In this prequel to the other Casey and Dev stories, Devin tries to go straight. It… doesn't work out super well.

Well hello there! It's a… clean story? It's a clean story. This takes place somewhere between 5 and 10 years prior to “Tricks," the first story with Casey in it. You don't need to know anything about that, but this does cover why Dev is so cautious. For a coyote. Thanks to :iconSpudz: for all his help with this, and there was a lot of help required >.>

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

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"The Good Ship and Crew," by  Rob Baird

Devin saved his scowl until he was outside the union hall, but it took so much effort the coyote wasn't sure it had really been worth it. He'd learned just about every way to hear 'sorry, we can't hire you.' Most of them settled for seniority. Many of the rest played the closely related 'experience' card.

The man from Kelovari Limited just barely managed not to say well, you know… coyotes out loud, but it was obvious from his expression. They assumed he had something up his sleeve, some ulterior motive.

For once he did not. The pressure of those self-same ulterior motives had grown a bit too much for him. It was his latest effort to clean up his act, a resolution which recurred every year or so and lasted only as long as… well: someone with your background probably has better offers than…

“I can get you a job."

He turned. The speaker was a gravel-voiced, frizzy-maned lion—but wearing a uniform, and that gave Dev a bit of a pause. “Yeah?"

“I'm Taylor DeSilva, master of the Luke Lane. Transbarnard Lines. You're Devin, right? I've heard of you."

That gave the coyote even more of a pause. It narrowed the range of what DeSilva might've wanted him for. He wanted to reject the idea out of hand—but he also wanted to continue eating, and that required money. “You need a cargo loader?"

“I do, as a matter of fact. Well, the Luke Lane requires a cargo loader. If I was her master, I'd be able to give you a position. But that could be a complication, see?"

“What would be complicated about it?"

“Well, Transbarnard has some… unfortunate ideas about me. Some less-than-kind notes on my record."

“And if I'm able to fix this problem, you'd take me on as crew?"

“Like I said, 'yote: we need a cargo loader."

The lion was serious—or desperate—enough to front Dev money for a hotel room where he could set up his computing equipment. An hour later and Dev appeared in the middle of an orderly, deserted library.

The library didn't exist: his mind had created it to allow the coyote to navigate the raw, unorganized data that made up the META network. Some of its orderliness was his own work in programming the virtual environment. Much of it was the unique talent of a born hacker.

An amateur could've come up with the metaphor of a library. They would not have managed to create a searchable database of its records: they certainly would not have rendered it with an antiquated paper catalog. Dev riffled through the cards until he found what he was looking for.

Report re: Taylor Ryan DeSilva (Luke Lane)

It was in the company's personnel database—a complaint lodged by an anonymous worker in the engineering section, concerning an 'incident' on a voyage several weeks before.

He didn't bother reading the report itself. 'Personnel' meant some squabble with another crewman, or perhaps drugs, or a complaint about being passed over for promotion. The coyote didn't care about such things. And, more importantly, in the six years since he'd struck out on his own, he'd learned there was too much dirty laundry in the galaxy already to dig up any more.

If he was lucky, the coyote would 'only' learn a target he'd been given was trying to report his employer for tax fraud—that classic mistake of doing the right thing. More often, prying revealed the unseemly proclivities of those who hired him, the secrets they thought they'd buried.

For anyone else, that might've been the case. Devin was not anyone else, but to preserve his sanity he only pried when it was necessary. This, the coyote judged, wasn't one of those times. He tore the report into little pieces, and did the same with the index card that had once held its location.

As far as DeSilva—and Transbarnard Lines—knew, the report never existed at all. The lion took Devin at his word: sometimes, it was helpful to have a reputation. In payment, he received orders to the Luke Lane, and to report at once to the ship's bosun as a cargo specialist.

It was an unremarkable freighter, nine hundred meters long and shaped rather like a blue whale. Those fluid curves meant she had a newer, Kirilov-style drive designed to slip easily through hyperspace rather than keeping it at bay with power-hungry energy fields.

On the other hand, 'newer' was a matter of degree, and the closer Dev got the more he suspected the Luke Lane had been one of the first Kirilov freighters, launched two hundred years before. Past her expiration date, in that case, which explained why she was docked at a backwater like Kelovar.

The ship's manifest listed only “mining equipment, misc." Choosing “details" showed she was carrying seven tugs certified for deep-space operation, most of a disassembled drilling laser, and one hundred and forty-seven containers full of spare parts, food, and “personal items, certified safe" for the fourteen hundred employees of a mining outpost elsewhere in the Edra sector.

He found the bosun walking around a cargo loader—a single-person exosuit meant for moving containers and freight around when antigravity tugs were too imprecise. His nametag said “Peter K. Andrews," but the bear told Dev to call him 'Peek' and immediately stepped away from the loader when the coyote said he was joining the crew. “All yours, then. Got a dozen boxes left for this hold, and we should be good. Position 'em and lock 'em down, okay?"

The cargo loader was an older model, but after a few minutes the coyote felt comfortable enough with it to get to work. It was a precision job, after a fashion—but nothing that required as much concentration as META did. A heads-up display pointed him to the next container, and confirmed when the suit's claws had a solid hold on it.

The same display projected a path for him to follow up the loading ramp and through the open bay doors of the Luke Lane. Every container's position was predetermined by the ship's cargo computer, which calculated the mass distribution of the freighter so the hyperdrive would work properly.

All he really had to do was put the containers into place. And then, when he was done, to check each container and double-check that nothing was out of position, scanning them with the loading computer to keep the automated system happy. And then, when that was done, to lock the containers down. Electromagnetic guide pins kept them where they were supposed to be; to permanently fix them, a specialized load-locker welded them to deck plating specially designed for this purpose.

Here he encountered his first problem. Andrews was in the cargo control room, which looked out on the aftmost bay. “Hey, 'yote. Can I help you?"

“Maybe, yeah. What's up with the load-locker? It says it was tagged out by a, uh, a J. Janicki?"

“Yeah. Jess, came before me." The bear didn't seem especially concerned. “That equipment's been bent for a few years now. Don't even bother."

Devin looked over his shoulder at the cargo bay, which was filled with mining tugs. Surely those are locked down, at least? Right? The coyote flicked an ear. “Okay. But how do you secure the cargo? Right now they're just held down by the guide pins."

“Is it done? That was fast." Mindful that his question hadn't actually been answered, Dev handed over his computer with the final loading report. “Yeah, this is fine. Good work, rookie. We might even leave on time—that'll make DeSilva happy, the poor bastard."

