A flotilla of six ships moved smoothly and unnoticed within a cluster of enormous boulders lazily drifting in the orbit of a gas giant. Year after year, day after day, Ramon Amatin, commander of the mining flotilla, brought his small fleet to this cluster and held position for an entire day. From time to time, rock scanners activated, picking out ore-rich stones from the monotonous boulders. Then lasers fired up, followed by every device ever invented for miners: magnetic collectors and nets, automated gatherer drones, primitive scoops.

  Ramon directed operations from a multi-functional "Leader"-class vessel, custom-built for mining and fleet support. The Leader's armor shrugged off even approaching slabs of rock. Yes, occasional course corrections were needed, and the shipyard refreshed paint and patched scratches—but these were details one stopped noticing.

  Periodically, one of Ramon's miners approached, and crane-operator loaders transferred the barge's hold into the Leader's massive, modified extraction compartments.

  Ramon had done this nearly every day for twenty years. Every movement, signal, impulse, sound—all controlled with an automatism that would make the most advanced drone envious.

  He'd done this for twenty years. In his youth, it was hellish work—ill-suited ships, manual loading, fatalities. Now? Cargo robots did the heavy lifting. Progress.

  Ramon paused from work to check mail and news. One miner rounded a boulder about a mile away, heading toward him. Dozens of drones slumbered under gun turrets on both sides of his Leader—the only protection such a flotilla truly needed nowadays. Spotting this, any bandit would think thrice. In his early career, securing military drones had been near impossible for a small mining outfit, let alone developing fields with today's tech. Experience and money changed that.

  Already turning back to ElexMedia news, Ramon caught, from the corner of his eye, a B-class frigate's warp-in. The flotilla commander lacked the restlessness of young pilots. He watched with the patience of someone who'd been here before. The ring could feed ten nations—room for everyone. If the kid got in the way, he'd ask him to leave. Politely.

  The Leader's systems signaled a scan. Ramon suppressed a laugh, saluting the frigate pilot's courage. Curiosity stirred: what did he want? Dumping this ship's ore hold onto the frigate under gravity would crush it. Lord, if they tested intelligence before pilot licenses. The young ones got younger every year—and dumber. Bandits were different. He'd known some for a decade; they had their own code. But these atrophied wannabes? Grating.

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  Ram a bicycle into concrete—who wins? Peck a Leader with pop-guns while its turrets are still covered? Run, fool. Run while you can.

  "Frigate pilot: commence mining or leave the zone within one minute, or Alliance of Corporations law enforcement will be summoned."

  Message sent, Ramon started the timer. The frigate hung, deaf and dumb.

  Such incidents arose regularly, several times daily. Most joined mining under his fleet's protection without crowding. But clueless outsiders appeared occasionally. Amatin Mining was known in the region's key system—not the sector's largest, but time had set markers. Messing with Amatins in their home system brought consequences.

  Ramon smirked, granting a few more seconds. Then, quietly: "Alpha, send police to coordinates. 'Pirate' here. Let them sort or discipline. Or handle if Alliance."

  "Request registered, Ramon."

  Minutes later, the frigate hadn't dug or departed—it multiplied. B-, C-, D-class vessels materialized nearby: bandit cartel's standard kit. Small, nimble, skirmish-armed, nerve-fraying, escape artists before reinforcements.

  Ramon called Idemi, sprung by Emilia from Torsad garrison brig, now Amatin Mining's deputy security head.

  "Idemi, company warping in. Call everyone to the ring. Don't like this."

  "Understood, Mr. Ramon. Will do."

  Ramon scanned vessels, dug pilot IDs, warned barge pilots. No longer nuisance—a problem. Focus, usually fleet-spread, sharpened to a cold point. At minimum, divert reactor output to shields—extra protection.

  "Fleet, yellow alert! Shut down lasers. Burn for station. Abandon barges on lifeboats if needed."

  "Understood, Mr. Ramon," came barge captains' ragged chorus.

  Prows turned; enemy turrets unmasked. First torpedo bomber appeared. Ramon to gunner: "Full power to shields. Drones on torpedo bomber."

  "Aye, Captain."

  "Alpha, massive pirate attack on mining fleet. One patrol insufficient. Call police."

  "Request sent, Ramon."

  Then all hell broke loose. Amatin Mining's motley ships arrived in the belt with hostiles; some already fought beyond the field, hundreds of kilometers off. Ramon saw no beams or explosions, but scanning-range signatures drew curses. He hadn't seen a real fight in years. He was ready.

  Drones made short work of the torpedo bomber in eight minutes: turrets first, then engines. Crew abandoned in shuttles, fleeing to a Perina-orbit station.

  Ramon called his wife.

  "Darling," he drawled as Kirin barked into the channel: "Yes, Ramon!"—clearly stretched thin herself, already in the thick of battle.

  "You see what they're flying?"

  "Well, of course I see! What difference does it make?"

  Ramon thought. He didn't know a single captain with a crew who couldn't switch to a dozen other vessels—less suitable, less beloved, but still acceptable.

  "You're right. It doesn't matter. Darling… buy up everything."

  Silence stretched several seconds, filled only with channel static and her steady breath. Then Kirin's voice came through, quiet and clear:

  "I love you, Ramon."