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  "What would you do with that kind of cash?" One of them rolls up his sleeve and reveals an ID tattoo.

  It’s a bright and deep black indicating that it’s fresh. Lebbe runs a thumb across his own mark, one that had gone to a dull but dark green. These are kids, best Lebbe can tell. They’ve never been off planet, no experience with interstellar travel or the toll it takes on the body and mind. That was especially true for those kids — they were always kids, of course — who came out this way to do the hard labor of working the mines. Lebbe wants to interject and tell them that there are easier ways to make a fast buck. Not all of them are legal, but they don't involve breaking your body before you’re 20.

  Lebbe checks his watch. Half past 7 in the morning, not that you can tell day from night on Zulu, especially out in the common area. Chances are these kids came in on the regular Thursday at 7 a.m. cargo ship. Nice-guy captain often rented out extra floor space to travellers looking to make a trip on the cheap. Captain would dock in the morning, rent a room on Zulu for the afternoon to grab a couple of hours of uninterrupted sleep, then depart in the evening. He'd leave those travelers he'd brought with him behind, on their own to figure where they went from Zulu.

  For these kids it's easy. Captains of mining ships are passing through all the time and eager to take on new crew.

  Lebbe turns his attention back to the screens and the turmoil back home. Headlines scrolling across the bottom tell the story. Someone had taken shots at the president of the Unified Countries during a peace summit in Dallas. Whoever it was had missed, but he had also taken aim at the president of the Federated States. Those shots hadn't missed. The cherry red embers of a fire that had been smoldering inside the protesters erupted into an uncontrollable inferno. Believers from both sides blaming each other. They were ready to swing fists. Some were ready to do more.

  A speaker crackles overhead and brings Lebbe's attention back to Zulu. It is an automated message announcing the arrival of another ship. Lebbe reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a piece of paper he's folded and dropped inside before he left his office. He unfolds the paper and lays it on the counter in front of him. It’s a short message that Lebbe reads quickly.

  "Unrest at home. Growing worse. Some concern that this could spill toward you all. Keep an eye out for suspicious actors or activity."

  Lebbe flips the paper over to where he'd chicken-scratched the day's schedule of arrivals. The ship arriving now should be small but crowded. It’s a passenger ship docking at the South Point. Lebbe hears metal scrape metal as an inexperienced pilot tries to find the hold on Zulu's circular outer ring.

  A couple minutes later air locks whish open and the crowd starts stepping into the common areas of Zulu, most of them heading for the Quickstop. Lebbe watches faces. No one looks suspicious; they look tired. Lebbe lets the crowd coming to the Quickstop settle, then listens to conversations. It is idle chatter. "This tastes good." "That's overdone." "The ship we are transferring to doesn't leave until much later this evening, should we get a room in the meantime?"

  Lebbe folds the paper back up and puts it into his pocket. Carole takes orders and serves hot breakfasts to worn-thin travelers. He waves a hand to try and get her attention, but it doesn't work. He waves again, and she looks his direction.

  "On my tab?" He tries to shout above the noise of the crowd.

  She nods and waves him away, wanting his seat for someone who'll pay for the meal. Lebbe heads back to his small office. The din of the crowd has ruffled his nerves; he needs to be near the water.

  TWO

  Caroline Grey carries a datapad in the crook of her arm. She scrolls the screen up, quickly reading the manifest and checking her watch. The 12 p.m. cargo ship coming out of the Martian Sector is late by two hours. Grey pushes a small button on the ear piece she wears and asks "Have we heard from the Martian cargo ship yet?"

  "It's not a Martian ship," says the voice on the other end.

  "The 12 p.m. coming from Mars. Do we have an ETA?"

  "It's not coming from Mars. It's coming from a transfer station in the section. TS:Hotel, I believe, but I'd need to check."

  "Honestly, Keith. Do you think I really care where it was before? I care that it's late. I care that my schedule is getting thrown off. Have we heard anything from the 12 p.m.? Do we know when to expect it?"

  There’s a long pause then Keith clicks back onto the line. "We heard from them two days ago. Lots of cargo. Only a few souls. But they haven't checked in since then. Not uncommon for ships coming from Mars, though."

  I thought it wasn't coming from Mars, Caroline says to herself.

  Keith continues. "Right now there's too much pirate activity keying on transmission, radio or otherwise. Probably accounts for why they are late. I'll ping one of the tracking beacons to see if there's any sign of them, but I'm sure they'll radio in soon."

  Grey walks the perimeter of the common area. It’s her afternoon routine. The Zulu is hers to run. The mornings are given to happenings in the outer ring where the small group of soldiers sent to protect this portion of deep space spend their days smoking hand-rolled cigarettes, exercising, and working on their Zig Zags -- the little ships that Grey thinks look more cute than dangerous. It’s also where all of the cargo dropped off at Zulu sits. The ring is mostly open space by design.

