All of Perina's orbital stations held geosynchronous orbits. Traveling from the Amatins' home station, Indus-2, to the Orian-do corporation factory on a civilian shuttle without an A-drive and mandatory autopilot took about three hours. Athra had arrived closer to noon. Now the factory's research block lay in gloom. Almost all staff had left; only a few offices and laboratories still glowed. Past ten in the evening, but Athra hadn't noticed the time. Bent over a projection of the layout for their future corporate workshop—automated miner production—she meticulously aligned equipment placement. For a solid hour she'd shuffled production modules, but the foundries left no room for printers. At the shipyard where they'd been allocated space, no more modules could be added without risking structural integrity.

  Frowning, she swiped the schematic aside and for the hundredth time studied neighboring shipyard blocks. The nearest foundry sat one structural level above. Athra knew its output norms perfectly. She needed to negotiate capacity. Five percent of its power would eliminate the need for their own foundry entirely.

  "You don't seem to feel fatigue, my dear protégé. How I envy your youth and fire!"

  Athra looked up. Russinen Zhasto—advanced in years but sharp-eyed, her posture bearing the imprint of thousands of nights over blueprints. Sparks of defiance still lurked in her tired gaze.

  They'd met when Athra was writing her first thesis on production-line efficiency. An article by Dr. Zhasto on welding crystals had drowned in ElexMedia's flood of industry news. Almost unnoticed. Athra had found it. Incorporated the calculations. Later, she'd offhandedly promised the scientist her work wouldn't gather dust forever—that Athra would make her famous. Dr. Zhasto had laughed and called her sweet. Now they stood face to face.

  Russinen peered at the schematic projection.

  "Is this the workshop? Setting up your own production?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Oh, women your age usually spend evenings on something more… flattering to female vanity."

  "How did you spend your evenings at my age, Dr. Zhasto?"

  "You've caught me, dear Athra! Perhaps that's why we're the only two left on this level at such an unsocial hour?"

  "I flew in for asteroid belt composition data from the Amatin Mining list. You promised to prepare it."

  Russinen checked her tablet.

  "The girls prepared it. I could have sent it encrypted, but I assume you didn't fly here just for that?"

  "A box of welding crystals," Athra noted the left eyebrow rising slightly. "Yours, Dr. Zhasto. Not the ones gathering dust on trade terminals."

  "Athra, I don't have the right to sell…"

  "Release them for testing. We've known each other years—I hope you trust me. This is fully automated production. I'll send testing data in proper form. No living person will see which consumables we used. Then you publish the report; we confirm results."

  "I cannot act without management approval."

  "Then get it. Are you really less interested than I am? Your work has gathered dust for almost two years. Remember—I promised to bring it into the light?"

  Russinen frowned, unprepared for such pressure. The door she'd knocked on for two years had opened. Now she stood on the threshold, afraid to enter. Shaking her bangs, she stretched her lips into a semblance of a smile and turned away. For several minutes she spoke with one person, then another, then a third. The last thing Athra heard:

  "Yes, Karl, I take full responsibility. Alpha will confirm. Just approve the damned request!"

  She turned back. Athra thought the woman before her had grown twenty years younger.

  "A box, you said? Forty pieces?"

  "Correct, Dr. Zhasto."

  "Yes… that will be quite sufficient for a start. I'll send them to customs and forward the certificate tomorrow. Don't forget to pay for the data."

  "Of course."

  "And don't stay up too late. You'll get dark circles under those smart, brave eyes. Good night."

  "Sweet dreams, ma'am."

  Athra stared into the dark doorway a moment longer, then returned to the shipyard layout. But concentration had fled. She'd flown far enough from Indus-2 not to plan a same-day return—even with autopilot, the shuttle seat seemed suitable for sleeping. Right now, she needed to collect the crystals and decide: hotel or cockpit.

  Fifteen minutes of corridors and elevators later, Athra approached the customs officers.

  "Look, another scorched wreck," one clerk smirked at a hidden screen.

  "I need to pick up a box from Dr. Russinen Zhasto. Athra Amatin."

  Silently, the clerk retrieved the box and placed it before her. Athra embraced the heavy burden and headed for the dock.

  "Departing?"

  "Probably not anymore." She suppressed a desperate yawn. "I'll leave the box in the shuttle and come back."

  "Will it fit?"

  "I'll make it fit!"

  She didn't look back. Behind her:

  "She'll make it fit," the first clerk chuckled.

  "I'd make her fit…" his colleague replied. Both laughed.

