The smell of solvent burned Jean's nostrils before she even crossed the threshold of the large hangar. She exhaled, leaning for a moment against the cold wall, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness. She'd arrived on K-7 only a few hours ago and had already been through at least ten workshops, warehouses, and resellers. Everyone either claimed they didn't have the parts she needed, or worse, they tried to sell her something that would never work.
Same script, she thought. K-7 was a station full of scrap and smooth-talking liars, a hive where repairs and scams ran in parallel.
Another dick in front of a tavern tried to fuck her over for some components. Typical.
If she hadn't been clutching that list of components to recover, she'd have turned around and headed back to Vala already.
The bag of parts she'd bought a little earlier weighed on her right arm. Small mechanical pieces, universal seals, a couple of conductors. Nothing special, but enough to remind her why she was here: every component could be the difference between a job delivered and a customer dissatisfied. And every delay meant the Tide had another excuse to tighten.
Dad… she murmured silently, touching her scarf.
She took the less-lit path down the corridor, slipping between rows of crates and cargo waiting to be loaded. Voices blended with engine hum and the low murmur of machinery. At one point, as she skirted a pile of scorched conductors, her eye caught on a seal. It was fastened to a large container resting on a cart. An electronic seal, like the ones her father used to log shipments, but Jean immediately noticed something was off. The microfractal along the lower strip wasn't the classic needle's-eye threading of official seals; it was more irregular, almost web-like.
Someone without a trained eye would have gotten no difference out of it. Not her, though.
It's fake, she thought. Cheap remarks.
Jean eased back. Fake seals. No registry. There's something here that isn't meant to be seen. She knew how to spot contraband better than her father liked to admit. Working in the transport business, she'd learned the differences between legal cargo and cargo that traveled on forged stamps. She'd never tampered with them, but she'd studied them because the Tide had tried to push the cheap ones onto them. Jean took another step back, her gaze locked on the crates. These people are about to move something they don't want seen. And if I know it, I have leverage.
She kept moving, careful not to draw attention. Then she caught the outline of a ship docked on one of the side piers. It wasn't a high-end ship, but it wasn't a rust-bucket either. It looked fast, with a sharp nose and engines dust-caked and scarred. The side hatch sat half-open, and two mechanics were hauling out burned replacement parts. Jean saw the crates with the fake seals stacked nearby. The cargo is for them. She tried to memorize the shuttle's color, the faded mark on its flank, the scars from old impacts. If I'm going to use this as leverage, I need the details.
Voices drifted from behind a counter. She stepped toward the rusted hatch that opened into the main workshop. Voices drifted from inside, occasionally drowned by the clang of hammers on metal. She caught a low, rough tone, someone listing damage like a litany: "…collector shot, conductors fused, exhaust compromised. It's a miracle you made it here in one piece, boys. Seventy thousand." Then a short laugh and an ironic jab: "Seventy thousand? Friend, for that price I can buy an engine outright!" Jean tilted her head. It's one of the owners of the cargo, for sure. But wait, seventy thousand? It's a robbery.
Jean's stomach tightened, but she didn't step in. Not yet.
As she listened, Jean worked the new information over and over. If I know they're hauling contraband, can I blackmail them? No. That's not how this works.
But an idea began to form.
She leaned in and peered inside without being seen.
Wait for the right moment. She couldn't come in swinging; she had to let the mechanic's number hang there until it sounded absurd to everyone.
"Forty," another voice cut in, more rough and pissed off. The smuggler's companion, probably.
"Seventy."
"Man, the fuck, you didn't even lower it!"
"It's not a negotiation," the mechanic replied, firm.
The workshop had been carved out of a secondary hangar. The walls were cracked and patched with ugly welds; shelves overflowing with rusted parts formed a maze around a central counter buried under tools. The mechanic, a sturdy man with a beard smeared with grease and a cybernetic eye that blinked with a yellowish glow, gestured with blackened hands.
Across from him stood two men. A tan and ochre-haired one, barely over twenty, she guessed, was restless, laughing under his breath; and a pale, silver-haired one, with a whole bunch of scars on his face, staying quiet and clearly irritated.
