of a vessel that had seen better days. With it's expanded cargo bays, reinforced docking clamps, and the kind of patched hull plating that suggested owners who prioritised function over aesthetics. It was all part of the ruse. Amara had suggested it to keep their appearance at level that wouldn't draw attention.
Janet checked her appearance in the airlock's polished surface, adjusting her jacket to better conceal the compact sidearm Amara had insisted she carry. "Still feels strange, walking into a place like this unarmed would be suicide, but I hate the weight of it."
"Better to have it and not need it," Amara replied, her own weapons invisible beneath her conservative business attire. She'd chosen clothes that suggested moderate prosperity without advertising wealth. It was the kind of outfit worn by traders who were successful but not successful enough to attract unwanted attention.
Grey Stone Station sprawled across the inner surface of a hollowed-out asteroid, its corridors carved from living rock and reinforced with whatever materials had been available during construction. The architecture suggested decades of organic growth rather than planned development, with newer sections grafted onto older ones in a patchwork of engineering styles and construction standards. Its major advantage was being in a system that had not been claimed by the major powers.
"Remember," Amara said as they prepared to disembark, "we're small-time traders looking to expand operations. Modest capital, legitimate business interests, no connections to major corporate networks."
"And if anyone asks about our ship?"
"Unlikely, but if they do, just point out it's designed for salvage operations in contested space. Dangerous work, and they are wounds from battle hard won." Amara shouldered her sample case, which contained carefully selected examples of the refined materials they'd extracted from the Avalon Star. "Stick close, follow my lead, and trust your social instincts. You're better at reading people than you realise."
The moment they stepped off their ship, three men in mismatched clothing approached with the casual confidence of predators who owned their territory.
"Docking fee," the largest announced without preamble. "Standard rate is fifty credits. But you look like off-worlders, so call it a hundred."
Amara blinked with practised confusion. "I'm sorry, but I already paid the automated docking system. Here's my receipt—"
"System's been malfunctioning," the man interrupted, moving closer. "Happens a lot with ships we don't recognise. So you can pay the adjusted rate, or we can discuss alternative arrangements."
His companions flanked him with the kind of coordination that suggested this wasn't their first extortion attempt. Janet tensed, recognising the threat posture, but Amara's expression remained perfectly innocent.
"Oh my," she said, clutching her sample case closer. "I didn't realise there were additional fees. It's just that my business partner specifically budgeted for standard docking rates, and if I overspend on basic services..."
"Not our problem, lady." The leader reached for her case. "Maybe we can work out a trade for whatever you're carrying."
The moment his fingers touched the handle, Amara moved.
The strike was precise and devastating, with a palm heel to the solar plexus that folded the man in half, followed by a knee to his descending face that sent him sprawling. His companions hesitated for exactly the wrong moment, and Amara's follow-up attacks put them on the deck before they could draw weapons.
"Station security is probably corrupt," she said conversationally, adjusting her jacket as the three men groaned on the deck, "but they'll still respond to disturbance calls. We should move."
Janet stared at the unconscious forms. "I didn't know you could do that."
"Special training," Amara replied, stepping over the largest attacker. "You don't survive in military intelligence without learning to handle physical threats. Though I prefer to avoid violence when possible."
They made their way deeper into the station's commercial district, leaving the would-be extortionists to explain their injuries to whatever passed for law enforcement on Grey Stone.
"The recreation center," Amara said, consulting the station directory. "Every grey trading post has one, and it's always where the real business gets done. Alcohol loosens tongues, games reveal character, and reputation determines who prospers."
The Asteroid's Eye was exactly what they'd expected. It was a combination bar, gambling hall, and informal commodity exchange where traders gathered to share information, negotiate deals, and assess each other's reliability. The clientele ranged from obvious pirates to legitimate merchants, with most falling somewhere in the grey area between legal and criminal.
"Two Titan ales," Amara ordered at the bar, choosing drinks expensive enough to suggest disposable income without crossing into ostentation territory.
"You're new," the bartender observed, studying them with professional curiosity. "Ship trader, by the look of you. What's your specialty?"
"Salvage and refinement," Amara replied. "Dangerous work, but someone has to clean up after the various conflicts. We find things others can't reach, process them into useful materials."
"Plenty of wrecks in contested space," the bartender agreed. "Also plenty of people who don't come back from salvage runs. You must be good at what you do."
"Good enough to still be breathing," Janet added with a grin that suggested she'd seen her share of close calls.
They found seats near enough to the main gaming tables to overhear conversations but far enough away to avoid seeming intrusive. The station's social dynamics quickly became apparent. It was as Amara had said, reputation was everything, displayed through the willingness of others to do business, the respect shown by dock workers, the quality of information shared freely versus what had to be purchased. It hadn't taken Amara long to find out what she wanted to find.
"See the woman at the corner table?" Amara murmured, nodding toward a heavyset trader arguing with a colleague over cargo manifests. "Marina Volkov. Raw elements specialist, normally deals in asteroid mining rights and bulk ore shipments. But she's been losing market share to automated operations."
"Desperate enough to take risks on unproven partners?"
"Exactly. And look at her body language, she is stressed, defensive, checking financial displays every few minutes. She needs capital or connections, probably both."
They approached Volkov's table after her colleague left, Amara leading with the kind of confident professionalism that suggested serious business interests.
"Ms. Volkov? I'm Amara Okafor, an independent trader. I understand you specialise in raw materials distribution." She didn't hide her real name; it was a test to see how effective the intelligence network was in the grey markets.