  Back when the pieces of Zulu were launched for construction there was still thought that we'd push out farther than this, that we wouldn't be hemmed in by the edges of our own galaxy. But that never happened. Turns out there is a limit to human imagination and desire to explore. It ends just before ships go intergalactic. So, with the deep black left to the mining ships that keep pushing farther and farther out into space, Zulu's outer ring sits empty.

  Caroline Grey's afternoons are spent in the common area of Zulu. Habitual checks of the manifest, trying to keep all of the ships on time. Trying to put controls on the uncontrollable. She spends most afternoons arguing with Keith about what ships are where.

  She makes her way to the middle of the common area, takes a seat on one of the benches there and looks up into the domed top that covers Zulu's biggest open space. These benches are typically found quickly by the low-budget and no-budget travelers. The half dozen benches are surrounded by fake plants, a bit of “nature” from home. Travelers camp here while waiting for whatever ship will take them away from Zulu. Grey was never happy to see these benches full, but right now she is all alone. She sits her tablet next to her and runs her fingers along one of the plastic leaves on the fake plants sitting in the planters. She pulls off a thick finger of dust and wipes it on her pant leg. She picks up her tablet and makes a note.

  Lebbe interrupts Grey.

  “There’s more happening at home,” he says and sits at a bench across from her. He pulls the paper he’d brought from his office and stares at what’s written there.

  “More?” she says and puts her datapad down.

  “Dallas,” he says.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine. But there’s some concern that it could spill toward us.”

  “Us?” Grey asks.

  “Not us in particular,” Lebbe says. “The collective us. It’s a warning for anyone off planet.”

  Grey’s posture relaxes. “So this isn’t real,” she says. “Another warning that really doesn’t apply.”

  She stands and steps to leave. Lebbe follows.

  “I’m not sure what you mean by ‘not real.’ It’s absolutely real. Just because we don’t have a bogeyman knocking on our door doesn’t mean that we should ignore the possibility. Things are crumbling back home. Being as far out as we are may feel relatively safe now, but that doesn’t mean it always will be.”

  “Yes, Lebbe. I’m well aware that things change. That what was once good can now be bad. What was once safe can now be the opposite.”

  Lebbe quicksteps it to catch up her. They walk shoulder to shoulder and Lebbe says, “If you don’t want these briefings every day th
en say so. No sweat off my nose.”

  She stops and turns to him. “I don’t want these briefings every day. Zulu is a quiet place.” She’s walking again. Lebbe follows. Grey continues. “And we are far enough out that it’d be incredibly hard to surprise us. There are enough other stations and ships in front of us, between us and Earth, that we will have plenty of warning if something happens.”

  “That’s a lot of faith in your network.”

  Grey runs a finger across the front of her datapad. She pulls up a screen full of numbers and begins scrolling through them. “The network hasn’t let us down yet.”

  “Only takes once.”

  “True, I suppose. But I’m going to trust it until I get a reason not to.”

  “Suit yourself,” Lebbe says and walks away, leaving Grey alone.

  The common area is mostly empty; Grey watches her employees do the mundane daily work that keeps them busy. One of Frank's daughters wipes the counter at The Quickstop. A member of the facilities staff sweeps over near the South Point, cleaning a mess left by the crew of a cargo ship that arrived earlier that morning. Two members of that crew sit against the wall just outside the convenience store opposite The Quickstop. One has his head in a reader, lost in a story. The other checks his watch, waiting for whoever is running the store to come back from a break. The Martian ship isn't the only thing that’s late.

  Grey's earpiece crackles.

  "Boss." It’s Keith.

  Grey pushes the button that springs her unit to life. "I'm here."

  "A bit of a situation."

  "The Martian ship?"

  "It's not Martian, but no. It's something else."

  Grey takes a breath to calm herself. "What is it?" she asks.

  "We are getting request to dock from a ship still a couple hours away."

  Grey checks her manifest. A mining ship is expected at 6 p.m. She has another set for a bit after 8 p.m. Then there’s a transport ship scheduled for arrival some time closer to midnight.

  "Is it the 6 or the 8?"

  "Neither," Keith says.

  "Neither?" Grey stands up.

  "No. This one isn't on the manifest."

  "Where's it chartered out of?"

  Keith pauses. "It's not. This is a ship of unknown origin."

  "Any communication from the captain yet?"

  "No, ma'am. Too far out. All we have is the initial request. I really think you should come see this."

  "I'll be right there."

  Grey clicks her earpiece off.

  +++++

  High heels make no sense on a place like Zulu. Once you get away from the common areas getting around is difficult in shoes that keep your feet firmly planted on the ground. Some passageways are narrow. Others are elevated and only accessible by ladders or steep stairs. But Caroline Grey doesn't care. For her it’s not about functionality, it’s about appearances. She needs to dress like the woman in charge.

  Her heels clack double-time quick down the hall leading to Zulu's command center. It’s up one elevator and down a long corridor above the domed roof of the common area.

  Grey comes through the double doors and asks "What's happening?"

