The Expanse was like a city, if you put a 20-year-old in charge of city infrastructure and gave them a budget of three synth flickberry chips and a freeze-o-cream. Everything looked slapped together, and around some of the rocks were streaks of stardust that form traces looking like melted cream scattered on the ground, licked at random places.

  “Adjust vector four degrees starboard,” Priest instructed as he monitored the shifting gravitational anomalies. “That’ll put us in a gap between the next drift cycle.”

  “Yeah, yeah, already saw it,” Fang muttered, nudging the Black Fang into the opening. A jagged mass of rock the size of a city block tumbled past where they had been a second earlier.

  “Casual reminder,” Hunter drawled from the side, “if we hit something, we don’t explode instantly. First, we depressurize. Then we freeze. Then we die.”

  “Not helping,” Priest and Fang said in unison.

  The ship banked at a sharp degree to avoid another spiraling chunk of debris. Fang’s fingers tightened on the controls, jaw set as she read the patterns, finding the gaps before they opened.

  The Black Fang vibrated. Smaller fragments scraped the deflector shields, sending a cascade of sparks skittering across the viewport.

  Gravel called out to the back, “Sloan. Come out and see this exquisite meteor shower.”

  Priest said, “Fang. Let’s not push our luck.”

  Fang didn’t take her eyes off the controls. “I am being careful.”

  “Alright,” Gravel leaned back in his chair with another mock beer in his hand. “Since we’re in the middle of an asteroid ballet and no one’s getting off the stage anytime soon, might as well unravel the mystery about the drive. Come over, Priest.”

  Priest’s walked over, visor pulsating as he keyed into the console. Strings of fragmented text scrolled past the main display, and the data started to take form.

  The fragmented text resolved into something half-readable, half-glitching between corrupted lines. A few key phrases stood out immediately, blinking in ominous red:

  PROJECT: VARIANT GENESIS (PHASE 3)

  SECURITY LEVEL: RED

  TEST SITE DECOMMISSIONED: INCOMPLETE

  FINAL TRANSPORT ROUTE: MENDAX-14 PERIMETER / SITE 42-B

  “Phase 3 of this project is in . . . Mendax?” Hunter touched her chin. “How many phases are there that we know of?”

  “See, I told ya we should head to Mendax.” Gravel called out to the general direction of the storage room that Sloan had retreated back to. “You hear that, corpo? Sloan? Sloan Albrecht?”

  “Can you check how far away Mendax-14 is from Mendax-12?” Hunter asked Priest.

  Priest ran another scan through the fragmented data. More corrupted text scrolled past before stabilizing into partially readable entries. “We’ve got mentions of Phases 1 through 5. No references beyond that, but doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

  “And Mendax-14?” Hunter pushed.

  Priest tapped a few commands, cross-referencing the location. His visor flashed for a second. “Mendax-14 is two hours out from Mendax-12 if we ride full speed. It’s an official celestial body, mapped, logged, and subject to Republic governance—same civil laws, same trade oversight. But.”

  Gravel raised a brow. “There’s a but?”

  Priest nodded at the screen. “Site 42-B doesn’t exist. At least, not in any official records. No survey markers, no registered structures, no history of development.”

  Gravel rubbed his temple. “Alright, genius. If the site doesn’t exist, how the hell are we supposed to get a lead?”

  Hunter leaned forward, bracing her hands on the edge of the console. “By boarding the planet, duh.”

  “We have active warrants, genius number 2—Actually.” Gravel’s face brimmed.

  “Uh-oh. Somebody’s got a brand new plan.” Hunter looked at Priest, who returned her gaze. She then turned to Gravel. “I was joking, you know.”

  Gravel’s grin widened as he snapped his fingers. “We don’t go in as us.”

  Fang groaned. “Oh no.”

  “Oh yes,” Gravel said, already standing. “See, a couple of wanted fugitives would get flagged the moment we hit the docks, sure. But a crew of respectable, law-abiding professionals?” He gestured vaguely. “Totally different story.”

  Hunter raised a brow. “Or we can board Mendax-12 instead and get information from a distance. You know, like people who don’t want to be arrested.”

  Priest, who had been quiet, tapped the console. “Roz’s capital houses a major Republic data archive. If this ‘Site 42-B’ ever had transport routes passing through, there might be a record.” Roz would be the superpower of Mendax-12, the equivalent of The Atlantian Republic on Earth. “Unluckily for us, that archive would probably be one of the only heavily safeguarded places on that planet.”

  “What the fuck.” Gravel put a hand on his forehead. “Why do you always have to ruin my plans with logic? Fine. Whatever. Oi, corpo!” He turned to the storage room again. “You got any friends left on Mendax-12, or did you burn all your bridges?”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Sloan’s flat voice came from the storage room. “I already said I don’t know anyone there.”

  A voice blasted through comms. “Guys. The cocky bastard from the Verge caught up to us.”

  “Oh, come on.” Gravel’s head snapped up. “Fine. Patch him through.”

  The rogue pilot’s voice came through to Linking Park Array, a comm system embedded in the lounge’s walls. Gravel heard that the creator of the system was a fan of some archaic Earthling rock band or something. The Array projected his voice in crisp, holographic surround sound. Like he was standing right there among them. “You see how those McPherson vessels operate? What a waste of ducats. They likely have pilfered a couple shillings or two during the installment of their lock-in system, because that was shite.” He cackled, then the cackle stopped mid-way. His voice deepened, like the grinding of techtonic plates. “Now Vanje’s whereabouts.”

