Hollow’s Landing was a uniquely bizarre experience.

  Starting with the name.

  The Gateway had come online, the terraforming crews had come through, and work had begun.

  A little more than a decade in, the cargo ship RCV Hollow passed through the gate without issue. But shortly after arrival, as it was ascending to operating altitude, a thruster failed.

  Shouldn’t have been a problem. But during the emergency descent a second one failed.

  The Hollow slammed into the planet at more than three times its tolerances, crushing the lower deck flat and turning the ship into salvage on impact.

  No one had died—limited crew, all on the bridge, on top of the ship.

  But the Hollow had been a privately owned cargo vessel, operating under contract, and her owner had been… eccentric, if we’re being polite.

  Grabbing a chunk of debris and a can of paint, he put up a sign:

  Hollow’s Landing

  Happy Hour Odd Hours

  Ladies Drink Free

  Then he started selling drinks out of the wreck.

  'Ladies drink free' didn't survive three months.

  Over time, the cargo was cleared out, and he turned the whole thing into a hotel.

  It became the heart of the construction settlement built around it. Then the town. Then the city.

  Much to the chagrin of a Senator who had heavily campaigned for the GateCity of Frontier to be named after his family, Hollow’s Landing stuck.

  And so now, amidst all the western motif—the horses and wagons, the gunslingers and dandies—stood an enormous, ugly, square-ish cargo ship.

  But any vote to remove it failed. Badly.

  Why?

  History.

  And snark.

  The settlers loved riding past and tossing out their latest quip:

  “More proof the Republic knows what they’re doing.”

  “How many of our tax credits do you think they spent on that before they left it here?”

  And the classic—“Should’ve used a horse.”

  —

  The Gateways in the Republic operated on a schedule, synced with the trains. Every few hours—depending on the day, colony, time of year, and more—the Gateway opened.

  The Gateways were enormous arches, perfect half-circles. The center was empty and passable when the wormhole was collapsed. The entire structure took up a little more than a city block and reached 60 meters into the sky.

  The arch itself was a building, massive and functional. Offices, pathways, even a tourism area in one base. The military barracks for the Colony Security Forces in the other.

  You could travel up to the pinnacle and stand under the SMC, watch it flickering. Turn in a circle and see all of Hollow’s Landing spread out below.

  If you were there when the Gate activated, it was an experience. The SMC flickering faster and faster, the barely audible hum rising, building until it felt like something had to break.

  And then a sudden jolt.

  The shockwave of the wormhole expansion.

  The wormholes were always active once established, collapsed down to microscopic levels to save energy, but still wide enough to communicate through.

  When expanded, you could see through them. Barely. Everything was distorted, stretched, shifting like a funhouse mirror.

  The ground beneath the Gateway was marked—lines, lights, divided sides for incoming and outgoing traffic.

  A train almost always came through at gate activation, pulling into the elevated platform—passengers off one side, on the other. Ten minutes, a signal, and it was gone.

  The Gateway stayed open for 20 minutes on a standard cycle but would remain open longer for trains, ships, or large groups of citizens passing through.

  This freedom of movement resulted in a bewildering assortment of people.

  Fake Locals, here for work, wearing their required cosplay, and the ones who made a living catering to the tourists.

  Real locals, in more normal, but still heavily western themed, apparel.

  Tourists, some who participated in the theme to varying degrees of seriousness, and some who didn’t bother at all; parading around in Core World fashions, bright colors and strong patterns.

  Business people and Government agents, from colonies without the dress code, wore modern suits and carried briefcases and tablets.

  Stolen story; please report.

  And, of course, the personality-driven looks—people trying to be different just to be different.

  Callan didn’t judge, he wore a ridiculous hat most of the time, after all.

  —

  Sierra had been watching the spectacle of the Gateway activation in the distance, just visible over the buildings, which is why she hadn’t seen the boy standing next to Nugget.

  He had been there for a minute or so now, talking gently to the horse, and Cecil had finally noticed—mid-bite.

  Lowering her fork, she sat up straight and narrowed her eyes.

  What was he doing?

  Why was Nugget letting a stranger stand that close?

  Cal noticed Cecil peering out the window behind him, “What’s up?”

  “Dunno,”

  Cal turned in his chair—slow, awkward—and craned his neck. From his angle, he saw something Cecil couldn’t.

  A second boy.

  In front of Nugget.

  Feeding him treats.

  Cal slowly turned back to his plate, raising his next bite to his mouth.

  “Should’ve brought your saddlebags in,” he said casually. “About to get stolen.”

  And she was gone.

  Vannah yelled after her, “Leave the knife!”

  Sierra did not leave the knife.

