The disposal was anticlimactic.

  Ford flew the Millennium Seagull on a slingshot trajectory around the primary star of Helios 4. The radiation shields flared gold and white. The cockpit temperature rose ten degrees.

  "Ejecting cargo in 3... 2... 1..." Mother announced.

  There was a muffled thunk from the rear of the ship.

  On the rear monitor, a small grey square tumbled away into the blinding white furnace of the sun. It sparkled for a second, then vanished.

  "Target incinerated," Mother confirmed. "Signal lost."

  "Congratulations," Ford said, turning the ship away from the gravity well. "You are now officially a ghost."

  Sheila stared at the screen. She didn't say anything. She just wrapped her arms around herself, shivering despite the heat.

  "Go take a shower," Ford said, standing up. "Use the sonic scrubber. It gets the cryo-sludge off better than water."

  *

  Twenty minutes later, Sheila emerged from the crew quarters. She was clean. Her hair was wet and combed back.

  She was also wearing a pair of faded blue mechanics' coveralls that were rolled up at the cuffs and a red plaid flannel shirt that swallowed her frame.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  She walked into the cockpit, looking down at herself with a mixture of confusion and horror.

  "What are these clothes?" she asked, plucking at the heavy fabric. "Is this... canvas? Am I a tent?"

  "It's denim," Ford said without looking up from the nav computer. "And flannel. Durable. Warm. Pockets."

  "I look like a potato farmer," she observed.

  "You look like someone who isn't a Princess," Ford corrected. "Which is the point. If we land anywhere, that dress would have been a neon sign saying 'Kidnap Me'."

  Sheila sighed. She adjusted the sleeves of the flannel shirt. It smelled faintly of engine grease and... lavender?

  "They were my ex's," Ford said quietly, answering the unasked question. "She left them behind on Mars."

  Sheila paused. "They seem to fit you, mostly," she noted, looking at the size.

  "She was tall," Ford shrugged. "And she liked loose clothes."

  He tapped a sequence into the computer, locking in a new course.

  "Oh!" Sheila leaned against the console, her curiosity overriding her fashion crisis. "So what was she like? Was she a trucker too?"

  Ford stopped typing. He looked at the stars.

  "She was a Customs Officer," Ford said. "Her name was Sarah. She was smart. Tough. She could spot a hidden compartment from fifty meters away."

  "A Customs Officer?" Sheila raised an eyebrow. "Is that not... the enemy?"

  "Romeo and Juliet in space," Ford smirked. "It worked for a while. Until she realized I wasn't going to stop flying. And I realized she wasn't going to stop arresting my friends."

  He looked back at Sheila.

  "She told me I had to choose. The road, or her."

  "You chose the road," Sheila said softy.

  "I chose the freedom," Ford corrected. "Or at least, I thought I did. Turns out, freedom is just a word for being alone in a tin can."

  He cleared his throat, the moment of vulnerability passing as quickly as it came.

  "Anyway," Ford said, his voice hardening back to business. "You're dressed. You're fed. You're dead to the world. Now we have to figure out where to take a ghost."

  "The Sanctuary Moon," Sheila said firmly. "I told you. My father has allies there."

  "Right," Ford grunted. "The Sanctuary Moon. Assuming we can get there without running into the entire Royal Fleet."