It was a long story.
“Fine,” Doran said. He raked a hand through his dark hair, which he would have to color red. “But we’re almost out of dye. I should’ve called myself Daro the Black.”
Solara stood on tiptoe and whispered to Doran. Whatever she said made the tips of his ears turn pink. He whispered something back and then kissed the tattoo on the inside of her wrist, which matched his, because she was his fake pirate wife.
A very long story.
Renny told everyone, “This time we stay together. All of us, no matter what. I suggest you use the bathroom before we leave, because any pit stop you make on that satellite will be a team effort.” He pushed his glasses higher up his nose. “Understood?”
“Yes, Cap’n,” they echoed.
“And remember to keep your heads down. Stay away from large crowds, and don’t advertise who we are once we’re inside. I crossed the Zhang mafia once, and they never forget a name.”
“But they operate on Earth,” Doran said. “The fringe is Brethren territory.”
“Tell that to my pistol wounds.” Renny pointed at Doran. “And don’t go throwing your name around, either, Daro the Red. All anyone has to do to claim your territory is challenge you to a fight.”
“Or kill you,” Kane added with a grin and a hearty slap on his friend’s back. “I heard the pirate lord in sector three was garroted last week.”
“Thanks for the reminder.”
“Anytime, buddy.”
“Let’s keep it simple—in and out,” Renny said. “We’ll only use Doran’s alter ego as a last resort. Got it?”
Everyone nodded.
“Good. You have one hour until we dock. Crew dismissed.”
Kane had never visited a black market satellite until now. The satellites tended to move to locations that were kept secret—one day here, another day there—and they drew the kind of people a guy tried to avoid if he had a bounty on his head. Still, the hub looked similar to how he’d always imagined it: like a common trading post, only sketchier.
Artificial light flickered overhead, casting a jaundiced glow over the faces of shoppers as they browsed the long rows of booths erected near the pub. A variety of items were on display, everything from weapons that were probably stolen to prescription drugs that had likely expired. Other goods were advertised on signs, services rendered by escorts and hit men. Half the booths stood empty, and the other half were manned by vendors with their feet kicked up and their hats pulled down. Once every few minutes, a peddler would spot an easy target and try to wave him over, but otherwise most folks avoided eye contact and kept to themselves. None of that surprised Kane.
What he hadn’t predicted was the smell.
“Hot damn,” he said, pulling his shirt collar over his nose and mouth. “It smells like a skunk threw up on a dead body in here.”
“Add a hundred sweaty jockstraps, and you nailed it.” Doran waved a hand to dispel the stench. “It’s making my eyes water.”
“What is that?” Cassia asked.
Renny pointed ahead toward the mouth of an open doorway. The entrance was too dark to reveal anything inside, but a sign affixed to the wall promised CHEAP LABOR!
“Low-end slave traders,” Renny said. “Their product doesn’t have a long shelf life, so they don’t bother with basic hygiene.”
Everyone quit complaining after that.
Kane lowered his shirt collar out of respect as he passed. There was nothing like slavery to put his problems into perspective.
The crew continued in silence for a while, following Renny as he led them out of the marketplace, past a stretch of storage units, and toward what looked like an office door with a single word stenciled above it: INQUIRIES.
“What are we doing?” Cassia whispered.
“We can’t go around asking questions,” Renny told her, “or it’ll draw too much attention.” He nodded toward the door. “We’ll hire someone to do our digging for us.”
“A ferret,” Kane said. He’d heard of that service. For a fee, a local with the right connections would find the information they wanted while protecting their identity.
“Exactly. Now, let’s see what we can afford to bid.”
Renny dug in his pocket and pulled out a handful of fuel chips. Cupping his palm, he used a finger to push aside the random junk he’d stolen—a pillbox, two disk batteries, the tip of a broken grease pencil, and Cassia’s pink laser blade. Kane had borrowed it enough times to know.
“Hey!” Cassia objected.
Renny ducked his head. “Sorry. I can’t—”
“Help it,” she finished, snatching the object from him. “Yeah, I know.”