braeth, an settles sam as this

wir ordinar.

The wrack’s anither gret baest,

the second this crew is fund, o plenty

fund by the staetion, an more the laast

twatree year. A killer, a mistry,

an noo a godssend.

Fer a wrack like this will win a boonty.

Hid isno a haal o Lights, but

thir fock at pey fer this things noo.

Whan Inga relays thir stance, hid credits

anither survival.

Inga and Olaf at the lighting

Inga is at the helm, watching for flameglowflickerflares, for shifts in the drifts of fogfrost; Olaf, the screen monitor, is at the compasses, trying to find a trail of Light to a strike, a haulcatch.

The linecrew are ready. It’s been a long time since a good landing. The wind of the gas giant is low today: just a hundred metres per second. The boat creakraspcomplains from the golden gustdarttwistattacks.

Sailing as quiet and present here as a meditation of Phobos holies, they work the work that the station was built to do, gathergleansnatching the fuel that fuels, the oil that oils

an interstellar system of industry, trade, galactic expansion: Light. Inga and Olaf are always a chord with voltage differentials, atmospheric ripplesagitationconfusionchoppiness, margins.

Olaf spots a peak and marks it. Inga senses a change in the pattern of his concentration, and waits. There is nothing to do but wait. His eyes spark.

He checks his mapper againstaboutbefore his laser radar againstaboutbefore his oscilloscope, turns – and they see it: black prow breaking gold, hulk looming over the boat. “Wreck! Brace!”

Inga wrenchripbreaks the boat away, the linecrew and Olaf fixbraced to their bars, the wall between the crew and death gone flimsygaudyfrivolous. The speedthrowrolldriving pulse of their red alarm.

But—the boat—pulls clear!— twistskewshunning under the overwhelming dark of the wreck. Every lighter gives a burstescaping breath, and settles as if this were ordinary.

The wreck’s another great animalmonster, the second this crew has found, of the many found by the station, and more the last few years. A killer, a mystery, and now a salvagewrecktreasure.

Because a wreck like this will reachtravelachieve a bounty. It isn’t a haulcatch of Lights, but there are people who pay for these things now. As Inga transmits their co-ordinates, it credits another survival.

Øyvind Astridsfaither, wirkan

The pinchers, maet

an spoot is only

visible trou

a microscopp,

but tae Øyvind

hid’s like he’s haalan

a ship: his muscles

is haaden in that

tight a tension.

Brenna an Gunnie,

young eens rotad

tae wirk wi him,

is cheetran i’the corner.

He glowers an lays

the braeth-thick

shaef o protein

intae hids piece,

than shifts tae the next.

“Smell yin,” he says.

Øyvind glories

i’the guff o the lab.

“Only haand-

growen reeks

this geud.”

Brenna comes

aside him, asks,

“Disno nano-

replicaetion

smell the sam?”

“Wheesht,” he says.

He’s takkan a coarse:

communiecaetions.

He kens his rowes

o protein dishes

maan rebrand

as luxury.