“Not to, uh, harp on a point, but…"

Peek gave the coyote's shoulder a pat. “Here, I'll show you. Take container… A23 here. Uncompensated mass is two thousand, four hundred kilograms. At six guide pins, that's… four hundred kilograms per pin, right?"

“Right…" He didn't like where the bear was going.

“They're rated for a ton, so that gives us a load factor of 2.5. Transbarnard corporate policy says we can leave at 2.25, which is actually higher than TC shipping regulations. If we lock the containers down, that means we have to unlock them on the far side. Ain't worth the time—we'll be fine, hoss."

He could already tell it wasn't an argument he was going to win. Perhaps it was an argument Peek had lost a few times himself. Devin took the man's advice and made his way aboard while the rest of the crew made preparations to leave.

It wasn't the worst ship he'd been on, though it was trying to win its own argument in that respect. The interior corridors were spartan and ancient, but freshly painted. Not the kind of freighter that would be known for creature comforts, though; he was thankful the journey was only scheduled to take six days.

The quarters listed on his certificate were apparently shared, judging by the state of the lower bunk. The coyote's roommate, whoever he was, wasn't around; Dev tossed his bag onto the top bunk and pulled himself up to join it.

Nah, you've had worse. For six days, it'll be fine. Tidy little paycheck, and a good word at the hall on Port Neshoba. Be good to see that shithole again when you have some money in your pocket, right?

Well. No, Port Neshoba wasn't good by any stretch of the imagination. But the beer was cheap, and he was starting to make friends with one of the bartenders—the kind of friendship it was useful to cultivate, in his trade.

He had no responsibilities for the launch, and stayed out of the way for their rumbling ascent through the atmosphere. Half an hour after the ride smoothed out, when he was starting to drift off, the door creaked open.

Devin rolled onto his side to see who it was: a tigress, looking perplexed at his appearance. “You're my new roommate?"

“I guess so. That's what it says on the paperwork. Is there a problem?"

“Quarters aren't supposed to be coed. Unless it's being occupied by a couple, and you know something I don't."

“Maybe Andrews knows something neither of us do?"

She raised an eyebrow at what he'd hoped would be a friendly smile. “You're not handsome enough to pull that off, jackal. The grin, either."

He held it anyway. “No offense taken, by the way. Also, I'm a coyote."

“Oh. Coyote, fine." Then she sighed, and held up her paw for him to shake. “Sorry. It's been a long day. I'm Anya. It's nice to meet you."

“Same. I'm Dev and… don't worry, I won't stick around. I'm just here until Port Neshoba."

Anya barked a laugh. “What a coincidence."

“You too?"

“I'm very done with this bullshit, yeah. Fuck DeSilva. Fuck Transbarnard, too."

“It's that good, really?"

The old speaker buzzed, and a red lamp flashed angrily beneath it. “All hands, this is the captain speaking. Stand by to engage the hyperdrive."

A low hum filled the air, slowly growing louder. Abruptly it bowed down in pitch; for a few seconds the lights dimmed to nearly nothing. Then they came back up, and the hum vanished, replaced by a steady rumble.

“Fuckin' hell," the tigress muttered.

“What?"

Anya held her finger up. Wait. The communicator she'd tossed onto the desk lit up; she picked it up and switched it on. “Anya. Go ahead."

“It's Kyle. When are you back on?"

“Three hours."

“Hm. Alright, it'll hold 'til then."

“The starboard inverter?"

“Yeah. Can you check it out when you have a chance?"

“Sure." She closed the channel and shut her eyes tightly. “This is what I'm talking about. You know, the lights aren't supposed to go out when the FTL drive kicks in. It's a problem with the main reactor—nothing to do with the inverter at all."

The coyote wondered what might've been going on: a power surge triggering safeties in the inverter? Something shorting out, but only temporarily, and only under the immense energies of the massive freighter's hyperdrive?

Anya rambled without proper explanation for another thirty seconds, then abruptly cut herself short and sighed. “So: yeah. That's why I'm leaving. Port Neshoba can't come soon enough. This ship is nine hundred meters of one fuckin' problem after another."

“To be honest? It doesn't really surprise me, based on what loading the cargo in was like."

“Yeah. Welcome to the thick of it. You get motion sickness?"

“I don't think so? Why?"

“Oh. You'll see."

It turned out to be disturbingly prophetic. He woke up before his shift to the feeling of his stomach dropping out, and it took a startled moment to figure out what was going on.

Older starships, with their protective energy fields, were insulated from the physical realities of hyperspace. The freighter was not: its design put it in direct contact with the superdense currents through which it made its unsteady headway.

It was a more efficient way of moving—“slipping through hyperspace," designers liked to say, rather than shoving it out of your way—but now the Luke Lane was shuddering heavily, rocking and twisting like a leaf caught in the wind. Most leaves, however, weren't nine hundred meters long.

His boots had electromagnetic grapples on the soles—high-quality footwear, bought when he'd been flush with the first paycheck of a legitimate career that continued to elude the coyote. He hadn't had to use them since, but he was thankful that they seemed to be holding a charge.

Dev had to catch himself against the corridor wall a dozen times between his quarters and the mess hall two decks up and four frames away. A few of the other crew were there, none of them particularly concerned about the turbulence.

“Hey, rookie," one of them, an otter, called over.

“Hey. How's the coffee?"

“Shit, but here." She grinned, flashing teeth in a way that was equal parts enthusiastic and unsettling. Devin found a self-sealing mug and filled it with black coffee before joining the otter and her tablemate, a raccoon perhaps half the woman's age. “What's your story, 'yote?"

“Yeah," the raccoon added, with a grin of his own. “Who you runnin' from?" Devin didn't think the question was meant aggressively. He was just given to assume things about coyotes, which wasn't entirely a bad idea.

So he smiled back. “Lots of people. Creditors, mostly." He squeezed his thumb on the mug's handle, and the top melted away for him to take a drink. “Jesus. Who made this? Why?"

“The Morris," the raccoon said. “You like it?"

“I like that I'll always know what the worst coffee tasted like. Good thing to learn early in life. What's 'the Morris'?"

The raccoon pointed across the table. The otter winked. “Sylvia S. Morris, really, but I hate the name Sylvia. And I hate the name Susan, so it's just SS Morris. At your service."

“Are you the cook?"

Morris chuckled. “Junior electrician. I help your roommate out. You're in the cargo department, she said? So's Eric."

Eric turned out to be the raccoon, who explained that he hadn't passed his last loadsuit exam and was being kept on to earn a second chance. “It's that or going back to school. Fuck that. This is the life."

