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manufacture live rounds anymore, do they?
    And then there’s the old woman with a pouf of silver hair, cosmetics caked into the creases of her face. She looks like a stereotypical holo-representation of a madame; I half expect her “girls” to pour out of a nearby ship and cluster around her, giggling. But nope, that leaves the third member of the quartet waiting for me, a short, slight fellow with a receding hairline and a rabbity face, very little chin. The last person appears to be a surprisingly young woman, although I’ve learned not to accept things at face value. But she’s slim—smooth skin, dark hair…and she has pale green eyes.
    My gaze sharpens. There’s a J-gene carrier, unregistered, out here in the back of beyond? The Corp should have signed her up, begun her training, and had her making jumps by now. Well, if not currently, then within a year or two. I put her age around eighteen, but I might be wrong.
    Well, if I’m holding out for a polite introduction from my new crewmates, I’ll wait forever. They’ve arrayed themselves at my back, silent. I sense amusement from March; he enjoys seeing me at a disadvantage, I think. I don’t know why, as he’s certainly seen me that way a lot. From the first moment he entered my cell and caught me on the verge of tears, he’s seen more of that than probably any other living soul. It occurs to me that, for the sake of symmetry, I should probably kill him.
    March cuts me a sharp look. Okay, what the hell —
    â€œI’m Sirantha Jax,” I say aloud.
    â€œYes, we know.” Really don’t like the way the old woman smiles; there’s a spidery quality to her from her wrinkle-web face to the strands of hair slithering from her bouffant bun. “Your reputation precedes you.”
    By dumb luck, I retain my polite smile because there’s definite nastiness to her tone. I’m trying to decide how to respond to that, remembering that March told me not to offend anyone, when I feel something drop around my shoulders. Glancing back, I see that it’s Saul, the ship’s doc. At least he’s on my side. He’s given me his overcoat; the length is about right, but it would wrap around me twice with fabric to spare. Still, I appreciate the gesture, and I shrug into it fully, nice heavy s-wool.
    â€œThanks,” I murmur, and he steps back, leaving me to deal with these strangers. Oddly, just by virtue of the coat, I feel more armored, more equipped to do so. “March didn’t have time to brief me.”
    And the bastard elbows me in the back because he knows I’m bullshitting. Guess it entertained him to throw me in headfirst and watch whether I’d sink or swim. I’m starting to wonder how bad it would’ve been, lounging around a Corp asylum for the rest of my days under heavy sedation.
    The leathery man chuckles. “That’s March for ya. I’m Jor Dahlgren. Good to finally meet you.” As if we’ve been planning this rendezvous for a while. I must admit, it’s more than a little unnerving to have people making those kinds of pronouncements. His handshake grinds my knuckles together, but I don’t wince when I pull my hand back. “This is my mother, Mair Dahlgren, and my daughter, Keri.” The girl inclines her head to me like royalty, and the crone’s smile widens, revealing yellow teeth.
    â€œThe pleasure’s mine.”
    Holy shit, they really are a dysfunctional family. A family had the power to dispatch someone to Perlas Station, send my AI into maintenance, and manually unlock my cell door? If so, what’re they doing on a backward rock like Lachion? Damn, it’s cold here. The wind’s slicing right through the overcoat down to the slinky s-silk bodysuit. I may look good, but I’m going to poke No-chin’s eye out if he gets any closer.
    Jor doesn’t introduce the little guy, so I turn to him, and