Crab season had been over for eight solar days, but the Pequod cracked the asteroid anyway. The thing was sitting right there, all fat and juicy and full of karkinoi, and a catch was a catch. The Pequod’s take had been lousy the back half of the season, and the only cargo kicking around the hold was a stack of crates filled with something illegal that was bound for Unified territory with no questions asked.

            Granté thumbed the detonator and watched the asteroid blow, little ripples washing out across its surface from the midline. Next to him, Hiss nodded appreciatively, his pale eyes focused on the bisected hunk of rock.

            The ship’s marionette skittered up, spiderlegs tapping like impatient fingers. “Remote dispensers have been retrieved.” Pequod’s voice was characteristically off-kilter, like a drunk underwater. “The Captain – ”

            Paola cut in over the comms, irritated. “The Captain says to drop the net. You’re being anxious again, Peak, and anxious is annoying.”

            If Paola was verbalizing her aggravation, it meant she was furious, and the ship knew it as well as anyone. The marionette shifted nervously, half-retreating toward the ventilation system it haunted when the ship wasn’t using it to harangue the crew. “Apologies, Captain.”

            Hiss made the sound that lent him his name and hit the net release. Through the broad viewpane at the Pequod’s stern, Granté could see it fly free, a little rocket-powered bundle trailing black cables that stood invisible against the void. The bundle shot past the shattered chunks of rock, the boosters went dead, and the net snapped open. The Pequod groaned as the connection cables went taut.

            Peak would have normally chimed in with some statistical commentary on the net’s potential catch rate, but the ship seemed to have been cowed by Paola’s irritation.

            “Contact…that’s one,” Paola said, a note of satisfaction coloring her tone. “More incoming. Scans weren’t far off – good work, Peak.”

            “My pleasure, Captain. Shall I ready the stunners?”

            Hiss gave the marionette a sour look. Before he could sign anything offensive, Paola said, “Let Hiss do it. He’s the expert.”

            Granté didn’t know exactly where one acquired an expertise in the stunwebbing the Pequod used to discombobulate their catch, but Hiss didn’t like to answer questions about himself, and Granté didn’t like to pry.

            Hiss’ fingers flew across the console.

            “Contact seven,” Paola noted. “That’s all of ‘em.”

            Hiss fired the stunners and electric arcs fizzled across the net, carving a bright grid across the vacuum beyond.

            “Nice,” Granté said, appreciating the show. “Fried ‘em.”

            Not too much, I hope, Hiss signed.

            “Just right,” Peak said, its eight-legged avatar skittering up the center of the console to stand between the two men. “May I retract the net?” The marionette’s brick-shaped head pivoted toward Hiss, red ocular flaring expectantly.

            Go ahead, Hiss signed.As Peak’s marionette worked the controls, he continued, Time to crack some shells. He gestured to the armory.

            “Be right there. Going to rip a piss first.” Granté hit the head and washed down a stimulant capsule with a bit of vodka. Peak’s marionette was waiting for him when he came out.

            “I don’t mean to be a distraction, but I feel it necessary to voice a concern,” the marionette said, extending its neck so its head was at hip-height.

            “…did you talk to Paola?” Granté said, only half-listening. The vodka had gone down wrong and he was fighting the urge to throw up.

            “I thought the Captain might prove unreceptive.”

            “To your concern.”

            “Precisely.” The marionette clattered along next to him. “While I understand the economic upside to a larger catch, a Customs check could prove disastrous.”

            “Sure. Might turn up the crates we’re smuggling,” Granté said. “What’s going on with you? You’ve been acting all…fidgety.”

            “I’ve been spending too much time looking at statistics,” Peak said quietly.

            Granté waved the hatch ahead open and continued down the narrow gangway. “What’s the math got you worried about now?”

            “Statistically speaking, the Pequod should have encountered two-point-eight mission-endangering events during this voyage.”

            “So, you’re anxious just because we didn’t blow an engine or get shot at by pirates?”

            The marionette hung its head. “It is not, strictly speaking, a logical concern.”

            “Exactly. You shouldn’t worry so much.”

            The ship didn’t reply.