The Luke Lane pitched, giving Dev only a fraction of a second to release his thumb and let the mug snapped closed before the coffee splashed his muzzle—Morris, he saw, nodded approvingly. “Is this normal? The chop?"

“Some days better; some days worse," she said. “It's always rough between Kelovar and Neshoba."

“You get used to it," Eric promised. “It looks neat in the cargo bays."

'Neat' was not the word Dev wanted to use when he reported to his station. Standing at the rear of Bay Six, he could see the ship's hull twist and flex with each new bit of turbulence. The coyote relieved a Samoyed named Renn, who looked awfully exhausted for less than a day into the journey.

She told him to check the containers in Bay Four, rather brusquely. IAM won't shut the fuck up. Figure out why or Peek'll bend you over. He had questions—a lot of questions—but Renn obviously wasn't in the mood.

According to the system log, the cargo bay's Inertial Anomaly Monitor had been going off for two hours; the system log also showed that the IAM had been power-cycled twice in that time, probably when Renn assumed the system was simply being temperamental.

Time to make a good impression. Keeping hold of the railing—the freighter's shaking seemed to be worse in the cargo bays—he made his way forward to Bay Four, which was stacked full of containers. If the IAM wasn't broken, an inertial anomaly in the hold implied that the cargo was shifting unexpectedly.

It took him the better part of two hours before he found his answer: one of the six guide pins securing a container had failed. When the ship bucked, the five remaining pins weren't enough to keep it perfectly in place. This, of course, was why containers were supposed to be fixed to the deck plating... but there was no point in saying that.

The guide pin's structural-integrity generator was on the fritz—that was the immediate cause. The root cause, if Devin had to guess, was that the pin was a few years past its service life. Bypassing the safety systems brought it back to life.

But this was a very coyote way of solving the problem; Dev sighed and went through the systems one by one until he'd figured out which of them could be left running. It seemed to do the trick—and the IAM alarm had stopped.

Eric showed up to relieve him on schedule, with Andrews in tow; the bosun stood back to observe. “The previous shift flagged a cargo-monitoring problem," Dev said. “Container A77 in Bay Four has a bad C-pin. I've jerry-rigged it, but it needs to be replaced. Other than that, everything looked fine when I walked the bays."

“How'd you jerry-rig it?"

“The temperature sensor is bad. I just bypassed it. But it should be fixed permanently. Do we have any spare pins?"

Eric looked to Andrews for help. “Probably," the bosun said. “I'll have someone scrounge up one for you, Eric. Good thinking, coyote."

Dev felt it was probably worth double-checking when he got the chance. Even if Eric did his best, there was always the possibility that he'd missed something. And really, the coyote thought it was just as likely that Eric didn't even bother.

That was a problem for later, though. He went back to his quarters, which were once again empty. With the lights off, he stared upwards, into the darkness. Respectability is overrated, he thought. Respectable coyotes would, in the end, be allowed to ship out without having their license questioned.

And then they'd wind up on a piece of junk like the Luke Lane, trying to let the freighter's constant rocking turn into something hypnotic, instead of unsettling. It was hardly worth it. Any random META work on the Confederation's rim would've paid just as much.

He didn't know how much time had past when the door opened briefly and slammed shut again. “Go fuck yourself," he heard Anya snarl, and then quiet muttering. A few seconds later the lights came on—then immediately cut out. “Shit, I'm sorry. I forgot I had a roommate."

“It's fine. I wasn't sleeping." He was pretty sure of that much, despite his discombobulation.

“For real? Can I turn the light back on?"

“Sure. Is it just my imagination, or is the turbulence getting worse?"

“It's not your imagination." Anya hung up her jacket and pulled her t-shirt off, stretching wearily. “And expect another two days before it gets better, that's what Hurrelman told me. Chief engineer, if you haven't met him."

“What's going on?" He sat up, legs dangling over the edge of the cot. “Is this normal?"

“What's 'normal'? Nice pants, mutt."

“We're being decent now? Or am I just not handsome enough for that, either?"

Anya seemed to realize abruptly that she'd taken off her shirt—she eyed the discarded garment, then threw her paw up in resignation. “Fine. At least you've got briefs on. Hyperspace is always baseline shitty on this route. There's gravitational anomalies from a black hole, SR177. Sometimes it punches a hole into hyperspace and everything goes to shit for awhile."

“That's when it gets worse? Like now?"

“Yeah, but this is about as bad as I've seen it. Nothing's gonna change until we're on the other side. We just have to put up with it."

As she predicted, the ride was no smoother when he rose for his shift a few hours later. Two sailors were talking about it in the mess hall; he entered as one of them, a fox, seemed to be saying what Anya had. “—bad before."

“I dunno. It's a pretty standard order. Hey, new guy."

“Hey," Dev nodded his acknowledgment to the shepherd who'd spoken. He had a premade sandwich unwrapped; his conversation partner was rummaging through a container of similar ones. Presently, with a look of disgust, he gave up. “Not worth it, huh?"

“Not worth it. Hey, Kyle—how much do you think they even saved by switching providers? Ten credits?"

Kyle, the shepherd, shrugged and took a bite. “It's food," he said, after swallowing. “Anyway, like I was saying: Hurrelman would tell me if he thought something was wrong."

“I know, I know. Just…"

“And we're rated for worse. I'm not too worried."

The fox wasn't persuaded. “You haven't seen the forecast, Kyle," he insisted—though it didn't look to Devin like he was worried, exactly. Just making conversation, probably, while he poured himself a leisurely mug of coffee.

“What's with the forecast? Worse than the usual wash we pick up from the 177?"

“Yeah, worse. Something with the alignment in that trinary system is amplifying the hell out of everything. The report we got said it's the strongest readings they've seen in seventy years."

“Oof," Kyle said, and took another bite of his sandwich. “Well, the order still won't be a problem. We ain't diverting?"

“You think Yao has ever told DeSilva to divert?" the fox asked; Kyle gave a knowing nod. “My point exactly."

Devin cleared his throat. “I haven't. Is it, like, a secret?"

“You work for Peek Cannon, right? Ask Peek about PTT versus TRM versus fate," Kyle suggested. “Better yet, ask him if his fate is good enough for an Argo. But be in one of those hazard suits when you ask him, just in case."

“I don't get a primer? Sending me in blind?"

The only answer he got—from the fox, not Kyle—was that it was “a lot of Transbarnard bullshit." And then the two of them went back to talking about the conditions in hyperspace, and how much worse it was than in the Star Patrol.