  Gravel leaned back, throwing his hands up. “Alright, hotshot, I get it. You and Vanje have some epic drama. Man hacked your AstroCred wallet, ghosted your deal, broke your heart over a candlelit dinner on Titan. Whatever. Point is, I’m not a mind reader. Give me something to work with, or I’m just spinning my wheels here.”

  “You don’t need my name. You just need to tell me where Vanje is.”

  Hunter’s voice cut in, calm but edged. “You happen to have any experience with landing on Mendax-12 or 14?”

  There was a pause. “What’s this about?”

  Before Gravel could spin up another smartass response, Hunter cut in, her voice smooth but firm. “It’s about a mutual opportunity. We have a big problem, and we need to be on Mendax-12. I figured Vanje’s worth that much to you.”

  Gravel turned to Hunter, opened his mouth, and exaggeratedly formed silent words: We’re not selling Vanje out.

  Hunter didn’t look at him. She kept her voice even. “You know anything about the Republic archive?”

  The rogue pilot scoffed. He paused for a few seconds—too long—then replied. “Not exactly the best-kept secret. It’s open-access, technically.”

  Gravel raised a brow. “Technically?”

  “The Republic archives operate under a local storage model. Information’s not centralized. Some planetary archives only store data relevant to their own jurisdiction. So, if you want records from Mendax-12, you have to be on Mendax-12. Publicly accessible, sure, but outdated. Tend to lag about fifty years unless you know the right people. Happy?”

  Hunter let out a long ‘hmm’.

  “Vanje,” The stranger repeated.

  Hunter barely hesitated before saying, “Last I heard, he was—”

  Gravel cut in. “—Really into old Haret jazz. Crazy, right? Whole ‘synth fusion’ craze going on, and he’s out there obsessing over saxophones. I mean, come on.”

  There was a beat of silence.

  Then a thrum of energy vibrated through the Black Fang’s hull.

  Priest’s visor pulsed red. “He’s heating weapons.”

  “What in the void’s gate, Captain? You’re trying to get us killed to save some acquaintance?” Hunter’s eyes widened as she sprung from her seat.

  Gravel threw up his hands. “Whoa, hey, hey, you gonna fire on us over jazz?”

  A low, resonant hum vibrated through the Black Fang’s frame. It grew louder. Louder. Louder.

  The Black Fang’s HUD flared crimson with proximity alerts. A pulsating heat signature spiked on the rear sensors. The shield display stuttered. This kind of power didn’t just burn—it warped space with a gravitational pull of its own, the kind that made lesser ships’ hulls groan under the weight.

  The rogue pilot’s tone remained eerily casual. “You’ve got five seconds before I introduce you to an Ulbra-K42 disruptor.”

  Fang, still at the console, muttered, “That thing’ll chew through our shield reserves like a blender through protein paste. We can only take two hits; three max. Boss?”

  Gravel’s expression hardened for a moment before he met Hunter’s eyes. “Not speaking as Captain here. But you’ve always delegated decisions like these to me. Why the doubt?”

  “You’re seriously asking why?” She squinted her eyes.

  “Trust me on this.”

  The growl of the disruptor rattled through the Black Fang’s frame. Fang hovered over evasive maneuvers and slammed her palm against the automated weapon panel. The ship’s turrets whirred to life.

  “Take over manual turret controls, Hunter,” Gravel whispered.

  “You said to trust you.”

  “Safety measures.”

  She hesitated for half a second. “You haven’t gotten us killed yet.” Then burst into a run.

  Gravel shouted into comms. “Come. Shoot at us. I’m dying to test out this shield system I shelled out so much ducats for. Go ahead. Shoot.”

  Another second.

  Then another.

  “Five seconds, huh?” Gravel checked an imaginary watch on his wrist, tapping it hard enough for the sound to travel over comms. “That was, what, three seconds ago? Shouldn’t we be dead by now?”

  Silence.

  Gravel’s fingers curled against the armrest. “Four? Five? Ah, man, that’s weird. It’s almost like—” He raised his hands, snapping his fingers, but those slightly shaking fingers failed to make a sound. He inhaled an snapped them again. “—You’re full of shit.”

  The growl of the disruptor stayed just under the threshold of firing for another second. Nothing.

  Then, through the comms, a single clap. Then another.

  “You got me, Captain.” The rogue pilot’s tone shifted, easy and amused. “I was testing you. Figured if you cracked under pressure, well—wrong answer.” A pause. “Any friend of Vanje is a friend of mine. Snitches? Not.”

  Fang let out a low breath. “You piece of shit.”

  Hunter, who had only just made it to the turret controls, groaned and slammed her fist against the console.

  Priest nodded at Gravel. “Good hunch again, Captain.”

  Sloan, who had finally emerged from the storage room, stared blankly at Priest. “A hunch? That’s how you do things now?”

  Gravel chuckled on comms. “I trust you’re a pro, pal. Pros don’t make those mistakes.”

  “With the comms jamming?” Priest asked.

  “And the weapons ping,” Gravel replied. “Verge-runner dude didn’t even pretend to lock onto us. The scanners would’ve thrown a fit.”

  “You got style, Captain,” the stranger let out a chuckle in return.

  “That weapon was such an overkill, mate,” Gravel huffed.

  Fang ran both hands down her face. “We almost died over this guy’s personality test.”

  “I guess this is still about Vanje, huh?” Gravel asked.

  “We’ll talk on the way to Mendax-12,” the stranger replied, with a smirk you could hear through the transmission. “The name’s Xaxx. With two X’s.”