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  Preferably the neck of Stephen Wat, her former sales and acquisitions colleague, and now one of her bosses.

  Instead, Briar threw herself out of the translucent chair and paced to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Yassa Port. Tank Union Headquarters where she worked was located in the biggest star port on Trash Planet. Since Yassa hosted the most off-world visitors, they had rules and regulations regarding the amount of rubbish and pollution that could be strewn about.

  So all Briar could see was white and grey, some metallic black, and more grey. The designers had done their best to mimic a hub of civilization instead of a gathering of junk, and if you didn’t squint, it worked. Yassa also boasted the closest things to culture on the planet aside from the primitive artists and musicians scattered across the globe. Trash Planet also boasted a recent addition—a former professional dancer who’d begun traveling to various communities and factories to teach.

  But what Yassa Port didn’t have any longer was a spot on the Tank Union Board with Briar’s name on it.

  Not three days ago, she had made the biggest deal of her career, and fucking Steven Wat was still the one being promoted after the disappearance of elderly Director Ficus, who had been declared dead. Briar had been in sales and acquisitions two years longer than that rat-licking waste of cells, and just because he had certain connections and certain gas bags had leaned on certain members of the board…he got the upgrade to TUB.

  Nobody knew about her connections. But her connections were the reason she needed that promotion.

  Wishing she could go home and scream into her pillow, Briar instead returned to her desk and checked the schedule for the rest of the day on her wrist chrono. As she glared at the small screen, she slowed her breathing and thought calming thoughts. If her schedule was empty, nobody would notice the steam coming out of her ears or her bleeding cuticle.

  A couple of appointments, not many—the other associates could handle them. Because the next person who walked through her door, after that travesty of a call with the TUB chairperson, she might fly straight out from behind her shiny glass desk and stab them in the face.

  Besides, she was busy. BUSY. With the score of her career. Really, it was such a score for Tank Union, she should have been made chair. Instead she’d quietly and submissively continue to monitor its progress, because that was what a good little Tank Union employee with absolutely no secret agenda would do.

  Completely agenda-free, she commed the strip team working on her acquisition—an ancient gen ship framework. Only audio, though. Anyone who saw her right now would know the truth about her rage. She was hot and angry, and that meant her face would resemble a red dwarf star.

  “Unker, this is Briar Pandora at HQ,” she said, carefully unclenching her teeth. “How deep are you in the inventory?”

  The whole union was going to benefit from her snagging that gen ship framework at such a bargain price. The DICs they would make selling the specialized parts would net ten times the original amount. Steven Suck-Up could never have convinced Endeavor Factory 5 to sell Tank Union the ship for next to nothing, but she had.

  She’d done it.

  Static crackled before Unker answered. “Bridge complete. Sent you the list. I think you’ll like what you see. Lotta in-built stuff, reason why scavengers wouldn’t have taken it before Endeavor hauled it to the sky pile. Moving on to the next area.”

  “I’ll start compiling the information and get it ready to transmit.” Being a union sales rep as opposed to a factory employee meant she had a greater reach than the average picker on Trash Planet. Unionizing gave factories more power and influence than they would have had alone, and she was responsible for extending that influence for their particular union.

  And a few other things that TUB didn’t know about, but it wasn’t hurting anybody. Not really.

  A knock sounded on her door. The reception bot, Axel, stuck just its silvery head around the doorframe, as if it knew entering the office proper would incite her wrath. “Briar Pandora, a client is here to see someone about a purchase.”

  She glared up from the codes she was inputting into the company database, her cheeks still hot. “Can’t someone else handle it?”

  The bot paused a moment before saying, “Are you feeling well, Briar Pandora? Your heartrate and pulse are elevated, and you are showing signs of distress.”

  She tried to stare into Axel’s round, silver eyes without revealing her recent strangulation fantasies. “I’m fine.”

  Lying to Axel was an exercise in frustration. The bot had access to all Tank Union information and so many environmental sensors it was hard to count them. “Is your distress why you want me to redirect the client? Your schedule is clear until three.”