Enlistment had never been in the cards for Devin, whose came by his lawlessness genetically, if not honestly. The coyote's first META set had come from his dad: highly modified, illicit, and more powerful than what the other kids had by a factor of fifty.

Kyle, it seemed, had done a few tours with the Star Patrol before leaving for better pay. It was a decision he seemed to regret, judging by his wistful description of a corvette with a properly maintained hyperdrive and enough good sense to avoid trouble.

Dev poured himself a mug of coffee, decided the sandwiches were better left alone, and checked in with Andrews in the control room for the cargo holds. The bear pointed to one of the computer screens, which had a message waiting.

“Order from the captain. He wants us to double-check the holds and make sure it's all squared away. Record the condition of everything we're carrying and I'll put together a report for him when you're done. Make sure any loose equipment is secured, too, while you're at it."

“Sure, okay. This is about the ride?"

Andrews grinned. “Exciting, isn't it? It's supposed to get a bit worse. Hurrelman is locking down all the nonessential systems so the power grid's stable. At least the cargo monitoring is considered 'essential'…"

“And it's only for another day or so? I heard in the mess we were going to run through it rather than plot a new course."

“Yup. Part of the job, that's all. Wouldn't be a run outta Kelovar if we didn't get rattled a little bit. Happens every time."

Which meant—though Dev wouldn't say as much, not openly—that they'd simply gotten used to it, and if they'd made it through without incident enough times that risk had been forgotten. But he tried, subtly, to raise the issue: “Yeah. I gathered getting knocked around is something your company expects out of you."

“They don't pay us to be comfortable, no. Freight life, 'yote."

“Freight life," Dev echoed.

“How're you liking it so far? Be honest," the bear added, then felt the need to amend his statement again. “Coyote-honest."

“It's a job. It's better than panhandling, right? Kyle said I should ask you about PTT and TRO. And your fate?"

The bear's mood immediately soured. “How the fuck did that come up?"

“Talking about whether we'd change course because of the turbulence. The only thing I got out of anybody was, uh, 'Transbarnard bullshit.' Honestly, probably why I'm not cut out for this in the long run…"

The bosun snorted. “Good intuition, 'yote. TRO is Transportation Resource Optimization. Nobody in this business has any margin, so corporate wants to save every credit they can."

“That's why you guys never fixed your load-locking system, or what?"

“Well, we'd never compromise on anything safety critical." This hadn't really answered Devin's question, but the bear kept going. “They really go after people. They cut every crew by ten percent—and we ain't even as bad as the dock guys. Some of 'em lost a third, some of 'em half. It was a massacre."

“And let me guess: it didn't even save any money?"

“Some, sure. But we all got Port-Time Targets, which is worst for old ships like this that need lots of maintenance. Our PTT's in the shitter. Never stopped being in the shitter; probably never will—doesn't matter how much we try to rush things. We're always fucked."

“And what's an Argo?"

“The new ships Transbarnard is putting out. Man, fuck Kyle. Asshole got ten years credited for his Star Patrol service—like any of us are supposed to care he used to have a blue jacket? Okay. So Transbarnard's big thing since ten years is 'Forecast Arrival Time Excellence.'" He quoted the words with big, derisive sweeps of his paws. “Every time it comes up, every fuckin' time they tell us: 'notice what you don't see?' What the fuck don't you see, coyote?"

“I have literally no idea," Devin said, though from the voice Andrews affected it was apparently quite ridiculous.

“Speed. They don't care if it takes you five days or seven days, they only care that if you say seven days, you don't take six or eight. 'Cause they want to make sure nobody's sittin' with their thumb up their ass waiting for a ship that ain't there, or gettin' hauled out of bed to meet a ship that gets in early."

“But, of course, unofficially they want you to keep your times down, so everyone forecasts aggressively?" Yes, the bear's scowl told Devin he'd hit the nail on the head. “But since you're always behind schedule leaving port, the only way to arrive on time is to make it up when you're traveling. Which is why DeSilva won't change course."

“Pre-fuckin'-cisely. You need to have a minimum FATE score to qualify for one of the newer transports. Or seniority, if you're fuckin' Kyle." Andrews sneered. “So we'll run the crew ragged, and punch through this bullshit, and maybe DeSilva and I can get the fuck off this scow. Hey, or maybe not."

Dev's part of 'run the crew ragged' was the work it took to walk all six cargo bays. In the end he found eight guide pins out of spec. None of them looked like they were in danger of failing, and it was under half a percent of the pins, but coming to that conclusion took him all four hours of his shift.

While he was at it, he turned the remote logging on for all the pins; it took more power, but it would make it easier for them to be monitored from the control room without having to inspect each one individually. Walking with the grapples active on his boots wore the coyote down. His feet ached; he trudged to the mess hall weary enough to put up with one of the disgusting sandwiches. Anya came in a few minutes later. “You look like shit."

“Thanks. Lot of walking today."

“I'm looking forward to the same thing next time I go on," she said, nodding. “Standing order from Hurrelman for us to secure the auxiliary systems. Kyle and Hurrelman got it finished, but somebody's going to have to check 'em manually."

“Otherwise, I'm assuming, they won't get checked."

“Probably not."

“And you've gotta try to keep steady when the ship has other ideas."

“Yep."

“This doesn't feel right. And I've spent my share of time on freighters. Big freighters, even. Most of 'em are smart enough not to try and push through something like this."

Anya nodded. “It's pretty bad. We keep losing alignment on the pentavanes. It's a manual job to recalibrate them… whole lot of fun, believe me."

“Wait, like, penductors? What do you use them for?" The last time Dev had seen a pentavane inductor, it was being used as ballast on a shipment of scrap.

“About half the core systems." The tigress grinned dangerously. “The sublight motivator and the…" The ship rolled, and artificial gravity took a jarring quarter-second to catch up. “And the inertial compensators. Confed bureaucrats grandfathered most of the older ships. Guess we're lucky."

“That's one word for it. You're not worried?"

“Of course I'm worried. Transbarnard won't do anything about it, and this isn't even the worst thing we've done. I filed a complaint two trips ago, and it was ignored. It's why I'm leaving."

Dev put his poker face on. “Complaint?"

She looked around the mess hall—not genuinely checking that they were alone, but to let him know the kind of thing she was about to say. “We lost the main drive and things started to get a little… hairy. Finally DeSilva dropped us back into normalspace so we could make repairs. That was a NEEP. Every one of those is supposed to be reported to the Confed commerce authorities for investigation. But the captain didn't log that part, and we got word passed down that it would be best for us if nobody said anything."

