Negotiations

"Unprecedented," the mechanic droned, its voice modulator glitching as Susan skimmed the pod sideways through a gap narrower than the wingspan. One of its mechanical arms spasmed, dropping a wrench into the canyon below. "The organics usually liquefy their own spines by lap three."

Susan barely heard the praise. Her world had narrowed to the rush of wind against the cockpit's cracked canopy, the guttural scream of overtaxed thrusters, and the electric prickle of Eris's neural feedback looping through her nervous system. Every twitch of her fingers translated into violent grace—the pod responding like an extension of her own body, augmented by Eris's quicksilver precision.

They crossed the makeshift finish line—a frayed length of cable strung between two wrecked freighters—with the pod's hull plating glowing cherry red from friction. Susan whooped as she killed the engines, her laughter mingling with the sizzle of cooling metal. Eris's form shimmered across the control panel, her liquid fingers tracing the curve of Susan's wrist in a silent question.

The Zenthari was already transmitting contracts before the pod fully settled on its landing struts. Its central mandible unfolded like a grotesque flower, revealing a holographic ledger glowing with enough zeroes to fund a small revolution. "Standard terms," it rasped, thrusting a chitinous limb toward the display. "Twelve races. Hazard pay for orbital circuits. No refunds if the human becomes paste."

Susan wiped engine grease off her knuckles with the hem of her shirt, leaving a dark smear across her abdomen as she eyed the Zenthari's holo-contract. The numbers flickered—generous, but not quite enough to cover the Stormcrow's repairs and their next fuel run. She exchanged a glance with Adam, who leaned against the pod's scorched hull with deliberate nonchalance, his thumb tapping the hilt of his plasma knife in a rhythm that just happened to match the mechanic's nervous mandible clicks.

"Standard terms?" Susan snorted, tossing the grease-stained rag onto the workbench with a wet slap. "We just turned your scrapheap into a spectacle. That warrant for the Ghorrax bounty hasn't expired—half the Freeport's still looking to claim it. You really think we're risking orbital circuits for chump change?"