“Hold it a second, kid,” Masterson called out.

  Heath obediently stopped where he was in the cargo bay, despite grating at the delay, stepping to the side to let the crew continue unloading. The cargo felt like a joke after everything else, but a contract was a contract, and the Wandering Loon always delivered.

  “Where ya headed?”

  “The shipyard,” Heath grumbled. “They’re going to gouge me for shoddy work but it needs doing.”

  The expression on Masterson’s lined face was one he couldn’t parse, but he had a feeling he wouldn’t like what came next. “Look kid, just, start thinking of some options, okay?”

  “Options?”

  “The Loon’s in a bad spot, kid. And this isn’t some inner system shipyard where some high rank classer will stop by for the Class advancement, snap their fingers and make it better. So yeah, options. Ain’t no shame in changing crews when it comes time.”

  “What? No! I’m fixing the Loon, I have to, it’s what Uncle Walt would have wanted.”

  “Your uncle was a smart man, Heath. He would want you to do what’s best for you. Go talk to the Shipwrights, but just remember, you can go a different way. We all can.”

  With that ominous declaration, Masterson wandered through the airlock and off into the busy port, rucksack slung over his shoulder. A glance around told Heath the cargo was all unloaded, the doors to the rest of the ship were sealed, and he was alone. He respected the older Spacer, he had been on and off the Loon longer than Heath, filling in at any station when Walt was low on crew. But Masterson was wrong this time.

  Heath entered the station and was hit with a wall of noise. Worse was the smell. Even the best air recycling enchantments could never keep up with a crowded station. One of the reasons Heath preferred planet-side ports. Among a hundred others.

  These kinds of places tended to be pretty much the same, with only the level of enchantments and crime rates varying from station to station. On the other hand, station ports were always well labeled. Heath followed signs to a “park” easily enough. It was a bit of a stretch calling it that, more of a small grassy area with a few potted plants and some kids playing around under the artificial sunlight.

  With a survey he confirmed no one was watching, and he scooped a bit of dirt from one of the pots into a small glass vial. Not strictly against the rules but not quite allowed either, Heath was an old hand at the process and it was done in under ten seconds. Heath was fairly sure he wouldn’t want a memory of this place, but his streak was too good to let it lapse now.

  After that it was a long, tense walk to the shipyards. No one stopped him, no one even called out or gave him a hard time. But he could feel the eyes.

  Most yards had one of two systems in place. Either each area was independently owned and operated, or there was a central admin for the whole shipyard that contracted out to each of the Shipwrights. The Madrigal system was the former. Which was usually fine. Today it meant Heath had the same conversation four times in a row.

  “Good morning, I’m coming from The Wandering Loon. We took some damage on the way here, hoping to get a quote for fixing it.”

  “Saw the readout when you got in. Surprised you made it.”

  “Not all of us did. We ran into an astral storm we didn’t expect and barely made it through.”

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  At this point, the look on their face would switch to pity or derision, depending on if they agreed the Loon got unlucky, or thought they were just too stupid to avoid such an obvious danger.

  Then, they would pull up the station report, automatically generated by a scan when they docked, since the Loon’s AI was still unresponsive.

  “Look, kid.”

  “I’m not a kid, I’m a grown man and the titled owner of the Wandering Loon.”

  “Look, man. It will cost more than the ship’s worth to get it back up to a minimum level of functionality. More than you have for sure. Maybe if it wasn’t so expanded we could cobble something together. But to fix a ship like that you need skills ain't no one out here is high enough level to have.”

  Then the Shipwright would try to soften the blow. “You want my advice. Sell it for scrap, start a nice little nest egg for yourself and hire onto another crew. Then thank any gods you believe in that you made it back with life-support barely operational, and a jump drive flickering like a candle.”

  Then Heath would have to grit his teeth and thank them for their time. Too lazy, too scared, too whatever else to do what needed to be done, his opinion of this place kept dropping. Once the Loon was fixed, he was never coming back here again.

