Captain’s log, 15 December 2157.

We’ve had a bit of trouble with the onboard communicators.

Three days on the junk planet Atalanta did not a vacation make. The crew of ASC Fermata sat around on the sunny, smelly surface, passing around a jug of what passed for lemonade, the only hospitality extended to them by their hosts, the repair technicians.

“Screw the District,” Nola said for the fifty-eighth time since their arrival.

“I mean, they didn’t break the law,” Jesse pointed out after taking a swig of lemonade and passing it to his left.

“They have stupid laws,” Nola said.

Jesse shrugged. “It’s not really up to us to challenge them.”

“Of course it is!” Ieva’s tails twitched. &ld...

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