No family crisis this big in years. After Kirin told him about Una's arrest, she'd asked him not to worry—said she'd already sorted it out. Of course she had. When was the last time he'd solved problems himself? A nobody. But now a new blow had struck—one whose weight he couldn't even share with his wife: Idemi.

  Jule and Simon had crashed. The boy had no one left. No one except him. And Ramon simply didn't have the right to abandon him.

  He shook his head and stood abruptly, dizzy. Thoughts of his wife and children wouldn't let go. Of course not—what else mattered in his life?

  Ramon selected a contact he mutually disliked and rarely chose.

  "Em, hello."

  Emilia's laugh crackled: "Surprise, Ramon."

  "I have a favor to ask. I don't know who else to turn to. Things have gone badly… are you aware of the shuttle that crashed on Perina?"

  "Oh-ho…" Emilia chuckled.

  "Those were our business partners. They left a son, and according to the news, he's currently facing a tribunal in the Eastern Garrison on Torsad. Help get him out. I'll take Idemi in myself, take full responsibility. Just help get him out. That dancing stunt in the MESMD isn't such a grave crime to ruin a kid's life."

  "How interesting, Ramon," Emilia laughed—a stark contrast to his tense, pleading tone, so unlike his nature. "Compared to your crimes, hardly anything seems like a crime at all. Do you think that because you escaped every possible punishment, your friends' and partners' children can too?"

  "Em! Do this! I'm begging…"

  "Oh, the unyielding Ramon is begging? That's new."

  "What do you want, Em?"

  "Let's see what you can repay with." Emilia paused. "I'll get the boy out and release him into your custody. You'll owe me."

  "Fine. Thank you, Em. I'll owe you."

  Ramon confirmed it. He used to know no fear. Once. Now there was only this cold, suffocating dread. He shook it off—forced himself to remember something else. Their last night with Kirin.

  They lay exhausted on the wide, rumpled bed, watching multicolored beams shift on the walls and ceiling. The idea of using virtual bodies for carnal pleasures had drawn an understanding smile and refusal from Kirin. She was radiant with energy. He realized this strong, mature woman—his wife—enjoyed intimacy far more fully than when sex had been merely hygienic procedure or workout.

  Passion, fights, makeups—thirty raw years. But they wouldn't have lasted this long if they hadn't accepted each other completely, unconditionally.

  Hearing his wife's voice, Ramon snapped out of a light doze and turned toward her.

  "Una will be up with us soon, and the family will be together… finally."

  "'Together' in the vastness of space? When was the last time we saw Matias?"

  Kirin sighed.

  "Well, at least in some way…"

  "You should sleep," Ramon smiled, reaching out a hand. "Come here."

  He embraced his wife as she nestled against him and fixed his gaze on the pickaxe hanging on the wall behind her. Exactly such a pickaxe was depicted on their corporation's logo. It had belonged to his father, and before him, to his grandfather. The pickaxe was the only thing Ramon had taken from Earth—and with it, he had carved his path through the hard rock of an unwelcoming cosmos thirty, twenty, even occasionally ten years ago.

  Nineteen years before the described events

  Ramon descended the long staircase of the second industrial station's docks, pickaxe on his back identifying him faster than his face. His arm weighed down by a case of tools too valuable to leave on board—fuses for the main systems. Not that anyone would dare steal a class G ore-mining barge, but Ramon preferred replacing all fuses on schedule. He was meticulous in these matters.

  On the last steps, a call made him turn. Ager—one of the loaders on his barge. Two months ago, he'd suffered a serious injury; Ramon had forbidden him to return until fully recovered.

  "Ager—back good?"

  "Solid, Boss! The guys say you've had a second daughter! What's her name?"

  They walked toward the ships of their recently registered company. Spotting Carlos Rivera and waiting for his returned glance, Ramon answered:

  "Una, Ager."

  "Una? Hm. Kind of ordinary after the fiery Athra," he laughed. Ramon smiled, clapped the now-fit colleague on the shoulder, and continued toward his barge.

  "Ramon!" Carlos called out. "Come down—need to talk."

  Ramon nodded, demonstratively lifting the case, and kept walking. Once on board, he headed to engineering.

  "Good morning, Mr. Ramon," Farid, the senior engineer, turned, taking the case. "Run diagnostics on the defense systems?"

  "I remember. I think I know what's up."

