“You sent us after plats while the city was being bombarded!” Natalya told Ptolemy.

“Quite a successful operation, too. Well done,” Ptolemy said as he swept his fingers across the consoles in his quarters, as if speaking to Natalya only required half his concentration, and the lesser half at that.

“We lost time going on your errands instead of getting off-world quick as possible!”

“Do you want to get paid, Natalya?”

“Captain.”

“Do you want to get paid, Captain Frazier?”

“We did the job. We were getting the refugees out of there.”

“And those refugees paid well to board the only ship willing to illegally move them from the warzone into neutral territory,” Ptolemy said, turning to look at the hologram of Puqi. Tiny flashes sparkled where cities were under attack, the hologram showing a delayed feed of the battle from planetary scanners Ptolemy had no doubt hacked into.

“The extras, the ones who showed up on the landing zone while we were ready to leave,” Ptolemy continued. “They had not paid.”

“The job was to collect refugees,” Natalya countered.

“The job was to collect payment. The number of refugees doesn’t seem a material concern.” Ptolemy held his hands behind his back as he watched the battle.

“It wouldn’t have been a problem if Qin hadn’t told them to raise the shields,” Natalya said, biting her lip. She kept going over and over that moment in her head.

Should she have raised the gangplank? Should she have left the refugees? It didn’t matter. What’s done was done, and it truthfully was Qin’s fault. But the image of the vault guard, his blast narrowly missing her before Co shot him, didn’t sting any less no matter how many times Natalya laid the blame on Qin.

“Qin?” Ptolemy asked, and gave Natalya his full attention. “Interesting.”

“That’s all you have to say? Interesting?” Natalya asked.

“He’s advanced his career on the ashes of yours, Na—”

Natalya made a fist.

“Captain Frazier,” Ptolemy said, his hands raised in submission. “He’s publicly claimed you’re dead. Perhaps he sees gain in your capture. Or at least gain in preventing you from proving him a liar. He can’t have any cracks in his persona if he wants to unify Prosper.”

“He’s an idiot then. If he wants to unify Prosper so bad he should leave smugglers alone,” Natalya said.

“You’re concerned about his success or failure?” Ptolemy asked.

The holographic image of Puqi winked out and the steady, white lights of Ptolemy’s room flicked on. The feed must have broken, or whatever Ptolemy was hacking into had recognized the breach. Blinking lights of giant quantum processors lined the walls of Ptolemy’s quarters, along with stacks of books, their paper pages a stark contrast to the technology in the rest of the room.

“I’m a criminal,” Natalya answered, “a smuggler and a thief.”

“You blame me for that?” Ptolemy asked.

“I know who I am. I don’t care what Qin or you or even the Prophets think. I just want to get the job done and do my best to stay away from politics and people who want me dead.”

“Wonderful. Then you’ll be pleased to know we have another job. Transporting refugees is much more profitable than ice cream, don’t you agree?” Ptolemy asked, referring to the first smuggling job they’d done together, almost six months ago.

He was right. The money was good, and needed. Natalya needed it if she wanted to keep moving. She needed it if she was ever going to stop smuggling and return to some kind of life, if that was even possible.

“Details?” Natalya asked.

“I’m afraid we’ll learn the details on The Moon. Once we offload these refugees, of course,” Ptolemy answered.

“Fine. Let’s just keep away from galaxy-class engagements this time.”

“Unavoidable, I’m afraid, but I’ll do my best. And this time we’ll have paying customers. I’m not sure how we’re going to collect from those beggars you allowed onboard.”

“They’re paid for,” Natalya replied, headed for the door.

“Pardon?”

“The money we took from the vault, that’s their payment.”

“Natalya, I hardly think that—”

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“Captain Frazier.”

Ptolemy blinked, then smiled. “Very well, Captain Frazier. They have paid in full. I’ll make sure to notify those on The Moon that they’ll be taking on additional bodies.”

Natalya nodded, and opened the room’s circular hatch.

Co stood on the other side of the door, just about to knock.

“What do you want?” Natalya asked.

“I need more high-dense explosives. I used them all,” Co answered.

Natalya chuckled.

“Requisition Co anything she needs, Ptolemy. That’s an order,” Natalya said.

“I need a neutron bomb,” Co announced.

“Need to blow up an asteroid in the near future?” Ptolemy asked.

Co shrugged.

“Okay,” Natalya said, “requisition her anything except that.”

They called it The Moon.

Technically it was Missionary, one of three moons orbiting the purple gas giant Plum. Some called it Little Plum. Some called it Mishmash. Some called it a stinking hole that collected the waste of governments and companies that wanted to do something they couldn’t get away with anywhere else. Most just called it The Moon.

Situated in a binary star system with no other habitable rocks, The Moon had been Prosper-formed from an atmosphere-less chunk of iron into a thriving spaceport. Its position at the geographic tip of the Prosper-loyal parts of the galaxy, dead center between Gaozu and Changyu clusters, offered a neutral spot where all manner of business could be done, money could be made, sins could be committed.

