The harsh voice from the fuel syndicate cut through the static, echoing across Pier #44.
Outside the glass, Director Vane and Harbor Master Drax hung from the station’s welcome arch in their neon-yellow debtor vests. Their toothbrushes wobbled against hull barnacles as the syndicate’s words rang out.
“Four hundred percent?” Su Wan said, looking at her data pad. “They locked down every fuel depot from Berth #10 to Berth #60. No ship leaves Nebula Hub #1 without paying five hundred Astral Merit Coins per barrel of star-core plasma.”
Lin Mo stood by the railing, holding a cup of warm tea. He looked out toward the commercial cargo berths.
Thousands of battered independent star-freighters sat idle with cold thrusters. On the steel walkways, weather-beaten captains argued with automated syndicate dispensers that had just quadrupled their rates mid-pump.
“Captain Vance, what do we do?” young co-pilot Nina asked, clutching a cracked manifest tablet. “Vega-9 is waiting for this grain and penicillin shipment. If we pay five hundred AMC a barrel, we won’t have enough coins left to pay our crew or feed our families.”
Captain Vance, a grizzled spacer with calloused hands and engine grease under his fingernails, slammed his fist on the fuel console.