“What happened when you put in? You checked everything?" Ships were able to leave hyperspace even without a clean exit trajectory, but—as 'nonstandard' and 'emergency' suggested in 'Nonstandard Emergency Egress Procedure'—they weren't supposed to.

“Checked it as best as we could. I'm sure it's fine, but I didn't like being on a ship where it happens, and I really don't like working for a company that doesn't care."

“I don't really need convincing," the coyote said. “I already told you I wasn't sticking around."

“True. You don't seem so bad, y'know? What's your story—for real, I mean." The tigress leaned back at the look he gave her, then chuckled. “I can handle it. You're not my first coyote, Dev."

“You sure? Okay. I've spent pretty much my whole life on freighters or in port. My mom has load certs. She's freelanced everywhere from Alpha Centauri to Edra. Respectable, actually. My dad is a… computer specialist."

“A hacker," Anya guessed. “Maybe knows how to make a container disappear for someone who wants it to disappear?"

“That's why we moved around so much. Anyway, I'm my father's kid. And modestly, I'm alright with a loader, but I can run circles around anybody in META. It's just, uh, it doesn't really look good on a résumé. Some folks have… doubts… about hiring a coyote."

Anya narrowed her pale eyes, scrutinizing him. “Now… it could be that DeSilva was just desperate to bring on anybody to help get the ship loaded…" she prompted. Dev said nothing—she'd already figured it out. “But since he didn't leave you in Kelovar, he must've traded something with you. You did something for him, and he gave you a cover story. Right?"

“Right. Can you give me points for honesty? He wanted something cleaned up in his record—a complaint that had been filed anonymously. It might not surprise you to learn that Transbarnard's security isn't all that great. Deleting the report wasn't very hard."

She shut her eyes, shaking her head knowingly. “Of course. Yeah, you get points for honesty, fine. You couldn't have known. You didn't look at the report, though? I figure you wouldn't be here if you had."

“It was classified as an HR problem. I didn't figure it was anything that mattered. My mistake—but generally, I try to avoid learning things that I don't need to."

Anya sighed heavily, opened her eyes again, and shrugged. “It's in the past now. Anyway, it won't matter once we're at Neshoba. What are you thinking about doing there?"

“I can always pick up a job or two. Find somebody who, uh… wants to make a container disappear, as you put it—there's plenty of those at Port Neshoba. Eventually I'll try to get another respectable job. Probably. Eventually."

“Guess it isn't easy for you to go straight, huh?"

“Not so easy, no." And, truthfully, the coyote missed the exhilaration of the work if he stayed out of META for too long. “You? Do you have anything lined up?"

“Well, it's the opposite problem, for me. There aren't so many legit companies out there, I hear—and you're not reassuring me, coyote."

He laughed. “We're not supposed to be reassuring. You haven't been to Neshoba?"

“No."

“You don't have a place to stay?"

“No."

“Money? You've got money?"

She wiggled her paw. “Some. Transbarnard doesn't pay that well."

“Stay out of the Core, for starters. Those guys can sniff out prey like nobody's business—they'll rob you blind, or worse. Don't go to the Port Bypass, either. They say it's safe, and that's true, but it's ten times more expensive than it should be. Your best bet is the Green Zone, between the water plant and Vanadium Road."

“Where do you stay?"

“Around the harbor. I keep a room there. Actually… yeah, that's a good idea. Talk to Parker—guy who runs a dive bar called the Anomaly. He'll be able to set you up—give him my name, and he should treat you okay." Dev took a moment to reassure himself that he was still on good terms with the bartender. “Yeah. Yeah, he'll be good to you."

“Thanks for the steer."

“Sure. If he gives you trouble, you can crash on my couch for a bit. It's better than being lost in Port Neshoba, trust me."

She nodded. “Thanks for the offer, too. Honestly… honestly, my finances aren't that great. So if you mean that, I might take you up on it."

“Sure, I mean it. Us troublemakers, we gotta stick together."

The tigress laughed tiredly. “Yeah, I guess. I guess I'm happy we hired a coyote."

“Let's not get crazy yet."

“Yet?" Another laugh, the resignation obvious. “I'll be happy when this is over. You should get some sleep, Dev. Can't imagine the next few shifts are going to be good for either of us."

He didn't imagine so, either. His sleep was short, and fitful, and had it not been for his boots the coyote wasn't sure he would've made it to the control room without at least a few new bruises. He was relieving Renn again, who said the holds were in good shape, but when he asked about the Samoyed herself, she just shook her head.

Hyperspace had to be worsening. Had to be. The IAM system hadn't recorded anything, but on a whim Devin pulled up the logs for a random guide pin, checking the peak force recorded every hour. It had gone from 300 kilograms to 350, then 400—two hours ago, one jolt saw it hit 616.

The pins were rated to a holding force of a thousand kilograms, and had they been in absolutely peak condition Dev might've trusted them for a little bit more than that. As it was, nothing on the Luke Lane was in peak condition. He returned to the control room, intending to set up an automated download of the pin logs and raise an alert.

He'd just started work when the ship's deck dropped away suddenly, then slammed back up—the jarring impact snapped his jaw shut heavily. Dev didn't have a chance to feel the pain before he heard a quick, urgent alarm from the master systems console.

1311:07.300: IAM-C5/B54 critical alert (-5.16 / 0.2 / 05)
1311.07.306: IAM-C5/B54 critical alert (-7.1 / 0.2 / 05)
1311:07.307: IAM-C5/B54 critical alert (-Inf / 0.2 / 05)
1311:07.308: IAM-C5/B54 critical alert ( 0 / 0 / 0)
1311:12 Diagnostic failure 5/B54 (SIGNAL ERR)

The coyote muted the alarm and called up the remote monitors for Bay Five, which had gone completely dark. The comm panel mounted to the wall chimed. “Hold, bridge." He didn't know who was speaking, but it wasn't DeSilva.

“Hold. Go ahead."

“We just got a cargo alert and a power excursion reported. What's going on down there?"

'Completely dark' extended beyond the visible spectrum—switching to infrared didn't help anything. “We may have a problem in Bay Five, but I can't bring up the remote monitors."

“What kind of problem?"

“I'm not sure." And every second, more errors appeared. The power management system had 'received an abnormal shutdown command' but, apparently, obeyed it anyway, and his quick efforts to switch to backup power were being frustrated. “I'll go check it out in person. Can you stop the engines?"

“Uh… well. Is that necessary?"

“I'd like to keep the shaking to a minimum, you know? Just in case."

