Mara Frost wanted the three pirate crews of Shipwreck Bay to stop killing each other. She pinned truce notes to tavern doors at night, one for each captain, folded and sealed. The problem was simple and deadly. She had nowhere to hold the meeting. Every dock in the bay belonged to one crew. Every tavern belonged to another. The last time captains sat under the same roof, they burned the roof down. Without neutral ground, no talk could start. A meeting would become a brawl before the first word. She walked the tide flats at low water, counting scraps of land no crew claimed. A sandbar. A wrecked hull half-sunk in mud. Nothing large enough. Nothing safe. Then a light moved on the water where no light should be. A small craft slid onto the flats. A man stepped out. His skin was pale blue. His ears came to points. He wore a dark uniform with a gold badge shaped like an arrowhead. He held a device that hummed and blinked. He did not look at Mara. He looked at his machine. "You are the source of nothing," he said. "The signal originates farther inland. State your position." "I'm nobody," Mara said. "Who are you?" "Spock. First officer. My ship tracked a cyclical pulse to this bay." He turned the device toward the wrecked hull. "It comes from there. A beacon, buried, still broadcasting." Mara looked at the sunken wreck. No crew touched it. Sailors said it was cursed. That was why it stayed empty. That was why it was neutral. "That wreck," she said. "Does anyone own it?" "Ownership is irrelevant. The structure is stable below the waterline. It could hold thirty people." Spock lowered the device. "You are not interested in the signal." "I need a place no captain can claim. You just handed me one." He studied her a moment. "The wreck sits outside every faction's boundary. Correct?" "Correct." She smiled. "Cursed ground is nobody's ground." Mara worked through the night. She and a few of Spock's crew cleared the flooded deck and hauled out the rotten cargo. By dawn the hull stood dry and open, one door, one lantern, no crew's mark on the walls. She sent three new notes. Meet on the dead ship. No weapons. No banners. One captain, three men each. At slack tide the boats came. Three of them, from three directions, oars slow. The captains climbed onto the wreck they had feared for years. They stood on ground that belonged to none of them, and no one drew a blade. But as the last captain sat, Spock's device blinked faster. The buried beacon still pulsed beneath their feet, louder now, calling something Mara could not see. She had her neutral ground at last. She had built her truce table on top of a signal that would not stop.