The shuttle docked with a dull clang that vibrated through the deck plates like a headache you could feel in your teeth. Jake Harlan stepped through the airlock into Cypress Wheel, the O’Neill cylinder that hung at Mars L5 like a silver wedding band somebody forgot to throw away. Two years hauling ice and rare metals between the Jovian trojans and the inner markets had left him leaner, quieter, and carrying a duffel that smelled of machine oil and recycled air. Home. Or what passed for it.
Cypress Wheel spun slow and steady, giving everyone inside a gentle one-gee hug. From the docking ring you rode the spoke elevator down toward the light. Jake watched the landscape roll into view mile after mile of green fields under a bright axial strip that pretended to be a sun. Corn, soy, orchards, little towns with white fences. Looked like Kansas if Kansas had a roof thirty kilometers up and curved out of sight.
He had not pinged ahead. Wanted to surprise Lena. Two years was a long stretch, even for freight dogs who lived half their lives in hibernation anyway. He told himself she would cry, laugh, drag him straight to bed. That was the plan. The maglev from the hub dropped him in New Cedar, a town of ten thousand pressed against the cylinder’s inner skin. Their house sat on a quiet lane under fake maple trees: two-story prefab, blue siding, porch swing that creaked in the artificial breeze. Jake walked up the steps feeling like a ghost coming back to haunt his own life.
The door slid open before he could palm the lock.
Lena stood there in a silk robe the color of fresh blood, hair longer than he remembered, eyes bright in a way that made his stomach dip. Behind her the lights were low and music played soft, some old Earth jazz.
“Jake,” she said, voice smooth as new lubricant. “You’re early.”
“Run finished ahead of schedule,” he lied. Truth was he had paid triple for a fast courier just to shave three weeks off the hell off the trip.
She stepped forward, arms around his neck, body pressed close. She smelled like money and something sharper underneath. “Missed you, baby.”
He kissed her because that was what you did after two years, and for a minute, everything felt right. Then she pulled back, smiled that new smile he didn’t remember, and said, “Come in. Ethan’s dying to see you.”
Their boy was sixteen now. Jake had missed two birthdays, three growth spurts, the whole damn adolescence. He walked into the living room expecting a lanky kid ready to punch him in the arm for being gone so long. Instead, he found Ethan on the couch, eyes glassy, fingers twitching over a holo-board that ran endless columns of market data. The kid’s cheeks were hollow, skin the color of old paper. A thin med-patch clung to the side of his neck, green light pulsing slow.
“Hey, Dad,” Ethan’s voice came out flat, like someone had turned the volume down on his soul.
Jake dropped the duffel. “What the hell is that on your neck?”
“Just a focus booster,” Lena said from behind him, already pouring amber liquid into two glasses. “Long hours. You know how trading is.”
Jake dropped the duffel. “What the hell is that on your neck?”
“Focus booster,” Lena said from behind him, already pouring amber liquid into two glasses. “Long hours. You know how trading is.”
Jake had been gone two years. Last time he checked, Lena ran a small brokerage dealing in helium-3 futures. Nice living, nothing crazy. Now the house looked like a showroom: new furniture, walls covered in live market feeds, a whole bank of quantum terminals humming in what used to be the dining room.
Ethan’s head lolled. He tried to smile and failed. “Mom says I’m the best system rider she’s ever seen. Sixteen-hour shifts, sometimes twenty. I keep the AIs honest.”
Jake felt the deck tilt under him worse than any burn. “You’re sixteen.”
“Almost seventeen,” Lena corrected, handing him a glass. “Drink? You look like you need it.”
He didn’t drink. “How long has he been on that patch?”
She shrugged, delicate. “Few months. He asked for it. Kid’s a natural, Jake. Numbers sing to him. We’re pulling in more in a week than you used to make in six months out there pushing rocks.”
Jake looked at his son, really looked. The boy’s pupils were pinpricks, hands trembling even while they danced across the holo. Every few seconds he blinked too slow, like his body had forgotten the rhythm.
“Take it off him,” Jake said.
Lena’s smile cooled. “It’s prescribed. Perfectly legal. You’ve been gone a long time, honey. Things changed.”
He stepped between her and the couch. “Take it off.”
For a second the mask slipped and he saw something hard and bright in her eyes, the same look she used to give rival traders across a table. Then it was gone, replaced by soft concern.“He’ll crash hard without a taper. You want that on your first day home?”