“Okay, well, uh… tell you what. Give us a quick assessment and we'll figure out what to do from there. Does that work?"

For real? Give me a few more bruises, and then you'll figure out what to do? Devin shook his head. “Sure." And he went to grab a repair kit.

The freighter's safety systems had activated to seal Bay Five off; the coyote needed to open the airtight hatch manually. Fortunately nothing seemed to be wrong on the other side—they weren't losing pressure; the atmosphere wasn't toxic.

But the bay was pitch black, lit only by the control panels on the shipping containers that glittered like a perfect grid of dim stars. Except… fuck. It wasn't perfect. Apprehensively, Devin took the lamp from his repair kit, clipped it to his wrist, and turned it up to full power.

One of the containers had broken free, and was now secured by a single guide pin that had allowed it to rotate until it met the inner hull of the ship. It seemed to be wedged there, at first, but when the freighter twisted he could see the container move slightly.

He tapped his wrist to switch the radio on. “Mr. Andrews, we've got a problem."

“I figured. I'm already on my way." The bear sounded out of breath—he closed the channel abruptly, but in any case it was only another minute before Dev heard the bosun's footfalls behind him. “Shit. Shit."

“The manifest says it's heavy—it's not going to want to move easily."

“No, it sure ain't."

He'd called up the rest of the crew: Eric and Mattie Renn, the Samoyed, were waiting in the control room when Dev and Peek returned. Andrews took the responsibility of reporting what had happened.

“Bridge, hold. We had a container break free. It's jammed into the inner hull on the port side, forward of frame 82. Must've knocked the main power conduit out on that side."

“Can we bypass that?" It was the captain's voice; DeSilva must've been summoned to the bridge when the alarms went off.

“Yes. But we need to get that container re-secured immediately."

“Yeah. Yeah, agreed," DeSilva said. “That's your priority. Keep me updated."

Andrews closed the channel and switched the console to show a schematic of the cargo bay. “If we use a loader, we can work it back into position and replace the guide pins. I think there's room to work there…"

“No." Renn shook her head. “We'd need to get behind it and push it forward. There's not room to move the loader aft of the cargo stacks."

“It'd be tight, but…"

“I've tried before, Peek. It can't be done. What if we got a cable around the box and winched it? Use the loader to guide it once it's free enough to move?"

“Maybe, yeah. Jenkins—go find enough line to try." Eric nodded and took off. Peek licked his muzzle nervously. “Who wants to suit up?"

Renn volunteered, and while she went for the loader Andrews radioed the bridge and explained his plan. Captain DeSilva sounded grateful to hear that a plan existed at all; the Luke Lane had altered course, trying for calmer conditions, but it would take a few hours to see results.

Half an hour later Dev was balancing atop the container, guiding the line through its anchoring holes and hoping he was doing it all correctly. The cable needed to pull on more than one anchor—otherwise it was liable to tear free, whipping the released cable like a knife through the cargo bay.

At least there's some excitement, Eric had said; at that point Dev glared until the raccoon retreated to observe from out of punching range. The coyote was not excited: he was trying not to become truly panicked, and the difficulty of securing the cable took all his concentration.

Of course, Renn had it no easier. She was trying to keep the loader balanced as the ship pitched and swayed, and she'd have to anticipate the moment the container came unstuck lest it bowl her over and flatten the suit with the Samoyed still inside.

“Ready?" Peek called up, for the fifth time in ten minutes.

"Maybe. Sure." Dev waited for the next roll, then jumped back down to the deck. “Try taking up the slack?" The cable went taut. Running his scanner over it, Dev was grateful to see that all of the anchors looked to be under equal tension.

Andrews nodded when he showed the bear the results. “On my mark, we're gonna give this a tug. It should come out and towards you, Renn. Be prepared."

“Trying my best, Peek."

“Ain't we all? Okay. Mark! Keep an eye on the tension, coyote."

Dev stepped back to what he hoped was a safe distance. The cable went taut again; the container began to pull free with the unpleasant squeal of metal against metal. “You're still alright… still alright…"

“Almost got it," Andrews said. “It's almost free. Renn?"

“Ready," she answered, though she didn't sound sure of herself. “After the next swell."

“Sure. Here we—" There was a loud bang, and a bright flash visible through the hatchway looking forward to Bay Four before the hatchway automatically secured itself. The echoes died away to eerie silence. “I think we just lost—well. I'll find out," Andrews stopped himself before saying anything dramatic. “Renn, are you comfortable hanging out here?"

The Samoyed blinked from behind the protective glass of the loading suit. “No? But I guess it's safer, for the moment…"

“Eric, keep her company. Shout if the box tries to get loose. Devin, you're with me."

Dev followed the bosun back to the cargo hold control center. The lights were still on, but a message on the display confirmed that the ship's main reactor had gone offline. Andrews dialed the bridge for an update.

“Ah, yeah, we have no propulsion. They're trying to get it back online, but… looks like it might take a bit. How are you down there?"

“We're trying to get that lost container back in place. But I think something might've happened in Bay Four, too?" Andrews swiped his paw over the console, checking one diagnostic after another. “Maybe some chemicals vented, looking at the atmospheric data. Most of the reports are nominal, though; I can't be sure. Unless something changes, I'm keeping my people on the damage in Bay Five."

“Okay, uh… uh, well, yeah. Do what you can, Peek. I'll let you know what engineering says. Bridge out."

Without the sound of the engines, Dev could hear the freighter's hull groan under the stress of being becalmed in hyperspace—worse, he could tell when a louder groan announced that he'd nearly be thrown off his feet a second later. Being able to anticipate didn't help his nerves.

“I want to wait until Hurrelman gets the reactor back before we check Four," Andrews mused. “We have enough to deal with right now, y'know? Can we lock the box down without main power? Should be able to, right, as long as it has enough power for its own guide pins…"

“I think so," Dev said, nodding; whether or not that was a good plan was liable to be immaterial. “Check the atmospheric sensors, though. I think those 'chemicals venting' was the fire suppression system."

The bear joined him, looking at the data with a deepening frown. “I think you're right. If there was a fire, it's out now—oxygen levels are stable. Alright. Let's get the winch working again. Auxiliary power will be able to drive that."

Most of the auxiliary power was taken up in keeping the ship intact, though, and in running the life support systems. It took the two of them fifteen minutes to scrounge enough that the winch could be operated without trouble.

Before they could rejoin Renn and Eric to start work, Anya arrived. She was out of uniform, wearing a jacket instead of a Transbarnard jumpsuit, and Dev realized the tigress had been called up without time to change. Even worse than I thought…

She got straight to business: “You're the ones who put a container through the hull?"

