Chapter 11: BURYING VEN CALDER
The crash site looked different in dawn light.
Two weeks of exposure had stripped away the urgency. The freighter's hull had settled deeper into the volcanic rock, listing at an angle that suggested permanence. Scavengers had taken everything valuable—or what they'd thought was valuable. What remained was wreckage, debris, and the skeleton of a ship that would never fly again.
Home for about six hours. Lifetime ago.
I'd arrived before first light, parking the Requital behind a ridge two kilometers away. The walk had taken thirty minutes, long enough to review the plan.
Step one: plant personal effects throughout the wreckage. Make it look like Ven Calder had searched desperately for supplies before his wounds caught up with him.
Step two: create a death scene. The cockpit still had intact seats—one of them would become a final resting place. Burns from my emergency supplies would suggest a fire. The bone fragments I'd purchased would suggest remains.
Step three: scatter evidence. Not too obvious, not too hidden. Professional hunters expected partial pictures.
I got to work.
The first hour went smoothly. Ven Calder's spare jacket went into a cargo hold. His identification chip—the real one, the one with his debts attached—I wedged into a crack near the pilot's seat. His datapad, wiped and damaged, I left near the emergency hatch.
The bone fragments were harder. I had to burn them again, using a chemical accelerant that would leave the right kind of residue. The smell was awful—nothing like human remains, but close enough to suggest something organic had died here.
Professional hunters expect partial pictures.
I was arranging the final touches when I heard the engine.
Low-angle approach. Coming from the settlement direction.
I dropped behind a section of hull plating and pressed myself into the volcanic rock. My blaster was already in my hand—muscle memory from a different war, a different life.
The ship came into view: a compact patrol craft, well-maintained, bearing no markings I recognized. It circled the crash site once, twice, then settled on a flat section of ground fifty meters away.
The boarding ramp lowered.
Vera stepped out.
She moved carefully, blaster drawn, scanning the terrain with professional precision. Her eyes swept over my hiding spot without pausing—either she hadn't seen me or she was playing a longer game.
She approached the wreckage.
For ten minutes, I watched her examine the scene. She found the jacket first, checked its pockets, noted its placement. The identification chip took longer—she had to pry it loose with a tool, then scan it with a device from her belt.
Her expression didn't change. Vera was a professional.
She moved to the cockpit. Found the bone fragments. Studied them for a long time.
Too long.
When she spoke, her voice carried across the volcanic field.
"I know you're there. Come out."
My first instinct was to run. The Requital was two kilometers away, and Vera's ship was between me and the settlement. If I moved fast enough—
"I've already marked your position. Running will just make this complicated."
She spotted me. When?
I weighed my options. Fight was suicide—she had better position and probably better equipment. Hide was already compromised. Talk was dangerous but survivable.
I stepped out from cover.
"Hands where I can see them."
I raised my hands, blaster dangling from my trigger finger.
"Drop it."
I dropped it.
Vera approached, her own weapon steady. Up close, she was older than I'd estimated—mid-thirties, maybe, with lines around her eyes that suggested experience rather than age. Her horns caught the morning light.
"You're not Calder."
The statement was flat. Certain.
"No?"
"Wrong body language. Wrong posture. Calder was a runner—you move like you're waiting for something to hit you."
Military bearing. Damn.
"Maybe Calder changed."
"People don't change that much in two weeks."
She circled me slowly, keeping her distance. Her eyes catalogued everything: my clothes, my gloves, my stance.
"Who are you?"
"Cole Morgan. Independent contractor."
"And what's your interest in Ven Calder's crash site?"
"Salvage rights. I heard the ship went down, thought there might be something worth selling."
"Salvage." Vera's voice dripped skepticism. "This site was stripped clean a week ago. Nothing left but scrap."
"I was late to the party."
"Or you were early. Maybe you were the first one here."
She was smart. Too smart.
"What are you implying?"
"I'm implying that someone survived this crash. Someone who's been very careful about covering their tracks. Someone who might be standing in front of me right now, hoping I'm stupid enough to believe this staged death scene."
My heart hammered. The lie was falling apart.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"No?"
She stepped closer. Her free hand reached for my arm.
Contact.
I twisted away, batting her hand aside. Too late—her fingers closed around my gloved wrist.
The jolt didn't come.
For a long, terrible second, I waited for something to appear in my hand. Waited for her blaster to materialize, or her credit chip, or whatever random item my curse decided to steal.
Nothing happened.
Vera's eyes narrowed.
"Jumpy."
"Reflex."
She released my wrist. Stepped back.
The gloves worked. Passive theft blocked.
Relief flooded through me. Three seconds of human contact—the first since the Mikkian kid, weeks ago—and I hadn't stolen anything.
I could touch someone without destroying them.
My eyes burned. The volcanic dust, probably.
Vera holstered her blaster.
"You're connected to this somehow. I can smell it. But I can't prove it."
"Then we don't have a problem."
"We have a problem if you're lying to me."
She walked back to the staged scene, examining it with fresh eyes. I watched her check the bone fragments again, test the burn patterns, map the placement of personal effects.
"This is good work," she said finally. "Professional. Someone spent time making this look convincing."
"Maybe Calder really did die here."
"Maybe." She picked up a fragment of burned bone, rolled it between her fingers. "Or maybe someone wanted it to look that way."
She dropped the fragment and turned back to me.
"Here's what I think happened. Ven Calder survived the crash. He ran, maybe got lucky, maybe had help. Then someone—maybe him, maybe someone else—came back here and staged this scene."
"Interesting theory."
"Theories are all I have. No proof." She brushed dust from her hands. "And without proof, Rendo Vesh gets nothing."
"So you'll report the death as genuine?"
"I'll report what I found. Personal effects consistent with Ven Calder. Organic remains consistent with human decomposition. Scene consistent with delayed death from crash injuries." She smiled thinly. "All technically true."
"Why?"
The question came out before I could stop it.
Vera studied me for a long moment.
"Because Rendo Vesh is a debt collector, not a justice seeker. He hired me to confirm a death, not to start a war. And whatever game you're playing, Morgan, it's not worth my time."
She started walking back to her ship.
"One more thing."
I tensed.
"Stay out of my way. Whatever you're doing here, whoever you really are—I don't want to see you again."
"Understood."
She climbed into her ship without looking back. The engines spooled up, lifted, and carried her toward the settlement.
I stood in the wasteland, watching until she disappeared over the horizon.
Ven Calder is dead. Cole Morgan can begin.
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