Jake reached down and peeled the patch away himself. Ethan whimpered, a small hurt sound, and curled into the couch cushions.
Lena sighed. “Fine. Have it your way. He’ll be useless for a week, but sure you want that?”
Jake didn’t answer. He was staring at the second patch stuck just under the collar of Ethan’s shirt, and the faint track marks on the kid’s arm where needles had gone in to keep the dose steady when the patches weren’t enough.
He turned to his wife. “We’re gonna talk. Right now.”
She lifted one shoulder, unconcerned. “Sure, baby. Let’s talk.”
But the way she said it made the hair on his neck stand up, like a man agreeing to step outside when he already knows he brought friends.
Jake carried Ethan upstairs and laid him on the bed like the kid was made of cracked glass. The boy’s breathing was shallow, sweat already beading on his forehead. Withdrawal had started its ugly crawl. Jake pulled the blanket up, then locked the door from the inside and jammed a chair under the handle for good measure. He had seen spacers come off combat stims; he knew the next forty-eight hours were going to be hell.
Downstairs, Lena waited in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with her arms folded. The silk robe had slipped off one shoulder, but the pose felt staged now, like everything else.
Jake kept his voice low. “How much is he on?”
“Medical-grade neuroleine, cut with a mild euphoric. Nothing the pharmacies on Level Three don’t sell by the crate.” She sipped her drink.
“He volunteered, Jake. Said he wanted to help the family.”
“By working himself into the grave?”
“By turning a profit,” she corrected. “We clear two million BN-credits some months. You ever bring home two million on one run?”
He felt the jab land, because the truth was he never had. A good skipper on the Jovian ice loop might pull three hundred grand a year after fuel and crew shares. Lena had always been the smart one with money. He had just never guessed how far she would stretch the word “family.”
Jake pulled out a chair and sat, mostly so he wouldn’t put his fist through the wall. “When did it start?”
“About six months after you left the last time.” She set her glass down, precise. “Markets got wild. Everyone was leveraging quantum arbitrage against the BN exchanges. You need split-second timing, and you need someone who can ride the AIs harder than they want to be ridden. Ethan turned out to be a wizard. Kid sees patterns the rest of us miss.”
“So you doped him.”
“I optimized him.” Her eyes didn’t blink. “Same way you optimize a fusion bottle or a trajectory burn. You want to get home faster, you push the engine. He wanted to help.”
Jake rubbed his face. Two years of recycled air had left his skin dry; now it felt ready to split. “He’s sixteen, Lena.”
“Old enough to consent under the cylinder law. Old enough to sign his own med forms.” She moved closer, laid a cool hand on the back of his neck. “You’re angry. I get it. But look around. New house, no debt, college funds for Ethan ever decides to sleep again. This is what winning looks like out here.”
He shrugged her hand off. “I’m taking him to a clinic tomorrow. Full detox.”
Her laugh was soft, almost fond. “There isn’t a clinic on Cypress that will touch him without my signature. I own the liens on half of them. The other half are scared of me.” She leaned in until he could smell the liquor on her breath. “You’ve been gone a long time, Jake. Things changed.”
He stood up fast enough the chair scraped loud across the tile. “Then I’ll take him off-cylinder. Mars has real hospitals.”
“Try it.” The warmth was gone from her voice now, replaced with winter. “Port authority has a hold on your passport. Unpaid docking fees from your last layover, apparently. Funny how paperwork piles up.”
Jake felt the trap close around him like a cargo net. He had maybe twenty thousand in liquid credit, enough for a cheap berth to Phobos if he was lucky. Not enough to fight whatever lawyers she had on retainer.
He played the only card he had left. “I walk out that door with him, I call the BN patrol. Kidnapping, forced labor, illegal doping of a minor. They still take that serious, even out here.”
Lena studied him the way a card player studies a bluff. Then she smiled again, smaller this time. “You think the BN is going to burn fuel to come out here for one junkie teenager? They’ve got pirates hitting helium convoys past Ceres. But go ahead, file the report. By the time anyone reads it, Ethan will be eighteen and signing affidavits that he loves his job.”
Jake’s hands opened and closed at his sides. He had boxed in low-grav gyms from Ganymede to Tycho; he knew how fast violence could spin out of control in a habitat. One wrong punch, a bulkhead breach, and everybody in a two-block radius sucked vacuum. So he breathed through his nose until the red haze receded.