They were negotiating with the mechanic like it was the most natural thing in the world. Jean edged closer, still outside their line of sight. The mechanic looked like he was enjoying himself. A stage, exactly. "Seventy," he repeated, slapping an oily palm on the counter as if his words were law.
Now.
"Thirty-five," she said, loud and clear.
Her own words startled her. The sound bounced off the metal walls and everyone turned to look. The mechanic stared at her, irritated. The ochre-haired boy's eyes went wide, his grin still half there. He nudged the scarred guy, who lifted a thick eyebrow as if asking, "what now?"
Her heartbeat kicked up hard, and she forced herself not to look away.
There. You opened your mouth, dumbass. No going back now.
She tightened her grip on the bag. "Third-gen universal collector, used but tested. It's worth thirty-five thousand pods. And you know it," she said, pointing at the part the mechanic was trying to sell. Her voice didn't betray uncertainty, even if inside, a cold shiver ran up her spine.
What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing?
The mechanic slammed his hand down and laced his fingers, staring her down. His cybernetic eye emitted a nearly inaudible beep. "Not your business, lady," he growled.
Jean didn't drop her gaze. "Except it is," she shot back. "My dad runs a transport company in Vala. I see dozens like you, pumping prices on anyone who doesn't have a choice." A flash of irritation crossed the mechanic's face.
The ochre-haired boy burst out laughing. "Well, look who it is!" he barked, elbowing his companion. "Told you, Law, 'not yet.'"
The scarred man grunted in response. "Girl, you lost or something?" he said flatly.
Jean felt the sting in her chest, and turned it into sarcasm. "Hey, relax. I'm not trying to join your dinner. But if you don't want to pay double for nothing, you should hear me out," she replied, locking her gaze on the mechanic with the steady determination of someone sick of watching others profit off her skin.
The mechanic shrugged, wrinkling his nose. "Fine. Fine. Thirty-five thousand. But you take it as-is. No warranty."
Jean lifted her chin a fraction. "Obviously," she said, satisfied.
While the mechanic muttered curses and started digging through shelves again, ocher nudged his companion again. "Told you this place was full of surprises."
Law didn't answer. His eyes stayed on Jean. No hostility, but no warmth either, just observation, like he was calculating how much trouble she could become.
"I'm Amarel, what's your name?" The other one asked, openly curious.
"Jean. Viridis," she said without hesitation.
At that moment Jean didn't know if she'd made a mistake. Giving a name to two strangers who dealt in unregistered parts was risky. But saying it felt like a declaration: I'm here. I exist. I'm not just haggling collectors, I want something bigger.
"And before you ask: no, I'm not standing around watching while you make deals," she added. "I want a place."
"What?"
What?
Their expressions shifted. Amarel's grin cracked wider, entertained.
Law raised an eyebrow. "A place? On this ship? Bitch, what are you talking about?"
Jean crossed her arms, the bag of parts braced against her hip. "Not on public transport, no. On this. You need someone who knows routes, markets, and how not to get fleeced by every station shopkeeper."
She said it with a confidence that surprised even her.
Maybe I'm overselling, she thought, but if I don't sell myself now, when?
Law looked like he swallowed a grimace. "Uh… we got shit to do," he muttered.
Jean didn't flinch. "Shit to do?" she echoed, tilting her head with fake innocence.
"Business."
"What kind of business?"
"The 'not your fucking' business," Law snapped, brows knitting.
Jean wondered if she'd crossed a line. But if she didn't push, the opportunity would slide away, and she'd go back to counting cracks in the wall while the Tide choked them. She couldn't. So she took the risk.
"Fair, fair."
Jean turned and pointed at the battered shuttle parked nearby. Its side hatch was half-open, left that way while the mechanic unloaded parts.
"That's yours, right? I'm just trying to help."
Then, before either of them could stop her, she slipped through the hatch.
She heard Law follow immediately; his steps were loud, marked by the weight of metal. "Yo! Fuck you doing?!" he barked, sharp.
But Jean was already beside one of the crates in the hold. The smell of warm metal and suspended dust brought back nights spent cataloging parts with Dad. She ran her fingers over the electronic seal from before. A micro-fractal on the edge, an imperfect imitation.
"You know this mark is fake, right?" she said without turning around. A flicker of pride cut through her. Finally, something useful. "It didn't come from a registered depot."
