Jorry opened the hatch under Zephyr’s A.I. hub and laid on her back, propping her toolkit on the floor beside the opening as she slipped inside. Motherboards of various sizes and shapes boxed her in, all of them clear grapheme with white and blue lines zigzagging across their surfaces. The sight always reminded her of Christmas on Mars when she was a kid.

Back when it was still called Christmas. They called it Solstice now; nice, generic, politically correct. Nobody could be offended on religious basis for Solstice.

Jorry sighed, reaching for her digital caliper. She needed to know if there was space on one of these boards for another memory chip. Zephyr was processing everything fine but a little extra speed never hurt anybody. She grabbed the caliper and went to work, half her mind on her home planet and warm cookies beside a fake fir tree. It felt so long ago and she found herself caught in a wave of homesickness.

“Zephyr, how many weeks before the next Solstice on Mars?”

“Thirty weeks and three days.”

Jorry hummed to herself, taking up a new grapheme chip and sliding it into its space on the motherboard. They had time for one last Solstice with Devon. It was cutting things a little close but they could do it. All she had to do was make sure the next three hauls pointed them toward Mars.

They’d rent a house. Devon always liked it when they did that. And they would be there in time for the lights on Mount Olympus.

One last holiday, she thought and swallowed tightly.

Her hands stilled and she forced herself to take a slow, deep breath.

It seemed odd that someone who had lived the past thirty years on the run would be this terrified of change. She didn’t want to lose Devon and yet she could sense him slipping away from her.

She pulled herself out of the hub and stared up at Zephyr’s ceiling. The smooth, oblong structure tapered into four points, each leading off into separate corridors. Directly above her was rounded steel designed to maximize the lighting in the central chamber. Jorry normally found the sight comforting, a reminder that she was home, but there was little comfort for her today.

“University,” she said out loud.

How was she going to get Devon into University without alerting the Consulate?

Jorry rubbed her forehead and groaned, letting her body mold to the cool metal floor. It was possible that once he came of age and knew the whole truth of things, Devon would change his mind about University and choose someplace safer. But it was also possible, indeed far more likely, that he would hate her and choose University out of spite.

Plan for the worst case scenario, she told herself and stood up. She replaced the access panel, then took the toolkit and headed back to her room.

The low ceiling and curving corridors of Zephyr’s main living space was drastically different from the jumper station outside. There were still bulkheads but rather than announcing their presence with yellow caution signs the section points on Zephyr were just breaks in the holographic computer screens. They served the same function in an emergency but were far more stylish, a ring of steel that interrupted the white backdrop behind the screens.

Her room was fairly spartan. The bed was out and made, military style like her father had taught her. She saw no reason to store the bed while they were docked but in flight it would tuck itself into the wall when she wasn’t using it. The wall just beside the bed slid open as she entered, revealing a standard closet with four sets of nearly identical clothes.

She and Seach had decided early on to hide their taps from Devon, which left very little choice in what they could wear. The little silver discs were embedded into their skin, hooked deep into their bones and were very easy to spot when uncovered.

Jorry moved to the closet and pulled open one of several drawers built into it. Dropping the toolkit inside, she closed the drawer and turned. The opposite wall comprised her personal computer, a combination of a flat console and interactive holographic screens that flicked through several family pictures at random. She could handle most of the ship from this room and often did.

A picture of Devon flashed across the screen and she felt her heart lock up. He looked young and vibrant, filled with the adventurous spirit of most boys verging on manhood. He was sitting at his own workbench with several odd ship components scattered across its surface. A bit of grease smudged across his forehead, a black streak against an otherwise pale face. And he was smiling.

It wasn’t right to hold him back from his dreams, she thought. It didn’t matter how dangerous it was, she had to at least try to make University safe for him.

She suddenly remembered Pick-Axe looming over her out in the station. Curling her fists, she left her room and started for the aft of the ship. It was a bad idea, she knew it, but she couldn’t see any other way to get Devon where he wanted to be. Pick-Axe certainly couldn’t help them but his employer, Alexander Movax, was another story.

Jorry hurried through the ship, turning into the corridor that led to Zephyr’s loading bay.

“Zephyr, go to security lock down. Nobody gets on the ship without me.”

“Yes, Captain.”

She slid down the ladder from the catwalk and moved to the loading bay doors. Her boots made angry metal clanking sounds against the floor and she realized a second later that she was marching. Jorry slowed as she left the ship and entered their private loading bay. It was empty still but in seventeen hours their shipment would fill the fifty-foot wide bay and they would begin the loading procedure.

