Nahuli reaches the free port through a ribbed service corridor that smells of hot sealant and stale coolant. The scrapyard bay opens ahead, lit by strip lamps and the blue blink of local-power indicators. Around him, welded patchwork walls tremble with distant hull traffic.
Ranuko and Serafina are already here, moving with the careful patience of people who have learned that a station can listen if you let it. The sandbox cradle hums beside a stack of tagged parts, its containment field flickering faintly over the hidden drive.
A maintenance skiff settles onto the bay rail outside, and a tall figure in a grease-streaked station coat steps down. He carries a clipped case and a portable reader, the kind that means either inspection or payment.
Maintenance route flagged. I need to know who kept it alive, and who thinks they own it now.
Serafina shifts half a step in front of the cradle, eyes on the auditor’s hands. Ranuko’s feathers lift at the neck, and he checks the cradle seals again, like tighter hardware might make the moment less dangerous.
Nahuli
The reader is on, and the case looks heavy enough to matter.