Standoff

"*Truth,*" Eris confirmed. "*Stabilizer replacement requires proprietary Zenthari alloys. Black-market price: 80,000 credits.*" Her ocular displays flickered as she accessed deeper files. "*Alternative proposal: race winnings cover costs if we place first in tomorrow's orbital qualifier.*"

Susan's grip tightened on her needler. First place meant playing along with the Zenthari's games—letting more racers get chopped up for parts. But turning the bastard in meant weeks stranded while they scrounged for repairs. And the Stormcrow wasn't just transportation—it was Eris's body. Leaving her crippled wasn't an option.

The mechanic sensed their hesitation. Its abdominal plates sealed shut with a wet smack. "Ethics are heavy cargo," it rasped. "How far can your ship fly on principles?"

Adam's knife twitched—a millimeter from severing the trachea. "Far enough to dump your ass out an airlock." But his eyes flicked to Susan. They both knew the math: no stabilizer, no hyperspace. No hyperspace, no escaping the bounty hunters Ghorrax's death had unleashed.

Eris's form rippled, extruding a slender tendril that brushed Susan's wrist. Her voice pulsed directly into Susan's neural port—a whisper only she could hear. "Option three: we race... and rig the harvest."

Susan's breath caught. The idea was insane. Brilliant. Exactly the kind of chaos that made humans galactic menaces. She met Adam's gaze and tilted her head toward the pod's wreckage—their silent shorthand for trust me, this'll be fun.