  It was a large yard, for a Rim station, and with the fifth Wright, things went a little differently.

  “I can fix it, but it’ll cost more than you’re willing to pay.”

  “Just tell me,” Heath said. He was in no mood for politeness after getting turned down so many times.

  “A hundred thousand. And three quarters of the anchored argo crystals. I’ll let you choose which mods to keep.”

  “What?!” Heath sputtered. Removing the argo crystals from an established ship…it wasn’t done. It was horrific to even consider. Having the Skill alone was taboo among most spacers, for whom the argo crystal upgrades to their ships were the reason they could make a comfortable living, stay safe, or keep from going insane on a long haul through empty space.

  “You heard me, kid.”

  “I’m not your kid. And I’m not gutting the Loon for you.”

  Heath stormed off. The last Shipwright gave him the same song and dance as the first four, and he exited the dockyards with nothing to show for it. A thought struck him, lancing deep into his heart. Masterson knew. Or at least suspected this would happen. ‘Have a backup plan’ was code for ‘get ready to be extorted’.

  Adrift, he made his way to one of the job halls. Maybe it was an okay idea to see what his options were. If he felt sick to his stomach at the idea of leaving the Loon, abandoning his uncle’s legacy to the scrap heap, well he would probably get over it.

  A station as large as Madrigan would never fit everyone looking to hire or be hired in the same area. Not without at least a few fist fights to break up every hour. For the sake of peace, quiet, and station coffers, postings were put on a central registry, and a series of job halls where they could be viewed was born. The whole thing would be easy to accomplish on the local instance of the net.

  Trivially so.

  But then there would be no way to sell booze and anything else to captive Spacers on leave between rides. Heath had visited plenty of times before, but never for the intended purpose. His uncle just thought it was important any would-be Captain knew about every part of the lifestyle.

  One part job hub, two parts saloon was how Walt usually described it. Raquel always said he gave the job part too much credit. The noise wasn’t too bad in this one. Being the closest option to the shipyards and other maintenance areas was a point in the hall’s favor. The Spacers who made it down here were focused on the serious matter of pouring alcohol down their throats as efficiently as polite society allowed. Distractions like Heath didn’t even register.

  Tucked into a corner table, he slipped a length of rope out of his pocket. While his hand twisted and tied, activating [Knots], he synced his HUD into the job board and pulled up his options.

  Dismal.

  There were a few postings that would take anyone. Mostly grunt work on the patchwork boats he had seen on their entry to port. Juge outfits, where inevitably most of the crew was still unclassed, and had to do things by hand. The pay reflected the lack of prerequisites. Even with what his uncle had left him, it would be years until he was anywhere close to getting a ship of his own. And he wouldn’t get the levels he would need for a better option or a Class evolution either.

  A message came through on his pad; the buzzing pattern he felt through the fabric of his pocket the pattern that indicated a known contact. Heath pulled out the device, and saw it was from Carter. He shoved it away again. He’d answer later once he figured everything out.

  He turned over the options in his head. Reluctantly, he thought about the Shipwrights' offer. That many credits would wipe him out, but with what he was getting from Uncle Walt, it was just about doable. So much so he wondered if the inheritance had been posted somewhere.

  The argo crystals though. That was unthinkable. Undoing his uncle’s lifetime of work and dropping the Loon back down to a basic vessel. Their cargo volume would be miniscule. And he’d have to drop most of the crew.

  That was it. He could ask the crew to chip in. Heath was sure if they offered enough money the man would fix the ship without taking the crystals. Maybe not the regular Spacers, young like him without a lot of savings to spend, they hopped on and off ships based on the contracts available. But Raquel, Masterson, a few others, they might be convinced for a stake in the business. A risk sure, but so was everything else on the Rim.

  He was out the door and running down the station halls before the thought had finished forming. The beat of his feet drumming against the floor drove any thoughts out of his mind besides get back to the ship, get back to the ship. A few of the locals shouted at his back to slow down but that was unimportant.

  This was an emergency. All hands on deck, they could save the Loon!