She crossed the bay and slipped out into the hauler’s forum. It was just as busy as the last time she’d been out, too many bodies milling through the docking ring, and for half a second Jorry felt claustrophobic.

Weaving through the masses, she moved to the first access terminal she could find and squashed inside between two rotund men. The box-like compartment doors slid closed and she steadied herself for the stomach-dropping descent that would lead them deeper into Pluto Jumper Station. Vertical safety bars made lines in the tight space and Jorry grabbed one, half afraid she might be sick.

Jorry stiffened as the terminal detached from the ring and began its descent. She tried hard not to think about how little protected them from the vacuum of space but it was there at the front of her mind anyway. Stations and ships were secure, but the docking ring was separated from the actual station by fifty meters. This was a safety feature to protect the main section of the station from any hazards that might occur during the docking procedure. The terminals ran through long, tubular structures connecting the docking ring to the station and were, by comparison, less than safe.

She’d heard of no less than four incidents where a terminal had gotten stuck in a tube. Of the four, only one had been rescued before the people inside suffocated to death.

But that was only four incidents and these things made the trip between station and dock hundreds of times a day, she told herself.

Still, she breathed easier when the doors opened and she escaped into the open area of the station’s customs bay. The ceiling peaked overhead into a dramatic needle point, giving the whole structure an oval shape that mimicked the constant spin of its outer hull. Light glared off the clean white walls and flooring to such a degree that Jorry almost had to squint.

Typical of all stations, the customs area on P.J.S. boasted one shop, one bar, and one restaurant. Customs agents in green uniforms lined the glass wall separating the rest of the station and she spotted four Consulate Security Service agents milling through the space. They looked bored, and bored was good.

Jorry headed for the bar, conscious of the looks several men shot her. She strode inside, bypassing the front tables and several gawking haulers seated on bar stools and headed directly for the private room in the back. Two guards stood on either side of an iron door, both sizable and both armed.

She stopped in front of the door and looked to the man on her right. “Tell Movax that Captain Hannah is here.”

“Movax isn’t seeing anyone today,” he responded.

She smiled at him, battling down her annoyance, and watched as he glanced at his fellow guard uncertainly.

Thugs, she thought. Stereotypical thugs even, with their beefy hands and barrel chests. The one on the left had recently had his nose broken and for a fleeting moment Jorry considered breaking it again just to make her point. But that would cause more of a stir than she wanted so she focused instead on talking her way into the room.

“I would hate to fight you,” she said. “Fighting would bring the customs agents and the station police and poor Movax would be forced to use his considerable contacts to cover it up from Consulate authorities. So I suggest you reconsider and tell Movax that Captain Hannah wants to see him.”

“Movax …”

He was cut off when the door abruptly opened.

Jorry immediately recognized the bald-headed, tattoo-laden hulk of a man in the doorway; Pick-Axe. He looked surprised to see her but then grinned, his one golden canine glinting in the dim light. Beside him was a thin, distressed man holding tight to his left hand. Jorry spied the bloody bandage secured to the man’s appendage and was able to surmise the situation.

Pick-Axe continued to grin at her. “Just couldn’t stay away, could you?”

“What can I say? You’ve got your charms,” she said.

“Hold on a moment, love,” he said. Slapping the thin man on the shoulder, he turned back to his business. “One week, Gordy. That’s all you’ve got. Don’t make me take another.”

Gordy nodded twice and stumbled away from the door. She stepped aside to allow the shaking, injured man passage, catching the reek of sweat and urine on him as he hurried past her. Clenching her jaw she looked back to Pick-Axe, who was shaking his head at Gordy’s retreating back. He almost appeared remorseful, but the blood on his grey shirt only contradicted the emotion. Jorry would wager a full haul’s profit the man actually enjoyed cutting off appendages. After a minute he looked at her, smiling again.

“Taking the boss up on his offer?” He asked.

“Something like that.”

Pick-Axe grinned wider, “The boss is always happy to see repeat customers. But why are we standing out here?” He gestured her inside. “Come in! He’ll be glad to see you.”

Jorry glanced at the two guards flanking the door but refrained from commenting. Instead, she followed Pick-Axe into the private hallway beyond. Pick-Axe led her through a short, steel passage, bypassing several closed doors that she decided she didn’t want to speculate about. Who knew what Movax might have hidden away back here, she thought and suppressed a shudder.

