They found a quiet terminal lounge in Sector 5. It was less greasy than the last diner, but the tension was thicker.

  Above the bar, a holographic screen was playing the Galactic News Net on a loop.

  "And now, an update on the Tragedy at Aldebaran," the anchorwoman said, her voice dripping with practiced gravity.

  Sheila froze. She was holding a cup of tea (real tea this time, Ford had splashed out), but her hand was shaking so hard the liquid rippled.

  The screen showed footage of the Royal Palace. It was burning.

  "Regent Kael has issued a statement confirming that the late King was assassinated by radical separatists," the anchor continued. "The Regent has assumed emergency powers to restore order."

  A picture of Sheila appeared on the screen. It was her official portrait—regal, smiling, wearing a tiara that cost more than Ford's ship.

  "Princess Seraphina is currently missing," the report said. "Authorities believe she may have been kidnapped by the same group... or worse, that she may have been complicit in the attack."

  "Liar," Sheila whispered. The tea cup cracked in her hand. "He killed him. He killed them all."

  Ford reached over and gently took the cup from her hand before she cut herself.

  "He's spinning the narrative," Ford said quietly. "He knows you're alive. He's painting you as a traitor so that if you do show up, no one will listen to you."

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  "I have to go back," Sheila stood up. "I have to tell the truth!"

  "Sit down," Ford hissed, pulling her back into the booth. "You walk into a news station now, and Kael's agents will vaporize you before you get three words out."

  Sheila slumped. Tears were finally spilling over, cutting tracks through the grease on her face.

  "I am nobody," she sobbed. "I am a ghost. I have no name."

  Ford looked at her. He looked at the flannel shirt. He looked at the way she tried to hide her face from the passersby.

  "You have a name," Ford said.

  He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a battered physical wallet. He dug past a few credits and a punch card for a sandwich shop until he found a small, holographic photo.

  It showed a girl, maybe sixteen, with messy hair and a sarcastic grin, standing in front of a Martian dust buggy.

  "This is Carol," Ford said.

  Sheila wiped her eyes. "Who is she?"

  "My niece," Ford said. He stared at the photo. "She lives on Mars. Or she did. I haven't seen her in... six years. Not since Sarah left."

  He slid the photo across the table.

  "She's about your age. About your height. And she has an attitude problem that rivals yours."

  Sheila looked at the girl in the picture. She looked... normal. Happy.

  "Why are you showing me this?"

  "Because if we get stopped again, you aren't just 'my niece'," Ford said. "You are Carol. I have her old ID codes in the ship's database. I can splice your biometrics onto her file. It won't stand up to a DNA scan, but it'll pass a traffic stop."

  "Carol," Sheila tested the name. It sounded flat. Ordinary.

  "Carol hates politics," Ford added. "She likes hover-bikes and loud music. And she doesn't use words like 'complicit'."

  Sheila looked up at the screen, where her face—the Princess's face—was labeled "WANTED FOR QUESTIONING."

  She looked back at the photo of the girl on Mars.

  "Okay," Sheila said softly. "I am Carol."

  "Nice to meet you, Carol," Ford said. He stood up. "Now, let's get you to the Sanctuary Moon. Before your Uncle decides to blow up the rest of the sector."

  But as they walked to the ship, Ford felt a cold knot in his stomach. Using Carol's name felt like a bad omen. He just hoped he wasn't dragging his real niece into the crosshairs of a war she didn't even know existed.