The 24th of the Terran month of February, in the year 3815 CE, dawned early, as mornings always did on Port Havre. This morning, however, an energy filled the air. From merchant to guard to barkeep, it seemed to follow every occupant of the small space station as they went about their day.

  The Pharaon is returning!

  One occupant, in particular, felt the electricity of the words far more keenly than the rest as she went about her morning routine. Payton Ladrón practically vibrated with pent-up energy — she felt like a boiling pot of worry, excitement, and anticipation, all filled to the brim and threatening to fizz over the sides. It took her three tries to run the correct key through the scanning system before she could open the door to her father’s bar.

  She leaned her head back against the door once she stepped inside. The cool metal chilled her skin and she let it, taking three deep breaths. “Everything’s fine,” she murmured to herself. “For stars’ sake, you’d have heard if something went wrong.”

  Except…would she?

  Scolding herself for the maudlin thoughts — she was seventeen, after all, and far too young for such weariness — she started the process of beginning her day.

  One by one, chairs were pulled up from the floor. The crappy old synthetic generator hummed to life (Payton still wasn’t sure why her father had bought the damned thing. Sure, it was supposed to replace their need for a kitchen, but instead it could only generate strange blue fries that tasted like pickled Earth-fish). The bar was wiped clean, reorganized, then wiped clean again.

  Just as she had turned to the various vintage liquor dispensers propped behind her on the wall, the door swung open. “Welcome to Mercey’s,” Payton sang. She spun on her heel. “How can I-Mr. Moore,” she yelped.

  Mr. Henry Moore was a name everyone at the station knew well. A well-to-do merchant who’d made his fortune supplying both the Terran army and the Tzannic Army with food and other goods during the Bonnic Wars. He was well-liked by many at the station and even more so by those who worked under him on one of his many ships.

  Like The Pharaon.

  And he was here. In her bar. Until today, Payton would have bet her nicest boots he didn’t even know her bar existed.

  Mr. Moore acknowledged her squawk of surprise with a concealed smile. He removed his hat — a strange round and wide-rimmed thing that looked more like it belonged in a museum than on a living person — revealing a neat mop of brown hair, and cleared his throat. “Miss Ladrón,” he said jovially. “How are you?”

  Payton stammered something she hoped (but highly doubted) was intelligible. After a beat, she added, “Is everything alright, sir? With The Pharaon?” She couldn’t think of any other reason for Mr. Henry Moore to step foot in her bar. Her heart thundered in her ears.

  His smile flickered. “As far as I know, Miss Ladrón, all is well with The Pharaon.”

  He didn’t say what they were both thinking: that the ship should have arrived nearly a month ago, and ships were rarely late unless something had happened. Nearly everyone on Port Havre had started to dread the worst, until on the 21st a quick communication had come into the docking office, requesting landing bay space in three days’ time.

  Payton had nearly wept in relief.

  Mr. Henry Moore cleared his throat. “I am on my way to the other families of the crew to inform them that the ship is scheduled to arrive at 11:15 Earth Standard.”

  But I’m not family, Payton wanted to protest.

  “You are welcome to join us on the bay.”

  Payton swallowed. “I would love to,” she said slowly, “but I’m here at the bar until 7.” That was when their only other paid employee, Harrison Geoff, took over for her.

  Mr. Moore dipped his chin. “A shame. I can think of one young ship engineer who would have loved to see you.”

  Blood rushed to Payton’s olive cheeks, tinging them pink. She ducked her head.

  Mr. Moore allowed himself a small smile. “Stars be well, Miss Ladrón.”

  “Have a good morning,” Payton returned, still hiding her face behind the glass she cleaned meticulously. And then he was gone.

  Payton sighed and put down the glass. For the first time in nearly a month, her hands didn’t shake.

  ***

  Port Havre.

  The small space station floated into view, just beyond Davi’s little control desk. The sight of it was like a glass of on-planet water — refreshing and welcome. They were still nearly an hour from dock, and the station was little more than the size of a 2-Jade coin, but Davi could easily make out the familiar sights.

  A little red light on her board clicked on, and Davi’s hands shifted over the controls. She buzzed the ship-wide intercom. “Ten minutes to orbit. Please find secure seating and prepare for turbulence.”

  Her voice echoed, strange and tinny, across the bridge speakers.

  Only five other figures occupied the large circular space. Four of them sat at small communication desks nestled along the outer rim of the wall. In the center of the room, on a raised platform, were two consoles. Davi sat at one. The other chair was unoccupied, though a lanky, brooding figure stood just behind it.

  As Davi maneuvered The Pharaon into orbit, she risked a glance at her companion.

  Brooks Dorlac, the first mate of the ship, was a gangly man in his early thirties. He had a hooked nose, a perpetually curled upper lip, and stringy dirty blond hair. His eyes, almost black in the low artificial light of the bridge, glared ahead and his fingers clenched over the back of the crimson Captain’s chair.

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  Dorlac didn’t like Davi. Which worked out, as it was, because Davi didn’t much like Dorlac either.

  Still, she sighed inwardly. He was her first mate. And she was the ship’s engineer. And no matter how often she wished she could bludgeon him upside the head with her hex wrench…it was her job to make sure everyone made it to the station unharmed.

  She cleared her throat as she reached for the depression lever. “Six minutes to orbit,” she said, softer this time and not over the intercom.

  The heat of Dorlac’s glare burned through her left temple, but he just growled something and settled into the Captain’s chair.

  Something ugly twisted in Davi’s stomach.

  She turned back to the controls and maneuvered them into the station’s gravitational field.

  Almost home.

  ***

  It took the better part of the hour to bring The Pharaon into the landing bay, and Davi spent the next hour powering down all the ship’s systems. The Pharaon might have belonged to Mr. Henry Moore and been captained by Leonard Claire, but it was her baby.

