“I hope you’re right.” I got to my feet. There wasn’t much use in talking further. Maybe it was Clay’s constant disapproval, maybe it was my irritation with Preston’s night terrors, or maybe it was the fact it seemed likely this would be my last mission for the Reclamation—whatever the reason, I’d made up my mind to let these two hitch a ride with us, and to hell with the consequences. I’d had a couple of drinks and I figured a little extra company might do us all the world of good. At the very least, it might stop us killing each other before we could help the poor bastards we were on our way to save.

I took a deep breath. I had come to a decision, but that didn’t mean there weren’t stipulations.

“We had a spook on board once before,” I warned. “About a year ago. The silly fool tried to smuggle a pin-sized AM mine into the cargo hold.”

“And?”

“The Trouble Dog blew him out the airlock in his underwear.”

Childe’s smile remained fixed, but his left eye twitched. “Is that a warning, Captain?”

“Most definitely.” I checked the time. “Any weapons you bring on board will be locked in my cabin for the duration of the flight. If you don’t like that, you don’t get aboard.”

Childe’s eye twitched again. He seemed about to protest, but Petrushka put a hand on his arm. “We understand, Captain,” she said.

I checked the time. “In that case, you have five minutes to collect your things and report to the ship.” I downed the last of my drink and clunked the glass back onto the table. “Thanks for the drink, Mr Mulch, but it’s time we were going.”

“I don’t think so.”

Standing at the bar, Mulch now clenched a fat pistol in his thick and hairy fingers. On the other side of the wooden counter, the barman held a scuffed and scratched combat shotgun.

The two spooks sat motionless in their chairs, hands frozen halfway to their own weapons.

“What are you doing?” Childe asked.

Mulch sneered. “You shouldn’t have refused my offer.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The man took a step forward, the pistol held out at arm’s length, covering us all. “We’re desperate, Captain. If you won’t help us, we’re going to have to commandeer your vessel.”

From the port I heard shouts, followed by the unmistakable crackle of small arms fire.

My earbud blipped. I had an incoming signal from the ship. Luckily, only I could hear it. Moving as slowly and unobtrusively as possible, as if absently reaching to scratch an itch, I touched my finger to the device.

“Captain.” The Trouble Dog’s voice resonated in my inner ear. “I am under attack. What are your orders?”

Twenty-One: Ashton Childe

TWENTY-ONE

ASHTON CHILDE