The shop fell quiet, and Amalia tried to convince herself she didn’t mind. She doubted the customer would come back again. Her rubbish coffee making and the fact she’d yet to figure out how to use the oven without setting off alarms meant the coffeeshop never got repeat business. She didn’t understand. After completing all the online courses and watching every entertainment drama set in a cafe, she should be a pro by now. She should’ve forked out for the fully automated coffee machine after all, but she’d loved the idea of making coffees the traditional way. As if to emphasise her true lack of skill, the fire alarm sounded in the kitchen.

  “Quasars, the muffins!” Her palms stung from the force of hitting the kitchen door, and she skidded to a stop in front of the smoking oven, arriving just in time for Siri’s anti-fire system to kick in. Chemical foam sprayed across the oven, stove top and Amalia’s boots, which ended up as collateral to the system’s enthusiasm. Despite the dousing of any open flames, the sirens had yet to cease. Honestly, it was all a bit of an overreaction for some burnt muffins, but she doubted that would make a difference to Officer Lynch. The intercom chimed.

  “Do you need medical assistance, Amalia?” Siri asked, concerned.

  “No, Siri. It was just an incy, wincy thing. I mean, it was so tiny you don’t really need to tell Officer Lynch about it at all.”

  “I’m afraid he’s already on his way. He’s requested immediate notification of any incidents you’re involved in.”

  Amalia grumbled about the unfairness of it all as she grabbed a tea towel and pulled out the tray of scorched apple and cinnamon muffins. They probably would’ve tasted awful, most of her cooking did, but she’d had high hopes. She was determined to recreate classic recipes from old Terra with the ingredients she had on hand, except apparently protein batter was a poor substitute for eggs.

  “Siri! Turn off that awful racket!” Officer Lynch ordered from the front of the shop, boots stomping as he led his small task force into Amalia’s kitchen. Siri made the sound of a blown raspberry and the siren ceased.

  Officer Lynch paused in the doorway, his bright augmented eyes sweeping over the mess from Amalia’s baking efforts. He winced. The chemical foam retardant was heaped in orange fluffy waves around the oven and iced Amalia’s knee-high brown boots.

  Behind Officer Lynch were two others, bulky in armour and well-armed, and Amalia skittered back, putting the benchtop between them and her. Officer Lynch’s eyes met hers, his forehead twisting into a scowl, but he made no move to approach her.

  “That was prompt, even for you.” Amalia forced her hands to stop trembling and reminded herself this was her kitchen and her coffeeshop, and she was a free being that had every right to burn her own muffins if it pleased her.

  “Citizen Lore, you should address me as Officer Lynch,” he huffed, pulling out his tablet and swiping across its screen with deft fingers.

  The effort of not rolling her eyes was almost physically painful.

  “You’ll be fined the usual plus extra for the visit.”

  “What? When has that ever been a thing? It’s your job!” Though why he’d taken such a personal interest in her, she had no idea. Surely he had minions to do these call outs for him.

  “Our time costs money, Citizen Lore. Maybe next time you’ll think twice about … whatever it was you were trying to do. It sure wasn’t cooking.”

  Amalia quietly fumed, but was keener to see the back of him and his companions than defend her cooking skills.

  “Is that all?” she growled, gesturing towards the door and taking a half step back when the officer on Officer Lynch’s left straightened sharply as if in offence.

  “I hope not to see you again for at least a week,” Officer Lynch said as he finished typing up the fine and sent Amalia a digital receipt. “Otherwise I’ll have to fine you double for reckless endangerment of station property.”

  “Yes, Officer Lynch,” Amalia agreed, testing out one of Mama Dea’s smiles. Officer Lynch suddenly looked uneasy, not the reaction she was after, but before he could say anything else, one of his eyes flashed orange as he received a call. The man sighed, gestured for his fellow officers to leave before him then answered the call, dismissing Amalia with a frown.

  “You’re where?” Officer Lynch hissed. Whoever was on the call had obviously done something pretty grievous for the officer to speak out loud rather than respond inside his head. “Does your mother know? No, don’t bother her. I’ll be right there.” He left quickly without a backwards glance.

  “I think he’s starting to like you,” Siri observed.

  Amalia just snorted. “As much as he’d like a hole in the head.”

  “No, really,” Siri insisted. “You remind him of his son.”

