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“Sorry!”

“Bapʼǔn kʼatʼup!”

“Still sorry!”

I kept moving.

The supply platform was busier than I expected.

Good.

Crowds were useful.

At least I assumed they were. Everything I knew about fleeing authority came from bad decisions, old movies, and watching other people get caught.

I slipped behind a cluster of workers hauling sealed containers toward the loading bay, and that was when my bag decided to announce itself. It was a normal travel bag. I had packed normal things. But somewhere between the checkpoint and here it had grown, or I had, or every stranger on this platform now knew it contained something worse than clothes. Evidence. A severed head. I adjusted the strap and tried to walk like someone who belonged there, which worked for about four strides before a station attendant stepped directly into my path.

“Authorization,” he said.

My heart stopped. I blinked up at him.

“What?”

“Transport authorization.” He held out his hand.

Right. Of course. Because cargo stations did not generally let random women wander onto supply ships.

“I’m with medical,” I said.

His expression didn’t change. “I can see that.”

I glanced down at my badge. Stupid.

“My supervisor sent me to inspect a shipment.”

“Documentation.”

“He sent it ahead.” The lie came out too fast, and his eyes narrowed. Fantastic.

“I haven’t received it.”

“Then he probably forgot.”

“Your supervisor?” He tilted his head.

“Yes.”

“Forgot?” He repeated the word as if it were a species he had never encountered.

“People forget things.”

He looked personally offended by the concept, and I resisted the urge to sigh. Behind him, workers continued loading the transport. Apparently, this wasn’t going to work. I needed another route.

The attendant reached toward the terminal mounted beside him. “If you provide your supervisor’s name⁠—”

“No. That won’t be necessary. I’ll contact him.”

“You said he sent you.”