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Vey's already in my quarters when I pull myself out of the vault handshake. My vision clears and he's standing there. Arms crossed. Face like granite.
"We need to talk about fuel," he says.
I'm still half in the interface. My hands are shaking. The vault called me owner and I don't even know what that means. "I just woke up two days ago."
"I know." He steps closer. The room's too small for this conversation. "And we've been coasting on reserve since the Lattice dropped us. You have root access to the Long Invoice. I need it."
"I don't even know what I have access to."
"Then figure it out." His voice drops. Not angry. Worse. Tired. "We've got maybe seventy hours of burn left in the main cells. After that we drift. Five hundred people on this tub and three escorts limping beside us. You want that?"
I sit up. My legs feel like wire. "What do you need me to do?"
"The fuel reservoir in hold seven. It's been locked since before my grandfather chartered this rust bucket." He pulls out a slate and shoves it at me. "Four hundred years of company regs say only the vault owner can authorize a draw. That's you. Apparently."
The slate shows a schematic. Hold seven sits deep in the keel. The reserve indicator glows amber. Forty thousand liters of high-grade plasma stock. Enough to keep us burning for months.
"Why was it locked?"
"Because the job never closed." Vey's jaw tightens. "The Beacon Lattice was a long-term salvage charter. Whoever paid for that vault wanted the fuel held until the contract term ended. But the Lattice died mid-jump and we're the ones floating in the dark."
"So open it."
"I can't." He taps the slate. "Only you can. The vault's keyed to your implants. Your genetics. Whatever the hell they did to you."
I stare at the schematic. The amber reserve glows like a promise. Like a trap. "And if I open it?"
"We live. We make it to a port. We don't become another ghost charter in the Rimward Dark."
He makes it sound simple. But nothing about this is simple. I've got root access to a ship I don't remember boarding. A vault that thinks I'm its owner. Implants I didn't ask for.
"What's the catch?"
Vey pulls something from his coat. A small metal stamp. The handle is worn smooth. The face shows the Vey family crest. Three stars and a broken chain.
"Charter law. If you authorize the draw, you assume the contract debt. The Long Invoice was paid in advance for four hundred years. That term isn't up. You crack the reserve, you inherit the bill."
"How much?"
"Forty-two million standards. Plus interest compounded at Lattice rates."
My breath stops. Forty-two million. That's not a debt. That's a life sentence. Multiple life sentences.
"You're insane."
"I'm desperate." He steps closer. "And so are you. You think Briar's the only one with questions about that body? You think the guild won't come asking why a stasis casket passenger has admin keys to a charter vault? You need us. We need you. So we make the deal."
"I'm not signing my life away for fuel."
"Then we drift." His voice is flat. "And when the cells run dry, we start drawing lots for the escape pods. Except there aren't enough pods for everyone. So some of us die out here. Maybe you. Maybe me. Maybe one of the kids in the passenger deck who didn't ask to wake up in the ass end of nowhere."
He holds out the stamp.
I don't take it.
"This is extortion."
"This is survival." He grabs my wrist. Not rough. But firm. "I don't like it either. But my family's charter dies if we don't make port. Three generations of Veys keeping this ship alive. I'm not the one who lets it end."
He presses the stamp to my wrist. The metal is cold. I try to pull away but he holds tight.
"Stop—"
The stamp bites down. A sharp sting. Then heat. The crest burns into my skin. Micro-filaments injecting a registry marker. Legally binding. Physically permanent.
I shove him back. He lets go. The crest gleams on my wrist. Silver against pale skin. Three stars and a broken chain.
"You son of a bitch."
"You'll authorize the draw." He pockets the stamp. "Or we both lose everything."
My wrist throbs. The mark is already syncing with my implants. I can feel it. A new weight in my network. A debt ledger opening in my peripheral vision. Forty-two million standards. Interest accruing at four percent. Compounded daily.
"I could kill you."
"You could try." He heads for the door. "But Briar's outside and she's faster. Authorize the draw, Sable. We need it by the next watch or we start losing thrust."
He leaves. The door hisses shut.
I sit there. Staring at my wrist. The crest burns. The debt counter ticks up. Four years of interest just while I'm sitting here.
My slate chimes. The vault interface opens without me asking. A single prompt.
AUTHORIZE RESERVE DRAW? HOLD 7 FUEL STOCK: 40,000L PLASMA CONTRACT TERMS TRANSFER: CONFIRMED REGISTRY MARKER DETECTED: VEY CHARTER
Two options. Yes or no.
I stare at them. Forty-two million. Three generations. Five hundred people.
My hand hovers over yes.
Then the ship lurches.
Not a drift correction. A hard shudder. The kind that means something broke. The lights flicker. My slate screams an alert.
ESCORT VESSEL NIGHTJAR: HULL BREACH VENTING ATMOSPHERE CREW COMPLEMENT: 24 EVACUATION PROTOCOL: ACTIVE
I'm up. Moving. My legs barely hold me but I'm out the door. Briar's there. Gun down. Staring at her own slate.
"What the hell did you do?" she says.
I shove past her. The corridor's full of crew. Running. Shouting. The Nightjar is one of our escorts. Small. Fast. Twenty-four people.
Venting atmosphere means they're dying.
"I didn't do anything!"
"Bullshit." Briar grabs my shoulder. Spins me around. "The vault just sent an activation ping to the Nightjar's scuttle charges. That's your root access. That's your signature."
"I didn't authorize anything!"
But even as I say it, I know it's wrong. The vault is open. The interface is live. Someone's using my access.
My slate chimes again. A new prompt.
SCUTTLE PROTOCOL: NIGHTJAR AUTHORIZATION: SABLE QUINN TIMESTAMP: 14:22:07 SHIPBOARD STATUS: EXECUTING
I stare at the screen. The timestamp is now. This second. But I didn't hit yes.
I didn't hit anything.
Briar's slate shows the same thing. Her face goes white.
"Someone else is in your access," she says.
The ship lurches again. Another alert. The Nightjar's reactor is spiking. Overloading. They've got maybe two minutes before it cooks off.
"Stop it," Briar says. "You have root. Stop the scuttle."
I pull up the vault interface. My hands are shaking. The command line is full of code I don't recognize. Executing in real time. Overriding safety locks. Opening fuel lines. Priming charges.
I try to abort. The system rejects me.
ACCESS DENIED OVERRIDE IN PROGRESS AUTHORITY: VAULT PRIMARY
Vault primary. That's supposed to be me.
But someone else is giving orders.
And the Nightjar is dying.