  "Good."

  Ramon exited the airlock. Finding Carlos not far from his crew, he began his descent.

  "What is it?"

  Carlos glanced at the subordinate he'd been talking to, who broke off mid-sentence and walked away.

  "The guys found them. A station under construction, about two A.U. from us. They've based their entire fleet there—and aren't really hiding."

  Ramon thought.

  "Can we dock?"

  "Who's going to stop us?"

  Ramon surveyed the workers waiting for departure, chatting in groups under the enormous barges. Engineers and pilots stood further away, separate.

  "How many could be there?"

  "Full crews. At least three hundred people, judging by what we saw."

  "You think they took over that station?"

  "I think there's a sea of blood there. And if they haven't been smoked out yet, something's definitely wrong."

  Ramon rubbed his eyes, held his palms over his face for a moment. The Free Hunters had been wearing down his fleet for years—but in recent months, their attacks had become unprecedented. He'd already lost three barges and more than half their crews. Scanners periodically provided coordinates of new mobile bases, which he and Carlos would hit with all available combat ships. For every base they burned, two more seemed to sprout.

  Raising an index finger, Ramon turned away.

  "Antar, morning. You already launched?" He looked at Carlos, who gestured with a falling-shell motion toward the far end of the docks. Ramon's view was blocked by massive hulls. "I'm planning a raid on a station under construction—two A.U. from us. My guys figured the Free Hunters set up a base there. Want to put our heads together face-to-face. You with us?"

  He listened silently to the head of one of the largest mining fleets.

  "So you'll pretend it's only my concern? And you'll sit back like a rat on the station while my people and yours die under torpedoes and lasers from these bloodsuckers?"

  Silence.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  "And how much police have you seen in the last month? They want to live too." Another pause. "I got it, Antar. Send our regards to your wife from me and Carlos."

  Carlos, listening with a grim smile, squared his shoulders at the last phrase and visibly tensed. Predictably, Ramon winced—Antar was shouting.

  "Have you lost your mind?" Carlos mouthed silently. Ramon raised a calming palm.

  "Antar, did I say something wrong? Or aren't you worried these sick freaks are based within easy reach? Or do you think, after slaughtering all the builders there and getting away with it, they won't move here? Not with a dozen ships—but with the entire fleet of all nearby base pilots? Appetite comes with eating, Antar. More or less. Well—if you want Kirin and me to respond to your requests not with a 'half' or a 'third,' we need everyone. Or would a third of your saved taxes suit you? Half of a competent engineer definitely won't help you much…"

  He smiled, leaving the sentence unfinished.

  "In half an hour. We'll be at the airlock."

  Exchanging a glance with Carlos, Ramon headed toward his barge. Standing above everyone, he addressed the men earning their crust shoulder to shoulder with him.

  "Miners! Remember Sol and his brother? Remember Rodrigo?" He named a couple who died in the Free Hunters attack when they lost their last barge. The men gathering before him murmured. "These scum who destroyed our barges, who drink our blood month after month, year after year—they're now two A.U. from us, on a station under construction. Not on bases we couldn't dock at to tear their filthy mugs to shreds! Not in another raid on hard workers like us! They're on an Alliance of Corporations-region station—in our system!"

  Ramon's face contorted into a snarl of hatred and anticipation. Carlos suppressed a half-smile. There must be no doubt about the sincerity of the commander's displayed feelings. Ramon listened with satisfaction to his men's cries, nodding, approving their thirst for revenge.

  "We won't be alone! Antar's fleet in full force will join us!"

  "We'll cut them all down!"

  "So they never mess with us again!"

  "Exactly!" Ramon shouted. "We'll grind them to iron dust! Let them know the cost of our lives! Let them remember it every time they warp out near our fleets!"

  "Give the command, Ramon!" Carlos shouted with all the seriousness he could muster.

  "Take your weapons! Everything you have! Let our barges rest today! Fire up the engines of your war birds! Departure in twenty minutes!"

  Carlos climbed up to Ramon.

  "We'll have a hard time if that cowardly bastard betrays us," he said.

  Instead of answering, Ramon looked up at the symmetrical web of suspension bridges overhead. A couple hundred meters up, people ran along the latticework toward their vessels, diverging at intersections to descend into armored hulls.

  "He wouldn't dare."