Lena took his silence for surrender. She brushed past him toward the stairs. “I’m going to check on our boy. You should shower. You smell like deep space.”
He listened to her footsteps fade, then moved fast. Kitchen drawer, the one where they used to keep take-out menus, now held a sleek black pistol he didn’t recognize. He left it where it was. Instead, he palmed the small diagnostic pad he carried for ship systems and headed for the server room that used to be their guest bedroom. The door was locked, biometric. He pressed his thumb to the plate anyway. Red light. Figured. But the pad had a hardline port, and Lena had never changed the physical access codes; she thought hardware was for dinosaurs. Thirty seconds later he was inside. The room glowed blue with rack lights. Six quantum cores hummed in a refrigerated stack, way more horsepower than any legitimate trading outfit needed. Cables ran like ivy across the floor. One wall was nothing but holo-screens cycling order books, futures contracts, dark-pool trades. In the corner sat a med-fridge with rows of ampoules and patches, each labeled in Lena’s neat handwriting. Jake jacked the diagnostic pad into the nearest core and started pulling logs. He wasn’t half the system rider Ethan was, but he had spent years keeping ancient freighter AIs from mutiny. He knew how to read a trail.
What he found turned his stomach.
Ethan’s biometric signature was embedded in every trade. Not just monitoring; executing. The kid’s brain waves were the final authorization layer on multi-million-credit positions. Lena had turned their son into a meat firewall. And the doses weren’t just keeping him awake; they were tuning his dopamine response to the exact frequency that made risking other people’s money feel like winning a lottery every single time. Jake copied everything to the pad, encrypted it with a one-time key only he knew, then wiped the access trail. He was backing out of the room when the lights snapped to red and the door sealed behind him with a hiss.
Lena’s voice came over the intercom, honey over broken glass. “Looking for something, baby?”
He spun. A small camera eye winked in the corner.
She went on. “I always knew you’d poke around. That’s why I left the old codes in place. Come upstairs when you’re done playing detective. We need to talk about your new job.”
Jake stood in the blue glow of the server racks and felt the cylinder tilt again, slower this time, like the whole world had decided to roll over and show its belly. The door was sealed, mag-locks engaged. He could have blasted it with the pistol he’d seen downstairs.
Lena’s voice floated down again, patient. “Don’t make me vent the room, Jake. Cooling gas is expensive.”
He keyed the intercom. “Let me out and we talk face to face.”
“Terms first. You come upstairs, you sit, you listen. You try anything cute and Ethan gets another patch before you clear the hallway. Clear?”
He hated how steady she sounded. Like she’d rehearsed this moment for months.
“Clear,” he said.
The locks clicked. The door slid open onto the hallway, lights dimmed to night cycle. Lena waited at the top of the stairs in a charcoal suit now, hair pulled back tight. She looked like a boardroom assassin. A slim needler rested easy in her right hand, pointed at the floor but ready. Jake climbed slow, hands visible. When he reached the landing she motioned him into the living room. Ethan was on the couch again, propped up with pillows, sipping something from a bulb. His eyes were clearer but bloodshot, pupils still too wide.
“Dad,” he croaked, ashamed.
Jake started toward him. Lena lifted the needler a fraction. He stopped.
“Sit,” she said.
He sat. She took the opposite chair, legs crossed, weapon casual across her knee. “Here’s the new reality. The markets don’t sleep, so neither do we. I need a second rider I can trust. That’s you.”
“I’m no system wizard.”
“You don’t have to be. Ethan handles the high-frequency edge. You’ll ride shotgun, second chair, keep the AIs from developing bad habits.
Twelve-hour shifts, rotating with him. Patches are milder for adults, you’ll barely feel it.”
Jake laughed once, short and ugly. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Am I?” She leaned forward. “You walk away, you get nothing. No son, no savings, no berth off-cylinder. I’ll have you flagged as a fugitive debtor before you reach the hub. You stay, you work, we keep the golden goose laying. Ethan gets clean eventually, goes to university on Luna if he wants. Everybody wins.”
Ethan made a small hurt sound. “Mom, please.”
“Quiet, baby. Grown-ups are talking.”
Jake looked at his boy, at the tremor in his hands, the way he flinched from bright light. “How long before the neuroleine fries his receptors for good?”
