Barnard’s Station was a cesspool.

  Originally built by the StarOre Corporation as a hub for mining operations in the Barnard’s Star system, the station fell into disrepair after a catastrophic reactor core meltdown at its largest mine. The explosion killed hundreds and left the entire site irradiated—so toxic even droids couldn’t operate there. StarOre went bankrupt, and the station was sold off to a partnership of Pioneers hoping to salvage what they could from the surrounding planets.

  The new owners repurposed the station into a rough-and-tumble trading post, catering to fellow Pioneers and Drifters. The latter were essentially wanderers, drifting between stars for reasons no one asked about. There were plenty of them out here—enough to make the station profitable. The owners made their money renting shop space and charging docking fees.

  A patchwork sprawl of businesses now filled the place: bars, shops, a small hotel, a few restaurants, and cramped residential quarters for the poor souls who lived there full-time. It had never been designed for this kind of use, but the owners did a hell of a job retrofitting what they could. Still, everything was run-down and ragged. This was the Frontier—resources were scarce, parts hard to come by, and there was no competition nearby to force improvements. Barnard’s Station was the only open port in the system, and it looked the part.

  Ving stopped here often. If someone out on the Frontier was involved in something illegal, chances were good they’d passed through Barnard’s Station.

  One of the worst places on the station was a bar called Avery’s—which made it perfect for criminals. It was cheap, seedy, and far enough off the beaten path to avoid too much security. Naturally, it was one of Ving’s regular meeting spots. That was where he was scheduled to meet Rollins and Batin. Rollins had already signaled that she was inside. Batin would be arriving soon.

  Ving left the Night Sky and made his way through the open market. It was packed today. Vendors hawked food, tech, art, jewelry, clothes—anything you might want, but rarely what you needed. The crowd was a mix of dirty miners, business types, the old, the young—even children. A few droids wandered the aisles. Security was minimal, nothing like a Federation-run port.

  People often got stuck here waiting for ship parts that never came. Every few weeks, a Federation ship would swing by to collect stranded travelers. Their impounded ships usually ended up sold for parts. That was life on the Frontier: sometimes you won, most times you didn’t.

  Avery’s was cobbled together from scrap—just a bar, some tables, a dartboard in the back, and an antique jukebox that sometimes worked. The lighting was dim, the air reeked of burnt metal and stale beer. The clientele was mostly miners and Drifters, a rowdy bunch prone to bar fights and blackout drinking.

  Rollins was already seated at the bar, nursing a beer. She was from Germany, and beer was her drink of choice.

  “Ving. You look like shit. Don’t you ever sleep?” she said as he sat down.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Ving said dryly. “I just slept ten hours like a goddamn baby.” In truth, he’d barely scraped an hour.

  “If you say so. I wouldn't be able to sleep either, not after hearing an explosion like that,” she said.

  “I’m sorry—how did you know there was an explosion?” Ving asked, his voice edged with suspicion.

  “Oh… uh. Night Sky’s logs. I was reading them while I waited for you,” Rollins replied, a little too quickly.

  That was odd. How had she gotten access to the logs so fast? And why bother reading them? It didn’t matter—Ving let it go for now.

  “You get any new intel? I think my phone’s struggling with the uplink,” she asked.

  Barnard’s didn’t have proper long-range comms. Ships did, but agents like Rollins weren’t about to plug into unsecured networks unless it was an emergency.

  SIA phones were top-tier, but they only connected when an SIA beacon was nearby. Barnard’s Station was too high-profile for the SIA to plant one without it being discovered.

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  “Nothing new since the first message,” Ving said. “Batin might have something once his ship docks.”

  Ving was looking forward to getting back on an SIA vessel. After weeks riding crusty freighters, the thought of a real bed and a stocked mess hall sounded like paradise.

  “So, what do you think this is about? Immortality clones again?” Rollins asked.

  Ving signaled the droid bartender for a beer, pointing to Rollins’ glass to avoid shouting over the noise.

  “Probably. People have dreamed of immortality for thousands of years. No surprise the rich keep throwing money at it—even if it always fails.”

