I returned to the Bucket with my foil safely in its sheath, a train of Jacksonites I’d encountered looting the Baylen complex in tow. The remnants of Baylen’s troops had disappeared, begging safe haven from the families.

  The Jacksonites had been all too happy to share their loot with me, if that would get me away faster. I was a hero, but I was also a walking target. They may not have known why, but the rumor mill had been churning. Everybody knew the Syndicates were after me.

  Ma Tomlin waited by my airlock, in another miniature walker, or maybe the same Hao had used. Its six shiny steel legs turned up puffs of dust when it moved. Tomlin stood by her side protectively. A gun hung at his hip, low, in a gunslinger’s fast-draw position but in a full holster. Not very sensible. Hopefully, Tomlin would have the time to learn how to use it before he needed to. The repair crews had finished hooking up the engines and were trooping down the rear loading ramp.

  Ma Tomlin gave me a gap-toothed smile. Small, almost shy, and strangely genuine.

  “I am sorry,” she said, looking me in the eyes. She held my gaze, waiting for me to react. Genuinely wanting to know whether I’d accepted her apology. We’d likely never meet again, and she wanted to know that she’d done everything she could to make things right between us.

  I found myself liking her still.

  “You could have asked,” I said.

  “Would you have taken up our cause if I had?” There was a diamond hardness in her voice, equal parts pride and protection. We both knew the answer to that question.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  “Probably not,” I said.

  “I did what I had to do,” she said.

  “You did,” I agreed. “I can respect that.”

  “Don’t make it right, though,” she said, “abusing your trust. We’ve restocked your ship and returned your landing fees. There’s four hundred grams extra in the pile, too. Don’t know if it will make a difference, but I’ve baked you a dozen plates of shortbread. Junior tells me you liked it.”

  “I did,” I said. “And you had all the vanilla you needed for it.”

  It came out harshly. I regretted it the moment I said it.

  “Only used the one jar you gave freely,” she said. “The rest is back on your ship, except the jar we crushed to make you think Baylen had been on board.”

  I nodded. I could respect that, too.

  “Glad to see you’re making a recovery,” I said, by way of a peace offering.

  “I am, too,” she said. “Would have missed walking.”

  “What happens to you next?”

  “Hopefully nothing,” Ma Tomlin said. “We send an emergency communiqué to the Federation, asking for protection. Junior steps down as acting portmaster. Federals get here. Nobody gets shot.”

  “Hopefully,” I said.

  “Hopefully,” she echoed. We stared at each other for a moment, then simply looked, then nodded. We would never see each other again, but we could part as friends. I held up my fist, and she guided the mini-mech forward until she could bump it.

  “Safe voyage,” she said.

  “Thank you,” I replied.

  “Scanners say the ship’s all clear, captain,” Hao said over the com.

  Behind me, the loading ramp whined closed, raining grains of Jackson Depot sand. I’d be happy to get it off my skin, and the smell of ammonia out my nose.

  “Take care of your ma,” I told Tomlin. I removed my leather jacket and handed it to him. “There are still some wards left in it. I figure you can figure what they do before they dissipate.”

  “I will,” he said.

  “Take care, kid,” I said, and he nodded.

  I stepped back into the Bucket’s comforting closeness, keyed the airlock, got into the pilot’s couch. The engine output readings were amazing. I fed them some power, felt it thrum through the Bucket’s frame.

  With a final wave to the Tomlins waiting outside in the blueish moonlight, I lifted the Bucket’s nose, heading for space.

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