“Into the hull," Andrews corrected. “But yeah. I haven't been able to do a damage assessment yet."

“Hurrelman can't, either—we'll have to take a look in person. Where did it hit, exactly?" Dev showed her on a map of the cargo bay; Anya scrutinized it with her head tilted and her tail beginning to lash. “We might be okay, then…"

“Might?"

“It shouldn't have damaged the conduit itself, just the monitoring circuitry. If the conduit is up, then I can use that to restore the grid. The starboard side is wrecked."

“How 'wrecked'?" Andrews asked.

“The inverter blew up. That's why the fire alarms went off in Four. I'm sure it's safe now, but we can't fix it out here. So what we'll need to do is—"

“Brace," Dev shouted, but even with the warning she nearly lost her balance, and Andrews was thrown against the console.

More alarms. The bear pushed himself back upright. “Shit. We've got radiation and we're losing atmosphere in Bay Three. I think we gotta be looking at a hull breach."

Devin pointed to the IAM panel, even though it was all but a formality. “There's probably loose cargo in that bay, too. Do you want me to get a hazard suit on and have a look?"

“I don't… I don't know." Andrews gritted his teeth and went for the communicator. “Bridge, hold. Bridge, come in." When that didn't work, he tried the badge on his wrist. Nothing. “How are the comms down, Anya? They're supposed to be on an independent circuit."

“Fuck—beats me. I need to get back to main engineering, then."

Andrews nodded. “Do it. 'Yote, head to the bridge. Tell 'em we have a probable hull breach and we're losing atmosphere. I've sealed the ship off forward of Bay Four just in case."

The ship's corridors were dim, running off sparse and flickering lamps fed by the freighter's overtaxed power reserves. Dev timed his scramble up the ladders between decks to the sounds that presaged another ominous lurch of the deck beneath him.

Captain DeSilva was on the radio, apparently, for he heard the lion growl: “Yes, I'll hold." He beckoned the coyote over. “What's going on? Why are we out of contact with the lower decks?"

“I don't know. Hull stress, maybe. We're losing life support and radiation levels are rising in Bay Three."

“Breach?"

“Probably, yes. The hull is sealed forward of Bay Four."

“Internal comms are back," someone called out.

DeSilva gave them a thumbs-up and tapped his communicator. “Hold, bridge. What's your situation, Peek? I'm asking Transbarnard to send a repair boat out while we still have long-range comms. You agree that's a good idea?"

“Yeah, still a good idea, sir. Probably we've got a, uh… atmosphere's dropping in Bay Three and, ah… probably a hull breach. Minor, I think. We might need to get that rogue secured in Five for engineering to restart the reactor."

“How's the cargo?"

“I can't… I can't say for sure, sir. Bay Six, that looks okay, we've got at least one box loose in Five, maybe something in Three. Fire suppression went off in Four, we can't get forward without venting that space or putting on hazard suits. Focusing on fixing Five, sir."

“Got it. Bridge out." DeSilva raked his fingers through his mane. “Hope it doesn't take too long…"

The long-range radio pinged back to life. “Thank you for holding, sir. Are you still there?"

“Still here."

“And can you confirm: you're requesting repairs?"

“Yes, that's right. We're trying to get the main reactor started, but we have hull damage and the hyperdrive stabilizers are down. Structural integrity is good. My priority is a safe egress from hyperspace. But, ah, probably looking at some cargo damage. I can't do a full assessment yet."

“Understood," the voice on the other side of the radio said. “That's fine. Do what you have to. We'll get a ship out there. ETA is six to eight hours, probably. Are you declaring an emergency?" The lion paused. Another twisting, pitching convulsion ran through the freighter. “ Luke Lane, what's your status? Are you declaring an emergency?"

“Yeah. Yes, we are. I'll hold tight until we hear from your ship." Of course he couldn't do anything but hold tight, since the ship was nonfunctional.

“Are you planning a NE?"

“No, ma'am. If you're sending help, we'll stay in hyperspace for now unless we can get the stabilizers back online and working properly. I think it's safer that way."

“Understood. We'll expect hourly reports until the repair crews arrive."

“Sure. Luke Lane out." DeSilva signed off; took a deep breath. “Yao, how long until we can get an exit trajectory mapped?"

“I won't know until we have the main reactor back. Depending on the damage to the vanes, somewhere between immediately and half an hour."

“ Do we need to consider contingencies?"

Yao Sun, the chief mate, shrugged. “What does main engineering say?"

When Captain DeSilva tried to hail them, he got no answer. “Comms must be down again. Devin, head below. Tell Andrews I want him to focus on getting the main reactor back online. Then get a report from Hurrelman and come back here. Move fast, 'yote."

He moved fast, but the cargo control room was empty when he arrived. His communicator seemed to be working, but Andrews didn't answer; neither did Renn or Eric. He tried Anya, next; thirty seconds later, the tigress was through the hatch and next to him.

“That was fast."

“What? No—never mind, there's no time. What's going on?"

“Transbarnard is sending a repair ship."

The lights went out, and hesitated before coming back online. “Are we gonna NEEP?"

“No. I don't think so. We're holding position. DeSilva wants me to tell Peek to help get the reactor back up, and fuck the cargo. He told Transbarnard we'll probably lose some of it, anyway."

Anya froze. “What? What did he say?"

“To expect cargo damage. They said they understood."

The tigress's jaw worked mutely for a stuttering second or two. “The ship is breaking up, 'yote. The cargo doesn't matter anyway."

“You're sure?"

“We can't get the main reactor started. So, yeah: I'm sure."

“Peek is supposed to help…" But he didn't know where Andrews was, and then they were plunged into darkness again. This time it stayed that way until Dev switched on his wristband light. His stomach twisted jarringly. “Is the AG bent?"

“Probably. Most of the auxiliary systems are going offline."

“Then we need to get to a lifeboat."

“We don't have any that are rated for hyperspace. That's why we're supposed to NEEP. But if the artificial gravity's beginning to go out…" Anya's eyes were wide, glittering in the flashlight beam. “Well. Alright…"

“Can we compensate for the structural fields failing? I'm not a navigator."

“I'm not either. But I don't think so." Half of the lights turned back on. “The ship's really not supposed to reenter normal space in pieces. I don't know what we're going to do. Try a lifeboat anyway? Do we have another choice?"

“What about a mining tug?"

“Maybe?"

