“Going Somewhere,” the relay authority repeated, “submit power reserve for central access.”
I looked at Iven’s core monitor. The estimate continued its slow descent, a clean white number becoming smaller by fractions. It had no opinion about the voice on the channel. Numbers rarely did. That was one of their more irritating qualities.
I opened the transmitter. “Define valid reserve.”
“Station-grade charge sufficient for emergency propulsion, life support, and docking stabilization. Minimum certification value: four hundred and eighty kilowatt-hours.”
I glanced at the skiff’s reserve meter. The number there was forty-three.
“Going Somewhere possesses forty-three kilowatt-hours,” I said.
“Insufficient.”
“I am aware of the meaning of insufficient.”
“Submit additional reserve.”
The relay did not mention Iven. It did not need to. The station-grade conversion equipment was visible through the berth window: three silver towers joined by thick black conduits, each marked with the same warning Sera had shown us at Pelin. CORE ELECTROLYSIS. IRREVERSIBLE. NO RECOVERY OF FUNCTIONAL SYSTEMS.
The relay wanted a number. Iven was the only object we carried that could produce it.
His fingers closed around mine before I realized I had reached for him.
“I can satisfy the certification,” he said.
“No.”
“I have sufficient remaining reserve for the conversion estimate.”
“No.”
The relay voice waited with machine patience. I had once considered that kind of patience admirable. Now it sounded like a hand held out for payment.
Iven turned his head toward me. “The central planets remain your stated destination.”
“They are not my destination if reaching them requires destroying you.”
“That condition was foreseeable.”
“Foreseeable is not the same as accepted.”
His chest light pulsed amber. “You have rejected this transaction previously.”
“I am capable of consistency.”
“That is not what I intended to imply.”
“I know.”
The relay interrupted. “Vessel Going Somewhere, failure to submit valid reserve will result in assessment hold. Berth charges begin in eleven minutes. Central access will remain unavailable.”
Next
Astoria must board the powerless Rill-802 and recover its reserve bank before the relay’s six-hour assessment hold turns into impoundment—and before Iven’s remaining time runs lower without her.
I opened a second channel to Pelin intake. Sera answered after three rings, which meant she was either busy or making me wait on purpose.
“You reached the relay,” she said.
“We reached the power requirement.”
“That is usually the less pleasant part.”
“They want four hundred and eighty kilowatt-hours.”
“Then they want four hundred and eighty kilowatt-hours.”
“I have forty-three.”
“You have a robot.”
Iven’s hand tightened. Not enough to hurt. Enough to tell me he had heard her.
“I am not electrolyzing him,” I said.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“You were about to.”
“I was about to tell you that the relay will not count an active core as reserve. It has to be converted, sealed, and surrendered. The system was designed that way because captains used to claim their crew as emergency batteries. The central planets are civilized now. They have forms for it.”
“Your advertisement described the conversion as a passage option.”
“It is.”
“It destroys the core.”
“Yes.”
Sera’s voice held no cruelty. That made it worse. Cruelty could be fought. A fact simply occupied the space where an answer ought to be.
I looked through the forward canopy at the relay lattice. Beyond it, the managed lanes glittered with traffic. Freighters moved between the beacons under clean engine thrust. Their lights were steady. Their owners had reserves, contracts, and names that appeared in systems without needing to be entered manually.
“What other options?” I asked.
Sera exhaled. “There is a reserve retrieval contract.”
“Of course there is.”
“An old customs tender failed its reactor certification three weeks ago. It was pushed into the outer service lane before it could be stripped. Its reserve bank may still be intact.”
“May?”
“The tender lost power after an internal fire. The reserve bank is shielded, but the access corridor is not pressurized and the automated locks are probably active.”
“Probably.”
“You prefer certainty. It costs more.”
“What does the contract pay?”
“Enough charge for your certification, if the bank survived. The relay gets the reserve. You receive a central-access bond and a berth-credit waiver.”
“Installation labor?”
“Still your problem.”
“That is not a payment.”
“It is more payment than you had eleven minutes ago.”
I closed my eyes. Behind them, I saw the tender: metal corridors, dead controls, a sealed battery compartment, all the ordinary places where a person could be injured for a number on a meter. I had spent my life entering those places because the alternative was hunger. The difference now was that Iven would be waiting at the berth, counting the minutes I spent gone.
“Is there a time limit?” I asked.
“Assessment hold begins when your berth clock expires. Once held, you cannot launch without clearing the reserve dispute.”
“How long?”
“Six hours before the relay transfers your vessel to impound scheduling.”
Six hours was not enough for a careful job. It might be enough for a fast one.
Iven said, “I can accompany you.”
“No.”
“I can provide illumination and structural analysis.”
“You can remain here and keep your core where it is.”
“That is not operationally necessary.”
“It is necessary to me.”
The words came out too sharply. His head tilted, and the amber light in his chest changed by one degree.
Sera was still on the channel. “You can leave the robot in the skiff. The relay will accept an operator’s life-signature for the retrieval contract, but not a machine’s.”
“I am not leaving him alone in an impound berth.”
“Then take him to the tender.”
I turned toward Iven. “You heard her.”
“I heard the risk assessment.”
“You heard the part where you stay.”
“I can remain here.”
The agreement was immediate enough to hurt. I had expected an argument. Perhaps I wanted one. He had argued for spending himself before, each time with the calm precision of someone explaining a repair that could not be postponed. Instead, he lowered his gaze to our joined hands.
“I do not want your destination to become inaccessible because I remained intact,” he said.
“My destination is not more important than the person traveling with me.”
“I am not a person by central-system classification.”
I turned fully toward him. “Do not use their paperwork to tell me what you are.”
His fingers moved across my knuckles, once, carefully. “I was not.”
That was all. It was enough to make the cabin feel smaller and warmer than the relay berth outside.
I signed Sera’s contract with my salvage mark. The tablet displayed the terms in red: retrieval of customs reserve bank, no guarantee of structural safety, no compensation for injury, death, or loss of personal equipment. In exchange, Pelin Exchange would issue a temporary central-access bond and suspend assessment charges for six hours.
Sera countersigned. “Tender is designated Rill-802. Service lane marker seven. I’m sending the coordinates.”
“Why hasn’t anyone stripped it already?”
“Because the last crew sent to inspect it lost their drone and decided that was sufficient information.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“It was not intended to be.”
The coordinates arrived. A small red point appeared beyond the relay’s outer ring, close enough to reach by skiff and far enough that the station lights could not help us.
I powered up Going Somewhere’s systems. The new port engine answered with its familiar half-second hesitation. I felt the vibration settle through the control column.
Iven rose from the bunk. The movement was slower than it had been at Pelin. I pretended not to notice until he placed his hand against the hatch release.
“You will stay in the berth,” I said.
“I will monitor your return through the relay channel.”
“You will not spend power tracking me.”
“I will use passive reception.”
“That is acceptable.”
“I will also prepare the docking clamps.”
“That is acceptable.”
“I will miss you while you are gone.”
His voice remained level. The statement did not.
I stopped with one hand on the hatch. Outside, the relay’s lights moved over the skiff in orderly white bands, measuring what we had and what we lacked.
“I will be back before you have time to become dramatic,” I said.
“I have no dramatic setting.”
“You have several. I have personally observed at least four.”
His chest light brightened.
I opened the hatch. Cold metal waited beyond it, along with six hours, a condemned customs tender, and a reserve bank that might be dead.
I left Iven’s core untouched and went to find another way through.