Mace Holt had eleven hours of fuel and no port that would take him. His ship showed as destroyed in the Void Return registry, a lie he never fixed and now couldn't outrun. Every legal dock scanned his hull, flagged the ghost, and sent patrol boats. So he drifted between stations, hungry, running dry, chasing the one thing that could clear his name: proof the registry was wrong. He needed intel. Intel needed docking. And docking needed a name he didn't have. He pointed the ship at the only place that didn't ask questions. The Black Market Trade Hub & Bar hung in the dark like a rusted lantern, its wooden face patched with scrap and strung with faded awnings. No scanners here. No patrols. Just traders who took anything but questions. Mace tallied his cargo on the way in. Two crates of filtration coils. A box of Atlas Currency thin enough to see through. Not enough for fuel and food both. The bar swallowed him in smoke and low voices. He found the botanist at a corner table, a gaunt woman in a soil-stained coat. She hunched over a sealed glass case. Inside, green leaves pressed against the glass, alive. Mira Roane. He'd heard she traded cuttings for passage because nobody else in Void Return grew anything. "You're the dead man," she said, not looking up. "The one whose ship still flies." "Fuel and supplies," Mace said. "I've got coils and coin. I need a name inside the registry office. Someone who moves records." Mira turned the case in her hands. "I don't sell names. I sell passage." Her eyes lifted. "Get me and my plants off this station, somewhere with soil. Do that, and I'll fill your hold. Fuel. Food. A full run." Mace weighed it. Passage cost him nothing he didn't already burn. "Done." A chair scraped behind him. A man in stained grey combat armor dropped into the seat uninvited. Headphones clamped his ears, welded there, thumping faint music. He grinned like the whole place was a joke only he understood. "Moss Fegan," he said. "I do security. And she's not going anywhere until she pays what she owes the men who own this floor." He nodded at two figures rising near the door. "They flagged your ship on the way in, by the way. Bounty's live now. Legal ports, black ports, all of them." Mace's stomach dropped. His only safe harbor had just become a trap. "But," Moss said, leaning close, "I like long odds and short flights. Get us all out before they lock the docks, and I'll cover your back the whole way." Mace looked at the botanist, the grinning operator, the men closing in. He'd come for fuel and a name. He was leaving with a crew and a bounty. "Then we move," Mace said, "now."

The docks could lock any minute. Mace had a botanist, an operator, and a bounty on his hull. He needed Moss to move first, to scout the exits and hold the route. But Moss stayed in his chair, boots up on the table, headphones thumping. "I don't work loose ends," Moss said. He tipped his head at Mira, who hunched over her glass case a few feet away. "She owes the men who run this floor. They lock her, they lock all of us. Clear her debt. Then I move." Mace turned to Mira. "How much?" "More than you have," she said, flat. She didn't look up from the plants. Mace had two crates of coils and a thin box of coin. Not enough. But he knew someone who dealt in things worth more than coin. He crossed the smoke to a corner table where a woman in a crisp corporate suit sat straight-backed. Sable Lorne. She sold ID wipes and rewrote registry flags for anyone who paid. In one hand she held a photo of herself, but older, scarred, hollow-eyed. She set it face-down when Mace stopped. "The dead man," Sable said. Her voice was smooth. "Your flag is expensive. I don't do charity." "Not the flag. Not yet." Mace leaned in. "The botanist's debt to the enforcers. You touch their ledgers?" "I touch everything," Sable said. "But I trade for value, not sob stories." Mace glanced back at Mira. He remembered what she'd said in Chapter one: she wouldn't trade one plant for anything. He walked back to her. "Sable can wipe your debt from their books," Mace said. "She wants payment. A cutting." Mira's hands tightened on the case. "No." "Then Moss won't move. Then we all get locked in here." Mace kept his voice low. "One cutting. Not the one you're protecting. You choose." Mira stared at the leaves. Her jaw worked. She opened the case, snapped off a small green stem, and closed it again fast. She pressed the cutting into his palm. "That one," she said. "Not the other. Ever." Mace carried it to Sable. The clone studied the stem, then held it to the light. Something in her hard face shifted, hunger, maybe memory. She slid it into a sealed vial. "Living things are rare here," Sable said. "Debt's gone in ten minutes. Their ledger will show it paid." She tapped a keypad. "Done." Mace returned to the table. "Debt's clear. Check it." Moss pulled a screen from his armor, scanned it, and read. His boots came off the table. He stood. "Confirmed," Moss said. "Route three. Follow me." But across the bar, one of the enforcers stared at his own screen. He'd seen the debt vanish. He looked up, straight at Mace, and reached for the man beside him. The debt was gone. Now the enforcers knew someone inside had rewritten their books, and they wanted the name.