  “He’s got a son? Poor kid.” Amalia eyed up her kitchen. The orange foam would be a pain to clean, but this morning’s cooking efforts were just as much to blame for the state of her kitchen. Bags of cheap flour were piled like bodies beneath the long metal prep table and every bowl she owned was crusty and defeated, huddled together like survivors under the white dust of an apocalyptic floury fallout. The sour tang of soy-sub had settled thickly in the air. She'd left the jug out again over the sleep cycle. She pinched her nose as she poured the gluggy mess down the sink. The rest could wait.

  There was a soft chirping and Amalia pressed her palm to her ear, the tiny speaker embedded in her hand automatically engaging.

  "Hello?"

  "Salutations, my little magpie." Smoke-smoothed vowels were most welcome, after a run in with Lynch.

  "Mama Dea," Amalia said. “You can’t imagine how good it is to hear your voice.”

  "I’ve missed you, too,” Mama Dea laughed. “This should help cheer you up! I’ll be port side within the next hour and I bring news."

  "You're here? In the real?"

  "Awaiting my docking coordinates now and I could do with a strong drink. And no offence, darling, but I'm thinking something a little more alcoholic than your coffee, though, I grant, your brew is strong enough to stand on its own."

  "The Fountainhead then?"

  "Perfect," the older woman purred. Amalia could make out the alarms and trills of the ship Mama Dea piloted alone in the background. "I'll ping you when I've landed. See you soon, my sweet."

  Amalia spun in a gleeful little circle on the ball of one foot, coming to a stamping stop with the other as if she could expel some of the joy she felt into her coffeeshop. First, though, she really should clean her boots.

  ***

  The Fountainhead smelt of fumes, sweat and stale pretzels, the air heavy with a swirling, blue haze as people moved across the dance floor towards the bar, like ships through churning water. It was noisy, crews shouting over the amateur karaoke stage cycling through old tracks from the 23rd century. Amalia never entered through the front door, instead arriving unnoticed through the roof space, and from her roost amongst the exposed support beams, cables and lights she could see the entire bar.

  Between a surge in the growing crowd, Amalia spotted Mama Dea, lounging in her own booth as if she’d been there all cycle. She appeared to sip her drink, oblivious to her surroundings as she relaxed, a lone traveller unwinding after cycles in space.

  Amalia knew better. There were signs, small ones, that Mama Dea was very much aware of her surroundings, the least of all was that her drink remained untouched.

  Amalia dropped from the roof into the toilet hallway – a dark and rarely lingered in space – and snuck towards Mama Dea, using the bulk of visiting crewzers as cover.

  "You're getting sloppy, my little magpie," Mama Dea smirked, her eyes shut, revealing the shimmering eyes painted on her lids.

  "How'd you know this time?"

  "You smell of flour and something sweet. It can't be sugar. That's been in high demand in this quadrant and costs far more than your stipend could ever afford. Maybe something with cinnamon? And burnt coffee."

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  "So I smell nice?"

  "You smell like you're trying. How is the shop coming along?"

  Amalia slumped into the booth opposite the elegant secret trader, her shoulders and head thumping back against the headrest.

  "Well, it's still there."

  "That bad?" Mama Dea twisted her lips, amused and sympathetic, and patted her hand. Amalia absorbed the touch like a sponge, realising the last person she’d touched was Mama Dea herself.

  “My coffee stinks. You know it. I know it. All of Sirius-3 knows it. Now what’ve you been up to? It’s surely been more interesting than this backwater station,” Amalia grumbled and, with a sleight of hand even Mama Dea missed, stole a sip from her foster mother's drink. It was orangey pink and tasted like sea salt and watermelon.

  Mama Dea sat back, a sensuous move that hid how she kept facing the crowd. Amalia noticed the tension in Mama Dea's body – the tightness in her shoulders, the stillness of her fingers against the table surface, the quiver of her crystal-tipped eyelashes. The woman never took her attention off the people moving around them, the door as it slid open to let in new, more sober individuals while releasing those who'd been drinking since first shift. Mama Dea’s nostrils flared. What could she smell? Beyond the floury scent of Amalia, she could probably smell every drink, calculate the percentage of alcohol and estimate how much longer the drinker would remain mobile.