            Hiss was already half-dressed when Granté arrived at the armory. The mute man slipped into his mesh underplate, the scars crisscrossing his ribcage like red-and-pink plaid in the room’s bright light.

            Granté had his own scars, years-old war wounds knitted over with pink tissue. Hiss’ were fresh, as if he’d picked them up right before the season started – another mystery Granté would never ask about.

            Hiss slung a pneumatic lance over his shoulder and looked back, raised his eyebrows quizzically. Good to go?, he signed, fingers dancing.

            Granté finished wrangling his outer plate into position and picked up a lance. “Let’s kill us some crabs.” The pair sealed their helmets and moved to the bay doors. “Peak, pop the doors.”

            The ship complied immediately; as the doors groaned open, Paola’s voice drifted through their in-helmet comms: “Good luck.”

            “We don’t need luck,” Granté offered. “We’ve got Hiss.” He slapped his crewmate across the shoulders. Hiss made the raspy sort of half-cough that served him for a laugh and strode into the bay. Granté activated his lance and followed. Just ahead, Hiss toggled his driftboots, rising up until he floated two meters above the deck.

            The floodlights flicked on, illuminating the catch.

            Seven crabs were still dazed from the stunwebbing that lined the net; only the two largest specimens were standing, and both stumbled drunkenly, their meter-long legs sliding on the deck.

            I’ll get the females, Hiss signed. Without waiting for Granté to reply, he boosted down toward the nearest female karkinos and drove his lance into its back. The piston in the lance’s haft thudded forward; the crab shuddered and went still. Hiss was already in the air, leaping over a clumsy claw-swipe.

            “Going to make me look bad.” Granté set to work on the other karkinoi. He’d dispatched the first of two and was moving to a third when Hiss grunted in surprise. The surviving female had avoided a killing strike from his lance and grabbed the weapon by the haft. Its claw snapped closed and sheared the lance in two; Hiss boosted away, tucking his knees to his chest and narrowly avoiding the creature’s other claw. Granté abandoned his pursuit of the smaller specimens and jumped up to the female’s back, jabbing his weapon into the karkinos’ shell with both hands. The piston fired and the crab jerked, its left claw flailing in odd spasms. Granté leaned in on the haft of his lance, activating the piston a second time.

            The karkinos stopped moving so abruptly that Granté nearly fell off. He steadied himself and floated back into the air. Hiss, hovering nearby, signed, Thank you, and gestured to the surviving crabs.

            Two of them were extricating themselves from the netting. The last was nowhere to be seen.

            Granté dove down to the visible karkinoi. “Peak, what happened to the seventh crab?”

            The ship didn’t answer until he’d lanced them both. “It entered my primary ventilation system. Unfortunately.” The Pequod’s marionette traipsed into view, head low like a guilty dog’s.

            “And where is it now?” Paola’s voice snapped over the comms, harsh as if she’d just smoked.

            “Currently contained on deck two,” Peak said sheepishly. “I’ve shut down the living quarters’ primary ventilation shaft.”

            Hiss whistled urgently. He’d descended to floor level and was crouched by one of the recently-deceased female karkinoi, examining the crab’s underside. He looked to Granté, eyes wide, and signed, They were spawning.

            “Damn. Not much chance of selling those.” Granté didn’t expect a response, nor did he get one.

            Paola broke the silence, her tone brittle. “Get to the bridge – we’ve got company.”

            The Pequod had reached the edge of Unified territory while they’d been killing the crabs, and Paola was talking quietly on the ship’s comms, chin rested in her hand. The patch over her right eye socket split her frown into two uneven pieces. Peak’s marionette moved to the corner and stood in place, swaying side-to-side as if it was at sea.

            “Who’s on comms?” Granté squinted out the viewport, trying to spot the approaching craft.

            “The ICA Tantalus,” Peak said, marionette fidgeting. “Scans show their weapons are armed.”

            “Wouldn’t be ICA if they didn’t come in hot.” Granté turned to Hiss. “I thought we were paid up for the post-season.”

            I thought so, too, Hiss signed.

            Paola didn’t answer. She tilted her head and narrowed her remaining eye like she always did when paying close attention to something she intensely disliked.

