My name's Craddock. I'm a Lunar Patrolman.

 

I've been with the Patrol since it split off from Company Security just after Luna went independent. In my time I've hunted killers and kidnappers, pirates and thieves: every variety of criminal scum you can imagine and some you can't. My record of arrests made is a good one, but not perfect. I'm proud of it anyway and for good reason. So whenever I get a chance to improve it by wrapping up old business, I do.

 

I'd been put on involuntary leave after blasting a billionaire's son. It was a righteous shoot; damn fool drew on me even knowing he was covered, counting on his name to protect him. Instead, dumb luck did, and I hit his gun instead of his head. Blew off his right hand and forearm, but he'd live to stand trial.

 

His old man applied pressure, so I was on half-pay during the inevitable investigation. It wasn't the first time. But six weeks of doing nothing didn't appeal, so I consulted my files, grabbed my backup piece, and deadheaded on the Dutchman out to Mars — free thanks to my Patrol badge. I didn't tell them I'd been suspended, and somehow they never asked.

 

En route, I reviewed what I had on "Grease" Carter. He'd been in Black Jack Kenneally's first pirate crew, but split with them later and went solo. His nickname came from from the slick way he could pop open any airlock or hatch ever made without ever once being detected by the ship's crew. He'd lifted many a cargo from a Company freighter that went unnoticed until they tried to unload a hold full of empty cans. I had plenty of evidence, but he'd always managed to slip away before now. "Grease" indeed.

 

The last word I'd had on Grease's whereabouts came from Ceres Refinery in the Belt, from an old shipmate who'd needed a plea deal more than his self-respect. I hopped the Company shuttle over from Elevator Station and started looking.

 

Most cop work the perps do for you, practically begging for arrest. That's because almost every criminal is painfully stupid. Smart men would work for a living instead of taking up a life of crime. There are still fortunes to be made in space for anyone with courage and drive.

 

A manhunt, though, was different, and Grease was clever as they come. Finding him meant long hard work: hours of trudging corridors, knocking on hatches, showing pictures and asking questions. It's boring as hell but you can't relax for a second. Never know who you might run into, and if they might have a slugthrower in their pocket.

 

Day three I found a face I knew, a serial tax evader with the unfortunate yet fitting name of Feritz. I put the fear of Craddock into him, and he talked — luckily for me, because I'd only brought Grease's warrant. Somehow I'd neglected to tell him that. A lot of the time, it's what you don't say.

 

I hurried back to the docks before Ferret Feritz could regrow enough of his spine to call down a warning. Grease Carter was stevedoring under the name of Grayson Cartwright, and I knew which bay he'd be in. I started to feel that familiar old thrill in my gut, and I quickened my pace. The hunt would soon be over.

 

When I reached Bay Five there was a big crowd gathered by one wall. Everyone else had stopped working to rubberneck. I pushed my way through until I spotted Grease standing near a hysterical woman. The locals might get rough, so I faded back to watch and wait.

 

The lady was a barmaid who'd brought her four-year-old daughter to work, a common practice out here in the Belt. But the kid had snuck off to play hide and seek, somehow sealing herself inside an old airlock, and the dockmaster's boys were having the damnedest time getting it open.

 

Just at that moment I felt Grease's eyes on me. Sure enough, he'd seen me despite all the people, and I could tell from his face he'd recognized me. Our eyes locked for a second, and we both knew: in this crowd I hadn't the ghost of a chance of catching him. He was as good as gone.

 

Suddenly, before either of us could move, a klaxon sounded. Red lights spun, sirens blared, and the crowd scattered all to hell and gone. Maybe the dockworkers had done it; maybe the kid had set it off herself, but either way that airlock was about to vent her into space and there wasn't a damned thing anyone could do to stop it.

 

Anyone but Grease Carter, that is.

 

Wordlessly he stepped forward, moving aside the dockmaster with a gentle shove. Using a flathead screwdriver, he popped off a side panel, pried out some wires, and twisted two together seemingly at random. The lights went out, the sirens stopped, and the hatch slid open.

 

We watched a moment as the barmaid tearfully scolded her thoroughly repentant child. The dockmaster was pretty weepy himself. He thanked the old pirate and wrung his hand like it was a lifeline, but Grease quickly extricated himself and walked over to me.

 

"I guess you've caught me, Craddock," he said, holding out his wrists. "I knew you would one day. Don't worry; I'll come quietly."

 

I looked at him, then at the barmaid and her little girl.

 

"Afraid you must have mistaken me for someone else, stranger," I said. "I'm just passing through. You have a good one, now."

 

My record may not be perfect, but like I say, I'm still pretty proud of it.