  The airlocks of the station under construction ran in automatic mode. When officially launched and filled with people, authorization would activate, Alpha would connect, and life would begin to boil. But while construction continued, the station accepted all vessels indiscriminately. The outer shell and main bulkheads already protected builders and workers. A few trade company offices had begun fitting out shops. The required minimum of residential blocks was being built rapidly. Despite critical lack of services, constant noise, dirt, and barely functioning systems, some desperate or reckless individuals had already settled here.

  "How do we find them?" Carlos asked over comms.

  "They'll find us themselves," Ramon replied, flying into the airlock as one of the first.

  Following Ramon's brig were a pair of destroyers and two cruisers with his men. Behind them, Antar's fleet emerged from warp—two leaders carrying, as Ramon hoped, two hundred and fifty combat-ready personnel.

  Landing in the dock, Ramon opened the airlocks for his men. For an extra moment, he leaned back in the commander's chair. He rarely glanced into the half-empty lockers by the bulkhead. Now, opening the farthest one, he slung an Alliance-made Beam-9 pistol holster with two spare fuel cells around his hips. Looking at the captured EF CRG-3 shotgun that fired plasma clots, he gave a crooked smile and closed the locker. None of his fighters had armored suits allowing them to fire that cannon twice. Security on stations was ensured by tasers. But they hadn't come here for security. So the lightest infantry weapon—the pistol—and his father's pickaxe were the only weapons with which he left the command module.

  When he stepped onto the docking bridge, the members of his fleet—many not wearing fighter guise for the first time today—awaited instructions.

  "Wreck 'em, crew. Pry, smash—I'll scout upstairs."

  There were few ships—mostly cargo haulers delivering materials. From his position, Ramon immediately spotted three frigates painted with the red emblems of the Free Hunters. About ten minutes later, the bulkheads between dock and airlock opened again, and the heavy hulls of Antar's leaders floated over the heads of miners scattering in agitation. All of Antar's men could have fit in one ship—but the 'colleague's' posturing was well-known.

  Ramon ascended toward the dock doors with a small squad. Thomas Underwood—Antar's fleetcom—joined him.

  "Where's Antar?" Ramon asked, looking ahead and upward. Not getting an answer, he glanced at Thomas and clenched his jaw.

  The enormous empty hall at the exit from the docks was poorly lit. Bare walls dully reflected deathly emptiness.

  "My dad!"

  Ramon turned at the child's voice. A boy of about eight pointed at the wall bordering the docks. Thirty meters from the doors, a man sat with legs stretched out, head bowed, hand covering his stomach. Even from that distance in uncertain light, blood was visible on his clothes and the floor. Ramon thought this unfortunate soul had made it here hoping for rescue—but hadn't had the strength to reach the docks.

  "He's hurt!"

  "Who's your dad?" Thomas asked.

  "He's building this station! He's hurt!"

  "Do you know where the people who hurt him are?"

  "Yes, I saw them!"

  "Run to them. Don't get close. Just shout loudly: 'They're wrecking your ships!' and hide. Can you do that?"

  "Will you help my dad?"

  "Do as I said, and we'll see what we can do for your dad," Thomas encouraged, forcing a smile. The boy ran off and soon disappeared.

  "Can't help him now," someone behind them remarked.

  "Leave the kid here?" Antar's fleetcom looked Ramon in the eyes.

  "Where would we put him?"

  Thomas remained silent.

  "Call the police and rescue. That's their job. We're going back."

  They waited in the docks twenty minutes until people began appearing above. Shouts and shots echoed. Ramon stood on the open platform between ships, looking up. No light infantry weapon was designed for combat across the distance separating him from the gantries. He didn't expect armored fighters. So as long as they didn't come down the stairs, he was safe. And getting down without losses would be hard for them.

  "Ramon, are you immortal?" Carlos shouted from behind a support strut. Seeing a wide, white-toothed grin in response, Carlos shook his head and knelt.

  Meanwhile, bandits streamed down stairways in disorderly rivulets: the smarter used distant stairs, the desperate the nearest. Some had inertial shields—probably trophies from station security. When they descended low enough—about thirty meters above the 'miners' waiting in cover—Ramon drew a breath and roared:

  "Fire!"

  Shooting erupted from all sides. Men fell from stairways in bundles, spraying blood as they tumbled down, blocking the descent. They returned fire. The space filled with smoke and screams. Diagonal beams of laser pistols connected people hiding behind ship supports and bandits on stairs with bright orange threads. Ramon drew his pistol and joined the fight.

