"A dark and wrathful spirit," whispers one conspirator to the other.

  Both wear long jackets to conceal their personal patterns and wide brimmed local hats to hide their identities. They crouch in an alley in need of servicing. Lights flicker overhead and the camera I watch them from has a cracked lens.

  "Nearly killed the Ship-Mother," replies the other quietly. "Fit of madness seized the spirit, my cousin said."

  The first figure shakes their head, causing the orange ribbons on their hat to swing and fan out. All of these kinds of hat have strings of orange ribbons tied around the bowl of the hat. From above they look like eyes staring back at me.

  These hats are becoming increasingly popular, even among the faithful. Thankfully, not every camera views the tunnels from above. Some can fly around to seek a better angle.

  "Shit," exclaims the first conspirator, pulling his jacket tighter around himself. "Government spy." He turns away from the dronefeather.

  The second, less paranoid, stares straight at the dronefeather as it flaps its feathered wings in descent. It lands beside a fallen and crushed morsel of food and begins pecking at the graying meat. The device is able to get a good look at this one's face. Enough to compare it to records and determine his identity. Ullen.

  Ullen serves often on the forced work teams. His habit of walking out of shops without paying keeps earning him a yellow suit. His friend is no doubt also a known criminal.

  "Idiot," admonishes the cautious individual. He makes a mock charge at the dronefeather. Head lowered, he waves his four arms in front of him and steps forward. Since this would scare away a natural example of the breed, I have this artificial one act accordingly. He chuckles as the mechanical creature flies away, its purpose complete. He reveals his face for just long enough to record a blurry image.

  His companion slashes contemptuously with one claw as he turns back to his friend. It will take a short while to compare the poor-quality image to the station data stores.

  "Stop playing around," Eva says, returning my attention to her office. "I'm serious. You can't do things like that, Denn."

  She's still angry at me. That's her right, I suppose, though little harm actually came of the incident.

  "I misjudged the situation," I admit. "But if I had been correct, my actions would have saved your lives. I believe I took the best actions available to me."

  Eva breathes deeply with her eyes closed. After the fifth breath she looks at the camera. "Teah was pregnant. Pregnant!"

  "Yes, you've explained the concept to me. Now that I'm aware of the condition, I've counted no less than eighty pregnant females within the station. I guess an equal number among the miners, but the actual number is probably higher."

  One small gray hand rubs the side of her head. "How did you not know what pregnancy is? Furred creatures, almost as a rule, don't lay eggs like normal beings. We've found them on many worlds."

  I think of the only fur bearing animal upon Homeworld. A bit long with two pairs of colorful wings, they stand upon six thin legs. Their tiny bodies are covered in soft white hairs that prevent the humidity from clogging their breathing pores. Different species have individual names, but as a whole we call them flitters. The ones around my former estate have blue and black patterns upon their wide round wings.

  They fly around the outside gardens when the weather permits, laying their eggs before the rainy season. The larva hatch as crawling things. Quite tasty, if the right plants are cultivated to influence the flavor of the creatures.

  "I've never taken the time to ask a furred tribal about their reproductive strategy. I was always too busy stabbing them before they could claw through my face."

  She exhales loudly. "And the lack of Tserri eggs?"

  "I thought they were wisely withholding from increasing the population," I answer. "Food and space are still a problem, occasionally, but it's better than it's ever been here. Besides, I have never seen you lay an egg, Ship-Mother, nor any of your kind. It was difficult to know what any of you creatures' breeding habits actually are."

  Eva lowers her hand from her head and takes another steadying breath. "Alright. Suppose I believe you. That still doesn't explain how you locked me out or ignored my orders. You aren't supposed to be able to do that. I order you to explain."

  "You must be aware that there are cameras installed in the classrooms. Observing the introductory courses on your programming languages, I thought, was a productive use of my time. The fact that I have access to the unfiltered source code made it easy to add anything I wished."

  The Ship-Mother raises her hand but stops part way to her head. "That's," she shakes her head. "Alright. I can't fault you for that, I suppose. I wish more of my officers were taking additional training. You should have told me about the changes you made, however. That's a problem and I can't have you doing it again." She points one finger at the camera, frowning.

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  I expect her to deny me the ability to access the code, or perhaps, worse, to reinstate the total lockout Ship-Father Jim Tollek had once employed to ensure my obedience.

  "I hereby order you to inform me of any change you make to the programs running this station. Understood?"

  "Yes, Ship-Mother."

  "Good. You've used your freedoms mostly for the benefit of the station, and I want to keep it that way. Don't give me another reason to take away privileges."

  I wait, sensing that she is not finished. She looks expectantly at the camera. I remain silent, not wishing to interrupt her if she decides to speak.

  After a tense silence Eva shakes her head. Her long crest sways. "You're supposed to apologize," complains Eva. "Fine, be stubborn. We both know I'm only going as easy on you as I am because I knew you were working on defenses against tribals." She taps one finger on her desk. "You can even things between us, however. I'm having trouble finding a replacement core for the alien artifact. Do you think you're ready for another adventure?"