Volkov looked up from her tablet with the suspicious attention of someone who'd been burned by smooth-talking strangers before. "Depends on what you're buying and how much you're spending. I don't waste time on small-scale operations."
Amara placed her sample case on the table and opened it to reveal refined metal ingots that gleamed with unusual purity. "These are from our latest salvage operation. Ninety-seven percent pure titanium-steel alloy, rare earth concentrates, and some materials I'm not entirely certain how to classify."
The trader's expression shifted immediately. She picked up one of the ingots, testing its weight and examining the crystalline structure with an expert's eye.
"This is high-grade refinement," she said slowly. "Where did you acquire materials of this quality?"
"Specialised Equipment," Janet replied. "Ships that went missing decades ago, carrying cargo that nobody else could reach. We have specialised navigation capabilities that let us access sites other operators consider impossible, and equipment to refine them to the grade you see here."
"And you're looking for what, exactly? Standard exchange rates for precious metals?"
"Information," Amara corrected. "We need fabrication equipment—3D printers, module assemblers, automated factory components. Not the kind of equipment you find on regular trading stations, but the sort that moves through grey market channels."
Volkov's eyes narrowed. "That's serious hardware you're talking about. Most is restricted technology, the kind of gear that governments prefer to control. What makes you think I'd know anything about such equipment?"
"Because you're losing market share to automated mining operations," Amara said bluntly. "Because your profit margins are shrinking as bulk ore becomes a commodity business. Because you need to diversify into higher-value services, and equipment brokering offers better returns than raw materials trading."
The accusation should have ended the conversation, but Volkov's smile suggested she appreciated directness over diplomatic dancing.
"You're well-informed," she admitted. "And you're right about the market pressures. But advanced fabrication equipment requires connections I don't have. What you're looking for... you'd need to talk to people who deal in rare resources, not bulk commodities."
She leaned forward conspiratorially. "But there is someone here who might interest you. Dmitri Kozlov, operates out of the high-security docking bay. He specialises in materials that most traders won't touch—unstable isotopes, exotic matter, things that require special handling and attract uncomfortable questions."
"And he deals in fabrication equipment?"
"He deals in whatever generates sufficient profit to justify the risks. But he's selective about his clients, and he doesn't accept standard currency. You'd need to offer something genuinely rare, something that would interest collectors or researchers."
Amara and Janet exchanged glances. They had materials from the Avalon Star that definitely qualified as rare, plus access to salvage sites that could produce items of archaeological or scientific value.
"How do we arrange an introduction?" Janet asked.
"Carefully," Volkov replied. "Kozlov has survived in the grey market for thirty years by being extremely cautious about new partnerships. But if you can demonstrate genuine capabilities..." She scribbled an access code on her tablet and transmitted it to Amara's device. "Bay 47, security level red. Tell him Marina sent you, and be prepared to prove your claims about deep salvage capabilities."
They finished their drinks and made their way through the station's increasingly secure sections, past checkpoints that scanned for weapons and contraband. They had their weapons removed early. Bay 47 was located in the asteroid's core, where the most valuable and dangerous cargo could be stored away from casual observation.
Dmitri Kozlov looked exactly like what he was, a man who'd spent decades operating at the intersection of legitimate business and criminal enterprise. His office was clean and professional, but the security measures were extensive enough to suggest he handled materials that required serious precautions.
"Marina's introduction carries weight," he said after reviewing their credentials. "But I don't deal with dreamers or small-time operators. You claim deep salvage capabilities—prove it."
Amara activated a holographic display showing their documentation of the Avalon Star operation—sensor readings, salvage manifests, refined material analyses that demonstrated their ability to locate and process resources from sites others couldn't reach.
"Impressive," Kozlov admitted. "And the materials you've shown suggest access to pre-standardisation technology. But fabrication equipment of the type you're seeking requires more than money or standard trade goods. I deal exclusively in rare resources such as materials that can't be synthesised or easily obtained through conventional channels."
He gestured to a secured display case containing items that defied easy categorisation. "Crystallised temporal distortion fields. Stable dark matter samples. Exotic particles that exist only in specific stellar environments. These are the currencies I accept."
Janet couldn't help but get giddy at looking at the artifacts, she could tell they were likely the result of some Gardener-level antics.
"And in exchange?"
"Fabrication systems that can build components impossible to create through conventional manufacturing. 3D printers that operate on quantum mechanical principles. Tools that the public doesn't have access to" His smile was sharp. "The tools necessary to turn imagination into reality, for those willing to pay the appropriate price."
Amara and Janet looked at each other, both thinking of the sealed container they'd left aboard Genesis. The mysterious artifact from the Avalon Star that Sage had warned them not to open. They didn't know what was in it, but it was only one of many possible artifacts they could trade.
They'd come to Grey Stone looking for connections and information. They'd found both, plus a potential trading partner who might provide exactly the equipment they needed.
The question was whether they were prepared to pay the price he was likely to demand.
"We'll need to discuss this with our partners," Amara said finally. "But I think we may have access to materials that would interest you."
"I look forward to that conversation," Kozlov replied. "But remember—in my business, reputation is everything. Deliver what you promise, and doors open throughout the grey market. Disappoint me, and those same doors close permanently."
As they made their way back to their ship, Janet couldn't shake the feeling that this could cause more problems than it was worth.
"Think we can trust him?" she asked as they reached the docking bay.
"Trust is the wrong word," Amara replied. "But I think we can do business with him. And right now, that may be all we need."
The grey market operated on its own rules, but those rules were at least predictable. For a team trying to build a peacekeeping fleet from salvaged materials and good intentions, predictability might be the most valuable currency of all.