The Jupiter Pirates by Jason Fry

words,” Carlo said.
    â€œBlackmail is such an ugly word,” Mavry said with a grin. “Let’s just say the defense minister made a trip into the Cybeles seem like an excellent use of our time.”
    Carlo started to say something else, but Diocletia held up her hand.
    â€œThat’s enough. Whatever the circumstances, we serve the Jovian Union and we’ve agreed to help,” Diocletia said. “I’ve told Grigsby to assemble the crew in Port Town by 0900 hours tomorrow. I want articles signed by all hands by 1100 and engines lit by 1200. Busy day tomorrow—get some sleep.”
    Â 
    It was strange, thought Tycho. Unless you were very close to a planet, moon, or asteroid, the solar system mostly looked the same—empty space as far as you could see. This far out, the sun was simply a more intense point of light than the other stars, the planets little bright dots slowly following their courses against the backdrop of the galaxy.
    And yet the outer reaches of the Cybeles felt different, Tycho thought. He knew it was crazy, but this area of space felt desolate and abandoned, as if the scattered chunks of rock somehow knew they were slowly tumbling through a portion of the solar system nobody cared about.
    Or at least this area of space was supposed to be deserted. Somewhere out here they might find secret work camps run by slavers. Or pirates’ nests. Or the hulks of abandoned freighters left adrift by their captors for retrieval months or years later.
    But they hadn’t found any of those things yet—not in a week of slow searching among the asteroids, sensors probing for a hint of engine emissions, a fragment of communications, or an unexpected heat source. As far as the crew of the Shadow Comet could tell, they were alone.
    They were all tired of it, but Huff had really had enough.
    He’d been outraged by Countess Tiamat’s insult even before finding out they’d been blackmailed into a rescue mission. He’d taken to standing by the ladderwell with his arms folded, muttering about the foolishness of this trip, when he wasn’t arguing with Vesuvia about unsafe operation of his forearm cannon. The rest of the Hashoones felt relieved whenever Huff’s power indicators turned red and he had to recharge his cybernetic body in his own cabin.
    At the moment, though, Huff’s indicators were green and he was mad.
    â€œArr, ain’t nothin’ out here but space dust,” he growled. “This ain’t even lookin’ for a needle in a haystack, because there ain’t no haystack.”
    â€œBelay that talk,” Diocletia said wearily. “Yana, target that clump of rocks at thirty degrees. Make sure you scan it for chemical signatures, too.”
    â€œThirty degrees, aye-aye,” Yana mumbled, hands moving automatically over her instruments. “Vesuvia, run a diagnostic check on the chemical sniffers.”
    â€œAll instruments are functioning normally,” said Vesuvia, the only member of the crew who didn’t sound exhausted, annoyed, or both.
    The engines throbbed momentarily as Carlo tapped the throttle, sending the Comet closer to the asteroids with a little puff of exhaust. Somewhere above them, their long-range fuel tanks were drifting slowly through space. Searching each section of the asteroids without them saved fuel and made the Comet more maneuverable.
    â€œNo chemical signatures detected,” Vesuvia said.
    â€œIon emissions?” asked Yana with a sigh.
    â€œNegative.”
    â€œCommunications bands?” Yana said.
    â€œNothing detected,” Vesuvia said.
    Yana groaned.
    â€œI take it back,” snarled Huff. “Ain’t even space dust out here. Right now a few grams of dust would seem like the Lost Treasure of the Maria Abelia .”
    The bells tolled three times—it was 1730, nearing the end of the first dog watch.
    â€œCarlo, take us to the next target in this sector—the