“Years,” Lena said. “Plenty of time to bank enough to buy him the best neural graft money can buy. That’s the plan.”
Jake rubbed his jaw. Two-day stubble felt like sandpaper. “There’s another plan. I already pulled the logs. They’re encrypted and mirrored to a dead-man relay. I go dark for seventy-two hours, everything I found dumps to the BN anti-slavery task force and every news feed from here to Tycho. You’ll be famous.”
The needler came up level with his chest. “You’re bluffing.”
“Am I?” He used her own words back on her. “Check my jacket pocket.”
She hesitated, then nodded at Ethan. The kid shuffled over, patted Jake down with shaking fingers, came up with the diagnostic pad. He handed it to his mother like a penitent offering.
Lena slotted it into a reader. Her face stayed smooth, but her knuckles whitened on the needler. After ten long seconds she exhaled through her teeth.
“Son of a bitch. You ghost-wrote the relay through the house mesh. I can’t kill it without taking down the whole trading stack.
”Jake allowed himself one thin smile. “Stalemate.”
“Not quite.” She ejected the pad and crushed it under her heel. “Now the only copy was in the relay queue, ticking like a bomb. “We can still do this the easy way.”
“Which is?”
“You ride for me. Six months. After that we all walk away rich and healthy. I’ll even throw in a new freighter, registry clean, yours free and clear. You go back to pushing ice if that’s what gets you hard. Ethan gets treatment on Luna, best clinic in the system. Everybody gets what they want.”
Jake looked at Ethan. The boy met his eyes for the first time since he’d come home. There was still something alive in there, buried under the chemicals and the fear.
“Dad,” Ethan whispered. “I’m tired.”
Jake felt the words hit harder than any punch. He turned back to Lena.
“One condition,” he said. “We start detox on him tonight. Slow taper, real doctor, no more street patches.”
Lena considered. The needler dipped a fraction. “I can live with that. But you start tomorrow. First shift, 0600. You’ll wear a cuff monitor. You try to run, the deal dies and the relay still goes out, but Ethan pays the price first.”
Jake nodded once. “Deal.”
She lowered the weapon, stood, and for a moment almost looked like the woman he’d married fifteen years ago. Then the mask slid back into place.
“Get some sleep,” she said. “Both of you. Big day tomorrow.”
She left them alone in the dim living room. Ethan curled into the couch again, shivering. Jake sat beside him, pulled the blanket up, rested a hand on his son’s shoulder. The boy’s bones felt sharp under the skin.
“I’m sorry,” Ethan mumbled.
“Not your fault, kid.”
“I didn’t want to stop. It felt… good. Like flying inside numbers.”
Jake swallowed hard. “We’re gonna get you and me. We’re gonna burn that feeling out of you, then we’re gonna burn her empire down around her ears. Six months. We play along, we stay sharp, we find the crack.”
Ethan’s eyes fluttered. “You promise?”
“On every star I ever sailed by.
”The boy slept eventually slept, fitful and sweating. Jake stayed awake, listening to the house systems hum, mapping every camera, every lock, every vent in his head. Somewhere past midnight he heard Lena moving around upstairs, soft footsteps, the click of safes opening and closing.
He smiled in the dark.
Six months was a long time to plan.
Six months later, Cypress Wheel was halfway through its long “night.” The axial lights had dimmed to a bruised purple, the way farmers used to let fields rest back on Earth. Jake sat in the trading pit that had once been their dining room, cuff monitor glowing soft green on his wrist, riding second chair while Ethan slept off the latest taper dose in the next room. The boy was down to a quarter patch every twelve hours. His hands had stopped shaking two weeks ago. Color had come back to his face, and, more important, fire had come back to his eyes. They spoke in glances now, tiny nods, single words that carried paragraphs. They had a calendar scratched on the inside of a cupboard door: 183 days crossed off in red. Twelve left. Lena thought she had won. Profits were higher than ever. Jake had turned out to be a steady hand on the tiller, catching two rogue AIs trying to skim and quietly rewriting their loyalty stacks when Lena wasn’t looking. She rewarded him with longer showers, real coffee, the illusion of trust. She had even started sleeping without the needler under her pillow.
That was her first mistake.
The second was letting Ethan keep root access “for emergencies.”