  "What's wrong?" Amalia leaned forward, her voice low. “Is it about my mother?”

  The last time Mama Dea visited she’d brought information of Amalia's mother's schooling, education at its finest at the United Galactic Core’s Institute for Exceptional Youths. A year's tuition was enough to feed a family of four for a decade. It was difficult to comprehend that someone of her mother's lineage had ended up amongst the ranks of the universe's most dangerous criminals. Mama Dea had brought images of her mother as a schoolgirl, dressed in a gold and cream uniform, but Amalia’s favourite was still the one in the ice cave.

  Mama Dea slid close to Amalia, curling around the younger woman like a scarf, and brushed her lips against her ear. Mama Dea's smoky voice vibrated against her skin, making her shiver.

  "My dearest heart, I don't know who you've pissed off, but you've been noticed. There's a bounty on your head."

  "On my head?” Amalia squeaked, almost smashing her nose against Mama Dea's jaw when she spun to stare at her. Mama Dea gripped Amalia's chin and turned her head until her lips brushed the shell of Amalia’s ear.

  "Someone is seeking any word on Amalia Lore."

  "A bounty on me or my mother?"

  Mama Dea hesitated. "It's unclear. You go by the same name, you look remarkably similar, and the bounty appeared shortly after you were released. The coincidence seems unlikely."

  "What should I do?"

  "Stay low. Keep at your coffeeshop and, for all our sakes, work on that coffee of yours ... have you considered selling tea instead? No, never mind. Look, I haven't got much time. My ship's due out soon and I'm not sure when I'll be back. It's too dangerous to visit and bring any more attention to this spaceport."

  “When will I see you next?”

  "As soon as I’m able. Until then, keep quiet, my dearest. Keep small. I'll send word for when it's safe and you can contact me, but until then you must go silent. You can do that for me?"

  "Of course, Mama Dea," Amalia murmured and breathed deeply, activating that long-since-practised ability to smell the scent of her mother’s skin – musky, heat-lamped warmed fur – beneath the heavy perfumes. "When must you go?"

  "Soon, dearest. But not yet."

  Amalia took that to mean she could stay right where she was, absorbing her mama’s touch as if storing it away for when she was alone again. Mama Dea gently skimmed her fingertips across the hairs of Amalia's arms, barely touching and spider-light to send her nerves ablaze, and Amalia drifted. She could still sense the wire taught tightness in Mama Dea's muscles, the deep breaths she took to scent all that entered the bar, but Amalia trusted her. She was safe here so she let her guard down and relaxed. Her peace didn’t last long.

  Amalia's attention was caught by a rough circle of crewzers cursing and spitting around a table scattered with spare parts. Cyborg parts if that hand was anything to go by. The leader and loudest of the crew went by Jonah Haylock, a rough rock of a human who owned a mechanic build and repair shop in the dock closest to her shop. Apparently he was a man — he'd displayed his assets more than once to Amalia, but she'd always been quick to disappear – who owned a mechanic build and repair shop in the dock closest to her shop.

  Thankfully, he didn’t like Amalia's coffee any more than anyone else and generally left her alone. He was mostly harmless really, more ego than skill, and as confused Amalia frequently was when dealing with supposedly law-abiding citizens, she'd managed worse.

  "That man’s distasteful," Mama Dea commented, noticing who’d caught Amalia’s attention. She snagged her drink back from Amalia, breathing the fruity smell in deeply as if to erase a nasty smell. "He's no trouble, not for you and I," Mama Dea squeezed Amalia's shoulder. "But he is desperate to be someone bigger. Steer clear of him because when he goes down, he'll go down hard and take a lot of people with him."

  "I thought as much," Amalia admitted.

  "Course you did. You're a good one." Mama Dea smirked, then her eyelids trembled shut as she inhaled a new smell, one clearly far more appealing. "And if I wasn't shipping out soon, I know what I’d be doing tonight. Or should I say who?"

  Amalia glanced around, hoping to catch whomever had caught her mama’s eye. Mama Dea may like sex, but she had very high standards. Before she could spot anyone, Mama Dea squeezed Amalia’s shoulders tight one last time and straightened.

  "You’re going already?"

  "I know, my little magpie. I promise I'll contact you as soon as I’m able, but until then, remember, keep that pretty head of yours down and for the love of all that’s spicy, work on that coffee of yours! If I didn't love you as much as I do, I’d throw you to the bounty hunters myself!"

