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here.”
    They moved across the pad at a brisk walk, eyeing the spacesuited workers busy at various tasks. To their right stretched the broad expanse of the Kraken Mare. Undisturbed by wind or ripples, its surface formed a perfect mirror of the featureless sky. Glancing at it left Tycho momentarily confused between up and down, and he forced himself to look away.
    â€œThere’s no point hurrying,” Yana said. “It’ll take at least an hour to get a flight plan filed and approved.”
    â€œWe’re making our own flight plan,” Carlo said. “If those guys don’t stop us first.”
    Tycho followed his brother’s eyes and saw a pack of spacers emerging from a squat structure near the shore of the lake. They wore mismatched spacesuits—all of them decorated with the white wolf against the black background.
    Yana, behind her brothers, couldn’t see where Carlo was looking.
    â€œWhat guys?” she asked. “We can’t just blast out of here, you know. It’s a big fine—”
    â€œThey can bill me,” Carlo said.
    The lead spacer was pointing at them.
    â€œCarlo—” Tycho warned.
    â€œI see it! Run!”
    They jogged for the gig, struggling in the bulky suits, breath booming in one another’s ears. Carlo tapped out a command on his wrist control as he ran. The gig’s gangplank began to descend.
    â€œI’m flying,” he said as they rushed up the gangway. “Tyke, you handle the atmosphere exchange. Yana, sensors. Forget preflight.”
    Tycho peered out the viewports as the gangplank sealed itself behind them. The spacers raced toward the siblings, carbines in their hands. Some came to a halt in front of the gig, while others ducked beneath it, out of sight. Something clanked against the hull.
    â€œThey’re breaking in!” Yana warned.
    â€œNot with hand tools, they’re not,” Carlo said. “And they don’t have time to burn through. Just get the atmosphere exchanged and strap yourselves in.”
    â€œYou realize they’re all around us,” Tycho said.
    Carlo grinned, the scar on his face flexing. “They’ll move.”
    He slammed a bank of levers into the upright position, and lights winked on across the pilot’s console. A recording started to warn them about proper flight procedures. Carlo silenced it with a slap of his hand and pulled back on the control yokes. The engines whined, and the gig rose a meter above the landing pad.
    â€œWe are going to be in so much trouble,” Yana said. “Those aren’t pirates out there, you know. They’re port security, and—”
    â€œI’m not sure there’s much difference out here,” Carlo said. He whipped the gig’s nose around in a full circle, and the spacers dodged, arms held protectively over their heads.
    â€œWe’re at vacuum,” Tycho said. “Opening the air tanks.”
    A rattle told them the gig’s landing gear had retracted. Carlo nudged the gig forward on its maneuvering jets. Several spacers still stood ahead of them. One raised a carbine uncertainly, then lowered it in disgust, retreating as the whine of the gig’s engines rose to a roar and Carlo pointed the craft’s nose toward space.
    â€œDon’t cook anybody,” Tycho warned.
    â€œNot my style,” Carlo said. The gig rose smoothly into the orange sky, and within a few seconds the landing pad was a tiny rectangle far below them.
    A chime sounded on Tycho’s board. “Atmospheric cycling complete,” he said, tugging off his helmet gratefully as his siblings did the same.
    Yana swiped at the sweat on her forehead. “Now will somebody please tell me what happened back there? Starting with whatever that old woman was yelling about.”
    â€œRight,” Tycho said. “She was talking about a secret. And Iris. What is that?”
    â€œAn old spacer’s tale from our