At 0347 cylinder time, Jake sent the signal they had rehearsed for weeks: a single line of plain text piped through the house mesh.
now
Upstairs, Ethan woke clean for the first time in two years. He rolled off the mattress, padded barefoot to the terminal beside his bed, and slid a tiny crystal into the port. The crystal held a worm he and Jake had built one hour at a time, late at night, whispering over shared earbuds while Lena thought they were watching old movies.
The worm did three things, fast and quiet.
First, it killed the dead-man relay Jake had threatened her with months earlier. No evidence would ever reach the BN.
Second, it opened a back door into every account Lena controlled, including the cold wallets nobody was supposed to know about.
Third, it queued a single trade.
Not a big one. Just big enough.
Jake watched the order slide into the stack: a leveraged short on helium-3 futures, timed to execute the instant the Jovian refineries reported a surprise maintenance shutdown. The shutdown was real; Jake had paid a rigger on Callisto a small fortune to make it happen. The report would hit the wires in ninety-seven minutes.
Lena burst into the pit still in her sleep shirt, hair wild, eyes wide. “What the hell did you just do?”
Jake leaned back, hands off the controls for once. “Placed a bet.”
“That position is two hundred million credits naked. We’ll be wiped out.”
“Only if the price drops,” he said. “And it’s about to drop hard.”
She lunged for the terminal. The cuff on Jake’s wrist flashed red and locked his arms to the chair with mag-clamps. She had always kept a failsafe. But she had forgotten Ethan.
The boy stepped into the doorway, thin but steady, holding the needler she had stopped bothering to hide. He didn’t point it, just let it hang at his side.
“Let him up, Mom.”
Lena froze. “Baby, put that down.”
“You put me down for two years,” Ethan said. His voice cracked on the last word, but the gun stayed steady. “Let him up.”
She stared at her son like she was seeing a stranger. Then, slowly, she keyed the override. The clamps released. Jake stood, rolled his shoulders. “Here’s how the rest of the morning goes. That short executes in eighty-three minutes from now. When it does, every credit you own becomes ours.
The worm already moved the funds to an account only Ethan and I can touch. You get to keep the house, the furniture, whatever’s left after the margin calls. We get to keep our lives.”
Lena’s face went through three shades of white. “You’ll never get off-cylinder. I still own half the port authority.”
Jake smiled for the first time in six months. “Already taken care of. There’s a fast courier docked at Ring Seven, registry scrubbed, tanks full. Belongs to a friend who hates slavers more than he loves money. Departs in forty minutes.”
He stepped close, voice low. “You wanted a family business, Lena. Congratulations. You taught us both how to run one.”
Ethan moved to his father’s side. Together they backed toward the door. Lena didn’t follow. She just stood there in the half-light, watching the numbers on the big screen start their long fall.
Jake paused on the porch, dawn cycle beginning to paint the fields gold. He looked back once.
“You could have just asked me to stay,” he said. “I would have stayed.”
Then he and Ethan walked down the lane under the slow-turning sky, two silhouettes shrinking against the curve of the world until the maple trees hid them from view.
Behind them, the trading screens kept bleeding red, steady and silent as an open vein. The courier burned hard for Mars highport, papers clean, tanks topped off with helium-3 Lena would never see a credit from. Ethan slept most of the way, real sleep, the kind without dreams of numbers. Jake sat in the jump seat and watched the cylinder dwindle to a bright needle in the black.
When they were far enough out that the comm lag stretched to minutes, he opened a tight-beam to an old friend running security on Phobos Station.
“Got a berth open on a decent rock-hauler?” he asked.
“Always room for good hands,” the voice crackled back. “You bringing the kid?”
“Yeah. He’s ready to see something bigger than a trading floor.”
Ethan stirred, blinked awake. “Where we going, Dad?”
Jake thought about it, then shrugged. “Anywhere the sky doesn’t have a lid.”
The boy grinned, the first real one Jake had seen in years, and turned to watch the sun rise over a Mars that looked close enough to touch.
Behind them, Cypress Wheel kept spinning, lights winking out one by one as the margin calls rolled in like dawn. Somewhere inside a blue house on a quiet lane, a woman sat alone with the ruins of her empire and learned what it felt like to lose the only things money couldn’t buy back.
Out in the black, a father and son pointed their borrowed ship toward the Belt and whatever came after, free for the first time either of them could remember. The Solar System was wide, and twelve days was a long time to disappear in it.