            “This is the Pequod. Confirm request, please.” Paola’s voice was tight. Granté couldn’t hear what the voice on the other end was saying, but the stony expression on Paola’s face told him what he needed to know well before she toggled the comms off and said, “They’re boarding us.”

            Hiss made a strangled noise that stood in for a violent expletive, and retrieved a sawed-off shotgun from under one of the bridge’s control consoles, offered it to Paola.

            “What do they want?” Granté asked. “We are paid up for the post-season, right?”

            Paola waved off the shotgun. “We were paid up. Agent Schafer may have adjusted the bargain.”

            Now it was Granté’s turn to curse. “Schafer. Figures.”

            Paola got back on the comm. “Copy that, Tantalus. We’ll see you at the airlock.” She paused and her frown deepened. “I’m not sure that’s necessary.” Another pause. “If you insist.” There were razors in her voice.

            “Should I ready the airlock for guests?” Peak asked politely.

            “What were they insisting on?” Granté inquired.

            “Schafer’s coming onboard. Wants to meet on the bridge instead of the airlock.” Paola snorted. “Harder for us to cut and run that way.”

            “They said that?” Granté asked, skeptical.

            “Not in so many words. It’s my best guess, though.” Paola shrugged. “And I’m halfway decent at guessing.”

            Peak’s marionette danced in place nervously. “Captain, the airlock…”

            “Yeah, get it ready.” Paola rubbed her temples as if she had a headache.

            Hiss indicated the shotgun.

            “Leave it,” Paola said. “There’s no chance Schafer comes alone.”

            We have more guns, Hiss signed.

            “I appreciate your enthusiasm, Hiss, but there’s a time and a place for enthusiasm, and this is neither. Low-velocity rounds wouldn’t punch through their armor, and nobody’s shooting anything else inside a voidship.”

            A faint clong drifted from the ventilation shaft overhead and Granté was struck with an idea, the sort that’s either brilliant or horrid but never anything in between.  “Peak – the karks were spawning when we blew the asteroid. Can you use you redirect your backup vent system to the airlock, hit Schafer and his goons with air from inside the retrieval bay?”

            “Yes, but – ”

            Paola raised a hand for quiet. “I see what you’re getting at. Once they’re on the bridge, close down everything in the primary vents that doesn’t lead straight here. Keep the kark boxed up a few rooms away, just in case.”

            Hiss smiled. This seems like an interesting way to die, he signed.  

            Granté pointed to Peak’s marionette. “You heard the captain. Let’s catch us one last crab.”

            The ship made a sort of grumbling noise as if it wanted to complain, then set to work. By the time the Tantalus came abreast of the Pequod and the two ships locked entrance bays, Peak had the vent shafts set for redirection.

            Waiting is the worst part, Hiss signed.

            “Schafer probably just wants to scare us, is all,” Granté offered weakly. The others gave him witheringly skeptical looks and he didn’t pursue the theory further.

            Schafer, it transpired, did not just want to scare them. The customs agent, paler and more tired-looking than last time Granté had seen him, whisked onto the bridge, shadowed by four identically-clad customs agents. Schafer treated the crew to a contemptuous sneer and made a brief chopping gesture with his right hand. One of his minions raised their service weapon and shot Peak’s marionette five times, dropping it twitching and sparking to the deck.

            “Go ahead and turn off your ship’s brain. Everything but the essentials.” Schafer indicated the control board nearest the entrance, his face placid, unblinking.

            Before Paola said something combative or Hiss tried to murder anyone, Granté moved to the console and suspended Peak’s non-essential functions.

            Schafer stepped over the shredded body of Peak’s marionette and paced across the bridge in front of the group. “Wonderful. I love it when people are cooperative.”

            “We’re paid up,” Paola grated. “I don’t see what warrants the harassment.”

            “We don’t care about off-season crabs,” Schafer said, his tone casual. “But,” he continued, “I must admit to some curiosity regarding the crates in your hold. If there were any regulated materials in them, well…” He tut-tutted. “It would be a lot of trouble for you, and a lot of paperwork for me – under our current arrangement.”