Amarel froze. Law stopped two steps from her, close enough that Jean could feel his breath.
"Where do you think you're looking?" he asked, his tone darker now.
Jean faced him. Up close, she could see the scars, the diagonal cut through his left eyebrow, the horizontal line across his forehead. And suddenly she understood: not just a smuggler. Someone who'd seen war, or at least violence.
"Oh, nowhere," she said. "Just that my father runs a transport company. I can spot these seals with my eyes closed." She traced the edge with her thumb. "You're carrying contraband."
Her fingers trembled a fraction. What am I doing? she thought. I'm stepping into something dangerous.
The answer came instantly: I have no other choice. Dad was under siege. Every delay was a problem. Every extra payment meant less food on their table. If she didn't risk anything, nothing would change. And staying still had become unbearable.
"You're carrying contraband," she repeated.
"Yeah," Law said. "I heard you. And what does that change?"
She straightened, brushing dust from her jacket and her scarf. "It changes how we talk, that's all. If I pretend it's nothing, you say 'thanks' and that's it. If I don't pretend… then we talk."
"Interesting definition of 'negotiate,'" Amarel commented, still amused.
Jean looked at him once, then back at Law. "I'm not interested in ruining my life by handing you to inspectors. I don't need that. But I'm also not going to let the chance slip out from under my nose."
A heavy silence settled. Station noise seeped in like a steady pulse: hammers striking, carts rattling, an announcement looping a timetable through a damaged speaker. Time slowed.
Jean felt Law's stare like a drill trying to reach her thoughts. If you say no, I'll walk away. But I'll walk back into the same room where the Tide suffocates us. I can't.
She looked down on him, as he was a bit shorter than her. He noticed that as well, and grunted. "Fuck you."
"Hey…" Amarel scolded him, then turned back to her. "A chance for what?"
So she told him. About her father. About Orval. About their small company, Viridis Starways.
"We're stabilized in Vala."
"Vala, First Quadrant… ah. The Tide."
The Tide. It wasn't an organization in and of itself, at least not on paper. It was part of House N'Vely's Second Circle.
The name had… various meanings.
Jean nodded. "The Tide. At first it was protection. Two men at the office, a handshake, a stamp on the card. 'No trouble with customs, no surprise inspections.' A tax, sure. But we were small: paying meant breathing. Then came the 'adjustments.'"
She kept going, on how it began at five percent, then ten, then fifteen. How they were forced to use the Tide's depots and warehouses, paying for every "service." Every word came out like a stone thrown at glass.
She told them about her sister's dog found asleep in the trunk, a message they knew she'd understand.
About fuel tanks punctured overnight. Each sentence was a shard of pain she'd held for years.
As she spoke, Jean watched Amarel's expression shift, less playful, more attentive. His head tilted as if he wanted to catch every detail. Law kept weighing her words, careful and suspicious.
"Dad held on," she said, voice trembling. "He kept saying we'd recover the contracts. That we wouldn't cave on price." Her smile turned bitter. "That's what a decent man says. They don't think like that."
Law listened without interrupting. Then, at one point, he asked: "You got proof?"
The question was crisp, direct.
Jean nodded. She reached into the side pocket of her jacket, pulled out a battered little datapad, and handed it over. "Names. Routes. Time windows. I listen, I watch. I ask questions while I buy parts. And I've got a friend who works at the upper-port weigh station. She doesn't ask, but she sees everything."
She said it with a strange, fierce pride. After years of trying to stay out of those circles, she was using what she knew to protect her father.
Law took the device with both hands, organic and synth, and scrolled quickly. Every mark on that datapad was the trace of a conversation, a time noted in passing, a name whispered.
"You're putting her in danger," Law remarked at one point.
"They're putting her in danger," Jean answered.
Amarel tilted his head, as if saying "good point".
The sentence steadied her. It was the line she'd repeated every night while imagining how to cut the noose. Now it had finally left her head.
Law gave a barely perceptible nod and glanced at Amarel with an unexpected hint of a smile. "Shit, seems she knows her way."
"Just a few strikes," she insisted. "Enough to get me and Dad out of that crap."
