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Rann didn’t know what he’d expected from Bay Twelve, but it certainly wasn’t this.

Bay Twelve was filled with no-hopers and the desperate.

He stood in the shadows by the huge internal bay door, leaning back against the rusted metal with his hands in his pockets.

Anyone looking would just see a ship crew hand bunking off work and trying not to be noticed, which suited him just fine. It gave him the chance to study his surroundings and the crews that were currently milling around in Bay Twelve.

He knew better than to jump into a situation without intel. Right now, the only intel he had on the six females he was about to save was draanth all. Which was never a good situation to be in. He sighed. If he didn’t take a moment to at least try and get some information, then it was sure to bite him in the ass at some point in the near future.

So he didn’t move just yet, just held his position and let his gaze wander slowly over all the berths in Bay Twelve. He didn’t let his gaze stop anywhere in particular. Didn’t focus on anything. Just gave off all the vibes of a bored ship crew member.

There was nothing particular to see this side, and he realized that Bay Twelve was L-shaped, which meant the women he was looking for must be in the section hidden from his view.

With a sigh, he pushed off from his perch. As he passed a nearby crate, he scooped some grease off the side and smoothed it over the bloodstains on his stolen coveralls before he emerged from the darkness. They were too short in the arms and legs for him, because he was Lathar tall, not short like a human.

Not a problem, though. His wrists poking out from the cuffs and the hem of the pants well above his boots gave the impression of a second-rater in a hand-me-down uniform. To add to the disguise, he smudged some grease over his jaw, then ran it through his hair… slicking his pale locks back and darkening them down a little. Anything to alter his appearance, just in case anybody found the original charter pilot.

But then if they did, he’d be long gone from the station anyway.

A grin curved his lips at the idea of Ryke facing questions as to why his absent pilot had slid a knife between some human scum’s ribs. He’d pay to be a fly on the wall to see what story Ryke came up with.

Ambling across the bay, he swiped a cap off one of the unattended crates and swept it up onto his head. There. Now his eyes were covered as well from the security cameras high up on the wall.

The ships he passed were all rough trader ships crammed in together in berths that were less than half the size of the one they chartered for the Lady’s Dream. The berths in this bay were much smaller, and, he assumed, cheaper.

He turned the corner and scanned the remaining portion of the bay. It wouldn’t do to look like he was lost, but in the end the females made it easy for him. To a male, every other crew was, well… male.

There was only one berth with females outside. Three of them crowded round a large crate. He frowned. They were loading equipment, and by the looks of it, struggling. He cut a gaze to the other side of the bay toward the power loaders in their charging cradles. Then his eyes narrowed. Each cradle had a payment pad. Which meant that if a crew didn’t have any money, then power loading was not an option.

He growled in the back of his throat as anger washed through him.

Seemed some things were universal across the galaxy. Those who were financially disadvantaged always had to pay more for basic necessities.

Keeping his anger to himself, he wandered over toward the three women. They had the top off the crate now, and they were unloading large boxes from within, carrying them in one by one.

Was this it? Just females? Were there no males on their crew to help them out? He paused a little way away, knowing better than to creep up on unsuspecting females, especially after being around Jesh and Mira, and cleared his throat loudly.

The three women turned round with a jump, two blondes and a redhead. He smiled winningly, not missing the quick assessing glance from the blonde on the left.

“Hey there, I’m…” Oh trall, he hadn’t thought this far. What the draanth did he call himself? He cleared his throat.

“I’m Randall James,” he said quickly, reading the name off the side of the freighter in the berth next door out of his peripheral vision. “Heard some little ladies were looking for a charter pilot.”

The blonde on the left smiled, and the other two looked like they’d like to knife him in the back. Okay, so maybe Covak levels of charm weren’t the way to go. Either that or it was the little ladies’ crack. Okay, so sue him. He wasn’t used to dealing with females. Not in any way, shape, or form—he didn’t even remember his own mother. She’d died in the plague long before he could remember anything.

“Sorry. I’m James,” he said, patting his pockets as though he was looking for some papers. “I’ve got orders to report to this bay. Shoot, I must have left the order back in the pilots’ lounge.”

“Yeah, we’re waiting for a charter pilot,” a new voice said from the ramp.

He looked up to find another female standing there watching him. She was slightly older than the other three, with silver threading through her hair on either side, like wings. Still beautiful, though, but that wasn’t a surprise. When you grew up in barracks with only males, anything about females was beautiful and mysterious.

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he let her look him over with a hard gaze and offered the smile again. He’d modeled it on Covak… which might be a problem, given the guy was vorrtan. Was it too wide? Was he showing too many teeth? He dialed it back a notch just to be safe.

“Huh. I thought you’d be older,” the female said, coming down the ramp towards him. As she did, she motioned the other three to carry on with their loading. They hastened to do so, the interested blonde flicking him a look over her shoulder and winking. Interesting.

He shrugged. “Older than I look.”