  TUB’s purchase of Axel was a status symbol they felt elevated them in the eyes of galactic customers, but there were downsides to having a bot for a receptionist. You couldn’t lie to it, it never wore any clothes, it knew everything, and it watched you whenever you ate as if judging how people consumed food.

  “I’m busy. Have them make another appointment and come back.” Burying herself in work would drain the anger. The faster she could research and price the inventory from the gen ship, the faster they could post it to the scraproll and see who was interested. She’d compare the potential payouts with what they could get here on the planet, with what they could get if they used the materials themselves, with…

  The bot interrupted her appraisal in its lightly inflected voice. “It’s about the recent acquisition from Endeavor 5. Should I take the client to see Director Steven Wat?”

  “It’s about the gen ship?” How had anyone outside Tank heard about it? It was her score, and she hadn’t advertised. She wasn’t ready to advertise. It was so against procedure to advertise before the final inventory that…

  Hold on.

  Briar felt a familiar trembling in her legs, the one that pressed her to leap out from behind the desk and strangle somebody. Steven had tipped someone off. He was trying to steal her deal as well as the promotion.

  That might be how he’d gotten the promotion.

  “No, no, don’t tell Steven. I’m sure he’s far too busy for inventory sales. Just give me five minutes.”

  Five minutes to decide how to screw over whatever slimeball thought they’d be waltzing in here and dealing with their slimeball buddy Steven Wat.

  The bot left. Briar finished porting the raw data into her manifest and used her wrist chrono to check the locations of the other sales reps. Tank Union insisted on its employees being chipped, which meant she had to be super careful when she performed her extracurricular duties.

  Where was Swindler Steven? Did he know his slimeball was here? Prella was in their office and Aaz was at a factory, while Steven seemed to be in the next building over, where the board offices were. The rest of the directors, as usual, were in the big conference room.

  Maybe the buyer was early. Good. She mentally prepped for smarm, fast talking, and veiled hints about the dangers of saying no to pirates and slavers.

  Not that everyone on Trash Planet was ethical—but they were a free planet. The minute you landed on Trash Planet, every single union enforced that rule, by whatever means necessary. She was going to enjoy calling security if the person Steven had invited brought any so-called servants with them.

  But the man who entered her office five minutes later was nothing like she’d expected one of Steven’s contacts to be. And he was alone.

  Tall, broad shouldered, dressed in a tailored suit, and clean shaven, the dark-skinned man met her gaze with quiet confidence. He inclined his head respectfully, not hustling forward to shake hands or bump fists or intimidate with his height. Nor did he bow. “Individual Briar Pandora?”

  She found herself unaccountably breathless and was glad she was sitting down. She nudged the holo screen of her console aside and motioned for him to sit in one of the guest chairs.

  “Yes, I’m Individual Pandora. I’m afraid I haven’t
had a chance to brief myself on today’s appointments.” Other than being pretty darn sure this guy was here to meet with Steven. “May I ask your name?”

  He strolled across the room and eased himself into the chair. Adjusting his cuffs, he regarded her levelly. “Lincoln Caster Seventy-Five.” He paused. “I represent a free ship in the Oka sector.”

  What a liar. While it was common for citizens of the Oka Conglomerate to adopt their ship designation as part of their name, Oka rarely left their sector to do business.

  People came to Oka. Oka did not go to people.

  “That’s nice,” she said, infusing her voice with a hint of skepticism.

  He blinked, seemingly taken aback by her response. As she’d intended. “I grew up there. It is nice.”

  Now he wasn’t the only one thrown off-kilter. His velvety voice and lack of a spiel had Briar on the edge of her seat, waiting for a bomb to drop. But it didn’t. He just…sat there. Mutely and patiently.

  How did a man without a spiel survive in the world of pirates and slavers?

  When the silence stretched out enough that she could hear her own breathing, she broke down and prompted him. “Were you expecting to meet with anyone in particular today?”