Pick-Axe stopped at the furthest door, humming to himself as he pressed his hand to the blue access panel, unlocking it for them. The door slid upward, revealing a grand, open office space.

The room itself had been redecorated since the last time she’d visited. Computerized walls depicted a fiery sunset on some tropical island, and she could swear she smelled sea air coming from the vents. Her taps warmed against her skin and she had to take a deep breath to keep from accidentally tapping into the electrical current. Rooms like this were like candy, brimming full of energy to the point she felt giddy.

Drill Sergeant Laura Dane’s voice pushed through her memory; “You’re not God, people. Your taps just allow you to access energy the way normal people can’t.”

Jorry flexed her fists and allowed Dane’s voice to coach her as a low hum began to resonate through her taps. The laws of thermodynamics had been drilled into her so many times that the speech seemed permanently etched into her mind.

“First things first … energy can be transferred, manipulated, and changed but never created or destroyed,” Dane’s voice again, just as rough as Jorry remembered it. “What’s this mean for you?”

It meant Jorry could only access energy already in her environment, like the electrical currents pulsing in Movax’s office walls. She could take that energy, push it through her own body to make her strikes harder and faster than a normal human, but it came at a price.

The energy would have to pass through her like a conduit, and like any conduit she could be overloaded, which would be the most likely case if she tapped into anything here. She felt like she was literally swimming through energy and imagined what would happen if she gave in to the temptation; lots of destruction and then her unconscious on the floor, completely at the mercy of any Consulate soldiers who came to clean up the mess.

She took a deep breath and relaxed her hands.

On a raised dais at the head of the room Movax sat behind an oblong, steel desk. He had his feet up, ankles crossed, and was leaning back in his chair with a cigar in his mouth. Cigars were illegal, but she imagined no one would bother him about it here. She certainly didn’t intend to mention it.

Movax himself looked younger than his fifty years. His dark hair showed signs of silver, and when he smiled at her his face crinkled in a pleasant way around his eyes. The sharp edges of his pale grey suit proved that he was a fit man, if an untraveled one. Most people in the custom’s bay and haulers ring kept to simple traveling uniforms for safety and warmth.

“Captain Hannah, what a surprise,” Movax said. “Come in! Come in!”

Pick-Axe left her to join several men at the bar in the southeast corner. Jorry hesitated. She really ought to have at least sent word to Seach before walking in here. If things went wrong it would be damned hard to meet up again. And of course Devon would be suspicious.

Cursing herself for a fool, Jo walked to the dais. A chair sprouted out of the steel flooring, positioned on the other side of Movax. She moved to sit in it, noting as she did so that it was one of the most expensive office sets on the market.

“Your office is five times more impressive than the last time I visited,” she said, trying to dislodge the sense that she’d made a very large mistake in coming here.

Movax grinned and winked at her. “I’m glad you think so, Captain. It took several months to renovate.”

His dark eyes settled on her face, surveying her with an acute intelligence that might have made her squirm when she was younger. “Where’s your counterpart?” Movax asked.

“Elsewhere,” Jorry said.

Movax continued to watch her, his calculating gaze never leaving her face. Conversations were like chess for him. They couldn’t be rushed, couldn’t be haphazard. If she really wanted his help then she would have to play along. She just hoped she didn’t give too much away in the process.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Movax asked after a minute.

“Devon,” she said carefully, “wants to go to University.”

“But University is on Gliese.”

“Precisely.”

Movax barked a laugh and slid his feet off the desk. He had the cool, dangerous smile of a shark. Whether or not there was any real humor in him Jorry couldn’t tell.

“You’re afraid the identity chip I gave you won’t hold up on the University campus.”

“I need him to be more than legal,” she said, stiffening in her seat. “He has to be above reproach in every way.”

“Well now, why not tell him he can’t go? Tell him you can’t afford it or something.”

She had thought of that. In fact, she’d thought of trying to forbid him from ever setting foot on Gliese, but she knew that would never work. He would resent her if she tried that, probably even hate her. And in any case, he would find out very soon that she had no real claim over him.

“I make it a point not to lie to him when I don’t have to,” Jorry said.

Movax shook his head and puffed twice on his cigar. Smoke drifted lazily around his face for a moment before the vents dragged it away. They stared at each other in silence. When she didn’t offer any further elaboration he sighed. He seemed overly bothered by her reticence, like he had been hoping for something else from her, but she couldn’t imagine what that might be.

“That kind of work costs,” he said.

