An evesdropper

Susan wiped her boot on the deck plating. "Yeah, repairing itself *into* the crew quarters." She nodded toward a ventilation duct where something membranous and throbbing had begun spilling out like sentient oatmeal.

Ship four was a former luxury yacht—now more patched hull than original plating—with a cockpit that smelled like a Zenthari brothel and a nav system held together by literal chewing gum. Adam prodded the sticky wad with his vibro-blade. "Is this... mint flavored?"

The broker's mandibles clicked rapidly. "Previous owner had anxiety."

The broker had barely shuffled off to "verify payment authenticity" (read: smoke something that made its carapace glow) when a figure peeled away from the shadow of a gutted freighter. The mechanic moved like someone who'd spent years working around things that could kill you if you startled them—slow, deliberate, palms out. Up close, he was humanoid enough to pass at a glance, except for the extra joints in his fingers and the way his pupils dilated sideways when he blinked.

"You're the ones who brought in Ghorrax," he said, not a question. His voice had the rasp of someone who'd inhaled one too many engine fumes. Susan's hand drifted toward her needler pistol. The mechanic didn't flinch, just jerked his chin toward a tarp-covered silhouette in the far dock. "I've got something that might interest you."

Adam wiped grease off his hands onto his already ruined pants. "Unless it's got guns and doesn't leak radiation, we're—"