When he planted his feet against the hull of the ship, he flipped a switch on his right hip, which activated the magnetic plates in his suit's boots, securing him beside the outer port hatch. He shivered hard, his teeth rattling in his mouth, the sound echoing inside his skull. The suit was an old-fashioned Parker Mark II, a beast of a thing that most people in his line of work would sneer at before putting on. However, what none of them could argue against was the degree of protection the PM2 offered. His armor could easily take twenty direct blasts from pulse rifles at short to mid range, and still have the structural integrity to hold together and be repaired. It put out a kinetic shield when activated of about four inches, which could itself take six or seven shots before dissipating, and it could recharge itself fully with about five minutes of uninterrupted use.

But the PM2 was an ungainly thing, as he was currently being reminded of as he tried to crouch down to apply polymer plastique around the door frame so he could blow a hole and make his way inside. He could barely get himself bent forward enough to reach his shins, but he didn't trust the derelict's drift spin enough to go to one foot without boosters activated. He didn't want to waste anymore juice from the suit's systems that way, so he slowly slid himself down on the hull, in order to better angle himself to the door for his work.

He looked more like a medieval knight of Earth than an space traveler in the PM2, but he wouldn't upgrade. He'd been working in that suit for fifteen years; the way he figured it, he'd likely die in it some day. He worked the polymer around, and when it was primed, he walked around to the side of the small shuttle and withdrew a trigger from one of his left leg ports. Once he had it in hand, he looked up, eyeballing the cruiser that was his own ship, a bulbous, bullfrog-looking thing of lime green metal. He tapped the side of his bubble helmet to click on his communications.

"Blasting here in a minute, Hoffer," he said to his partner on this job, a fellow wanderer who'd signed on for this trip. The radio clicked in his ear.

"10-4, Billy," said Hoffer in return. "Can you still feel your fingers, though? You gonna be able to hit that trigger?" Hoffer snickered plainly.

"This suit may not have a heating system in it, but it's the reason I'm here using the blasting gel, and you're in the ship," Billy retorted. "Triggering." He thumbed the trigger, and there was a deep vibration under his feet and the dull thud of the small explosion. Billy walked back around to the blown-off door, pushing what remained of it inward, watching as it floated in zero-G into the shuttle. The interior of the entry room was cluttered with what looked like the scrim of someone packing up in a hurry. Whoever had been on the shuttle, they'd been close enough to civilization to send out a distress signal and get picked up. The real question for this salvage operation was, how much did they manage to get off the vessel before leaving?

"Energy cells were supposed to be stored in the cargo hold at the rear," Hoffer chimed in over his comms. Billy planted his boots on the floor and tromped forward, looking left and right, seeking signs of the sort of chaos that comes when someone in a small transport vessel realizes there's problems with the ship. He saw all the tell-tale signs; small items left drifting in zero-G, scrape marks from mag boots rebounding off of various surfaces before the user realized they hadn't activated them yet to move around.

When he got into the shuttle's narrow aisle, he turned left, heading back for the cargo hold. Before he'd gone even four feet, he could see that the shutter door was still clamped shut; the previous owner hadn't bothered grabbing his cargo before jumping ship. A smile spread over his face, fingers twitching like they always did when the close of a job was coming. True, this wasn't his usual kind of work, but at least this time he wasn't worried about some two-bit criminal or freakish alien trying to kill him.

He clicked on his end of the commlink. "Cargo hold's still latched," he said, tromping toward the shutter door. He got two more steps toward the hold before he stopped cold, his eyes happening on something entirely out of place- a single blast scorch on the floor near the cargo door, surrounded by a thin layer of laser-burned blood. "Hoffer, hold up. We got a problem."

"What is it," his partner asked.

"I just realized how many crates are gonna be in there. I'm coming back for the hook line," Billy said, turning around slowly and making his way back to the doorway he'd blasted. His vessel came swooping around slowly, angling so that its entry hatch could open and clamp onto the side of the derelict vessel, allowing Billy to walk right over into his ship. When he was onboard, he walked the five steps to the pod chute, which he activated to rotate the protective armor door, allowing him to access the central aisle of his small ship. Once again in full gravity, he deactivated his mag boots and hustled up to the cockpit, taking off his helmet as he ascended a set of shallow metal steps to the pilot and co-pilot seats.

"What's up," asked Hoffer, sitting in the pilot's seat. Jed Hoffer had never been accused of being a handsome man, and the latticework of scars that composed his face kept such accusations at bay since his young adulthood. His wiry red beard and flaming mop of curly hair, the same hue, bounced about his head as he looked up at Billy. Normally Hoffer was an unbearably cheerful man, always smiling. But what he saw on Billy's face turned his automatic smile into a sheet of worry. "Billy?"

