After the Haul

The dock’s cold air bit through Darius Belmont’s jacket, Henderson Station’s mid-tier sprawl humming around him like a beast too tired to die. The Global Salvage Network official—a pudgy prick with a tablet and a face like curdled milk—shoved the signed manifest into his hands and scurried off, vanishing into the vapor haze curling off the recyclers.

Two hundred tons of hull scraps and spent mining probes, weighed and haggled over, had scraped together eighty thousand credits—ten thousand shy of the number Darius had scratched into his mental ledger. He’d argued, but the bastard barely looked up, muttering about market rates with a shrug before moving on.

Still, it was enough. Enough to pay the crew, refuel, and patch the Marlin’s groaning bones. Not enough to loosen GSN’s noose.

Thirty thousand overdue on a two-hundred-thousand-credit loan. He’d signed it four years ago, when Lexy was seventeen and the Marlin was still a lifeline instead of a chain. They’d been keeping pace, barely—until six months back, when some rookie pilot misjudged a berth and smashed the aft. What should’ve been a fixable setback turned into a chokehold, insurance vultures laughing him off over an unlogged maintenance cycle.

Not that he’d expected them to do anything else.

The station’s clang and whine pressed in, and Darius felt every one of his forty-five years settle into the lines of his face. He dragged a hand through his short, graying hair, breath fogging in the chill, then turned back to the Marlin.

The ramp clanked under his boots, a hollow toll as he climbed into the cargo bay. The space yawned around him—cavernous, frigid, thick with the tang of metal dust and the ever-present bite of oil and coolant.

Near the aft hatch, Preston wrestled a mag-lock into place, his stocky frame hunched with effort. Steel clunked against steel as he worked, each impact punctuated by low curses. Sweat gleamed on his broad brow in the dim glow of the bay lights, muscles straining under grease-streaked coveralls.

Across the floor, Ryder crouched over a cutting laser, slicing down a scrap panel. Sparks flared in brief bursts, the jittery clatter of his tools filling the space between the ship’s groans. His hands moved quick, restless—like he had more energy than the bay had room for.

Darius didn’t stop. Just tipped his head in acknowledgment—Preston’s gruff “Cap” and Ryder’s half-heard grunt trailing him as he strode past.

At the airlock hatch, he cranked the handle, the metal squealing in protest. The transition was instant—the cold, industrial grit of the cargo bay giving way to something warmer, more lived-in.

To his right, the galley nook sat off-center, its long metal table bolted down, the synth-food dispenser humming softly. The faint whiff of stale coffee clung to the walls, stubborn and familiar. Above the dispenser, his wife’s photo hung in its usual place, her grin faded to a ghost in the frame—a memory from fourteen years ago, before everything hollowed out.

To his left, the steep stairs climbed up to the catwalk leading toward the crew quarters. He spared them a glance before stepping fully into the galley, the ship’s hum sinking into his bones like an old ache.

The crew had already started to gather. Voices rumbled low under the hiss of vents.

Darius reached the table and planted his hands on the cool steel, the weight of the day pressing through his palms.

Lexy leaned against the dispenser, arms crossed, her black hair in a messy ponytail spilling over one shoulder. Her green eyes—like her father—were almond-shaped, a quiet echo of her mother’s Asian heritage. The contrast was striking, an alluring blend of sharp emerald and soft, slanted grace. The angles of her face held that same inherited tension—delicate but unyielding, a beauty carved from two worlds, balanced between them.

Al O’Brien slouched on a bench, gruff and broad, tapping a slow, impatient rhythm on his knee with his ever-present wrench. Grease streaked his coveralls, his expression unreadable but knowing.

Preston and Ryder shuffled in, the former wiping a meaty hand on his full beard, the latter still twitching with that restless edge. Katherine Price came last, tall and wiry, her blonde bob framing a square jaw that had never been beautiful nor ugly—just strong, like the rest of her. Her piercing blue eyes met Darius’, a flicker of warmth in their depths as she settled beside Lexy with a nod.

Darius let the silence stretch a beat before speaking, his voice scraping over the quiet like a blade on stone.

“Alright, folks. Haul’s cashed.”

