Chapter 12: GLOVES AND LIMITATIONS
Four days. Enough time for Vera's report to reach Rendo Vesh. Enough time for the bounty to officially close.
I spent the first day waiting. The second day verifying—the information broker confirmed the bounty had been removed from the guild boards. The third day I slept, really slept, for the first time since transmigration.
The fourth day I went looking for a mechanic.
The Requital needed work. She'd gotten me off Nevarro and back again, but the hull had stress fractures from the rough landing, the navigation system kept drifting off calibration, and the port engine made sounds that no engine should make.
I needed someone who could fix these problems without asking questions about where the ship came from.
Rikka's network provided a name: Ugor, Besalisk, industrial sector. Reputation for quality work and flexible ethics.
His shop occupied a converted warehouse near the processing plants—three bays filled with vehicles in various states of disassembly, with a small office in the back that reeked of engine grease and stim-caf. The sign outside said UGOR'S REPAIRS in three languages.
I found the mechanic himself underneath a speeder bike, four arms working simultaneously on different components. Besalisks were massive creatures—two meters tall and nearly as wide, with leathery skin the color of dried mud. Ugor's head emerged from under the speeder when I cleared my throat.
"Yeah?"
"I need ship work. Rikka's referral."
The mechanic grunted and extracted himself from under the vehicle. All four hands were covered in grease. He wiped them on a rag that was equally filthy.
"What kind of ship?"
"Light freighter. Modified CEC design. Hull damage, nav system issues, engine problems."
"Bring her in. I'll take a look."
Two hours later, the Requital sat in Bay Three while Ugor conducted his assessment. I watched from a distance, keeping my gloves on despite the heat.
The memory of Vera's grip on my wrist was fresh. The relief of not stealing from her. But one successful test didn't prove a rule.
Maybe it was a fluke. Maybe the gloves only work sometimes.
I needed more data. But testing meant contact, and contact meant risk.
Ugor emerged from the ship's access panel, all four arms carrying different tools.
"Hull's not as bad as it looks. Patch job, probably three hours. Nav system needs a full recalibration—your gyroscope's shot. And the engine..." He made a face. "Someone ran this thing hard without proper maintenance. I can fix it, but it'll cost."
"How much?"
"Four hundred credits. Parts and labor."
I had 540 credits left. This would wipe me out.
"Three fifty."
Ugor's jowls wobbled.
"Three seventy-five."
"Three fifty. I'll help with the labor if needed."
A long pause. Then the mechanic shrugged—a complicated gesture with four shoulders.
"Three fifty. But you don't touch my tools."
"Deal."
The work took most of the day. I handed Ugor components, held panels in place while he welded, and generally made myself useful without getting in the way. The mechanic's four-armed efficiency was fascinating to watch—he could work on three different systems simultaneously while using his fourth hand to drink caf.
Imagine accidentally touching all four arms. Four random items appearing at once.
The thought made me laugh. Ugor glanced up.
"Something funny?"
"Just thinking."
"Don't think too hard. Pass me the hydrospanner."
I found the tool and handed it over. Glove to hand, no skin contact.
By evening, the Requital was in better shape than she'd been since I'd stolen her. The hull patches gleamed with fresh sealant. The navigation system held steady on three test calibrations. The engine no longer sounded like it was dying.
"Good work," I said.
Ugor grunted acknowledgment.
"Payment?"
I pulled out my credit chip. The transaction would leave me with 190 credits—enough for food and fuel, not much else.
Need to find income. Soon.
I handed Ugor the chip. He ran it through his reader, checked the amount, nodded.
Then he extended his hand.
Handshake. Professional courtesy.
I looked at his massive palm. The custom would be to grasp it, complete the transaction with a gesture of mutual respect.
The gloves worked with Vera. They should work now.
But Ugor wasn't a test. He was a business contact I might need again.
Take the hand. Prove the gloves work.
I reached out and clasped his palm.
The contact was firm, businesslike. Ugor's grip was strong—four fingers each the size of my thumb.
Don't think about stealing. Don't focus on anything specific. Just—
His welding tool appeared in my other hand.
For a long moment, neither of us moved.
The welding tool was heavy, warm from recent use. It had been on Ugor's workbench, three meters away, clearly visible. Now it was in my left hand.
Ugor's eyes went from his empty bench to the tool to my face.
"How—"
"Bad joke."
The words came out fast, automatic. My brain was scrambling for an explanation that made sense.
"I palmed it earlier. Wanted to see if you'd notice."
"You palmed it." Ugor's voice was flat. "From across the room."
"I'm good with my hands."
"Nobody's that good."
Think, Morgan. Salvage this.