  “A sales associate,” he said. He did have a faint Oka accent, but he could be faking that.

  “I am a sales associate.” He must have come through the regular system so nobody would get suspicious that Steven had tipped him off. “What can I do for you?”

  “I understand you have a zheng model generation ship framework.”

  Well, he wasn’t wasting any time. “Yes.”

  “It’s about three-fourths intact?”

  “Thereabouts.” This man and his calmness troubled her. It was hard to think of him as one of Steven’s slimeballs. She flicked open the appointment request on her screen and scanned Lincoln Caster’s information. Oka Conglomerate, background in mechanics, head of some department, registered in Yassa Port as an independent. Usually pirates didn’t bother to lie about their origins. They wanted you to be afraid of them and cooperate to save your own skin. “How do you know about the ship? It’s very recent.”

  “I have my sources.” He smoothed a hand along his jaw.

  “Is Steven Wat your source? He’s so helpful,” she suggested sweetly. If he knew the shithead, his gaze should flick to the side.

  It didn’t. Damn. He was good.

  “I don’t know who that is.” He rested an elbow on the arm of the chair, comfortable in his space. “I’d like to make you an offer for the ship.”

  “For what part?” she asked, not sure she’d heard him correctly.

  “For the ship,” he repeated in his deep, measured voice. “The whole thing.”

  Briar leaned back in her seat and schooled her features into mildness. The heat left her cheeks as curiosity replaced her anger. Who was this guy and why in the universe was he part of Steven’s network? “Tank Union isn’t in the business of selling ships. That’s Endeavor. We sell parts and services, and some of our factories build reinforced, lightning-fueled ground crawlers.”

  “We can double what you paid for the zheng,” he said gravely. “We’ll handle transport.”

  Again, he wasted no time. Nothing about this man pointed to a shady deal with Steven intended to cheat her out of her score. Nothing about this man was anything like anyone she’d ever met in this business. He wasn’t condescending, menacing, or pushy. She’d developed ways of handling people like that, convincing them to give her the best price or pay one, but a man like this?

  A man who walked in, sat down, and within one minute, had stated exactly what he wanted?

  It startled her into being completely factual. “That’s not a good trade. We’ll get ten times what we paid for it when we sell it off piecemeal.”

  Shit, she should have said twenty.

  “Ten?” he said with an almost imperceptible eyebrow flash. She’d surprised him—always beneficial for the seller. “I can offer three times.”

  “That’s still not ten.” She clasped her hands on the clear desk, wishing suddenly for a piece of furniture that wasn’t modern and transparent. A nice, cluttered, recycled plastene desk she could hide behind so Lincoln Caster wouldn’t see her fidget.

  “But you get it all at once.” He studied her with a tiny frown between his brows. His dark gaze flicked down and back up her pearly grey business tunic and white scarf, but she didn’t get the impression he was underestimating her. It was easy to, as ordinary as she looked. “You’d triple your investment in three days with no effort on your part.”

  Was that Steven’s game? Conning her into an idiotic deal to ruin her reputation? Why did it even matter? He’d already gotten the promotion.

  “I don’t mind hard work and effort, Individual Caster Seventy-Five.” She flexed her fingers, once again imagining Steven’s neck. “I need to know how you found out about the ship sale. If you please.”

  His gaze dropped again. “You’re bleeding. Your finger.”

  “Oh.” She’d forgotten all about the accident with her manicure. Her painted pink nail—TUB insisted on its associates being as polished as elites—had ripped into the quick. Her nanobots hadn’t repaired the injury yet. She was overdue a refresher of the little buggers. “Yes, it hurts a bit.”

  “What happened?”

  Why did he care? She covered the injury with her other hand. When she pressed her palm against the raw skin, it stung like icy wind on the face. “I poked something too hard.”

  “Poked.” By his eyebrow flash, she’d surprised him again. Why? Because she wouldn’t give him the deal Steven had promised? Because he was so peaceful and collected that he was disappointed in her for…poking? “Did it have it coming?”