            Hiss grimaced almost imperceptibly. Paola scratched her head in exaggerated confusion. “This is a crab boat, Agent Schafer. We don’t carry regulated materials.”

            Schafer sighed. “I don’t like liars, Captain. You’re lying to me. If you do it again, there will be consequences.” His eyes were cold blue slits. “The people who hired you talked. Now it’s your turn.”

Paola’s one eye blinked slowly. “Like I said – this is a crab boat.”

Schafer regarded her for a moment. Then he pointed to Hiss and Granté. “Shoot those two.”

            The agents raised their weapons.

            Granté had never considered what his last words should be, so all he managed was a panicked kind of squawk, like a startled parrot.

            The ventilation hatch behind the agents slid open; the marionette’s half-destroyed body had crawled across the bridge to the controls while the agents had been distracted with the Pequod’s living crew members.

            Schafer and his men turned and opened fire. Peak’s marionette, already missing chunks of its head and torso, disintegrated into scrap metal. The agents kept firing, and Granté saw something move in the shadows of the ventilation shaft.

            The karkinos erupted into the light, claws pulled wide. Its void-black eyes caught Granté’s and his blood froze over. Bullets chipped into its shell and the creature leapt toward Schafer’s men, shots sparking off its carapace.

            Hiss grabbed Granté by the arm and hauled him down behind one of the bridge control consoles. Paola scrambled in a moment later.

            Granté peeked over the lip of the console. The karkinos was already among the agents, its claws effortlessly carving through ballistic armor and the soft bodies inside. Schafer shoved one of his men into the crab’s path and made a break for the bridge exit. The karkinos hacked the distraction down almost absentmindedly; for a terrifying moment, Granté envisioned it charging him, jagged claws snapping his life away.

            The crab turned and scuttled after Schafer. Granté caught a pale flash of the agent’s terrified face; then the karkinos snatched him up and leapt into the ventilation shaft. Schafer’s shriek cut off with a wet cracking noise, like eggshells breaking.

            The hatch slammed shut. Granté and the others stood cautiously; Hiss made the first move, jogging over to the central console and reactivating the Pequod’s nonessential functions.

            Peak’s voice scratched through the speakers. “You’re welcome.”

            “Thanks, Peak,” Granté said. “Glad you decided your marionette was an essential function.” Hiss grunted in concurrence.

            Paola retrieved a comm unit from one of the dead agents and turned up the volume. Granté couldn’t make out precisely what was being said, but it sounded hostile. “They’re readying a second squad to board. Peak – wait ‘til they’re in the airlock, then break off and space ‘em.”

            “I feel obliged to remind you that the Tantalus’ weapons array is armed.”

            “If only we had something to tangle them up with,” Paola smiled sharply. She looked to Granté and Hiss. They were already sprinting to the stern, helmets in hand.

            “You stay on the controls,” Granté said, as they ran. “I’ll get the boosters rigged to the net. Once I’m clear…”

            “Sss.”

            “We have fourteen remote charges remaining,” Peak’s disembodied voice chimed in. “How many of the dispensers should I – ”

            “All of them,” Paola commanded. “Granté, prep the boosters. Hiss, you’re on net controls.”

Granté chuckled despite himself. “Been a while since we blew up a ship.” Hiss shot him a questioning look. “If we live, I’ll tell you about it.”

            “Let’s just make sure we blow up the right ship this time,” Peak added.

            Hiss and Granté split up near the stern. The retrieval bay was as they’d left it, dead karkinoi scattered across the partially-unfurled net. Granté ignored the bodies and began strapping small booster rockets to the net’s lower edge.

            “How are we looking in the bay?” Paola asked.

            “Just a couple boosters left. I’m setting them to half power.”

            “Good call. Hiss, how’s things on your end?”

            “Sss.”

            “Alright, good.”

            Peak spoke up, quiet but clinical. “An ICA boarding team is in the airlock.”

            “Good,” Paola said. “Space ‘em.” Granté could almost see her smile.

            A distant mechanical crunch sounded as the Pequod lurched away from the Tantalus. Granté hefted the final booster, stepped around one of the karkinoi, knelt to attach the device to the net. A scuttling noise came from behind him and he froze, stomach twisting.