"It's a honey pot," Billy said, dropping down into the copilot seat and sweeping his fingers over the command console. On the view screen ahead of them, hovering off to one side of the visor port, a translucent set of neon green alphanumeric lines of data sprang to life. Billy snapped his fingers and pointed, jabbing his finger repeatedly. "There, right fucking there, they've been here all along."

"What're you talking about, Billy," Hoffer asked, his voice kicking up an octave.

"Stinger Class ship, vector three, drop fifty, off three-hundred," Billy said. Hoffer clicked a few buttons on his own console and gasped.

"Shit," Hoffer rasped. "What tipped you off?"

"Scorch marking, heat-scrubbed blood near the shutter. This was a setup." He pulled up several control system holos from the copilot command console, bringing up shields and powering up the weapons systems on his small ship. "My Hoppy is ready to go. As soon as we're close enough to get an ident tag, run it for open bounties and warrants." Hoffer nodded, flicking his fingers on his own control console, navigating the Hoppy towards the unknown Stinger vessel. When they were about a minute out, he chuckled softly.

"They're powering up primary drives," Hoffer said. "Ident tag incoming." He pulled the yellowish holo display down into his lap and let it run, maneuvering closer to the third ship, pulling away carefully from the derelict trap. As Billy readied his targeting system, Hoffer said, "We've got a hit. Trey and Bon Fossin, got themselves a healthy little bounty on their heads."

"How much," Billy asked, routing his ship's blasters for a shot on the navigations system of the Stinger.

"100,000 credits for one or the other, 250,000 for both at once, and an extra 75,000 if whoever takes them can bring in their ship, too." Billy already knew there'd be extra for the ship- the Fossin twins' ship itself had a reputation in the criminal network, having belonged to their father, who was himself a terror across several systems in his day. Dubbed 'Black Hornet', the ship itself was said to be worth more than four times what law enforcement bodies were willing to pay for it. Its value had nothing to do with its attack power or prowess, but was derived from the fact that it was the only remaining Stinger from the original fleet produced by Q Mark Industries. Essentially, it was an artifact.

Nothing could be done for it now, though. Billy's Hoppy wasn't designed for a sustained dog fight, optimized for hit-and-run tactics at its core. If he didn't cripple the Black Hornet quickly, he and Hoffer would be lucky to limp back to the station they'd set out from. "Firing blasters," he said. Through the viewer, they watched as two eight-foot green energy bolts flew from the Hopper's cannons, blowing huge chunks of metal and other material from the starboard side of the enemy vessel, sending it in a slow spin. "Readying ion pulse pod," Billy said.

Half a minute later, a small silvery ball launched from the Hopper, striking the Hornet and unleashing a lightning storm of faint blue energy crackling around the target. Hoffer snickered again. "They've lost propulsion, weapons, and shields. Good timing. Another few seconds, their shields would've been up."

"Stingers were designed to draw energy to navigation systems in an emergency," Billy said, his tone cold iron. He was in the grip of what combat veterans sometimes called 'The Lockdown', his emotions utterly shut off, his mind racing through facts, figures, and tactical options. "I shot out the nav core, so of course they couldn't get them up in time. Still, too close for my liking." He sighed, looking over at Hoffer's holo displays. "I can't read that board. What've they got left?"

"Gravity, life support, and comms."

"Open a channel," Billy said. "Audio only." Hoffer hit a few buttons and snapped his fingers, making a shooting gesture at Billy. Billy cleared his throat and said, "This is William Aran, registered bounty hunter with the Tashar Alliance, the Freshon Empire, the Kelpoor Federation, and the First Earth Alliance. Identify yourselves." There was silence from the other vessel for a minute, then some whispers back and forth before one of the other travelers spoke.

"We are Trey and Bon Fossin," said a raspy, frightened voice. "And you've disabled our Black Hornet. We are prepared to surrender to arrest upon condition." Billy raised an eyebrow at Hoffer, who just shrugged.

"What's your condition," Billy asked.

"Take us on board your ship, and once we're aboard, destroy the Hornet," said the speaker, likely Trey. According to the file display Hoffer was showing Billy, Trey did most of the talking and dealing for the outlaws. He was the alpha, while Bon, a behemoth of a man, served mostly as muscle and weapons expertise.

"Why would you want us to do that," Billy asked. "Ship's worth 75k by its own."

"Well, it's either that, or we activate the self-destruct, ride the handsome, and you piece of shit bounty hunters get squat." Billy reached over into Hoffer's lap, pulled up the bounty details, and grunted. There was no reward on the Fossins for proof of death; they were wanted alive by not only the government bodies Billy had mentioned, but also by several others with which he was not registered. However, there was one listing for a reward of proof of death, and it was a private contract for one Baltho Karzun.

