The rain on the Sanctuary Moon was warm, heavy, and smelled of rotting vegetation. It drummed against the hull of the Millennium Seagull as they sat on the landing pad of the outpost.

  Ford was watching the local news feed on the dash. It was a grainy broadcast from the garrison town ten miles south.

  "...General Vance was executed this morning for crimes against the Regent," the reporter droned. "The garrison has been placed under the command of Colonel Krell, who has pledged full loyalty to the New Order."

  Ford turned off the screen.

  The silence in the cockpit was heavy. He didn't look at the girl in the co-pilot seat. He stared at the rain, waiting for the sobbing. Waiting for the scream of rage. waiting for the demand to storm the garrison with a rusty wrench.

  Instead, he heard the tapping of a datapad.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Ford turned his head slowly.

  Carol was scrolling through the local market exchange. Her eyes were dry. Her face was set in stone.

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  "Medical supplies are down 40% here because of the garrison changeover," she said, her voice flat. "But the mining colony in the next sector is having a flu outbreak. Prices there are up 200%."

  Ford blinked. "Kid..."

  "If we fill the hold with med-packs and basic antibiotics," she continued, not looking up, "we can turn a 2,500 credit profit in three days. That covers fuel, docking fees, and the bribe we didn't pay to the patrol."

  "Carol," Ford said gently. "Vance is dead."

  "I know," she said. She tapped the screen harder. "Which means I have no army. I have no money. I have no allies."

  She finally looked up. Her violet eyes were burning with a cold, terrifying light.

  "I cannot buy an army with tears, Ford. I cannot buy vengeance with good intentions."

  She held up the datapad.

  "I need credits. I need resources. I need a fleet."

  "So..." Ford leaned back in his chair, a mixture of awe and fear washing over him. "We're trucking?"

  "We're trucking," Carol confirmed. "For now."

  She looked out at the rain, toward the garrison where her father's friend had died.

  "But I will come back," she whispered. "When the balance sheet is in my favor. And there will be hell to pay."

  Ford looked at her. He saw the black jagged hair, the grease-stained hands, and the flannel shirt. But for the first time, he truly saw the Queen she would become.

  "Right," Ford cleared his throat. He punched the ignition sequence. The engines roared to life, shaking the ship. "Course set for the mining sector. Medical supplies it is."

  "Ford?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Don't scratch the paint on takeoff."

  "Aye, aye, Purser."

  The Millennium Seagull lifted off into the rain, turning its back on the tragedy, and aiming its nose toward the stars and the profit that lay between them.

  END OF PART ONE