            “Granté – the surviving specimen is – ”

            “I noticed!” Granté ducked low and rolled forward, caught a glimpse of the karkinos’ claw cutting through the air where his head had just been. He scrambled to his knees but caught the tip of his boot on the netting, dragged himself flat as he lunged away. The creature skittered closer, claws wide, and he toggled his driftboots, powering himself free of the net and avoiding the crab’s next attack by a handsbreadth.

            “Hiss! Drop the net! Drop it now!”

            “Sss.”

            Granté grabbed hold of the net and pulled it with him as he boosted beneath the crab’s seeking claws. With his free hand, he flailed for the untethered booster, fingers wrapping around the grip –

            The exterior doors opened and the retrieval bay vomited its contents into the void. The net caught one of the attacking karkinos’ legs and yanked it away with its claws snapping. One of the dead karkinoi crashed into Granté’s chest and sent him spinning head-over-rear into the empty space yawning in the Pequod’s wake. Pain stabbed his side like his ribs had sawblades for marrow. He saw the net expand, wrapping around the Tantalus’ beaklike bow as karkinoi smashed into it like bugs against a windshield. He scissored his legs, using the driftboots to slow his rotation. The retrieval bay spun into view and he fired the booster, sending himself rocketing back toward the Pequod. The bay rushed toward him like the mouth of a hungry giant; he released the booster and tucked himself into a ball a moment before he flew inside. He bounced twice on the deck plate and skidded to a stop just short of the bay’s rear wall. A blackened crater above the interior hatch was all that remained of the loose booster.

            The bay’s exterior doors slammed shut, cutting Granté off from the darkness beyond. He stood slowly, grimaced as the broken ribs grated inside his chest. “That wasn’t fun.”

            “I apologize,” Peak murmured. “I was distracted by the boarding party.”

            “Save it,” Granté murmured. “I’m alive.” He stumbled through the hatch and down the gangway. By the time he arrived at the stern control hub, the Tantalus was drifting powerlessly away, lights sparking intermittently along its exterior as the net’s stunners fired.

            Hiss gave him a quizzical look. You alright?

            “Still breathing,” Granté wheezed. He approached the dispenser controls, tried to imagine the Tantalus as an asteroid. With smooth, precise movements, he guided the drones out to the drifting ICA vessel and launched a halo of remote charges into its starboard side, near the stern. “Captain – permission to scuttle?”

            “Granted,” Paola said.

            Granté hit the detonator. The ring of charges across the Tantalus’ side triggered simultaneously, brief explosions blooming into the vacuum as the ship vented its atmosphere. A moment later, the reactors blew with a flash that left Granté and Hiss blinking the burn from their eyes. All that remained of the Tantalus were shredded, unrecognizable chunks of wreckage, none larger than a fist.

            Granté and Hiss made their way back toward the bridge.

            That was fun, Hiss signed.

            “For you,” Granté groused. “I got launched into space.”

            “And I got shot,” Peak’s voice crackled. “That part wasn’t fun at all.”

            “We’ll get you a new marionette, Peak,” Paola said over comms. “When we can afford it.”

            “After we offload this catch, we’ll – ” Granté recalled what had just happened to the catch in question and swore. “Might need to wait a bit on the marionette, Peak.”

            “Granté – do you remember what I said about statistics?” The ship asked.

            “Yeah. Why?”

            “You were right.”

            Hiss gave Granté a quizzical look. Granté shrugged. “Too much math, not enough logic.”

As they entered the bridge, Paola spun in her command chair, her leathery face marginally less drawn. “Glad you’re all in one piece.”

            Peak cleared their disembodied throat.

            “Sorry, Peak,” Paola said, not at all apologetically. “You know what I meant.”

            Hiss sat down in one of the bridge chairs. Hell of a crab season.

            Granté slumped into the other available seat and kicked out his legs. “Not very profitable, though.”

            “We’ve had worse,” Paola said sunnily. “Right?”

            Silence reigned.

“Next season will be better,” Granté offered, sure of the fact for some indescribable reason.

            Next season, then, Hiss signed.

            “Next season,” Paola agreed.

            “Statistically speaking, we’re due for a good catch,” Peak added.