Like 18ish cycles

The *Stormcrow* touched down on the repair outpost's landing pad with all the grace of a drunken Krothian—which is to say, it hit the deck plating hard enough to buckle three stabilizer fins and send a shower of sparks cascading from the starboard thruster array. Susan emerged first, her boots crunching on debris as she surveyed the damage with a wince. "Looks like someone took a plasma torch to our wallet."

The repair yard sprawled before them, a labyrinth of salvaged hull plates and jury-rigged equipment dominated by a towering Zenthari whose exoskeleton gleamed under the planet's twin suns. Four mechanical arms whirred as it appraised their ship, mandibles clicking in a rhythm that sounded suspiciously like a cash register.

"Full refit," it droned, one pincer tapping a holoslate that displayed a figure with enough zeros to buy a small moon. "Or you fly out with half your engine core in a bucket."

Adam whistled low, rubbing his thumb over the fresh scar where Eris's neural tendrils had last interfaced with his nervous system. "Got another currency in mind?" He nodded toward the poster behind the Zenthari—a hover-pod with sleek aerodynamics and the words *DEATH RUN QUALIFIER* splashed across its hull in violent orange script.

The Zenthari's ocular stalks swiveled toward the advertisement. "Ah. You volunteer as tribute?" Its chuckle sounded like grinding metal. "First human to race since the... incident with the plasma boosters."