"Look, I apologize. It was stupid. Here—"
I held out the tool. Ugor took it slowly, examining it like he'd never seen it before.
"How did you do that?"
"Trade secret."
"What kind of trade involves stealing tools from across a room?"
"The kind that gets people killed if they ask too many questions."
The threat was implicit. Ugor heard it. His jowls wobbled with something that might have been anger or fear.
"I don't want trouble."
"Neither do I." I pulled out another credit chip—my emergency reserve, fifty credits I'd hoped to save. "Call it payment for the inconvenience. And for your discretion."
Ugor took the chip. Checked the amount. His expression softened slightly.
"Don't come back here."
"Understood."
I left the shop quickly, not looking back.
The Requital's cockpit felt like sanctuary.
I sat in the pilot's seat and stared at my gloved hands.
Active selection bypasses the gloves.
The realization was cold and clear. Passive theft—the random, uncontrolled transfers—could be blocked by physical barriers. But active selection, the focused choice of a specific item, worked regardless.
I thought about the welding tool. I idly wondered what would happen if I took it. And the thought was enough.
The implications cascaded.
I could touch someone through gloves without triggering random theft. Good. Essential for functioning in society.
But if I focused on stealing something specific—even accidentally, even without meaning to—the gloves were useless.
Mental discipline. Every contact requires complete mental control.
I thought about the handshake with Ugor. The idle curiosity about his tools. The momentary lapse in concentration.
One stray thought and I stole from someone who'd just done me a favor.
The guilt settled into my chest. Ugor hadn't deserved that. He'd done good work for fair payment.
And I robbed him anyway.
I spent the next hour reviewing what I knew.
Passive theft: triggered by any skin contact, produces random items from the victim's possessions, blocked by gloves and presumably other physical barriers.
Active selection: triggered by focused thought during contact, produces specific items chosen by me, not blocked by gloves, requires mental discipline to suppress.
Both abilities: require contact with someone who owns items, cannot steal from yourself, transfers are instantaneous and untraceable.
The rules were clearer now. But clearer rules meant clearer limitations.
I couldn't touch anyone without maintaining perfect mental control. One moment of distraction, one idle thought about what I might take, and I'd become a thief again.
You're always a thief. The only question is whether you do it on purpose.
The dark thought coiled through my mind. I pushed it away, but it left residue.
The credits situation was critical.
I had 190 remaining—140 after paying Ugor the extra fifty. Fuel for the Requital would cost at least thirty. Food for a week, another twenty. That left ninety credits between me and starvation.
Need income. Need it fast.
I pulled up Nevarro's job boards on the ship's terminal. The options scrolled past in familiar categories:
Courier work. I'd done that already. It paid poorly and put me in contact with too many people.
Security. Standing guard, protecting cargo, watching doors. Better pay, but required proximity to employers and colleagues.
Bounty hunting. Membership in the Guild, which meant background checks I couldn't afford to face.
Asset recovery. The gray zone between security and theft. Finding things that had been lost or stolen, returning them for fees.
Asset recovery.
The concept resonated. I'd done something similar in my old life—security consulting, protecting assets before they could be threatened. This was the same work in reverse.
And my abilities gave me unique advantages. I could track ownership through stolen items. I could take back what someone else had taken.
Fight theft with theft.
The irony was almost funny.
I composed a message to Rikka's network, carefully worded to suggest expertise without revealing specifics:
Services available: Asset recovery, security consulting, discrete problem-solving. Payment negotiable. Contact through standard channels. —C.M.
The message disappeared into the network. I leaned back in my seat and waited.
The terminal chirped two hours later.
A response, routed through three different proxies. Someone local, probably, using standard security protocols.
Heard about your services. Have a problem. Payment: 500 credits if resolved. Meet at the following coordinates tomorrow, noon.
The coordinates pointed to a business in the merchant district. A legitimate address, which meant either a legitimate client or a clever trap.
Five hundred credits.
Enough to stabilize my finances. Enough to prove the concept worked.
I saved the coordinates and powered down the terminal.
Outside the viewport, Nevarro's lights flickered against the volcanic darkness. Somewhere out there, people had problems they needed solved. Somewhere out there, opportunity waited.
I'd survived the crash. Survived the hunters. Survived the revelation of my own curse.
Time to start building.
The plan was rough, but the framework was solid. Security consulting. Asset recovery. Services that paid well and kept me at arm's length from employers.
Legitimate enough to build from.
I checked my gloves one more time—secure, intact, ready. Tomorrow I'd meet a client. Tomorrow I'd start becoming someone new.
Cole Morgan. Security consultant. Asset recovery specialist.
The name still felt foreign, but it was growing roots.
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