The sign said Montar Trading, glowing a bright blue, except for the o and the d, which were dead and black. Beneath was a storefront and a raised loading dock. The address was on Rimont's third tier, just above the refurbishing yards and mining smelters.

  It was a crudmunching trash heap.

  The area was grimy, the air carrying the acidic stench of recycling vats and melting metal. The streets were deserted, only a few workers in orange or yellow neon-glow coveralls hurrying away.

  No guards.

  I almost missed the black-armored Rimont security. Not bad enough to miss the Trade Inspectors, though. They were mean crudmunchers.

  The dwelling next to Montar's was a hollow husk, empty windows and spray-painted slogans on the walls. Not the kind of thing I'd imagine on a station. Maybe on a failing colony, assuming the atmosphere wasn't too poisonous.

  A skinny kid, no more than five years old, poked his head out from the gaping doorway of the ruined building. I gave him a wave, and he waved back with a shy smile. Moments later a dirty hand grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back. The kid disappeared into cover without a sound. Shabby didn't start to describe it.

  Montar's loading dock didn't have a ladder. We got up by the simple expedient of Hao taking a big step then bending down to help me up.

  I pushed open the clear polymer door to Montar Trading, noting the pattern of the scratches marring it. The polymer was thin, half-a-centimeter or less, but the scratches were wards. It would take a mech with a battering ram to break it down, and there was a poorly executed and quite illegal razor ward on it, guaranteeing that whomever drove said mech would have a very bad day.

  The door squeaked when I opened it, making my teeth itch. I hate squeaking.

  "Whaddya want?" a massive woman behind a reinforced steel counter said by way of greeting. She was fairly short, but overflowed the stool she was sitting on in waves of flesh and glow-orange hair so fake it was embarrassing.

  Neither a clerk nor a corporate uniform in sight. If the pale patch on the wall was a trade board, it didn't have any ships on it, and only one below, in the refit slot.

  Stolen story; please report.

  "Looking for Montar," I said.

  "You found her," the woman, Montar, said. She paused, as if to judge my reaction, then glared. I got the impression she wasn't very keen on me, but I didn't bat an eye, merely launched into my spiel.

  "I'm selling," I said. "Organic, planet grown vanilla, and armor plate, warded."

  I held up my com, the inventory list already on it, and Montar nodded, opening her own for a download. That surprised me. I’d expected to have to cajole her for half an hour before getting the go-ahead. With a tap of my finger, my cargo manifest jumped to her com. She put it up on a meter-sized screen behind her.

  "That so?" Montar said. "What certification did you say the wards had?"

  "I didn't." Certification would be a problem. I could do a lot of things, but coming up with a trans-space coded certification of origin while flying through the void wasn't one of them. "They're good though, Academy work."

  "And I'm the King of Roami," Montar sneered. If the barely concealed hostility was an act to get a better price, she was an amazing actor. But I was better.

  "Then prepare to add 'your majesty' to your name," I said. "Have one of your mages test them. I'll be happy to sell you two for fifteen kilos."

  Now it was Montar's turn at the not batting an eye game at the ridiculous price I’d quoted. She kept her cool, pulled out a long stick from beneath the steel counter, put it in her mouth, and lit it on fire. She blew a cloud of smoke into my face. The smoke stank worse than the air, a cross between old socks and burning hair. I waved at it, futilely, wishing I'd worn my mageshield. It would have stopped dangerous particles.

  "Stop melting my fillings and give me a decent offer," Montar said.

  "Make one yourself."

  Montar grinned. "Two hundred grams a piece." She inhaled more burning stick.

  "Crud," I said.

  "Good luck going elsewhere," Montar replied. Crudmucker was enjoying herself. "You couldn't sell it or you wouldn't be here. I'm the only trader in good standing who'd deal with you."

  Which was the truth, but I wasn't about to say so.

  "If you thought I couldn't, you'd have said fifty grams a piece and claimed it was for the smelters," I told her, waving at the smoke. "So void your crudmunching games and mind your manners."

  I had no idea where that last part came from. Sometimes my mouth runs away from me. But Montar guffawed, her entire body bouncing and rolling like a shuttle in a combat simulation.

  "Crud, boy," she said, wiping a tear from her eye. "You've got fillings worthy of a Trade Inspector." At this, Montar blew a stream of smoke to the side. "How about this," she continued, "I give you a kilo a piece for two plates, which my man will pick at random in your hold, and we'll talk once I've validated them."

  Which was a fair enough offer, and more than doubled my current liquid assets. I held out my fist to be bumped. Montar waved her smoking stick in my general direction. I took that as agreement.

  Sometimes my mouth is smarter than I am.

  www.wiltgren.com?