“Name it.” Jorry relaxed a little. This part of the conversation she could handle.

“A hundred grand.”

“Seventy-five.”

Movax snorted. “You realize the danger I would be in if I was caught making a document in the I.G.C. mainframe?”

“Risks are part of your business,” Jorry countered. “And you’re not about to let seventy-five grand walk out your door.”

Movax went quiet again. He considered her, beating his cigar against the steel ash tray on his desk, and frowned. She saw a light tic at the corner of his left eye, the first sign of true annoyance she’d ever seen from him. Jorry tensed and prepared to bolt. It had been several years since she’d last been in a fight but she believed she could get through Pick-Axe without having to use her taps.

Maybe.

“Risks,” Movax said and nodded over at the bar.

Pick-Axe stood up and left. Jorry frowned, suddenly more worried than before.

“I’ll do it for seventy,” Movax said, snuffing out his cigar in the tray. “But you have to do something for me.”

Jorry shifted in her chair. The last thing she wanted was to owe this man a favor, but she couldn’t just deny him without first knowing what was going on.

“Like what?” She asked, glancing at the door.

“I have some cargo that needs to be transported to Mars.”

She didn’t like the emphasis he put on the word cargo. Jorry sat forward in her seat. “Mars is three jumps from here at the least. I have to make a living too. There’s no room in the hold for anything else.”

Her mind did a tally of times and distances. Pluto to Mars was three to four jumps depending on how she configured Zephyr to fly. She rounded it down to three jumps, confident the extra boosters she’d installed last year could carry them and frowned.

Twenty-one weeks, she thought. Twenty-one weeks with something illegal hiding on her ship.

“This cargo is slightly different from your usual business,” Movax said.

She had a sinking suspicion she knew what he meant but she didn’t say anything. Instead she kept her focus on Movax, who was giving her a taste of her own medicine by refusing to elaborate further. In the corner she could hear the rustling of the other three guards and wondered how much they got paid. It had to be substantial. The black market wasn’t a cheap place to live. And people generally died young in it.

The door opened again and Pick-Axe led an older gentleman into the room. Jorry watched the newcomer as he walked up to the desk and expelled a breath. Gray hair ringed his head like some archaic friar, but his face proved that he was younger than Movax. He had kindly features and troubled gray eyes that looked from Movax to her and back again. He wore a faded blue traveling uniform that was fraying at the edges and had a large black patch on the left knee.

He couldn’t have spelled the word “refugee” any louder.

Jorry clenched her fists and told herself what an idiot she was.

“Captain, this is Paul Kelly. He is guardian of my two nieces. The three of them need passage to Mars.” Movax said. “I will, of course, expect their necessary food and supplies to be purchased using the remaining five thousand in our deal.”

“I’m not sure we have a deal yet,” Jorry said automatically. She kept her gaze on Paul and felt the little hairs on the back of her neck prickle up. Her taps cooled against her skin, going suddenly quiet as she began to recognize a subtle glow emanating out from the man.

It had been years since she’d seen the Presence up close and her gut clenched in reaction. For a shocked second she stared at him, fighting hard to maintain a passive demeanor because Movax was right there and, dammit, they were still in negotiations. Her mind screamed for her to leave, to jump up and rush through the door and forget ever coming here, but that cursed glow pulsing through Paul kept her seated, kept her talking.

“Are their papers legal?”

Paul’s eyes flashed with fear and she thought; oh hell.

“As legal as yours are,” Movax said.

She scrambled to think clearly, shoving back thoughts about the first time she’d seen the Presence in someone and the reaction the Consulate had when she and several other Tapped soldiers brought the matter forward. Detrimental to the peace process, they’d said. An unexpected chemical reaction to her taps, they’d said.

Jorry surveyed Paul quietly and thought; just as she’d thought over thirty years ago when she’d first started seeing that strange glow in people, that the Consulate was full of shit. Paul fidgeted under her gaze, folding his hands nervously as she continued to watch him. The round features of his face betrayed a gentle man, and his build suggested a life of scholarly work. He looked completely out of place standing next to Pick-Axe’s broad-shouldered girth.

Jorry leaned back in her seat and frowned.

Annoyance bubbled up in her chest and she beat a restless pattern against her knee. If she said no to this there was a good chance Movax would dump Paul and his two charges right into the Consulate’s lap, and for reasons she could not explain Jorry couldn’t let that happen.

“We have a deal,” she said. “Mr. Kelly, I will send for you when it is time to leave.”