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“Seriously?”

Surprised, I stood in Teach’s Ship Shop, surrounded by components, weapons, and flickering advertisements. The workshop’s assistant manager looked me over seriously.

“It’s actually an experimental algorithm. The command module disconnects in certain situations—mutiny, Advocacy approaching, whatever. Is your Ironclad a pre-production model?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Looks like Drake was experimenting with something. We were able to isolate the code. But I can’t say for sure what side effects it has. So stay alert. It did have one effect: the ship can now be controlled from Operations—even without the command module.”

In disbelief, I took a step back.

“So now I have two independent ships?”

“Actually, three. Rebekka has ordered that a Salvation be made available to you. Good luck. We can use everything you can salvage.”

The ‘Rusty Brick’ was considered repaired—hopefully. And I was ready to spend the next few weeks in space salvaging whatever I could find for the People’s Alliance. It was part of the plan to make the community more independent. After stowing provisions, an Ursa Medivac, and the Salvation aboard the Ironclad, I set off. The ‘Rusty Brick’ slowly inched its way out of the hangar. From the command module, I took one last look at Levski—at the hangar doors, smokestacks, pipes, and buildings clinging to the asteroid Delamar. Then I fired up the quantum drive and vanished into the depths of space.

Tips from the Rust Society led me to distant regions of the Nyx system. Dark, eerie places, full of impenetrable nebulae and asteroids. Graveyards for ships that couldn’t find their way out. Gold mines for anyone willing to salvage.

Find an abandoned ship, salvage the cargo, remove components and weapons, strip the hull, and dismantle the ship. The work became routine, and yet life aboard the great Ironclad felt unfamiliar. My cabin was as big as a hab in Stanton’s landing zones—bed, couch, desk, bathroom—everything you needed. But there were many areas of the ship I didn’t use. A layer of dust lay there like a silent shroud.

The best thing on board were the windows in my cabin. They were more than just a view of the outside; they were an energizing routine. Morning coffee, the sun on my face—my routine.

One day, my routine was interrupted by an unexpected video call. Rebekka looked into the camera with a worried expression.

“Speculation is running rampant. Everyone has an opinion on who’s responsible for the increased attacks in the Nyx system—outlaws, the UEE, the Vanduul. The community is more divided than ever.”

I leaned back in my desk chair.

“What happened to ‘Stronger Together’?”

Rebekka waved her hand dismissively.

“Together, my foot. Some want to bring in the UEE, others want to fight it, and still others are arming themselves. No idea which idiot is supplying those remote service stations with weapons.”

My throat tightened. That idiot was me—and it was better if Rebekka didn’t find out.

“Is everyone out for a fight?” I asked cautiously.

“There’s a pacifist group. They wanted to make peace with the Claw Salamanders. It didn’t end well.”

“I read about it in the Vox Populi. They also wrote about the poor security situation there. No wonder some people are arming themselves when the committee only offers good advice and doesn’t organize any concrete help.”

Rebekka’s eyes narrowed to slits.

“Don’t you start too.”

“And what can I do?” I tried to appease her.

“I have someone here who has a favor to ask of you.”

A woman appeared on the screen—a tousled head of curls, shaved bald above the ears, her features marked by painful experiences.

“Recco—new hairstyle?” I blurted out.

“Zero—it’s been a long time.”

An awkward silence. I used to work for Recco Battaglia. Not all the jobs went smoothly. And after Kylo’s murder, I suspected she was involved in drug deals in Levski. She didn’t bring up the past and got straight to the point.

“One of our crews hasn’t checked in. Maybe they’ve suffered a malfunction.”

“Or been attacked,” I whispered into the screen.

“Whatever the case, you’re close to their last known position. Please check it out.”

I wanted to say something in reply, but my voice failed me. Why do we keep sending people on suicide missions?

After a short quantum jump, I reached the target coordinates in the Glaciem Ring. Against the picturesque blue backdrop of dust bands and asteroids, a Drake Caterpillar floated—broken in two. A cloud of debris surrounded the break, cargo hatches had been ripped from their hinges, and containers were sticking out.

I carefully maneuvered the ‘Rusty Brick’ alongside it. Slowly, I drifted toward the wreck. Suddenly, a loud crash. Metal on metal; sparks danced wildly against my ship’s hull. Fragments of the Caterpillar slammed into the Ironclad and whirled away. That was close enough.

In the airlock, I prepared for the EVA. I closed my eyes briefly, took a deep breath in and out. Then I pressed the red button—the bulkhead slid open. An apocalyptic sight. The Caterpillar—an insect with a broken spine. Shreds of metal oozed out like entrails. I pushed off and floated toward the Caterpillar’s forward ramp.

The containers: smashed open, empty. There was nothing to salvage here. I glided through them and reached the crew quarters. Darkness. Cold. Black screens. My helmet spotlight felt its way like a finger.

I turned a corner and froze. In the beam of light stood a frozen statue, a memorial to the events—one of the crew members. He was wearing a spacesuit, but no helmet. Any help here had come too late. Then I found the rest of the crew—dead.

It was a completely different situation from the convoy that had been ambushed. The convoy: crippled by an EMP, no one was injured. This ship: destroyed by brute force. Were the attackers different from those who ambushed the convoy? Were there any clues? Evidence would help curb the speculation.

The server room—that’s where I had to go. I continued floating through dark corridors, feeling my way forward slowly. I moved through the vacuum, and yet I felt an unbearable pressure. Finally, I reached the door to the server room—locked, no way through. Damn it!

Back through the deceptive darkness once more, past the dead. They stared at me with empty eyes. A shiver ran down my spine.

One deck below, I reached the engine room. I floated upward through a ceiling hatch. Another gloomy room. Pipes and insulation glided past me; they couldn’t ward off the cold.

Finally, the black box appeared in the beam of light. I downloaded the data and returned to the Ironclad.

Frowning, I sat at my desk in my cabin and stared at the screen. The Ironclad was a workhorse, designed for transport. It had no way to analyze data. Now I was missing the “White Rabbit.” I had to send the black box recordings to Levski.

A few hours later, I received a reply from Rebekka. The data was corrupted; it was impossible to analyze it. Tampering? Or just bad luck? Either way, we were still in the dark. The speculation continued.