Amarel smirked. "Okay. Listen. Once we unload the stuff we have right now, there's a really important job we need to carry out. I'm not sure whether the employer would be happy with a plus one. But let's say, and I mean let's say, we take you on board. What do you do, right now, that earns the spot?"
A challenge.
Jean didn't need long. She opened her bag and pulled out a roll of transparent film and a device the size of a book, its display flickering. She held them up as proof she wasn't bluffing.
"I make sure no one touches your stuff," she said, unrolling the film. "Inverse-weave film. Over a seal, it duplicates the codes. With the cold matrix, I add a second layer: a 'released and verified' stamp. Result? For thirty hours this crate is invisible. Anyone who scans it reads it as already checked."
Her fingers moved fast as the weave shimmered under the light.
Amarel stared, halfway between impressed and fascinated.
"Fifteen minutes," Law said, sharp. "Not one more."
Jean nodded. "Fifteen. And we leave the cargo on the ship. If we want out of this station without problems, it's the only way."
She crouched and started working. Wrapped the film around the false seal with care, letting her hands follow the weave the way she'd learned during long evenings in Vala. Calibrated the matrix. Regular beeps filled the hold. Each beep was a second passing; each green chirp was confirmation.
Focus, she told herself. This is your chance.
Law stayed at the hatch, watchful. His presence sat heavy on Jean's back. Amarel watched like it was entertainment.
When the display turned blue and then went dark, Jean wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. "Done," she said, standing. "Now it's just boring luggage. For thirty hours."
Amarel whistled. "Just enough time to go and come back."
Law nodded once, brief. "Then we move."
And in that moment Jean understood: they'd accepted—if not all of her, then at least the idea of giving her a shot.
"Just a few strikes," she repeated.
"Yeah, yeah, I heard you."
–
They were at K-7's shuttlebus terminal an hour later. Hundreds of travelers pushed crates, cages, suitcases. Miners slept on rusted seats; merchants clutched bags as if they held treasure; a preacher muttered incomprehensible words in a broken language. The air was thick with spice and fuel, a mix that made the tip of Jean's nose tingle.
Line 6 to Alay waited at the eastern corridor: an old, peeling cylinder with scratched portholes and narrow seats. Its luminous text blinked: "Departure: 1910."
Amarel laughed out loud. "And here's our steed," he said, like he'd read her mind. "See, Law? You were right!"
Law grunted.
Jean shook her head. "I took a better look at your shuttle… it's totally busted. What the hell did you do to it?"
Amarel stared at Law, barely holding back a grin. "You know never letting you near a cockpit again, right?"
"Fuck you."
They boarded the shuttlebus. Inside, the air was thick with sweat and filters that had never been replaced. Jean hugged her bag to her knees and took the window seat, staring out. Station lights slid past slowly; tired neon flickered.
In the distance she could see their old shuttle, a dark silhouette among dozens of others. A preacher in the corner kept whispering broken phrases; an elderly woman stroked a cage holding a colorful bird that chirped nervously. The motor's rhythm vibrated through the floor into Jean's feet.
Amarel dropped into the seat beside her, still entertained by the absurdity. "Hope Snow doesn't take too long. Law, check the site for someone who'll buy the goods when we get back."
"Yeah."
Jean kept watching the station slide away, smiling to herself. Her legs trembled slightly, and she forced them still.
If it all went wrong, at least she'd tried.
I'm not running, she told herself, closing her eyes for a moment.
And she felt a new determination mix into the fear.
Law sat across from her, rigid. Amarel drummed his fingers on the seat and hummed something under his breath. Jean wondered how long they'd been together, how they'd met.
She looked at the bluish horizon beyond the scratched portholes. The image of the office light left on in Vala flashed in her mind.
Dad's probably closing the warehouse now, she thought. Does he know where I am?
The bus vibrated, peeled away from the dock with a metallic groan. A crackling voice announced departure.
Jean let the vibration climb from her soles into her legs. She felt adrenaline melt into a smile she didn't want to show.
Thirty hours.
She didn't know what waited in Alay, what Snow's operation actually was, but for the first time she felt she'd made a decision. Even without knowing the outcome, she knew she hadn't accepted someone else's choices.
It's done, she thought. No going back.