  Athra held her breath, gripping the box tighter. "Keep it together, kid—they're just bored guys. No need to start a local war over a tacky joke…" A dozen retorts, each cruder than the last, sat on her tongue. Instead, she smiled. Yes, she was good-looking. And the fact she could defend herself—verbally or otherwise—wasn't something everyone needed to know.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  When someone bumped her from the side, she dropped her burden and swore.

  "Oh, damn!" A stranger bent to gather scattered crystals.

  Athra glanced at the collision with mild indignation. Some crystals had escaped their soft wrapping, but none seemed broken.

  "You could have damaged them!"

  "I'll cover all costs, miss—don't worry!" The klutz gathered everything, rose, adjusted a travel bag on his back. "Here. My apologies again. I'll… leave my coordinates. If anything's damaged, write the amount—I'll pay."

  "You can't cover or pay for them. At the moment, they are priceless." She walked toward her shuttle.

  "What's your name? Coordinates?" the stranger called after her.

  "Athra Amatin!"

  A contact request appeared in her peripheral vision seconds later. Klutz.

  "Does your name mean 'fire'?" he shouted across the docks.

  Athra had already put twenty meters between them, descending toward her berth. The question made her freeze.

  "You are absolutely right!" She took the bait. In another situation, she'd have met silence. But he seemed… pleasant. And knew something only philologists or theologians would know.

  After securing the box with a cargo net in one of the shuttle's two tiny storage niches, Athra glanced at the pilot's seat, grimaced, and went back out. Returning toward the dock exit, she paused—spotting the stranger by the bulkhead, searching his tablet and quietly cursing. Too young for Dr. Zhasto's generation, so not eyesight. Why a tablet?

  She was about to walk past when he inadvertently called out:

  "On this godforsaken station, the only available ship is a shuttle!"

  "This is the Oriando chemical plant—not a station. It only has a nominal repair dock," Athra shrugged without stopping.

  "Athra, I barely made it here on one A-drive; the second wouldn't engage! Half the maneuvering thrusters are burned out, and there's a hole in her belly—life support got hit!" He slumped dejectedly, then perked up: "You're not going to suggest I wait for repairs, are you?!"

  "I wasn't planning to suggest anything." She paused by the bulkheads as they hissed open.

  The customs officers stood ten meters ahead. Athra glanced back at the stranger.

  "If you don't want to wait for repairs, a shuttle will get you to the nearest station just as well. If the second drive were truly damaged, you'd still be adrift where you took that damage. Repair likely won't take more than a day."

  "That's if they don't decide to get to me right here. Is there even a hotel? Haven't seen a single police officer."

  "You haven't even left the dock." Athra noted the fork near the elevators—far enough for privacy, next to a viewport. "If you need a hotel, follow me."

  "Alright!" The klutz decided and headed toward her.

  They passed the customs officers and stopped at the fork.

  "Do you know the way?" he asked.

  "Alpha mapped the route. What's there to know?"

  "I'm not that used to her yet; wouldn't have thought to ask for directions."

  "You probably have a station schematic on your tablet. It should load upon docking."

  The stranger leaned back in incomprehension, then laughed.

  "Well, indeed—it's not that complicated. I'm just flustered. And I really can't get used to your ubiquitous Cerberus." He had light eyes, a soft French accent much like Dr. Zhasto's. Something sweet about him—inspiring trust, a desire to help.

  "What were those priceless glass things?"

  "Welding crystals. Experimental."

  "Ah." He nodded as if that explained everything. It didn't.

  They entered the elevator and watched the floor indicator in silence. In the small hotel block, they paused at an information terminal. Almost all rooms were free. Athra poked the first green square her finger landed on and confirmed her identity. The klutz followed her example. After paying, they walked down the corridor.

  "Aha, my room!" he exclaimed. "Athra, join me for a glass of excellent Belgian vermouth? After this stress, I won't sleep without it—and drinking alone… well, you understand."

  "I don't drink."

  "You just haven't tried it. Fifteen minutes—I'll let you go. Your fatigue is as eloquent as your beauty."

  Athra thought two seconds. Her friends, colleagues, family—everyone knew about her after-capsule period. Its constantly extending duration hinted at problems beyond that long-ago fight. This was almost the first time she'd met someone who perceived her as a blank slate. Not in context of party or work—just like that. The first conversation with an unfamiliar 'contact' lasting more than meaningless phrases. With a man who knew nothing about her and was rather pleasant.

