The alarms weren't for a blockade. They were for a "Random Cargo Audit," which in the Artemis System was code for "Pay us or we seize your ship."

  A rust-bucket patrol craft had latched onto their airlock. Three men in mismatched uniforms stormed the Seagull, weapons drawn. They didn't look like soldiers. They looked like bullies with badges.

  "Manifest!" the leader barked, shoving a scanner in Ford's face. "And prepare for a full cavity search of the vessel. We've had reports of contraband."

  Ford sighed. He knew this dance. He reached for his credit chip to pay the "fine."

  "actually," a voice said from the doorway.

  Carol stepped onto the bridge. She was holding a datapad and wearing a pair of welding goggles on her forehead. She looked annoyed, not scared.

  "According to Trade Authority Bylaw 45-C, Section 9," she recited, tapping the screen, "any vessel transporting Hazardous Waste—which we are listed as doing—requires a Level 5 Containment Team for any boarding action."

  The leader blinked. "What?"

  "Do you have your hazardous material certification?" Carol asked, stepping closer. She pointed to a smudge on the leader's uniform. "That looks like biological contamination. Did you touch the hull? If you did, I'm legally required to quarantine you for 48 hours and bill your department for the decontamination enzyme."

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  "I... I didn't touch anything," the leader stammered, taking a step back.

  "And," Carol continued, relentless, "Under the 'Spacer's Rights Act of 2304', an unscheduled audit allows the captain to file for 'Lost Time Compensation' at a rate of 500 credits per hour, payable immediately by the boarding officer."

  She held out the datapad.

  "If you'll just sign here, admitting liability for the delay and the potential bio-hazard breach, we can proceed with the search."

  The three men looked at each other. They wanted a bribe. They did not want paperwork. They definitely did not want "contamination."

  "This ship smells like garbage anyway," the leader sneered, holstering his weapon. "Clear out, boys. Not worth the paperwork."

  They retreated. The airlock cycled shut with a clank.

  Ford watched the patrol ship peel away on the sensors. He looked at Carol.

  "Bylaw 45-C?" Ford asked.

  "I made it up," Carol said, tossing the datapad on the console. "Well, I extrapolated it from a sanitation regulation I read in the bathroom."

  "You terrified them with bureaucracy," Ford grinned. "I've never been more proud."

  "They were amateurs," Carol shrugged. But her hands were trembling slightly.

  They descended toward the Sanctuary Moon. It filled the viewport—a green and brown marble of jungle and uncertainty.

  "Ford," Carol said quietly, looking at the planet. "If those idiots are patrolling the orbit... the garrison down there isn't going to be friendly."

  "I know," Ford said.

  "The Sanctuary is gone, isn't it?"

  "Probably," Ford admitted. "But we have to check. And hey... at least we saved 500 credits on the bribe."

  Carol managed a weak smile. "That's good for the margins."

  "Exactly," Ford said. "That's my Purser."