While there were hundreds of colonized moons in the Jade Galaxy, The Moon had by far the largest population, earning it ownership of the name. Black metal skyscrapers were dug out of the surface, or projected through the artificial atmosphere. Massive factories billowed smoke that choked those living in densely packed apartments or underground cities.

Augustus disengaged the opalescents, Chimera entering sub-light speed in visual range of The Moon. “Golden Dragon Great Hall welcomes you and wishes you to enjoy our discounted buffet and live dance—” came a sing-song advertisement through the bridge loudspeakers.

“They must have changed the frequency again,” Natalya said, rushing to the communications console to switch to a commerce channel.

Before the music switched off, a line of holographic dancers wearing string bikinis appeared in a window on the viewscreens.

The words Golden Dragon Great Hall. No holograms! scrolled across the screen as buxomed ladies emerged from the holograms, hands behind their backs to tear off their bikinis.

“Enough of that,” Natalya said, closing the window.

“Ah, come on, they were just getting to the good part,” Augustus whined in his deep baritone.

“You can spend your plats how you like when we land,” Natalya said, opening communications with the landing zone.

“How about it, Co? You and me, tear the planet apart!”

“I’ll pass,” Co said, leaning back in her weapons console.

Natalya got clearance to land, or rather, Ptolemy had given her a script to say that would find the contact where they were to drop off the cargo. She went off script just enough to make sure there weren’t troops waiting for them, and had Augustus guide Chimera through the planet’s weak magnetic field.

Giant billboards flashing lights and holograms of everything from exploding spacecraft to fixed spacecraft to spacecraft that looked distractingly feminine vied for attention. The buildings of black iron, with crisscrossing cables and blade-like skyscrapers, projected colorful lasers that showcased everything from stock prices to lunch menus.

Chimera flew high over the split city of The Moon’s largest metropolis. One side held the brilliant lights of the galaxy’s playground, casinos and theatres and a million other pleasures. On the other, office buildings, high-rise apartments, a port second only to those on Prosper, and ringing it all an endless variety of smoke-spewing factories. In between the two cities lay a wide body of water, the Missionary Tidepool, glowing purple from the nearby Plum gas giant.

They passed through a cloud of smog on their way to the Tidepool-adjacent landing zone. The landing zone was a wide expanse of flat metal set beside a star-shaped apartment building with warehouses and long arms of container cranes clustered together. Dozens of other ships, most bigger, some smaller than Chimera, landed and took off as Augustus piloted the ship to the spot next to an open warehouse door.

Augustus kept his vaporizer between his teeth, puffing away as he joined Natalya out Chimera’s wing-side airlock and hopped onto the ground. He took a deep breath, exhaling vapor and the smoke of the moon’s air.

“Always good getting back,” he said with a wide smile.

“Even better leaving,” Ptolemy noted as he put on a fake smile. He walked past Natalya and Augustus to greet the suit and tie-wearing contact who stood with his arms crossed in front of the warehouse door.

“Think they’ll screw us on the bonus again?” Augustus asked.

“He better not,” Natalya said, tapping a pistol strapped to her armored leggings.

The negotiations were getting heated, it seemed, as Ptolemy threw his hands up and the contact refused to move. Chimera’s gangplank lowered, however, and the refugees started walking out, eyes wide with a mixture of fear, relief and wonder.

“You gonna shoot him for cheating us?” Augustus asked.

“No. I’ll give the gun to Co,” Natalya replied.

A blast rang out from the cargo bay, the refugees screaming and racing to escape.

“Might be a bad idea,” Augustus noted.

Natalya drew her pistol and shoved her way through the stream of people. When she entered the cargo bay, she saw Co standing over two men. One backed away slowly, dragging his leg on the deck. The other had a bleeding hole in his stomach.

“Co!” Natalya scolded.

“He wouldn’t pay,” Co said.

“The refugees have paid already, Co,” Natalya said. “I cleared those who couldn’t with Ptolemy.”

Natalya knelt and applied pressure to the injured man’s wound, the refugee wincing in pain. She recognized his face, his muscled arms, and his bloodstained cloak. It was the refugee who’d caught her attention as they fled Puqi. She saw his features more clearly, his face angular and his skin a light tannish hue. He wore blue jeans and a t-shirt beneath his cloak, and he opened his brown eyes when Natalya knelt beside him.

“This one could pay. He just wouldn’t. Was trying to hide his gold,” Co explained, and showed Natalya the cross-barred staff the refugee had been carrying.

But it wasn’t a staff. It was a two-handed sword, the blade sheathed in simple leather and the cross-barred hilt hidden in strips of cloth. When Natalya drew the golden-handled sword from its sheath, she saw bands of glistening gold running through the blade.

The wounded refugee stuck a hand out, and before Natalya could order him to lie still, he grabbed hold of the golden sword. At first Natalya thought the sword had lights inside it, or that someone was flashing a spotlight on the blade. But the weapon glowed with a golden color that put off no heat or energy, the cold light running through the hilt and into the wounded refugee’s hand.

The light coalesced in his veins, and before Natalya could speak, the man’s wound began to heal. The hole sealed itself up, flesh and bone stitching together, and the refugee tightened his grip on the golden sword.

Natalya gasped, “He’s a Prophet!”