  She started a timer and returned to the man, who had opened his room door.

  "Go on, then…"

  The klutz rolled his eyes in feigned gratitude. Dropping his bag on the sofa, he rummaged and pulled out a bottle with yellowish liquid. Dusty glasses stood under the wall screen. Pouring for her and himself, he handed her one and settled into an armchair.

  "So—what happened to your ship?"

  "Try it. You surely haven't tried Earth Federation drinks? This is the last bottle from my stash."

  Athra took a sip and closed her eyes. Strikingly different from anything she'd tasted—bitterish, smooth, almost rough, leaving a pleasant aftertaste. She smiled, doubting her principled teetotalism for the first time. Perhaps light synthetics wouldn't be as destructive as she imagined.

  "Well, splendid. To our acquaintance!" He took a good gulp and relaxed. "Tell your story," she smiled. "I plan to spend no more than a quarter-hour with you—I started a timer."

  "Oh, mon Dieu—a timer! Your Alliance is driving me mad! Do you set timers for every action? Seriously—are you really this calm about all Alpha's control, or is it veiled despair?"

  "You're changing the subject."

  "Alright." He conceded. "I was attacked."

  "By whom?" Athra burst out laughing. "Where could you have been attacked?"

  An A-drive created a field around the ship, repelling external space—its own inertialess bubble within normal cosmos. Even if ships moved on parallel trajectories, an engaged hyperdrive implied weapons offline. This klutz could only have been attacked near stations, outposts, planets—zones of reasonable proximity. But then police would already know. No matter how long he flew, they should have ensured he'd make it or be evacuated. So he was either a bad liar, refused help, or was himself responsible for the attack and fled—which was dubious. If his ship was truly that bad, police would have caught up. Unless… neither side reported the conflict.

  Having laughed it off, Athra fixed a cold, attentive gaze on the stranger. An interesting specimen.

  "Well, what are you laughing about? Attacks happen often if there's valuable cargo—or just to check if there is any."

  "Is this it?" She tilted her nearly untouched glass. "You clearly feared an attack right here, at Oriando. If someone pursues you, tell Alpha."

  "I'll definitely do that, Athra! Thanks for the advice!"

  It was rudeness—and Athra liked it. No fawning, no empty compliments. Direct, just like her. He reminded her of Ishkhat—one of her two friends online. Not in looks: unlike Ishkhat's skinny mop with poisonous tongue, this one was handsome, well-built. Still, few could afford to act the way Athra often did.

  She rose and walked to the monitor in the kitchenette, showing external camera feeds. From this virtual window, the edge of the asteroid ring around the gas giant was visible. Below—dock tops; ahead—navigation lights. Eleven minutes.

  The stranger—whose name she should have asked earlier—approached and topped up her drink. They stood by the monitor as if it were a real window. Vermouth added relaxing warmth to the fatigue flooding her being. Athra wanted the bed. Sleep.

  Lighting at half power—comfortable evening glow. Very quiet. A mouse could run across ceiling panels, but even it wasn't in a hurry to break the silence. Athra watched navigation lights. Their constant, familiar blinking was soothing.

  Suddenly, cold fingers brushed her neck—where Markus's hickey still showed. She shivered, swatting them away without malice, like a fly.

  "Sorry, I…" He seemed to snap out of it and recoiled. "Oh, mon Dieu—forgive my audacity, I just…"

  "Don't." Athra waved it off.

  "I'm just enchanted. That's all."

  "Apology accepted."

  "Alright, Athra." He forced a laugh, turned to pour more. "What's so funny?"

  "I'd mark a woman like that too… regularly."

  "Sounds rather animalistic." She wasn't offended. Athra didn't know how to take offense.

  "You're so calm with a stranger—it's downright disconcerting."

  "By the way—you never introduced yourself."

  "Toby! Tobias Le Cheron! I sent you a contact request!"

  "Get some sleep, Toby. Judging by your absent-mindedness, you need it."

  "Wait—the quarter hour isn't up yet! I… I really don't want to let you go. What are you doing here? Tell me about yourself."

  "I flew in for work. Heading back to Indus-2 in the morning."

  "And what does your work involve?"

  "I design production workshops and select equipment where construction neural networks are powerless."

  "What?! Oh, mon Dieu—how old are you? Workshops? You design production workshops?"

  "I'm twenty. It's a normal job—not persecuted in space or on stations."

  "You're scared that…"

  "I'm hard to scare, Tobias." She stood. "I really must go. Good night."