The diner on Outpost 42 was called "The Grease Trap." It was aptly named.

  The air smelled of recycled ozone and synthetic bacon grease. The tables were sticky. The lighting was a flickering yellow that made everyone look slightly jaundiced.

  For Ford, it smelled like home. For Sheila, it clearly smelled like a biological hazard.

  They sat in a corner booth. Sheila was wearing her mechanic’s disguise—the oversized flannel bunched up around her wrists, a grease smudge (applied by Ford) on her cheek. She was staring at a plate of "eggs" like it was an alien autopsy.

  "Eat," Ford murmured, tearing into a sandwich that dripped sauce down his chin. "It's hot. It's calories. And it didn't come from a pouch."

  Sheila picked up a fork. She took a tentative bite. Her eyes widened.

  "It is... salty," she whispered. "And oily. And... crunchy?"

  "That's the bacon," Ford said. "Best in the sector."

  The waitress, a drone with a cracked screen, rolled by. "Refill on the caf, hon?"

  "Yes," Sheila started to say in her Royal Voice.

  KICK.

  Ford’s boot connected with her shine under the table.

  "Yeah," Sheila corrected, her voice straining into a grumble. "Hit me."

  The waitress poured the black sludge and rolled away.

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  "You have a violent teaching style," Sheila hissed, rubbing her leg.

  "You have a loud accent," Ford countered. He pulled up his datapad. "Okay, let's look at the route. We're refueled. The Seagull is patched. We cross the border in three jumps."

  "And then?"

  "And then we land on your Sanctuary Moon. You find your dad's friends. I find a payout."

  A ping sounded from the datapad. The bill for the refueling and repairs.

  Ford opened it. He stopped chewing.

  He stared at the number. The hydrogen prices in this sector were extortionate, and the "expedited" hull patch cost triple the standard rate.

  He winced. It was a physical reaction, a tightening of the jaw that he couldn't hide. He tapped the "Transfer" button, watching his retirement fund drop significantly.

  Sheila watched him. She saw the wince. She saw the way his thumb hovered over the account balance before closing the screen.

  She put down her fork.

  "It is expensive, isn't it?" she asked quietly.

  "It's the cost of doing business," Ford shrugged, trying to sound casual. "Don't worry about it."

  "I have no credits," Sheila said. "My accounts are frozen. The cash in the crate was burned. I am... insolvent."

  "You're a Princess," Ford said. "You're good for it. Eventually."

  "Am I?" She looked at the greasy table. "If my father's allies are dead... if the Sanctuary is gone... I am just a girl in a flannel shirt with a bounty on her head."

  She looked up at him. Her violet eyes were serious.

  "You are losing money," she said. "You are risking your ship. You are risking your life."

  She leaned forward.

  "You could just leave me here, you know?"

  Ford paused, his coffee cup halfway to his mouth.

  "I could," he agreed. "I could walk out that airlock, decouple the ship, and be halfway to Florida by morning."

  Sheila nodded. She looked small in the booth. "I would not blame you. You owe me nothing. I have been... difficult."

  Ford looked at her. He looked at the "eggs." He looked out the dirty window at the stars.

  He thought about the silence of the cockpit. He thought about the empty seat next to him that had been empty for five years since Sarah left.

  "Eat your bacon, kid," Ford said gruffly.

  "But..."

  "I said eat," Ford grunted. "I already paid for it. We don't waste food on my ship. And we don't dump passengers at a Grease Trap."

  He took a sip of the terrible coffee.

  "Besides," he added, a faint smile touching his lips. "I'm curious to see if this Sanctuary Moon actually has a beach."