"Six thousand credits," Ford said, looking at the balance on his datapad. He took a sip of lukewarm coffee and sighed happily. "That's net profit. After fuel. After docking fees. After the bribery budget."

  He leaned back in the pilot's chair. The Millennium Seagull was drifting in the quiet anchorage of the Mining Sector, the hold empty and the engines cooling.

  "We haven't been this deep in the black since... well, ever," Ford admitted.

  "It is insufficient," a voice said from the co-pilot station.

  Carol spun her chair around. The black jagged hair had grown out slightly, looking more deliberate and less like a cry for help. She was wearing a surplus flight suit she'd tailored to fit her smaller frame.

  She projected a holographic spread sheet into the air between them.

  "This," she pointed to a flat, slowly rising blue line, "is our current trajectory. Hauling medical supplies, machine parts, and foodstuffs. Low risk. Low margin."

  "I like low risk," Ford noted.

  "At this rate of accumulation," Carol continued, ignoring him, "assuming zero catastrophic failures and zero pirate interceptions, we will have enough capital to purchase a decent combat frigate in..."

  She tapped a key.

  "One hundred and forty-two years."

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  Ford choked on his coffee. "Who said anything about a combat frigate?"

  "I did," Carol said calmly. "I need a fleet, Ford. Remember? The Revenge Plan?"

  "Right," Ford wiped his chin. "The Revenge Plan. I thought we put that on hold for the 'Survival Plan'."

  "We have survived," Carol dismissed the last few weeks with a wave of her hand. "Now we must thrive. Exponentially."

  She changed the hologram. The flat blue line was replaced by a jagged red line that shot upward like a rocket.

  "We need a High-Yield Asset," she explained. "Something that isn't just a 10% markup on antibiotics."

  "Like what?" Ford asked warily. "Drugs? Weapons? Exotic pets?"

  "Intel," Carol said. "Artifacts. Lost tech."

  She pulled up a star map of the Dead Sectors—the regions of space that hadn't been charted since the First Expansion.

  "There are rumors in the dockside bars," Carol said. "Old colony ships that went dark. Research stations abandoned during the War. Salvage rights are complicated, but possession is nine-tenths of the law."

  "Salvage," Ford groaned. "You want to go junk diving in the Dead Sectors. That's where people go to die, Carol. That’s why they call them 'Dead Sectors'."

  "High risk," Carol agreed. "Exponential reward."

  She looked at him. Her violet eyes weren't pleading. They were calculating. She wasn't a Princess asking for a pony; she was a CEO proposing a merger.

  "We keep the medical run as a cover," she proposed. "But we dedicate 30% of our fuel budget to... exploration. We look for the things the Trade Authority ignores."

  Ford looked at the safe, comfortable 6,000 credits in his account. It was enough to fix the fresher. It was enough to buy real eggs.

  Then he looked at the red line on the graph. And the fire in the kid's eyes.

  "One scouter run," Ford negotiated. "We poke our nose in. If it smells like trouble, we run. We stick to the Rule: Safe Routes Only."

  "Safe Routes lead to slow deaths," Carol countered.

  "Fine," Ford sighed. "We try one 'Exponential Opportunity'. But if we get eaten by a space-squid, I'm docking it from your pay."

  "Agreed," Carol smiled. It was a shark's smile. "I've already downloaded a rumor map. Set course for Sector 9."

  Ford looked at his coffee. "I should have just retired," he whispered to himself. But he set the coordinates anyway.