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military presence around the planet. But the Senate couldn’t keep such tightly controlled access to the aliens forever, and Shayalin was looking forward to the stream of novel, exotic goods an entire new race must be able to provide.
    That wasn’t why she was anticipating restored order, though. She was insatiably curious about the aliens—the Bellers, as they were called—and so far almost no information about them had leaked out. Despite this, a faction had sprung up almost as soon as the news had hit the feeds: the Purists, determined to keep human society uncontaminated by any alien influence. Shayalin knew better than to wonder how people could be so small-minded in this age, having been raised by Steaders who had deliberately sought the most forsaken planet they could find and turned their back on advanced tech. She still thought they were idiots.
    Of course, it was hard to tell the aliens’ intentions. So far only one person had been able to communicate with them: Speaker Nala Zakiyah, born with a mutation that allowed her to speak in their tongue. She was said to be working with a team of xenolinguists to decipher one of their languages and build a device capable of emitting their words. But no reports of her progress had come out of the quarantine.
    Shayalin allowed herself a quick check of the newsfeeds—still nothing—before rounding up her crew. They were more accustomed to her father’s mysterious commissions, as some of them had worked with him before coming over to her ship, and most were glad of the opportunity to visit the Ionia .
    Creeds, her second, reacted the way she had. “You don’t even know what the job is yet? You have to go find out in person?”
    “I know,” she said, strangely reassured by his scowl. “But I can handle it.”
    His frown only deepened. “You’re meeting the client alone?”
    “I’m getting picked up in a bar,” she said in disgust. “Having you with me might get in the way.”
    “I could watch from another table,” he suggested.
    She patted his arm. “Stop hovering. You’d think you were my chaperone.”
    He snorted.
    Their slip to the Ionia was uneventful. They avoided the established slip points as a matter of habit—her father had given Shayalin the compass to use—and sailed into one of the Ionia ’s docking cradles.
    She unstrapped herself and hit the lock, letting the door swing open and downward. Security guards flanked the ramp before she even set foot upon it. None of their rifles was aimed at her, but they still made for an ostentatious display.
    The head guard pointed Shayalin toward a portable scanner. “No weapons,” he said.
    “You think I’m an idiot?”
    “Does that mean you have some or that you don’t?”
    Shayalin refrained from rolling her eyes. “I don’t.” She walked through the scanner, which remained cooperatively quiet, and the guard waved her on. Most of her crew made it past with equal ease, although Apris had a such a nervous demeanor they made him run through it a second time, and Ramiruz’s cybernetic hand always warranted a particularly detailed inspection.
    “All right,” she said to them in the hall once they’d all gotten through. “Scatter, have fun, but not too much. I’ll let you know more when I do.”
    Creeds waited 'til everyone else had left then gave her a single, sharp nod. She knew he’d quietly keep an eye on her—unless she was fool enough to protest, and any semblance of quiet would be abandoned for an argument she couldn’t win. She’d never out-stubborned Creeds, and she didn’t try this time.
    She found the Questor Lounge easily enough. It was dimly lit, but its old-fashioned wood veneers told her it was a classy place, at least enough so to keep out the common riff-raff. Less crowds meant it was easier to find someone, she supposed, although that also translated into being more easily noticed. Shayalin claimed a seat at the bar and ordered a drink to nurse while she waited for her