"Says here Baltho Karzun is willing to pony up thirty thousand credits for video evidence of you kids biting the dust," Billy said, his tone still devoid of inflection. "I've got viewers recording everything on screen, so, you do the math." He was met with laughter in response.

"Check your records, bondsman," said Trey with undisguised humor. "Karzun's been dead for about five months now. We saw to that." Hoffer quickly cycled through public info-casts, and about twenty seconds later, pulled up a holo image showing a story about Baltho Karzun, a weapons smuggler in Magwell galaxy, having been found dead in his home on Ixon IV months earlier. Billy shook his head, growling.

"Well, we could've used the bonus, but what the hell," he said, coming down from The Lockdown. "Prepare for dock clamping. You have my word that we'll destroy the Black Hornet once you're aboard and we're safely out of range." The commlink cut out then, and the bounty hunters maneuvered the Hopper into clamping position with the Hornet. Fully armored and holding pulse rifles, the hunters met the twins at the blast door transfer tube. The Fossin brothers, for their part, weren't being dumb about it. They had their hands held up against the backs of their heads, Trey a short, wiry fellow with a graying buzz-cut, Bon a hulking beast of muscle without hair to speak of. Both had faces that would be classically referred to as 'born to hang' looks.

"Well, this was bound to happen eventually," Trey said amicably enough as Hoffer lowered his rifle to put restraints on the twins while Billy held his rifle on them. Despite the twins' reputation, they didn't resist or try any trickery while being placed in vibroshackles. "Still, to think that Billy Aran was the one to snag us, well, that's pretty special," said Trey. Billy grinned, putting the rifle in its holster over his shoulder.

"Nothing special about it, really. I just got the jump on you, since you were expecting me to open those shutters. What was it rigged with?"

"EMP pod. We been snatching scavenger ships for about a year with that fake salvage job," Trey said. "We turn around, sell 'em to whoever's looking, take the scavers out to Lexon Prime to sell off to the slavers there. About thirty in total, not bad for petty crooks." Billy and Hoffer guided them to one of the three small cabins on the ship and locked them inside after showing them how to use the space-saving sliding toilet and sink. When they were back up front, Billy took the primary pilot's seat and console, opening a hailing channel with Station Paragon Seven, where he'd met up with Hoffer and taken the salvage job.

"Station Paragon Seven, this is William Aran, seeking contact with station security chief Borta, over," Billy said, turning their ship around and sailing to a safe blast distance from the Black Hornet. When he had them far enough away, he fired a lone Apocalypse Pod at the vessel, and soon the darkness of space behind them erupted in a soundless concussion wave of blasting force as the Hornet was blown to Kingdom Come. He started guiding them back towards the station.

Five minutes later, the comms blipped loudly, and a watery voice spoke to them. "This is Borta, security chief of Station Paragon Seven, I read you, Aran. What's going on?"

"I have the Fossin twins in custody here. Turns out they had a honey pot set up out here."

"Well, shit, that's probably why all those scavengers have been disappearing around these parts," said Borta. "They got open bounties?"

"They do. Are you authorized to process and pay out for any of them? It's a unified contract across seven systems, so I got no preferences."

"I am authorized, and I've been allocated funds by First Earth. Processing will take about four hours once you have them back here. And oh, since you're on the horn, there's a package here for you."

"Package," Billy asked. "From who?"

"I don't know, and I haven't seen it for myself. Folks over in Citizen Services gave me a memo about it, so you should see them after you process those two." Billy thanked the chief for his help and cooperation, then focused on getting them back to the station. It was a short flight, only two hours to the hovering outpost over Norap III. He pulled the Hopper into a docking port, and he and Hoffer brought their prisoners out into the staging bay, where a dozen security officers met them to take the twins away, several commenting that there was no way the two could be twins and look so different.

Borta met them shortly after, guiding the bounty hunters to his office and issuing them their credits after making them fill out the lengthy and mandatory forms needed to officially claim the bounties and have the contracts listed as fulfilled. Hoffer shook hands with Billy then, making his farewells brief. "I've got some buddies down on the planet I'm going to go see," Hoffer said with a smile as Billy guided him to the station's planet-side shuttle service bay. "After that, I'm going to buy myself a little rig like you got. I've got the credits now, figure I should work some jobs solo, you know?"

"Well, if you piss away your money and need some work, you know how to get hold of me, my friend," Billy said, giving the gruff man a warm embrace, clapping him on the back. With all of that tended to, Billy remembered that Borta had said something about Citizen Services having a package for him. The station wasn't overly large for such an installation, but it still took him nearly an hour to navigate its myriad walkways and lifts to find the section devoted to the department.

