The Millennium Seagull hung in the slipstream of the Jump Gate, streaking toward the Artemis System at speeds that made the hull moan in protest.

  In the cockpit, silence reigned.

  Sheila—or Carol, as the ship's manifest now listed her—was hunched over the secondary navigation console. She wasn't brooding. She was working. She had the panel open and was rewiring a bypass for the heat exchanger using the wire snips from Ford's tool kit.

  "You're going to void the warranty," Ford commented from the pilot's chair, feet up on the dash.

  "The warranty expired before I was born," Carol shot back without looking up. "And this bypass will increase fuel efficiency by 4.2%. I did the math."

  Ford raised an eyebrow. "4.2%? That's... barely worth the effort."

  "That's nearly 800 credits a year," she corrected. "Compound that over the lifespan of this rust bucket, and you could afford a new seat cushion."

  Ford grunted. He couldn't argue with the math. Or the insult.

  He watched her work. She was precise. Focused. She had taken to the grime and the noise of the ship faster than most greenhorn mechanics he'd hired in the past.

  He thought about the map of the Sanctuary Moon. He thought about General Vance.

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  Deep down, Ford knew the odds. The General was likely dead. The Sanctuary was likely a crater.

  And if it was?

  He looked at the girl in the flannel shirt. She was a fugitive. A ghost. She had nowhere to go.

  You could leave her, a dark voice whispered. Drop her at a station. Let her figure it out.

  But he knew he wouldn't.

  He realized, with a sudden, sinking feeling, that he had already made a decision. It wasn't a business decision. It was a "Gut Decision," the kind that usually got him in trouble.

  If Vance was gone, she stayed.

  Not as a passenger. As crew.

  He needed someone who could do math. He needed someone who could kick a thug in the jewels without hesitating. He needed someone who understood that "profit" wasn't a dirty word—it was a survival strategy.

  She had the ruthless pragmatism of a Royal, but now she was applying it to the economics of space trucking. She could probably negotiate a cargo contract better than he could.

  "Hey," Ford said.

  "Busy," Carol replied, twisting a wire.

  "Hypothetically," Ford said. "If the General isn't there... or if he's a bust."

  Carol stopped. Her hands froze on the wire. She didn't turn around.

  "Then I am dead," she said quietly.

  "No," Ford said. "Then you're hired."

  She turned slowly. "Excuse me?"

  "I need a Purser," Ford sat up. "Someone to handle the books. Calculate fuel loads. Argue with dock masters. I'm terrible at it. I assume you were trained in economics?"

  "I managed the treasury of a solar system," she said dryly.

  "Great. Then you're overqualified. But the pay is terrible."

  Sheila—Carol—looked at him. Ideally, she should be offended. She should demand to be returned to her throne.

  Instead, a small, crooked smile appeared on her face.

  "Do I get a uniform?" she asked.

  "You're wearing it," Ford pointed to the flannel. "Welcome aboard, kid."

  The ship shuddered.

  "Coming up on the drop," Mother announced. "Artemis System in 3... 2... 1..."

  The stars snapped back into focus.

  And the alarms started screaming.