  “Did it…what?” This was not the strangest conversation she’d had with a client, but she rarely felt this unsure. He was simply not a type of person she’d trained herself to manage. Which could be part of Steven’s plot.

  “Never mind. Have you inventoried the ship beyond the metals in the framework?” The man obviously knew something about stripping and reselling, but also about lowering her guard. She was beginning to wonder if he intended to purchase anything or just humiliate her somehow. Also something Steven could have arranged for.

  “Still in the process.” At this point a regular buyer would discuss the parts that were desired. “Why don’t you tell me specifically what you want, and you could make me an offer on that?”

  This type of gen ship was rare. Incredibly rare. Though gen ships weren’t his area, Steven might know that, too. Almost all gen ships were of pre-War origins, but this zheng model—its databanks indicated it had been called the Sikong—was over three thousand years old. The DICs people would pay for spare parts were enormous.

  If she were willing to sell to slimeballs and slavers, she’d get more, but she wasn’t. And she’d never sell to someone Steven had called, contacted, or hired to set her up.

  “I’ve written a list,” the man said, and drew an actual piece of paper out of his suit pocket. Paper. In this day and age.

  She held out a hand, leaning across her glass-topped desk. “May I?”

  “I’d rather see your manifest,” he said, skimming his list before meeting her eyes. His direct stare gave her a nervous flutter. “Have you told anyone about it yet?”

  She hadn’t, but clearly Steven had. “It would be faster if you give me—”

  “You won’t understand it.”

  Briar straightened and sliced his big body in half with a cutting glare. Or tried to, because he seemed unaffected by her ruffling up like a baby bristler that had just discovered its hackles. “I possess an extensive knowledge of ship parts. That’s how I do my job, Individual Caster Seventy-Five. I believe I will have no trouble understanding your list.”

  He waited a minute before he answered. “Okay.”

  She snipped the list out of his extended hand, her lips tight. Forgetting about the pain of her ripped na
il, she ran that finger down the paper and tightened her lips even more.

  She didn’t…understand any of it. Was this a joke? “This isn’t a list.”

  “Well, it is,” he said mildly.

  “It’s nonsense.”

  “It’s Oka,” he corrected her. “Not common tongue.”

  For the second time today, Briar’s face heated to the temperature of a red dwarf star. At least it wasn’t a blue hypergiant. But she wasn’t angry. She was embarrassed first and then angry, that she didn’t know whether he was telling the truth. She was not her normal, unflappable self today, and that was another reason she’d like to strangle Steven Wat.

  “If you would translate,” she dared him, “I will see if we have these parts.”

  “Hm.” He took the paper back from her and touched the rusty blood she’d accidentally smeared on its cream surface. “Have you posted the inventory to the scraproll?”

  That was the second time he’d asked that. He seemed pretty concerned about it. “For an exclusive early shop, we require an upcharge of twenty percent.” Forcing herself into sales rep mode, she calculated how much money he’d offered so far—three times the price of the Sikong—and how much that would buy. “Are you in the market for metals, pre-war plastene, memorabilia?”

  It wouldn’t be metals. Nobody tried to buy a whole ship for the metals. They waited until the recyclers had at them.

  But he wasn’t spilling. Because he wasn’t really a customer. “I’d prefer to see the inventory.”

  “You already said that.” She swiveled her cybbie screen toward him and brought up her list. If Steven wanted his contact to see it, it wasn’t like she could stop him. “It’s not complete.”

  He scrutinized the codes she’d entered so far. She wasn’t sure how much he understood. Tank Union used its own system before dispersing the manifest to the locations on the cybbie where buyers might be looking. The scraproll was the biggest of these.

  She couldn’t read his expression at all. The way that he made her wait for him to speak gave extra weight to everything he said. If this was a new manipulation technique, she had to figure out how to counter it. It was making her twitchy as all hells.