(Excerpt from “Salvage Runner” by Rowan Straker)

The compliance office on Level Three looked exactly like Cade remembered: narrow, over-lit, and crammed into a corner of the admin sector as if the station itself was embarrassed to admit it needed one.

A strip of flickering light panels hummed overhead. The air carried a sharp cleaning-solvent bite over something older—old paper, stale coffee, dried stress. Translite certificates lined the wall: “Excellence in Regulatory Stewardship,” “Gamma Station Quarantine Compliance Award,” all bearing the same name in neat, cramped letters.

Matthias Volker.

The man himself sat behind a desk that was too big for the room and too small for his ego. Matthias’s shirt was pressed sharp, cuffs buttoned. Not a hair on his narrow head was out of place. His console displays were arranged in neat tiers; three stylus pens sat aligned exactly parallel on the blotter.

Cade’s boots squeaked once on the floor. Matthias looked up as if someone had slammed a bulkhead.

“Mr. Cole,” he said, and managed to pack a surprising amount of condescension into two syllables.
“I heard the Widdershins ghosted into berth twenty-three this morning.” His gaze flicked to the time at the corner of his screen. “And I see she hasn’t ghosted back out yet.”