  “Would you do it? If it were legal, I mean.”

  “Not a chance in hell,” Ving said. “Death sounds like the only way I’ll ever get some real sleep.”

  “Yeah, that sounds about right for you,” she chuckled. “What about deep space travel? Like... really deep. Generation ship stuff. Think they’d allow cloning then?”

  “Maybe. But who the hell wants to travel that far? And who’s gonna stop you out there? We can’t even enforce cloning laws in our own backyard.”

  “Why does the Federation even bother policing the Frontier, if people can just do whatever they want beyond it?” she asked.

  Rollins was still a rookie—barely a year in the field. Ving had worked with her during her first assignment, back when their work was mostly light recon. She’d seemed too clean-cut for the Frontier then, and Ving still wasn’t sure she belonged out here.

  “Because what they do out here can come back to bite us in the ass. And some things are so wrong, they can’t be allowed to happen anywhere. No matter how hard it is to stop. A lot of people out here need our help.”

  “I can see that. You’ve seen some horrible shit, haven’t you?” she asked softly.

  “I grew up out here. I saw horrible shit before I ever joined the SIA.”

  Rollins was only twenty-six—young, sharp, and doing well under pressure. Ving respected her, even if he worried she wasn’t ready for the unexpected.

  “I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe. Things I wish I could erase from memory. Things I never talk about,” he said flatly.

  He wasn’t exaggerating. Ving was forty-two, a veteran of the Frontier. He started working with the SIA as a teen informant. At eighteen, he joined the academy at Venus Station and trained for four years before returning home.

  Green agents didn’t usually get field assignments this dangerous, but Ving had one thing most lacked: he belonged here. The SIA trusted him in ways they didn’t trust Rollins. That discrepancy bothered him.

  “Do you really think cloning is that big of a deal?” she asked.

  “Yes, it most ce,” came a voice behind them. “Big enough to be outlawed in the Federal Constitution. Ethically wrong. And the risk of genetic instability is very real.”

  Batin had arrived.

  “Batin. Nice of you to finally join us,” Rollins said.

  Something about Batin's reply seemed off.

  “Mage, is he lying?” Ving thought silently.

  “Yes, James. Agent Batin does not believe cloning is ethically wrong.”

  Mage’s voice filled Ving’s mind. The AI implant could detect lies—an invaluable tool during interrogations. It had saved his life more than once.

  Ving had multiple implants, including a cybernetic right arm and a neural interface that let him communicate with Mage telepathically.

  “Well, that’s interesting,” Ving thought. “Never figured Batin for a cloning supporter. But he's allowed an opinion.”

  “Was Rollins lying about the logs?”

  “No clear indicators. Mixed inflection, conflicting signals. Almost like she was telling the truth... but didn’t know it was a lie.”

  “Odd,” Ving replied silently. “Keep an eye on her.”

  Batin and Rollins were now engaged in a debate about cloning ethics. Ving only half-listened, his thoughts drifting.

  He was staring off behind Rollins. There was a man there, a miner from the looks of him. He had a motion tattoo of a fractal pattern that repeated infinitely. It was hypnotic.

  It wasn’t surprising that Batin would hide his true beliefs. Federation agents swore to uphold the Constitution. Supporting cloning wasn’t exactly a good look.

  Ving had known Batin for over twenty-five years. The man had been a mentor to him during his early SIA years and one of his handlers back when he was just an informant.

  Batin grew up in Iran but studied all over the Federation. He turned down a PhD to join the SIA out of sheer patriotic duty—a rare thing. He was one of the most honorable men Ving had ever known.

  “We need to get moving,” Batin said. “We’ve only got five hours before the meeting. Time to make a plan.”

  Ving and Rollins downed their drinks and stood.

  “All right, Batin,” Ving said. “Lead the way. Let’s get this over with so I can get some damn rest.”

  The trio headed to Batin’s ship, docked at the edge of the station. Inside, they’d finalize their plan to dismantle the illegal cloning operation—before it was too late.