I slid down from the rail and stood facing him. “You’re very kind, but I won’t be staying more than a few minutes.”

“You’re in a hurry?”

“We’re on a rescue mission.”

“Ah.” He clasped his hands together. “In that case, I won’t waste any more of your time.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s just, I had a proposition for you.”

I sighed through my nose, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. “I’m sorry, Mr Mulch. Please, go on.”

He smiled. “That’s a large vessel you have, Captain.”

“It is.”

“Built to carry how many, two hundred?”

“Three hundred.”

“And how many do you currently number among your crew?”

I began to see where this was going. “Four.”

His grin broadened. He wasn’t actually rubbing his hands together, but something about his expression suggested he might. “So, you have lots of spare capacity?”

“As I said, we’re on a rescue mission. A liner went down in the Gallery with 900 people on board. If even half of them survived, we’re going to need every square metre of room.”

“Ah.”

“Now, what was your proposition, Mr Mulch?”

He shrugged, as if acknowledging defeat. “There is a civil war. People are unhappy. I have a hundred families who will gladly pay for passage off-planet.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have the room.”

“It’s just that ships visit us so rarely.”

“I appreciate that, but the answer’s still no.”

Mulch opened his arms wide. “Captain, I understand completely. You can’t blame a fellow for trying.” His grin turned sickly. He put a hand on my upper arm. “All I ask is that if you pass this way on your return journey, and you have space, you might reconsider your position.” He rubbed the fingers of his free hand together. “They’re willing to pay a lot, in cash. There’d be plenty for both of us.”

I shook him off and stepped back. “If I come back this way, I’ll be carrying wounded.” I let my irritation bleed into my tone. “I won’t have time to dally for passengers.”

Mulch looked crestfallen. “With respect, I’m offering you a good price.”

“And I’m declining.”

Eighteen: Ashton Childe

EIGHTEEN

ASHTON CHILDE

I heard a floorboard creak and reached for my gun. Laura Petrushka appeared in the doorway of the guesthouse bedroom. She saw the weapon and raised an eyebrow.

“The Trouble Dog is here,” she said. “Do you want to tell me the truth?”

I motioned her inside and shut the door. It had taken us sixteen hours to get to Northfield from the airstrip on the edge of the jungle a continent away—a rough and uncomfortable flight on board one of the civilian cargo planes.

“The truth about what?”