The salvage barge, which Varg had affectionately named The Brick, vibrated with the kind of mechanical enthusiasm that suggested it might explode at any second.
Rin sat on the edge of the cargo deck, legs dangling over the side as the purple-bruised landscape of the Caprivi Strip faded behind them, replaced by the endless, flat beige of the Etosha Pan. The air up here was thin, cold, and smelled of Varg's cigar smoke.
"You're heavy," Varg's voice crackled over the intercom, sounding annoyed. "Three hundred extra passengers is killing my fuel efficiency. I'm adding a surcharge to your bill."
"Put it on my tab," Rin muttered, staring at his hands.
The gray scars on his right arm had settled into a geometric pattern, lines of pale static that looked like a circuit board tattooed in ash. It didn't hurt anymore. It felt... connected.
[System Alert: New Message]