“The ones in this bay, for example. Those are pretty sturdy…"

“Maybe," the tigress repeated—but she was already running, and Devin scrambled to keep up. “They have hyperdrives?"

“Yeah! I think! I didn't look too close." He shouted his answers between pants for breath. 

Anya skipped most of the final ladder to the cargo deck. The Luke Lane rocked; Dev saw the shadows playing on the wall warp and flex dangerously. The tigress had picked the closest ship, and was already working at the engineering console to bring it online.

“The hull's beginning to buckle," he warned her. “The way it's twisting, I'm not sure the structural integrity fields are even online anymore."

“I'm not, either. We need—"

A loud, high bell rang out through the cargo bay—then faltered and crackled—then started again. “—boats and prepare to abandon ship. This is an emergency. Report to—" DeSilva's voice cut out; the bell was the only thing left.

“We need to get the shuttle unlinked from the ship's gravity. What's holding it to the deck?"

“Guide pins. I'll take care of it." Eight of them, if he remembered correctly. The coyote gritted his teeth and jumped back to the cargo deck. Two pins aft, four amidships, and two at the shuttle's nose. He switched off the aft ones; stumbled forward to disable the next set.

With half the pins gone the shuttle swayed out of time to the freighter's own movements, clanging hard against the deck. Dev ignored it, like he ignored the shrieking protest of sundering metal from the inner hull. Two left.

Should've started at the nose, he realized, too late. The last pin wrenched free and the shuttle started to slide away from him as he raced for the hatch at its rear. He found it, almost slipped; scrambled up the rest of the way—one final lurch tossed him into the tigress, whose paw slammed down on the hatch controls to seal the shuttle again.

“Need to—harness—get—" Anya shouted.

It was too late. Through the forward windows Dev saw glaring light, and the silhouettes of debris being tossed through his field of vision—and then the movement stopped. The sound stopped. The light stopped.

Everything had become dark, and still, and silent. He thought, briefly, that he might have died. But then: “those are stars. We made it." Anya sat up, took a deep breath, and let it out in a rush. “We're alive. Somehow."

“What about the ship?"

Without answering, she pulled herself to her feet and went to the cockpit. “You know how to fly one of these? I don't, either. If I understand the sensors, though, there's nothing around us. And I don't know where we are."

Devin took the seat next to her. “No nav buoys?" Most of the shuttle's systems appeared to be offline, though, including the long-range transmitters. “Well, they'll come for us eventually."

“Eventually," she agreed. “At least we've got life support."

“So we just need to pass the time?"

“I guess."

“I left my playing cards in my cabin."

“That wasn't what I thought you were going to suggest."

“Very funny." The adrenaline was starting to ease, replaced by the realization that—against the odds—they'd survived. “Anyway. Let's get the reactor up. We should be able to reach a beacon that way. It'll be faster."

“I tried." The tigress drew his attention to the control panel. “The APU was defuelled before we left, for safety reasons. I'm guessing that came from the tug's operators, not from us."

“Yeah, probably. But we were running on hold power that whole time. There should be enough in the batteries to kickstart the reactor." Anya gave him a skeptical look, so he called up the power management system on the panel. “Yeah, see? Both backups are completely charged, they're just not rated to deliver enough juice. But it should be fine if you bypass the current limiter—feed them into the reactor's safeties and discharge that into the starter unit."

Anya's claws slid free, and she tapped the control panel thoughtfully. “Okay. Two things. First, that's pretty clever. Second, don't be such a coyote about it. The safeties won't hold fifty megawatts."

“Not officially, but I'm sure—"

“What did I just say?" she cut him off—but then she flashed a brief grin. “On the other hand, on a mining tug like this, how much do you want to bet the structural integrity field has plenty of spare capacity? Can you handle a recoupler?"

“I've played around with one. But considering the power levels, this is back in 'don't be a coyote' territory."

Anya laughed wearily. “Fine. What about rerouting power? What's your idea?"

“Switch everything but the structural integrity generator to battery one, isolate battery two and the SI generator from the reactor, build up energy, and then reconnect everything."

“Not bad, except I'd rather use battery one for the jumpstart. Slightly better response times."

“Exactly. It's better to have the computer connected to that one. For example, if you have the computer running off the secondary battery and you trigger a main power disconnect, you have enough time to slip a virus into the network. I've heard." He gave the tigress, and her expression, an uncharacteristically sheepish grin. “So for the sake of the automated safeties…"

“Alright, coyote. Can you set that up, and I'll bridge the power conduits?"

“On it." The tug's operating system was nothing too difficult to figure out; it only took a few minutes to program the sequence with which everything would need to be switched. He double-checked his work; checked it again to be sure. Sometimes it was better not to leave things up to coyote chance.

“Ready?" Anya called from the tug's stern.

“Any time." 

“I'm good back here. Start it."

“Done. Power levels are increasing. Ten megajoules. Twenty… forty…" As the structural integrity field saturated, alarms began to go off. The tug's computers were under the assumption that something very bad had happened—a black hole, perhaps—and wanted the crew to know. Dev silenced them; he'd had enough of alarms for one day. “Sixty. Sixty-four. Sixty-eight… seventy…"

“Cross your fingers." A moment later the lights brightened, and the tug kicked as the structural integrity generators fed their energy back into the power grid. And a gentle humming built in the deck plating. “The reactor is coming up. You seeing this?"

“Yep. Four megawatts, and… that should be self-sustaining, right? Take to twenty?"

“Twenty. Fifty. Main propulsion is now online. We've got ourselves a ship. Fuck, coyote, that actually worked!"

“Told you." When she returned to the cockpit he held up his paw for a high-five and she gave it willingly. “I've restored the systems back to the main grid, including long-range comms. Not seeing any errors in the transmitter. Give it a try."

“Thanks." She took the seat he vacated, working at the console for a minute, looking for the nearest navigational buoys. “Well, it's done. Sending out an automated distress call."

“Back to waiting, then?"

“Yeah."

“I'm gonna go check the reactor, if you want to take the recoupler and get the conduits back in order?"

“Wait up," Anya said. She secured the control panel and got up, padding back to join the coyote halfway between the cockpit and the hatch to the engine room. “Good work, coyote. Not just with this, I mean… getting us off the ship, too. And… for what it's worth? I am glad we brought you onboard. Selfishly, at least."

“I'm just glad we made it out safely. Still can't wait until my feet are planted on Neshoba, though, I'll tell you that much—never thought I'd say that."

“Is it really as bad as you made it sound?"

“God, no. It's worse. But after this?"

Anya nodded. “Worth finding out."