The automatic sliding glass doors whooshed open for him as he entered, his helmet swung back against his shoulder blades on its hinges, his rugged but handsome face lighting the entry lobby with his best smile as he approached the faux wooden secretary's desk in front. The secretary herself was a plump and vibrant woman in a dark blue dress and half-sweater, the air conditioning apparently on a kind of psychotic kick, dropping the temp in the lobby to a nigh-unbearable chill. She beamed up at him as he leaned with one arm on her desk. "Can I help you, sir," she asked brightly.

"Mayhap you can. I'm William Aren. Chief Borta told me there's a package here for me?" The woman's smile faded a little, but she recovered quickly. He didn't like that one bit, but he kept his wits about him and said nothing. If he let on that he'd seen her reaction to his name, she might take a different tack with him, and he didn't want that. After all, he'd rarely had people treat him nicely on first encounter, and he hated when he ruined such meetings.

"We do, sir. You're going to want to talk to miss Catelyn Marsh. She's down that left hallway, fourth door on the left." He nodded and headed to the hallway she'd indicated, taking a quick glance back at her. He recognized the look she was giving him when she looked away- pity. What need would he have of her pity? Steeling himself for whatever was coming, Billy walked down the wide hallway and stopped in front of a partially open door to a small office, where sat another human woman, wearing an efficient, if somewhat severe, plain brown pantsuit. She looked up at her doorway when he knocked and pushed the door open, her face a neutral mask without a hint of what she could be thinking.

"You are," she asked.

"William Aran," he said. She waved one hand at the two chairs across from her desk, and he trundled over to the one farther into the office, carefully sitting down. The PM2's mobility issues hindered genuine relaxation, but he could at least keep from breaking other people's furniture. "Um, what's this about a package for me?"

"Mr. Aran, I need to ask a few procedural questions before we can get into that," said Marsh brusquely. "Firstly, did you know a miss Korynn Trallert of Second Earth, Mr. Aran?" Billy searched his memory, and came up immediately with a mental image of Korynn. She had been a Svestri woman, one of the thousands of humans who had undergone genetic experimentation at the Svestri Institute on Second Earth some eight or nine years earlier. He recalled her well, for she'd been the only woman he'd ever laid with who had green hair. She'd been a wild thing, an outlaw in First Earth's system who'd been wanted for several vicious brawls in which she'd left her victims near death. The bounty on her head had been considerable, but when Billy had caught up with her, she hadn't run, and she hadn't fought. She'd only wanted one thing from him before turning her in, and he'd been more than happy to provide.

"Yes, I knew her," he finally replied. "Biblically, if that's what you're asking," he added with a wolfish grin. Marsh just narrowed her eyes and made a disapproving sound deep in her throat. "Um, why?"

"Mr. Aran, you are registered as an authorized bounty hunter with the First Earth Alliance, correct?"

"I am," he said.

"And you are bonded as a hunter of Stated Pledge status, yes?"

"I am, yes. I pay for any extraneous damages out of pocket. It's only the right thing to do. A good bounty hunter doesn't need to be reckless," he said with a measure of pride, chest puffing out.

"Good. That's very good. Now, Mr. Aran, I've already consulted your genetic records with regards to the package you're here to pick up, and have confirmed for myself that the match is genuine. Wait here," she said, standing up and walking out of her office. She was gone only a few moments, returning with a thick green file folder. She sat back down and opened it to the first page. "Korynn Trallert, born on First Earth in 2446 A.D., emigrated with her parents to Second Earth in 2457 A.D. She volunteered for the Svestri Experiments nine years later, and immediately began a criminal career, getting into fights with little or no provocation. She was in and out of correctional facilities for a while, but she learned how to elude local law enforcement. Took a few trips around to several system planets, made the rounds in some of the underground fighting circuits. Charming woman."

"Yeah, she was wild all right," Billy said. He coughed, shook his head. "But, if you don't mind my asking, where do I fit in here?"

"Miss Trallert is dead, Mr. Aran," said Marsh, flipping through the pages in the folder until she was almost to the end.

"Oh," he said, looking down at his hands in his lap. "I'm, uh, sorry to hear that. But, again, what's that got to do with me?"

"Miss Trallert had a child, Mr. Aran," Marsh said. Billy's heart skipped a beat as he whipped his head up to look at her. "Your child. A daughter. She's eight years old, and she is now your responsibility." Billy leaned back in his seat, all speech forgotten, his limbs weak and trembling. Marsh used her desk intercom to call for someone named Trent, and a minute later, Billy looked over to the office doorway to see a man standing behind a short, thin slip of a girl with long, wavy green hair. She was an elfin thing, her face narrow and pinched, her nose pointed, almost triangular. She had large blue doe's eyes, innocent yet intelligent. She wore a plain dark pink sweater over baggy white cloth trousers, her feet squeezed into black tennis shoes too small even for her feet. Marsh stood up and took a deep breath. "Mr. Aran, this is Samus."