“On this station, I bet it is exactly what it means.”
A docking signal crackled through the speakers.
“Unregistered courier craft,” said a bored voice. “State your business.”
Madelaine touched the comm. “Fuel purchase. Three bauxite cubes.”
A pause.
“Dock seven. A word of advice. Don’t start any fights unless you can finish them and if you break it, you buy it.”
The line went dead.
Jack nodded. “Warm people.”
Madelaine guided thePaladin Seekerinto dock seven. The ship settled into place with a metallic groan, clamps locking around the landing struts. The second the hatch opened, noise poured in.
Crooked Halo smelled like engine grease, scorched metal, spice smoke, and something Jack decided not to identify for personal growth reasons.
The concourse outside the dock was crowded with every sort of being he had ever seen and several he was going to need time to process later.
Tall, blue-skinned miners with luminous tattoos. Short, square creatures wearing goggles and carrying welding torches. If they’d been yellow, he would have thought they were Minions. Women in glittering armor laughing over cards. A vendor with four arms frying something that kept trying to climb out of the pan.
Jack stepped down beside Madelaine.
“Stay close,” she said.
“I was planning to attach myself to your elbow.”
She gave him a sharp look. “I mean it. Do not accept food. Do not make eye contact with anyone wearing bone jewelry. Do not gamble. Do not compliment anyone’s weapon.”
“That last one feels unfairly specific.”
“Jack.”
“I will be dull, silent, and deeply uninteresting.”
“We both know that you are incapable of all three.”
He grinned. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all journey.”
She shook her head and started forward. Jack saw the tension in her shoulders. The mission clock was ticking. Every minute here was a minute stolen from the Paladin Courier errand, from whatever package, prophecy or nightmare waited for them at the end of this multi-galaxy chase. And now they were walking through a station where the walls had knife marks.
A quick glance at a battered station directory sign said the fuel broker they were looking for was two levels below the docking ring. They took an overlarge freight elevator car down, staying close together even though they were the only two in the lift.
The Burnt Saint Exchange was marked by a raggedy sign and guarded by a heavy door made of blackened ship plating. Inside, rows of fuel cubes were secured behind a transparent barrier. Bauxite, plasma rods, ion salts, and half a dozen glowing substances in a variety of colors that Jack suspected were illegal in all of the known galaxies.
Behind the counter sat a woman with silver hair, copper skin, and eyes like polished obsidian. She wore a necklace of tiny keys.
Madelaine stepped forward. “We need three bauxite cubes.”
The broker looked them over. “Standard grade or deep-burn?”
“Standard.”
“Eighty weight each.”
Madelaine produced the Paladin Courier credit device. It was slim, black, and elegant, etched with a symbol Jack had seen only once before in a high-brow bank on Alpha-Prime. The device looked like it could buy a planet or destroy one, depending on which end you pointed at the problem.