He pulled a stack of credit chits from his pocket and slid them across the table. The dull clink of metal against steel rang sharp as they scattered like spent shells.

“Eighty thousand. Less than we hoped, more than a kick in the teeth. Fuel’s covered, Al’s got parts coming, and you’re all paid.”

The air shifted—relief, not joy. A thin thread of it wove through the crew’s silence.

“Bearings?” Al asked.

“Enough to keep her in the black,” Darius said, dry as recycled air. “Don’t push it.”

Al grunted, scooping his chit with thick fingers. Preston smirked, half-burying it as he pocketed his share.

“Well, it’s something, I guess. Three days of solid ground already sounds nice.”

“Speak for yourself,” Ryder muttered, flipping his chit between deft fingers. “Station’s got life. Bars, girls... I’m spending mine.”

Lexy didn’t move. Her chit sat untouched, her gaze locked on Darius. A First Mate’s poise held her tongue, but something fiercer simmered underneath, waiting. Katherine nudged her, teasing warmth curling through her voice.

“What about you, kid? Got plans to burn that on someone pretty?”

A ripple of laughter broke the tension, soft and ragged. Lexy’s mouth quirked, a grin slipping free despite herself.

“Maybe. Depends if she’s still docked or shipped out by now.”

“Another heartbreaker,” Katherine said, smirking. “She got a name yet, or you still calling ‘em all ‘sweetheart’?”

“Piss off, Kat,” Lexy shot back, her laugh sharp and bright, cutting through the galley’s hum like a flare. “You’re just bitter your flings are all rechargeable.”

“Rechargeable’s loyal,” Katherine countered, rapping the counter with a knuckle. “Doesn’t need sweet talk. And batteries are still cheaper than dinner.”

Chuckles rippled through the room, the warmth of it brushing against the cold weight in Darius’s chest. Lexy’s laugh rang quick and alive, so much like her mother’s. Katherine’s steady presence anchored it—a thread back to fourteen years ago, when his wife’s shuttle crashed and Katherine stepped in, best friend turned family.

Darius cleared his throat, rough enough to slice through the moment.

“Three days’ leave. Back by 0600, day after tomorrow. We ship out then. Don’t make me drag you out of the Pit stinking of synth-booze.” His finger leveled at Ryder. “That means you.”

Ryder just grinned, flipping his chit again.

Benches scraped as the crew stirred. Al lumbered toward the engine room, muttering under his breath about which parts needed replacing first. Preston and Ryder headed for the hatch, their voices already tangling over bars versus brothels in the station’s lower decks.

Lexy snatched her chit and tossed Katherine a mock salute, grinning. “Three days, Aunt Kat. Keep an eye on Dad. Don’t let him wreck the ship without me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Katherine called back, her eyes sharp as Lexy’s boots rang down the catwalk, her footsteps fading into the ship’s hum.

The galley emptied, leaving only Darius and Katherine. The air settled thick with the scent of coffee and the faint, inescapable tang of oil.

Darius sank onto the bench, the weight of the day pressing into his bones. Katherine stayed standing, leaning against the dispenser, her tall frame a wiry silhouette against the dim light. She’d never been like his wife—never soft, never one for gentle words—but she’d been her best friend, her shadow.

After the docking accident took her, Katherine had joined the Marlin, a quiet pact to keep Darius from drowning in grief and Lexy from growing up alone. Fourteen years, and she was still here. Wiry and unshaken. She had raised his daughter as much as he had, her strength a constant he’d never thanked her for—the rock he’d never asked for but couldn’t lose.

Katherine broke the silence first.

“Eighty thousand,” she said, voice low. “Keeps the lights on. Just.”

“Just’s all we’ve got, Kat,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face, the stubble a rough scrape under his palm. “Crew’s paid. Tanks’ll fill. Al gets his parts. Three days to catch our breath.”

She shifted, crossing her arms, her bob swaying as she tilted her head.

“And then? Another run? Another eighty—if the stars align?” A pause. “GSN’s not waiting, Darius. Twenty-seven days. That’s what they said last ping.”