  Most were taken out on the descent. Those who made it down unharmed were surrounded and crushed by superior numbers. After a quarter-hour, a hoarse cry came from the far side:

  "Who are you? What do you want? Let's talk!"

  "Surrendering?" Ramon shouted.

  The man needed extra moments to answer:

  "Yes!"

  From the way noise abruptly ceased, Ramon understood this wasn't a lowly grunt. His 'Yes' silenced the weapons of remaining bandits. Ramon waited, assuming they were rising from cover—instantly surrounded by his men and Antar's.

  "Who's your leader?" the same voice continued. "Let's make a deal!"

  Ramon smirked, holstering his pistol. A lighter clicked. Taking a drag, he stepped out from behind the leader's leg. About a dozen remaining intact Free Hunters gathered in a circle, squeezed by a ring of 'miners.' Weapons still in their hands.

  "Drop them!" Thomas Underwood bellowed from the far side.

  They obeyed. Ramon understood perfectly this could be a trap. He understood he could drop dead from an accurate shot by a raider still hiding. He understood his 82-percent R-synch contract could very well end in death. Ramon moved toward the surrounded men, taking drags as he walked. He approached the man who had acted as leader and looked him in the eyes.

  No fear in them—only surprise. The man opposite him was young. Younger than Ramon had expected. A scar ran from his ear to his collarbone—old, not from today. His eyes were cold, calculating. A killer. But also just... a guy. Someone's son, probably.

  Before anyone could move, Ramon drove the pickaxe into his temple.

  He looked at the man for a long moment. Then he shook his head. Once.

  For a second, something flickered in his eyes. Hesitation? No—not hesitation. Disgust. At them, or at himself for what he was about to do? He didn't wait to find out.

  Several shots rang out.

  "Cease fire!" Ramon barked, pulling the pickaxe from the skull and glancing at the men collapsing before him.

  "You…" a guy in the center of remaining bandits tried to speak.

  "Any pilots?" Ramon asked.

  "I… I'm a pilot," the same guy uttered. It became clear why he was in the center—protected by raiders. Apparently, they hadn't preserved other pilots—and that was critical. Pirate autopilot firmware with Alpha access blocked was systematically tracked. Criminals were forced to abandon autopilots altogether, minimize ship intelligence, and rely on their own skill until the moment of truth.

  Shifting the pickaxe to his left hand, Ramon drew his pistol and fired several times. When the pilot opened his eyes, all his remaining buddies around him were dead.

  "Tell yours the miners did this," Ramon ordered in the deathly silence. "Tell everything you saw. How many of us there were. And that we're ready to repeat this again and again until we've killed you all."

  The pilot nodded rapidly and shrank even more.

  "Finish off the hunters! Help our wounded—any dead?" Ramon didn't look around, just listened. Not waiting for an answer: "Collect the weapons! We're flying home!"

  A couple of hours later, he rang the bell at Antar's apartment door. Kira—his wife, a woman whose beauty and spirit he was unworthy of, but whose safety his wealth could ensure—opened.

  "He's not here, Ramon."

  Amatin silently stepped forward. The woman had to move aside. Ramon checked the bedroom, glanced into the living room—but found Antar at his desk in the study. Seeing Ramon, he rose unhurriedly.

  "I have things to do, Ramon! I can't…"

  He didn't finish—knocked down by a powerful blow to the jaw. A trickle of blood ran from his mouth as his body slid across the desk to the floor, knocking over electronics, stationery, documents. Ramon sighed and sprawled wearily in the chair by his 'colleague's' desk.

  Entering, Kira saw him smoking. At his feet, her husband lay like a broken doll.

  "Wrong husband pick."

  Kira carefully stepped over her husband's leg and delicately sat in the chair opposite Ramon.

  "He said you registered officially. And it's 'Amatin Mining,' not 'Amatin & Riviera.'"

  "Do you need a name on a logo or a proper man?"

  "A proper man?" she smiled, reaching for Ramon's cigarette.

  Handing it to her, Ramon got up, stepped over Antar's legs, and headed for the exit.

  "Otherwise, you wouldn't have been seeing him for a second year."

  "True enough," Kira agreed quietly—but Ramon was already gone.