The Rust Belt 4 station smelled of ozone and despair.

  Ford walked into The Last Drop, a bar that sat precariously on the edge of the station’s waste processing sector. It was the kind of place where the drinks were watered down and the patrons were mostly wanted in three systems.

  He spotted Vex in the back booth. Vex was a "Freight Facilitator," which was a polite way of saying he fenced stolen goods and arranged illegal transport. He was a skinny reptilian humanoid with twitchy eyes and a suit that cost more than Ford’s ship.

  "Ford!" Vex hissed, his forked tongue flicking out. "My favorite terrestrial. You look terrible. Have you aged?"

  "I look like a man who wants to get paid," Ford said, sliding into the booth. "The agricultural drop is done. Where's my credits?"

  Vex tapped his datapad. A ping notified Ford of the transfer. It was peanuts. Enough for fuel and maybe a new recoil dampener, but not enough for freedom.

  "Pleasure doing business," Ford grunted, starting to stand up.

  "Sit," Vex said. "I have another job. A special one."

  Ford hesitated. He knew that tone. That tone meant trouble. It meant customs bribes, hidden compartments, and possibly being shot at by the Interstellar Trade Authority.

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  "I'm not interested, Vex. I'm doing legal runs only this month. My insurance premium is high enough."

  "It pays fifty thousand," Vex whispered.

  Ford stopped. Fifty thousand was a year’s wages.

  "What's the cargo?" Ford asked, despite himself.

  "Bio-Medical Waste," Vex smiled, revealing too many teeth. "Or at least, that's what the manifest says. It's a single crate. Sealed. Cryo-stabilized. You pick it up in Sector 7, you drop it off in the Outer Rim. No questions. No scans."

  "Sector 7 is a military zone," Ford pointed out. "And the Outer Rim is pirate territory. If I get scanned with 'Bio-Medical Waste' that isn't actually waste, I lose my license. And my ship."

  He shook his head. "It feels off, Vex. The destination is too remote. The pickup is too hot. I'm out."

  Ford stood up. He actually meant it. He could feel the prickly sensation on the back of his neck—the same feeling he used to get in the cockpit right before a missile lock. This job was a trap.

  "One hundred and fifty thousand," Vex said.

  Ford froze.

  The bar noise seemed to fade away. He did the math in his head. Current savings: 3.2 million. Florida property: 4.0 million. The gap: 800k.

  One hundred and fifty thousand wouldn't close the gap. But it would triple his pace. It would mean he was one huge step closer to the beach. To the Seagulls. To never seeing a starfield again.

  "Triple?" Ford turned back. "Why?"

  "Because the client is in a hurry," Vex said, his eyes gleaming. "And because they specifically asked for a pilot who can fly atmospheric entry vectors. They need someone who can land... off the grid."

  Ford looked at the alien. He looked at the dirty table. He looked at his own reflection in the window—young face, old eyes.

  He remembered the feeling of the sun on his face.

  "Load it up," Ford said, his voice flat. "But I want half upfront."

  Vex grinned. "A wise choice, Captain Ford. A very wise choice."