The Trade Authority Checkpoint at Sector 4 wasn't a fortress. It was a toll booth in space.

  Three massive orbital rings created a bottleneck for all traffic entering the Core Worlds. Every ship had to pass through a scanner gate. Every pilot had to answer three questions.

  Who are you? What are you carrying? Did you pay the tax?

  Ford hated the Core. It smelled of bureaucracy.

  "Okay," Ford said, flipping switches on the calm console. "We're in the queue. Line 4. It's moving slow, which means the officer on duty is actually doing his job. Bad luck."

  He glanced at Sheila.

  She was sitting in the co-pilot seat, knees pulled up to her chest, wearing the grease-stained flannel and the oversized mechanics cap pulled low over her eyes. She was clutching a hydro-spanner like a security blanket.

  " Remember the drill?" Ford asked.

  "I am a mute mechanic from the mining colonies," Sheila recited, her voice muffled by the collar of the shirt. "I am tired. I am miserable. I hate my life."

  "Perfect," Ford nodded. "You're a natural."

  "I am drawing on deep emotional reserves," she muttered.

  "Just don't make eye contact," Ford warned. "Customs agents are like wild dogs. If you look them in the eye, they think you're challenging them."

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  The comms crackled.

  "Freighter Millennium Seagull," a bored voice droned. "Please power down engines and prepare for scan."

  "Copy that, Officer," Ford said, putting on his 'Harmless Trucker' voice—a mix of exhaustion and subservience. "Engines hot, powering down. Just a quick run through, chief. We're empty."

  A scanning beam swept over the ship. The lights in the cockpit flickered.

  "Reading... empty," the voice confirmed. "No cargo?"

  "Had a spoilage issue near Helios," Ford lied smoothly. "Bad refrigeration unit. Had to dump the whole load. Took a loss on it."

  "Rough," the officer said, clearly not caring. "Manifest shows two souls on board. You and..."

  "My niece," Ford jerked a thumb at Sheila. "Apprentice. She's... learning."

  There was a pause. The officer's face appeared on the viewscreen. He was a pale man with bags under his eyes that rivaled Ford's. He squinted at Sheila.

  "She looks small for a mechanic."

  "She's wiry," Ford said. "Fits in the crawlspaces. Hey, kid, wave to the nice officer."

  Sheila didn't wave. She didn't look up. She just let out a long, ragged sigh and banged the hydro-spanner against the console with a dull clank. It was the sound of pure teenage apathy.

  The officer watched her for a second. He saw the slump. He saw the grease. He saw the boredom.

  He recognized it instantly. He had a teenager at home.

  "Right," the officer grunted, cutting the feed. "Get out of here, Seagull. And fix that fridge."

  "You're a saint, Officer," Ford thanked him.

  He eased the throttle forward. The docking clamps released.

  They drifted through the giant ring, passing into the Core Systems.

  Ford didn't breathe until they were ten clicks out.

  "Wow," Ford whispered. "That sigh. That clank. That was... Oscar-worthy."

  Sheila pushed the hat back. She sat up straight, her violet eyes sparkling with adrenaline.

  "I channeled my cousin, the Duke of Farel," she said proudly. "He is the most boring man in the galaxy. I simply imagined him explaining tax law."

  "well," Ford grinned. "Remind me to thank the Duke. We're in."