  —

  Cal sighed, took one last, longing bite, and started the process of extracting himself from the too-small seat he was wedged into.

  “V?” He muttered, as he struggled.

  “Yup,” she replied, already digging for her credit stick. “I got it. Go ahead.”

  “Hollow’s Landing,” Cal groaned and headed for the exit, watching Sierra through the windows as she flew down the walkway toward the corner.

  As she reached it—but before she crossed the street—she called out to the boy.

  Cal couldn’t make it out.

  Rookie mistake, he thought.

  He shifted his gaze.

  The boy was already running like hell.

  Saddlebags in hand.

  Never let them know you’re coming.

  —

  Cal turned the corner and saw Cecil, table knife from Maria’s place in hand, hauling ass down the street.

  The boy had crossed over, and now she was too.

  She was nimble, fast, dodging pedestrians, vaulting over a box someone had left in the way.

  And wasting her time.

  Cal walked swiftly down the walkway on Nugget’s side of the street, eyes scanning for the first alley.

  As he moved, he pulled a small whistle from his breast pocket and blew two sharp notes.

  Cecil stopped and turned.

  Cal tilted his head toward the alley. “Here,” he called.

  “He went this way! I had him!” she shouted back, gesturing angrily with the table knife.

  Cal didn’t argue.

  She’d listen and learn, or she wouldn’t. Her choice.

  He stepped into the alley.

  —

  Ahead, a man, hunched, shuffling, a bottle of whiskey in hand, moving toward the far exit.

  Cal quickened his pace.

  He caught the Shuffling Man by the shoulder, spun him hard, grabbing a fistful of shirt and collar in his left hand, and snatching the whiskey bottle with his right, tossing it to the dirt.

  “Hey!” The man yelped.

  “Give it back,” Cal snarled.

  The man sounded feeble, stammering, “what? What do you want?!”

  Cal pivoted, turning them both, slamming the Shuffling Man against the alley wall. “You’ll give it back.”

  The man winced, hands half-raised, “I don’t know what you—”

  Cal jerked him forward, then slammed him back again, knocking his head against the wall.

  Now the Shuffling Man wasn’t so feeble. He snarled. “Motherfucker—”

  Cal cut him off. Shoving the fist gripping his collar higher.

  Driving it under his chin. Snapping his jaw shut and rocking his skull back against the wall—again.

  Cal leaned forward, pressing his weight into the man’s windpipe.

  Sierra rounded the corner into the alley, panting, eyes wide. “He was—”

  “Where is it?” Cal growled at the Shuffling Man.

  The man croaked, right arm lifting, pointing toward a barrel near the alley’s mouth.

  He tried to speak. Nothing but a strangled rasp.

  Sierra turned, following his finger.

  Cal didn’t turn his head. Didn’t look away.

  The Shuffling Man noted Cal’s gaze.

  And decided not to reach for the dagger after all.

  Cal smiled. Good decision.

  Sierra reached the barrel and tried to lift the top—nailed shut.

  The man wheezed out, “The back.”

  She rotated it.

  Sure enough—the back had been cut away.

  Inside were her saddlebags.

  Along with other purses and bags, some slashed open, others dumped empty.

  She lifted hers, the buckles were still fastened and the weight felt right.

  “I don’t think they got into it.”

  She checked a few of the others. All empty.

  “Got it?” Cal asked over his shoulder.

  “Yeah.”

  As soon as she replied, Cal spun—hard.

  In the same motion, he jerked the man around, pivoted his weight, and shoved.

  The Shuffling Man stumbled back, falling on his ass. Glaring.

  In one continuous motion, Cal threw his coat open, reached for the small of his back, and produced a gleaming nickel-plated revolver.

  He held it down at his side. Aimed at the ground.

  “Go on now.”

  Hesitation.

  Creeps and cowards always inserted it—that moment. Like they were gonna do something.

  Then he got up.

  Turned.

  Shuffled toward the exit.

  As he passed Sierra, she kicked him—hard.

  Right in the shin.

  The man stumbled, caught himself, springing up and rounding on her.

  Click-click.

  Cal’s revolver was no longer pointed at the ground.

  “Go on now.”

  The Shuffling Man sneered. “Little bitch.”

  “Ugly bitch.” Sierra shot back, instantly, brandishing the table knife toward him.

  She waited for him to create space, then spun on her heel, skipping toward Cal.

  He holstered his weapon once the man was out of sight.

  Cal cut his eyes to Sierra. “Bully.”

  Sierra grinned, broad and smug. “It’s fun to be mean. And I almost never get to do it.”

  Cal shook his head, smiling. “Does your sister not count?”

  “No,” Sierra replied flatly.

  Does being mean to your sister count?