“Right. Here goes,” said Aptat, clearing their throat again and speaking a message into the com, which the ship translated into Scythin tones, “I’m sure you’ve discovered by now that I was telling the truth about the Earth man’s knowledge of the Chime. I can hardly be blamed for his unevolved human brain. Hopefully the leverage I sent along has helped his motivation. Nevertheless, I come bearing tidings of good news... for the both of us.” Aptat paused long enough to make sure the others knew it was for dramatic effect. “There is another.” Then, turning to the group. “See if that gets them tweaking, eh?”

The response came fast, noises like metal slowly twisting. The ship translated:

Another Stringer.

Who knows of the Chime?

The Note of Jecca.

“Yes, I have captured another Stringer who won’t shut up about the Chime. Though if I’m being honest, I wasn’t the first to pick him up,” said Aptat, adding some flair to the story. “See, there was this ice pusher just outside of–”

Have you dredged?

“Uh, short answer: yes. I knew I’d be bringing him to you, and while I normally don’t mine the merch, it seemed prudent under the circumstances, and well–”

Transmit documentation.

“Of course,” said Aptat, business-like. “I’m sending through the neural diary and coherence log. You’ll find it all in order.”

Izairis scoffed. “Why would you say that?”

“Say what?” said Aptat. “I thought I played it right.”

“‘You’ll find it all in order’?” said Izairis, mockingly repeating the words. “You wouldn’t say something like that unless you had some hesitation about whether or not it was actually in order. An honest trader would just say ‘here it is’. You’re blowing it.”

Aptat spun around, shooting a finger back at Izairis. “Leave the negotiations to the professionals, okay?”

“Oh, yeah, I remember your last negotiation,” rejoined Izairis. “Two dead Stringers, your ship hijacked by the Vortu, and you having to rely on a third Stringer you nearly got killed to unfuck it all.”

“How did you ever get into nun school with a mouth like that?” asked Aptat, in a calm, admiring tone.

“Hacked their system and clicked “Accept” on my application, how else?”

“Hmm, of course,” Aptat answered, pushing through the counterfeit documentation on Oush. “Well, if we aren’t vaporized in the next twenty seconds, maybe–”

Send the Stringer.

Now.

“Wow. Okay, alright, let’s slow down and talk price. You are looking at the profile for Oush-Sadicet Ciksever, a weapons specialist hailing from the moon towers of Ryjenn.” Aptat threw a wink at Izairis, who had diligently woven facts about Oush’s actual past into the forged profile. “This one is only two-deep on the cord with even better coherence – and work ethic – than the Earthling. Once you have him dig through all the boblet chatter–”

Enough.

“Oh-kay.”

The price is: send the Stringer or be eviscerated.