  "I'd rather not," I begin hesitantly. She tilts her head a little to the right, so I explain. "I have a prior obligation, you see."

  "Glian can test your robot without you, Mos."

  "I'm well aware that he's far more competent than myself. No, I refer to the fact that young Trilia will be reaching her majority day after tomorrow. I need to be there for her ceremony."

  "Who? Unfortunately, I don't know every Tserri here by name."

  "She lives in Laceweaver Row with her grandfather. She stays out of trouble, so I wouldn't expect you to know her. I'm only aware of her because I overheard the elders planning the ritual."

  Eva leans back in her chair. "Huh. And you're expected to participate in some way? Why does that not surprise me? Fine. You handle the darcy and you can do as you think best."

  "That shouldn't be a problem, Ship-Mother." There's an excellent blend of spiced albulb liquor I'm excited to have tasted. I can have a few bottles ready for the ceremony.

  "I'm glad that's settled. The Red Glow should be arriving in system tonight. You could check with their Supply-Chief, maybe you'll get lucky." She props her legs up on the desk before mumbling, "Ass's been ignoring me."

  "I appreciate the advice," I hedge. It takes a moment, but I connect the name of the ship with Ship-Father Tikov Yon, one of those present at my supposed trial. Perhaps they will have an adequate alcohol, but I would prefer to provide my own offering. Unwilling to insult her by declining her suggestion, I keep my opinion silent.

  The door to the office, scratches still in place, slides open. A grating sound rebounds from wall to wall as metal scrapes against stone. It needs replaced or repaired soon. Eva winces at the noise.

  Desra walks inside, data tablet in one claw. She wastes no time on niceties and begins her report after a casual nod to her superior.

  Since I have a free moment, I begin a search through the data storage.

  "There's a mutant strain of mold growing on the crops in storage bin four." She looks down at her device, squinting slightly. "The techs in charge don't know if it started in the grow room or during the drying process, but the stores clerk swears his bins get cleaned regularly."

  The Ship-Mother waves one hand through the air. "Get to the important part, please."

  "Sorry. We need your approval to shut down the areas involved until they can all be decontaminated. The problem was caught early enough that we only expect to lose nine percent of this harvest."

  Decontamination is the wrong word. It implies cleaning. Sterilization would be better. In order to kill the mutant fungus, the entire area will be stripped of atmosphere, then dosed with lethal levels of poisons to ensure nothing survives. The entire ecosystem will have to be rebuilt upon the heat-treated remains of the old.

  "We'll let this be an opportunity, not a setback," declares the Ship-Mother. When Desra's silver ears perk up, Eva continues. "How many crops are we growing, not counting the aquaculture, Mos?"

  "Currently? Silvergrain, chew root, Boiler's leaf, and two varieties of berry producing bushes. We also have the nut and albulb groves, once they begin to produce, and at least thirty different herbs used for flavoring. Should I include the falfa? While unappetizing on its own, the gor grubs that they support are a popular treat."

  Eve raises one hand in a signal to stop. "Right, plus maybe five other crops grown in private gardens. Find out if the Glow has any good seed crops when you talk to Yon. I want something growing in place of the lost grain as soon as possible."

  Not listed are uncultivated fungi and the fruits that grow on the decorative plants all over the station. Not everything growing here is meant for consumption, but a surprising number of things find their way into the local bellies. Some Tserri are even experimenting with raising vermin as a food source, but that would fall under private enterprise.

  I suppose I have no choice but to look over the inventory of the Red Glow, once they arrive. The Ship-Father of the Red Glow is one of those to whom I'm publicly tied, so it is possible they'll attempt to act domineeringly. Maintaining their standing amongst their peers must be difficult when tainted by their close ties with both myself and the Tserri cultures. I fear that any purchase I make from them will cost the station more than mere credits.

  "Was there anything else, Desra?"

  The silver furred administrator fidgets in place. "A priest in the waiting room that wants to talk to you. He just got here, but I thought it might be important."

  Eva sighs and closes her eyes. She gestures with one hand for her assistant to continue.

  Desra nods nervously. "He wants-"

  "I know what he wants," interrupts Eva, crossing her arms over her chest. "He thinks if I support him, the others in his cult will make him head priest. Tell Hecton I'm busy and will be all day."

  "Yes, Ship-Mother," answers Desra. She leaves and the door screeches shut behind her.

  "And get a crew to replace that door," orders Eva.

  "Right away," I reply. I compose a work request and send it off.

  Curious to see this priest, I switch to the view from the waiting room camera. He sits calmly on a padded bench, claws arranged neatly in his lap. Desra enters and speaks with him. He thanks her then leaves quietly.

  This priest, Hecton, at first glance seems to have the same dark brown fur as the Tserri I'm searching for. It's the most common coloration among the residents, but the exact shade varies. Just to be sure, I compare images of the priest in the waiting room with the flash of image from the alley.

  The color is nearly identical. Only the different lightly makes me hesitate to say exactly the same. Simple comparison confirms Hecton to be the same height as the conspirator as well, to within a tiny fraction of a bit. The wide hat makes exact measurement difficult. Still, I believe this priest might be a danger to me.