As if on cue, Number Nine rose up on its six legs, several compartments opening all over his body to reveal the barrels of four hidden blasters pointed in the direction of the Icarus’s crew. At the same time, two panels in the ceiling slid open to reveal hidden mounted laser cannons that also turned their noses toward the pirates.

Neither Kat nor Baz even had time to draw their weapons. They would have been dead if they’d tried.

“Perhaps now you will be more inclined to tell me who sent you. A name for my would-be assassins,” the Aykari added.

Leo stared down the barrel of one of Number Nine’s guns, then looked back at the alien who had built him. It finally hit him.

“Zirkus Crayt,” he whispered.

This was him. This was the person his father had sent him to find.

Threatening to kill them all.

It has come to our attention that an Aykari scientist, Zirkus Crayt, has been in contact with you on numerous occasions regarding matters of a confidential nature. By the authority vested in us by the Aykari High Command, we order you to cease all communication with this individual and report anything he sends you to us. Zirkus Crayt has been accused of spreading misinformation and inciting dissent among member planets of the Coalition. He is currently awaiting judgment for his actions. If Crayt or anyone associated with him should attempt to contact you again, please notify your local Aykari security liaison immediately.

—Message from the Coalition Counterintelligence Agency, sent to Dr. Calvin Fender

The Rock and the Hard Place

THEY WERE BURNING. THEY WERE ALL BURNING.

The smell of smoke hit him from two rooms away. Leo, caught up in a VR dungeon crawl, had forgotten to tell the kitchen’s virtual assistant how long to bake for and let the time slip by.

Fifteen minutes was all they required. They got twice that.

Everything was ruined.

Coughing, Leo removed the pan from the oven and inspected the damage. Six dark lumps stared back at him. Maybe not coal black, but certainly not the golden brown he’d been going for. He tapped on the top of one with his fork. It was like knocking on the front door. Muffins shouldn’t make that sound.

Blast it. Leo slumped against the counter, thinking about all his hard work wasted. He’d woken up early, sneaking down the stairs and out to the hydroponic garden, picking the fattest blueberries he could find. Quietly taking the mixing bowls from the cupboard so as not to tip off his father, who was shut up in the office down the hall, already hard at work by six.

Leo knew the steps by heart. He had made these muffins before, though admittedly he had been the assistant and not the baker, taking orders from his mother, who showed him how to cut in the cold butter and gently fold in the blueberries, how to sift through the crumbly streusel topping with his fingers. He was her stirrer, her spatula cleaner, her paper cup placer, her berry quality-control specialist—often eating a third of the bowl before it was time to add them in. “There are many kinds of magic in the world,” she told him. “Making the perfect blueberry muffin is one of them.” He believed her—his mother was an accomplished magician in her own right, and her blueberry muffins were the stuff of legend.