He leaned back, eyes drifting to the photo—the faded grin of the woman who’d nicknamed this ship Rusted Hope. A joke, back then, darker now. He glanced at the aft hatch, its weld scars a reminder of six months back, when that rookie’s blunder turned four years of loan payments into a noose.

“Lexy’s got a fire under her,” he said, voice soft, worn. “She’s pushing for a score. Next run, we go deeper. Past the lanes.”

Katherine’s brows lifted, surprise flickering through her steady mask.

“Her idea?”

“Her mule streak,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before vanishing. “Like her mom.”

“Like _you _too…” Katherine shot back, smirking.

“Okay, like me too,” he admitted with a chuckle. “But she won’t let it go. Says there’s something out there.”

Katherine exhaled through her nose, considering. Then, finally:

“She’s got the nose for it. Always has.”

She eased onto the bench across from him, her hands resting loose on the table.

“But going past the lanes is a gamble, Darius. There’s a reason wrecks are juicier out there—you risk finding more than just hulks. Could be trouble.”

He tapped the table where the chits had been, his fingers slow, deliberate.

“Trouble’s already got us by the throat,” he said. “Thirty thousand overdue. Twenty-seven days. Gamble’s all we’ve got left.”

Katherine held his gaze, blue eyes sharp and unyielding, peeling back the exhaustion he wore like a second skin.

“You’re _listening _to her, though.” A beat. “That’s new.”

“She’s too damn stubborn to ignore,” Darius admitted, voice rough with tired fondness. “Loves this ship like it’s alive. Too much here to just let go, I guess.”

His gaze flicked back to the photo—the grin that hadn’t faded, even after everything.

“Crew’s solid,” he continued, shifting focus. “Al’s grumbling, but he’ll fix anything. Preston’s steady, Ryder’s restless but sharp. Lexy’s… Lexy.”

Katherine snorted. “Lexy’s your spine. Keeps you straight when you’d rather bend.” Her smirk was knowing. “She’s got her mom’s fire, your grit. That latest conquest of hers’ll figure that out quick.”

Darius shot her a dry look.

“Speaking of which,” she went on, leaning back with a chuckle, “with all those girls she chases—guess you won’t be seeing grandkids on this rustbucket.”

He snorted, a low, warm sound, and leaned into the bench. “Good thing, too. Henderson’s a shithole, and the Marlin’s no nursery.”

“It raised Lexy just fine,” Katherine countered, dry but not unkind. Her gaze flicked to the galley around them, the dim glow catching the lines of her face. “Tough as nails, that girl. This heap was her cradle—best home she could’ve had.”

Darius exhaled, the warmth slipping away as reality crept back in.

“Better than I gave her alone,” he muttered. A beat. “Three days, Kat. Then we hunt. Lexy’s right—we need something big. Something GSN can’t downpay with some bullshit excuse.”

He met her gaze across the table—steady, knowing. A silent thank you for being here, for raising Lexy alongside him, for never leaving.

Katherine held his stare for a moment, then gave the smallest nod. No need for words. He’d never been good at saying it, and she’d never needed to hear it. The weight of fourteen years sat between them, unspoken but understood.

Then she leaned forward, arms resting on the table, her voice firm.

“We’ll find it,” she said, firm. “We always do.” Then, with a sharp look, “But you need to sleep. You’re running on fumes, and I’m not dragging your ass to the bunk again.”

Darius smirked faintly. “Keep promising.” Still, he pushed up from the bench, the dull roar of exhaustion settling into his bones. Katherine stood too, clapping a firm hand on his arm—a steady weight, fourteen years of quiet loyalty pressed into the touch.

“Rest,” she ordered. “I’ll check the comms. GSN’s probably buzzing already.”

He nodded, watching as she strode for the bridge, vanishing down the catwalk with the same sure step she’d had since the day she came aboard.

The galley fell still, coffee and steel lingering in the air.

His wife’s photo stared back at him..

Rusted Hope.

Lexy’s voice echoed in the quiet.

One score. One chance.

Three days to breathe, then the hunt began.

For now, the Marlin rested—scarred, rusted, but still breathing. Still fighting. Thanks to the crew. Thanks to Katherine. Thanks to the stubborn love his daughter carried like a torch.

Twenty-seven days left no room for doubt.