  Keith sits behind a terminal and looks up at a large screen that swallows the room. A blinking point in the center of the screen represents Zulu's position. Anything appearing on the edges of the screen is 60 light minutes away.

  Keith points to a blinking indicator to the left of Zulu.

  "There," he says. "They've reached out. Made initial contact. Their ship talking to Zulu. All automated stuff, but initiated by someone. We haven't actually heard from a crew member yet."

  "And we don't know anything about them?"

  Grey takes a seat behind Keith, and he turns his chair to face her. "Zulu did what it usually does and tried to access the documents that are supposed to be kept public on their servers: flight plan, ship's charter, passenger and cargo lists. Didn't have any of them."

  "And the chances that this is just some hobbyist who'd gotten too far out into the galaxy?"

  "It'd have to be a pretty rich hobbyist to build a ship that can come this far out."

  "But it's possible?"

  "Sure." Keith nods. "Anything is possible."

  "What are you thinking?"

  "I'm thinking that I've been in this room all day and never saw the indication that anything was out there until that ship made contact. Now, I wasn't looking at the screen the entire time, but it's curious."

  Grey stands up and paces the platform where Keith sits. She looks at her watch again. It’s nearly 5 p.m. "Are we ready for the 6 p.m. arrival? Where's that docking at?"

  "It's coming in at the North Point" comes from across the room. It’s Rebecca. She sits at her own terminal opposite of Keith's. She’s in the shadows.

  "And are we ready for the arrival?"

  "We're close," Rebecca says.

  "Good," Grey says as she approaches. "And what do you know about this ship?" She points at the indicator on the screen.

  "Nothing, ma'am. I was busy coordinating other arrivals. I couldn't tell you when that ship first appeared."

  "But what do you think? Why hasn't it made contact. Why doesn’t it have any of the paperwork that it should?"

  "It's a freelance ship? It doesn't have a charter because it's not officially sponsored by anyone. It's a ship without a home."

  "Interesting, "Grey points to Keith and asks: "Is that possible?"

  "Again," Keith said, "anything is possible. And, sure, it's plausible that some freelance captain is coming out this far looking for work. A station like Zulu would be the place he might find a stray load to haul or someone who needed a ride somewhere."

  Grey walks back toward Keith. "Do we have a visual at all?"

  "If we can get one it's not going to be great quality."

  "Try anyway. I'm tired of doing this blind.”

  Keith pushes buttons on the terminal in front of him and a small image appears next to the indicator on the main display.

  "So what do we see?" Grey asks.

  Everyone studies the screen for a moment.

  "Looks like it has a long, low middle," Rebecca says. "Cargo ship?"

  Keith picks up the description. "No obvious markings on the side, so it's probably unaffiliated. But we need a better picture to know that for sure."

  Grey had noticed the lack of markings too. She’d hoped to see the large red, white, and blue stripes like the ones painted along the outer ring of Zulu. That would indicate that this is a ship affiliated with the Unified Countries. Then she can contact Control and have someone back in HQ check on who this is.

  Rebecca stands and leans toward the screen, like that will bring the picture into better focus.

  Grey watches her for a moment. "What?"

  Rebecca points to a spot on the side of the ship. "Is that a hole?"

  Grey and Keith both try to force the picture clearer. "Looks like it could be," Keith finally says.

  "If it is, what's that mean?" Grey asks the room.

  "Probably pirates," Rebecca says.

  "Pirates?"

  Keith nods. "Probably."

  "This far out?"

  "That's what a hole like that would indicate. Blast the side with something strong enough to puncture the steel. Quickly board with a small team and disable the crew. Steal the stuff inside. It's not a sophisticated operation."

  Grey continues to study the picture.

  "Plus," Rebecca says, "we don't know how long ago that ship may have been breached. Just because we are seeing it now doesn't mean it hasn't been floating out there dead for months."

  "Let's not use that word," Grey says. "Dead. Bad karma on a place like this."

  "That's not how karma ..." Grey doesn't let Keith finish his sentence.

  "How much longer until we can make reliable audio contact?"

  Keith looks at the clock on his terminal. "Forty-five minutes. Half an hour."

  "Good," Grey says. "I'll be back t
hen." She turns to Rebecca. "I know this is moderately exciting, having something unknown floating out there, but make sure we are ready for the 6 p.m. to dock."

  Grey goes back through the double doors. Her heels clack on the hard tile.

  +++++

  It is never quiet on Zulu. Even when there isn't a crowd in the common area, there’s background noise that creates a perpetual hum. It takes a lot of systems to keep a transfer station running. Air has to be recycled. Water has to be processed. Electricity has to be generated. All of these functions create noise. It annoyed Lebbe at first, but now he likes it. It is a comfort, something that doesn't register, isn't thought about until it isn't there. Then it’s conspicuously absent. Lebbe has studied the hum so long that he can tell you right away if one of the systems isn't running. He knows all of their notes.