Kira frowned, thinking of all the technology on the ship. “What exactly did you—” she started to ask, only to have a squeal of rotating metal joints cut her off.

The outer wall of the cargo hold hinged open to reveal a wide jetway that joined the hold to the Malpert spaceport. Loading bots sat waiting outside, and a handful of customs officials stood anchored nearby, clipboards in hand.

The refugees started to gather up their supplies and head out of the Wallfish. It was a difficult task in zero-g, and Kira found herself chasing after sleeping bags and thermal blankets to keep them from flying out of the hold.

The refugees seemed wary of her, but they didn’t protest her presence. Mainly, Kira suspected, because they were more focused on getting out of the Wallfish. One man did come up to her, though—a lanky, redheaded man in rumpled formal wear—and she recognized him as the guy who had jumped after the girl during the fight with the Jelly.

“I didn’t get the opportunity earlier,” he said, “but I wanted to thank you for helping to save my niece. If not for you and Sparrow…” He shook his head.

Kira dipped her head, and she felt an unexpected film of tears in her eyes. “Just glad I could help.”

He hesitated. “If you don’t mind me asking, what are you?”

“… A weapon, and let’s leave it at that.”

He held out his hand. “Whatever the case, thank you. If you’re ever on Ruslan, look us up. Hofer is the name. Felix Hofer.”

They shook, and an odd lump formed in Kira’s throat as she watched him return to his niece and leave.

Across the hold, angry voices rang out. She saw Jorrus and Veera surrounded by five of the Numenists—three men, two women—who were shoving them and shouting something about the Number Supreme.

“Hey, knock it off!” called Nielsen as she kicked herself in their direction.

Kira hurried toward the fight. Even as she did, one of the Numenists—a snub-nosed man with purple hair and a row of subdermal implants along his forearms—butted Jorrus in the face, smashing his mouth.

“Hold still,” said Kira, snarling. She flew into the group and grabbed the purple-haired man around the torso and pinned his arms against his sides as they tumbled into a wall. The Soft Blade gripped the wall at her command, stopping them.

“What’s going on?” Nielsen demanded, putting herself between the Numenists and Entropists.

Veera held up her hands in a placating matter. “Just a small—”

“—theological dispute,” Jorrus finished. He spat a gob of blood onto the deck.

“Well not here,” said Nielsen. “Keep it off the ship. All of you.”

The purple-haired man wrenched against Kira’s arms. “Ah feck off yah hatchet-faced bint. An you, let me go, yah walloping, misbegotten graceling.”

“Not until you promise to behave,” said Kira. She relished the feeling of strength the Soft Blade gave her; holding the man was easy with its help.