  With one last scuff to the head that made Amalia feel like she was six rotations old again, Mama Dea slunk upright, all sleek lines and fluttering silks, and then, with a grace that Amalia could only dream of, slipped out of the Fountainhead without being jostled once by the madly grinding dancers filling the tiny space.

  Amalia settled back to finish off Mama Dea's drink, the sweetness having long settled at the bottom. It wasn’t a taste Amalia particularly liked. She just couldn’t shake the habit of finishing all that she ate and drank, uncertain when and where her next meal would come from. Pen had shaped her in many ways she was only now beginning to realise.

  With an effort, she pushed the drink away unfinished and idly listened to the cyborg auction. Jonah Haylock was getting louder and redder as he became more excited. She remembered Haylock's sleazy manner when he sold her the coffee machine, how he’d offered her a discount if she'd give him a taste. Naive as she may be in certain things, the hair raising on her arms was enough to tell her he didn't exactly mean tasting her coffee. Luckily for Amalia, not only had Jonah's partner turned up to interrupt, the woman had taken one look at Amalia's confused face and stammering explanation that she wasn't even sure how to make coffee yet, and proceeded to tear Jonah a new one.

  Amalia glanced towards the bar and when she spotted a newly familiar face, she promptly choked on her drink. She knew exactly who’d caught her mama’s eye.

  It was the person who’d visited her coffeeshop earlier. They were of average height and compact, moving with a controlled rage as if they had a leashed storm trapped beneath their skin, begging to be released. Their hair was short on the sides, hinting at the regulation haircut of the Galactic Agency military, and streaked electric blue. The blue of their eyes and the blue hue in their skin suggested they were a descendant from those who’d settled on Timeria. Mama Dea had told her Timerians were predisposed to passivity and their threat level was generally low.

  She hadn’t thought she’d see the Timerian again. They had been her one and only customer for the day, and something about them triggered a hot flush to sweep across her cheeks and a warmth to settle inside her chest. She gulped down the sickly sweet syrup left in the glass and spluttered.

  Well, Amalia had never been one to restrain her curiosity.

  Slipping from the booth without nearly the grace of Mama Dea, she slunk through the crowd, avoiding eye contact as she squeezed past the dancers towards the Timerian. She barely paused as she reached them, taking advantage of the swell of people at the bar ordering drinks to empty the Timerian’s pockets, and carried on past them into a dark corner to look over her spoils.

  She’d stolen a slim wallet and a slip of folded plastic. The plastic slip was a ship’s documentation, including name, route and final destination. The owner was listed as a N’arda Lee, a name she suspected was fake when she opened the wallet and found an old military ID card amongst at least 500 credits. The information listed the owner as a Timerian male, twenty-six rotations old and a ranking captain. His name was Briggon Hart. The ID was a dangerous memento for someone trying to stay hidden. The wallet was also full of 2D images, mostly of other soldiers in both dress uniform and battle armour, but the first and most well-thumbed was of a human child.

  She glanced back at the man, Briggon. He was almost at the bar and about to realise he'd been robbed. Drifting back towards him, Amalia slipped his wallet and ship papers back into his pocket, but just as she pulled away, she was distracted by the blue in his hair – a strike of envy, perhaps, flashed through her – and his hand wrapped around her wrist. His grip was firm, but not painful, his skin warm and dry. It was enough to make Amalia's heart pound and not in a good way. This close to him, pressed against his side, he was too big and the scowl on his face promised retribution.

  So Amalia did what she always did when frightened, confused and caught. She ran. And thanks to Mama Wisp, when Amalia ran, she ran with style.

  Briggon Hart was left blinking down in surprise at his empty fist as Amalia phased her wrist right through the back of his hand. She didn't stop there. In a flash, she was through the bar, her body slipping through the gaps between atoms, the Fountainhead’s gloom making her passage even less perceivable. The back wall was more of a challenge as her heart raced, panic making her abilities unpredictable.

  “Arobi of Swift Fortunes, Tallbearer of the Correct Turns, Heldale of Turning Points,” she murmured, but the creak of the rear exit had her sprinting through the next building, doors irrelevant, until she was well and truly clear of Briggon Hart.