  She’d spent most of her younger years aboard the ship — first as a child in her father’s garage, parked atop his drinks case, watching his crew build the ship from the inside out. Then as a teenager loading and unloading cargo for Mr. Moore. The day she’d turned 14, she’d put in to apprentice under his former engineer, learning every nook and cranny The Pharaon had to offer.

  And so, she lingered as long as she could aboard the ship — checking, double checking the systems, before gathering her bags and stepping out into the light of the station.

  Only two figures loitered at the base of the ramp, the rest of the crowd long-since returned to their homes and families. Mr. Moore looked up as Davi came down the ramp, her steps light.

  His eyes crinkled in the corners as he took in the girl — not yet out of her teenage years, yet no longer the stubborn little firecracker who’d burst into his office to demand an apprenticeship. Back then, she’d been no taller than his elbow, with a wild mass of hair and big curious eyes.

  Now, she was tall — taller than him — with gangly limbs and curly black hair pulled into a messy tail at the back of her head. She wore a grease-smudged tunic rolled up at the sleeves and stuffed into her heavy leather belt which wrapped around her waist twice. Her loose gray trousers were tucked into a pair of old black boots that had certainly seen better days.

  She moved with the easy confidence of someone used to working with their body and hands — after all, most of her work was spent twisting her body to fit under and behind various pieces of machinery — though her limbs still retained the awkward gangliness of teenhood.

  She tossed the shipowner an easy smile. “Mr. Moore!”

  “Davi,” he returned, grasping her offered arm. “Perhaps you can clear a few things up for me.”

  “Sir?” Davi cocked her head.

  Mr. Moore inclined his chin at his companion. “Dorlac here was just apprising me of your travels — and the reason for your delay.” His expression turned somber. “I am sorry to hear about Leonard. He was a good friend.”

  “And a good captain,” Davi agreed. Her stomach clenched, but she shoved down the tears that stung at the back of her eyes.

  “How did he die?”

  “Brain fever,” Dorlac cut in. “He was in excruciating pain. Wouldn’t stop moaning. Was awful.”

  Awful for those of us who had to listen to it, Davi was certain he meant.

  “Stars have mercy,” Mr. Moore murmured. He drew three fingers across his chest. He allowed a moment of silence to fall over the trio, the only sound the soft hum of The Pharaon’s standby systems slowly shutting down.

  At last, he looked up again, his gaze startlingly clear. “Dorlac and I were just discussing the nature of the ship’s next captain,” he said slowly.

  Davi swallowed. She shifted her bag onto her other shoulder. The past few weeks had been busy, and she’d avoided thinking too much about who would take over for Captain Clare. Dorlac was the next obvious choice, as first mate.

  The problem was…no one particularly liked Dorlac. Not even Davi. And Davi liked everyone.

  “I understand you stepped into a fair bit of responsibility when the Captain fell ill.”

  Davi jolted from her thoughts. Dread made way for confusion…then suspicion. “…me?” she asked, her gaze shooting between Dorlac and Mr. Moore.

  “Yes, you,” Mr. Moore echoed, his lips twitching. “Dorlac here tells me you are the one who put in to the nearest port for medical assistance, and then took the Captain there yourself when no one else would.”

  Dorlac, who had told the story as a condemnation, jolted as if struck.

  “Well, yes, but-”

  “And Jen’ni mentioned you took to reorganizing the chores schedule with the new changes in personnel.”

  “I-”

  “And I can tell I am keeping you from your day. My apologies.” Mr. Moore stepped back from the shell-shocked ship engineer with a smile. “I believe there is a certain young lady awaiting you at a certain bar.”

  Davi’s confusion melted into a grin at the thought of Payton Ladrón, who had been her best friend since she could read. “Yes, sir.”

  “On your way, now.”

  “Thank you, sir.” And with that, Davi trotted the rest of the way down the ramp.

  Once she was out of sight, Dorlac rounded on the jovial shipowner. “You can’t be thinking-” he sputtered.

  ”I will consider any fit characters for the role,” Mr. Moore cut in smoothly. It was clear from his tone that Dorlac was not, in fact, a ‘fit character.’

  Dorlac’s face turned an ugly hue of purplish-red. “You’re demoting me for a child!” His last word pitched up with extra indignation.

  Henry Moore looked down on the first-mate with such polite reprimand that it sent the other man stumbling back a step. “On the contrary, you will get to remain first mate, simply under a new Captain.”

  “A child,” he repeated. His gaze turned toward the entrance to the loading bay, as if his glare could find her amidst the rest of the churning crowd. “And a liar.”

  That drew the older man’s attention. He swung his gaze on the first mate, his ridiculous hat wobbling. “What do you mean? Explain.”

  Dorlac scoffed. “The port she put into for help? Elba ii.” The other man’s quiet gasp sent a bolt of dark satisfaction through his chest. He waved a hand. “And she won’t say anything about what happened there. But suddenly the Captain’s dead and she’s sneaking around with an unidentified comm drive.”

  Henry Moore’s gaze narrowed. “You’re not suggesting she had communication with Major Bonna.” It was no secret where the famous military leader-turned failed revolutionary had been banished after he’d led — and lost — a war to take over the Tzannic Planets. Elba ii was notoriously difficult to reach, let alone smuggle a hidden message off.

  Besides, Henry Moore knew Davi Edmara almost as well as he knew his own son. She would never betray him or his crew. Of that, at least, he was certain.

  Dorlac just shrugged. “All I’m saying ‘s to think before you go around throwing out Captainships like candy.” To anyone but me, came the obvious ending to that sentence, practically whispered in Henry Moore’s ear.

  And then the first mate was gone, leaving the shipowner to ponder his thoughts in the empty bay.