Dinner was a feast of "Spicy Nova-Chips" and two cans of "Turbo-Cola" from the vending machine down the hall.

  They sat cross-legged on the narrow bunk of the sleep-pod, the blue light of the holo-emitter casting long shadows on the metal walls.

  "These are... aggressive," Sheila noted, wiping orange dust from her lip. "They hurt my tongue."

  "That's the flavor," Ford explained, crunching on a chip. "Pain is a key ingredient in snack food."

  He tapped the datapad between them. It displayed a crude map of the Sanctuary Moon—or at least, what looked like a moon. It was mostly jungle and ruins.

  "Okay, let's talk tactics," Ford said, washing down the chips with a swig of Turbo-Cola. "We jump to the Artemis System tomorrow. We land at the old spaceport on the south continent."

  "And then I find General Vance," Sheila said. "He was my father's oldest friend. He commands the garrison there."

  "Correction," Ford held up a finger. "Then I look for General Vance. You stay in the ship."

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  Sheila frowned. "But he won't talk to a trucker. He needs to see me."

  "He needs to not shoot you," Ford countered. "Think about it, Carol. If the coup was thorough, your Uncle didn't just kill the King. He purged the loyalists. What if Vance is dead? What if he's turned?"

  Sheila went quiet. She crunched a chip slowly.

  "If I walk in there and say 'I have the Princess,' and he's loyal, great," Ford continued. "If he's turned, I get arrested for being a cranky old man. If you walk in there, and he's turned... game over."

  "So we scout," Sheila said.

  "We scout," Ford agreed. "We land. We sniff the air. We check the local news feeds. We see if the garrison is flying the Royal Flag or the Regent's banner."

  "And if it's the Regent's banner?" Sheila asked.

  Ford looked at the map. He looked at the orange dust on his fingers.

  "Then we have a problem," Ford admitted.

  "What is the backup plan?"

  "There isn't one," Ford said honestly. "Fuel costs money. We're broke. If Vance isn't there, or if he's an enemy, we are stranded on a jungle moon with no credits and a price on our heads."

  Sheila took a sip of the neon-green soda. She grimaced at the sweetness.

  "You really know how to inspire confidence, Ford."

  "I'm a realist," Ford shrugged. "Realists live longer. Optimists usually end up in the airlock."

  He turned off the map.

  "Get some sleep, kid. Tomorrow we run the blockade at Artemis. You're gonna need your strength."

  Sheila lay down on the hard mattress, pulling the scratchy blanket up to her chin.

  "Ford?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Thank you. for the chips."

  "Don't mention it," Ford muttered, climbing into the upper bunk. "Seriously. Don't mention it. My cholesterol is already a disaster."