Ripley, for her part, is being strong. Too strong.
Her eyes dart across the seats. Watching. Processing. She's not fidgeting, not whining, not asking where we’re going—just silent, wrapped in the oversized coat I gave her, cap pulled low to hide her hair.
I hate this.
I hate that she’s learning fear.
That she’s memorizing escape routes instead of song lyrics.
That she saw her first stun baton before her first tooth fell out.
I shift in my seat, scanning the cabin again. A guy two rows back is watching us too long. Pale skin, mirrored lenses, jittery fingers tapping against a thigh. Could be nothing. Could be everything.
I log his face anyway.
Rhea whispers, “You’re vibrating.”
I glance down. My left leg’s bouncing.
I stop.
“Too quiet,” I mutter.
She doesn’t reply.
But her hand tightens around Ripley’s.
The mining moon—Zebeth Station-3—comes into view an hour later. It’s ugly. Bleached bone rock, drilling towers like broken teeth, haze in the upper atmosphere that clogs the sun into a dull smear. The whole place stinks of methane and metal and the ghosts of buried fire.
Perfect for a dead drop.
The docking ramp groans as we disembark. I step out first, scanning the crowd, the towers, the shadows. Rhea follows close. Ripley clings to her side like a little shadow, steps precise, too careful.
We’re supposed to look like a tired family. Regular. Forgettable.
But everything about us screams wrong.
I feel the stares. Or maybe I imagine them. Doesn’t matter.
I make us take the long way around the cargo hold and cut through an ore lot guarded by an old Grolgath who’s too busy scratching his third armpit to notice us. Rhea shoots me a look.
I shrug. “Less cameras this way.”
We make it to the coordinates Quinn’s brother sent.
It’s a shipping container. Beat to shit. Sandblasted and half-sunk into the dirt like an ancient relic. But the scan shows it’s still powered.
Rhea kneels, fingers trembling as she enters the code. Ripley stands behind her, clutching the hem of her coat.
I stand watch, one hand on the grip of my backup stunner.
The crate hisses open.
Inside: a single steel case.
No markings. No labels. No ambient signal.
Smart.
