The thing about dying in space is that your body knows before you do. I can feel it now—the tremor in my left hand as I try to steady the stolen data pad, the way colors bleed at the edges of my vision like watercolors left in the rain. My neural implant is degrading, eating itself from the inside out, and I have exactly eighty-seven days before it takes my entire cerebral cortex with it. Eighty-seven days to prove I didn't kill three hundred and forty-two people. The Rust Haven station smells like recycled air and desperation, which makes sense because that's exactly what it is—a floating graveyard for people the universe has already given up on. I press myself against the corrugated metal wall of Bay 7, watching a group of smugglers unload contraband medical supplies from a battered freighter. The cargo bay's dim lighting flickers, casting shadows that move like living things. "You're the navigator," a voice says behind me. I don't turn around. "You're mistaken." "Mira Chen. Former celestial navigator, first class. Lighthouse Guild, Eastern Quadrant." The voice is male, rough like gravel scraped over steel. "The woman who led the Meridian convoy straight into the Veil Storm. Three hundred forty-two souls, gone in eighteen seconds." My jaw clenches. "I said you're mistaken." "Then why are you here, asking about corrupted beacon codes?" Now I turn. The man is tall, with dark skin marked by the silvery scars of radiation exposure. His eyes are augmented—illegal military-grade optics that glow faintly amber in the low light. He's wearing a smuggler's vest, but the way he stands screams former military. "Who are you?" I demand. "Kade Ossian. And I'm the only person on this station who believes you didn't murder those people." He tilts his head, studying me. "Your hand's shaking. How long?" I shove my traitorous hand into my pocket. "None of your business." "Neural implant degradation. I've seen it before." He steps closer, and I catch the scent of ozone and something else—star metal, the rare alloy used in navigation equipment. "You've got what, three months? Less?" "Eighty-seven days," I hear myself say. The admission feels like defeat. Kade nods slowly. "Then we don't have time to waste. I know about the beacons. I know someone's been corrupting the navigation network, and I know the Veil Storm wasn't random." He pauses. "And I know you're not the only navigator they've targeted." My heart hammers against my ribs. For six weeks, I've been chasing shadows, following digital breadcrumbs through black market data exchanges and encrypted message boards. Every lead has gone cold. Every contact has either disappeared or turned up dead. "Why should I trust you?" I ask. "Because three days ago, my sister's ship followed a Guild-certified navigation path and vanished." His voice cracks, just slightly. "Forty-three people on that vessel. The Guild is calling it pilot error. But I pulled the flight logs before they could scrub them. The beacon signatures match the ones from your Meridian route." The air between us feels electric. "You have the logs?" "Fragments. Enough to know this is bigger than one disgraced navigator." He extends a data chip, holding it between two fingers like an offering. "But I need someone who can read star-maps, who understands the beacon network's architecture. I need a navigator." I stare at the chip. It's a trap. It has to be. The Guild has been hunting me since my exile, and bounty hunters have made three attempts on my life in the last month alone. This could be another setup, another way to ensure I disappear before I can expose whatever rot is eating through the navigation network. But it could also be the evidence I need. My implant pulses, sending a spike of pain through my temple. A reminder: eighty-seven days. Then nothing. I take the chip. "There's a condition," Kade says. "I have contacts in the Outer Reaches, people who can help us trace the corruption. But we'll need to travel through unregulated space. No Guild protection, no legal recourse." His amber eyes lock onto mine. "And some of those contacts are people you put away, back when you were still wearing a Guild badge." "You're saying I'll have to face people who want me dead." "I'm saying you already are facing people who want you dead. At least this way, you'll have answers first." The smugglers behind us finish their unloading, and the cargo bay begins to empty. In the distance, I hear the station's security klaxons—someone's been caught, or someone's been found. Time is always running out in places like this. "There's something else you should know," I tell Kade, because if we're doing this, he deserves the truth. "My inner compass is gone. Whatever they did to frame me, they severed my connection to the navigation field. I can read star-maps, but I can't feel the pathways anymore." I meet his eyes. "I'm a broken navigator." Kade considers this for a long moment. Then he smiles, sharp and dangerous. "Good thing I'm a hell of a pilot." ---