The scrap-shop didn’t have a name. None of the shops on Shaft Twelve at Berdiansk Station did.
It sat at the end of a branching concourse in one of the older, less-pressurized zones of the station, where the air tasted bitter and metallic. Grated walkways clicked underfoot with every step. Dull red hazard strobes blinked from panels that hadn’t been replaced in a decade. Life support here was sustained more by superstition and hope instead of actual regular maintenance.
The store itself was little more than an airlock and a box: racks of bio-printed joint actuators, stacked bins full of outdated I/O ports, sealed crates with Taiidan Republic or Imperialist serials half-sanded off. Each shelf had been curated by entropy and inertia. It was the kind of place that sold everything and nothing, the last stop before someone gave up or got lucky.
KUn-de stepped in without ceremony. The door hissed behind it like an old man’s exhale.
The robot scanned the racks quietly, one lens dimly glowing, the other twitching slightly from internal drift. It moved with intent but no urgency - a presence like a drifting asteroid. Not menacing, not benign. Just there.
A voice, gravel run through honey and soaked in cheap liquor, spoke from the far side of the counter.
“Funny thing about small things,” the shopkeeper muttered, not looking up. “They always catch up with you. Even out here.”
KUn-de tilted its head. Its voice came low, modulated, respectful.
“You're not referring to hardware tolerances.”
The man behind the counter leaned forward - bald, with a perfect shave, eyes that had seen ships burn and pretended it meant something. He wore a flight suit with faded Taiidan Republic insignia, worn thin at the elbows and collar. His teeth, what remained of them, were meticulously brushed and arranged like a museum exhibit: old, yellow, proud.
He chuckled.
“No, mech. Not hardware. I’m talking about people who think they’re bigger than paperwork.”
He reached under the counter, produced a clunky thermos with a Hiigaran Army logo half-scraped off, and poured himself a cup. The steam rose with the smell of herbs and mushrooms: some kind of Zone-brew meant to help keep you awake while being supposedly good for your health.
“You hear about Holban Vekh?”
KUn-de processed the name. Cross-referenced. Holban Vekh: Blue Kinship syndicate lieutenant, known for human trafficking, illegal salvage ops, and occasional diplomacy. Last seen... unaccounted for.
“He was apprehended,” KUn-de said. “I recall no details.”
The shopkeeper grinned with what teeth he had.
“That’s the thing. He wasn’t caught for any of the big shit. Not murder. Not smuggling artifacts or Beast samples. Not jamming Republic transponders. No.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice, as if anyone cared enough to eavesdrop.
“They caught him for fraud. Five thousand grivnas per corpse. Claimed disability or veteran pensions for PCF officers he killed and buried out near the Kobad Crater belt. Signed all the forms with forged signatures. Lived like a ghost. Bought his own legacy.”
KUn-de rotated its head a full ten degrees.
“Unusual. Cold, efficient.”
The store owner coughed into his hand, then continued.
“Yeah, well. All it took was one clerk noticing two pension checks claimed from the same housing block on a planet in some remnant kingdom. One was real. The other had been dead for six months. Caught in the margins. Guy tried to talk his way out of it. By the time he called in favors, the PCF had him wrapped in polymer cuffs, floating in a prison shuttle.”
The shopkeeper sipped from his cup and watched KUn-de slowly pick through a rack of ceramic gimbal assemblies.
“That’s what I’m saying, mech. People think it’s the big sins that get you. But it’s always the paper. Always the small stuff.”
KUn-de turned a component over in its hand. It had the texture of reprocessed resin and bone laminate. It fit its grasp perfectly.
“And now?”
“They put him through numerous trials. He was found guilty on all counts of both murder and fraud. Now he’s probably doing his life sentence in some Imperialist black site. Or maybe they’ll turn him into a shtrafeskad asset. Introduce the Beast virus to him, let it break him down, shove what remains of his mind into an already infected vessel, and have it take part in some massed attack wave against some Republic fleet."
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. Just... present.
The station vibrated as something large detached from docking clamp A-7, probably a freighter on its way to a moon with no name and one airlock that still worked. A buzzer trilled once, then failed mid-tone.
KUn-de selected two parts. Walked to the counter. The shopkeeper looked at the parts, then at KUn-de.
“You run clean. That’s why I like you. You keep your parts clean.”
A beat.
“You don’t lie to yourself.”
“I don't see the point in lying,” KUn-de said as it produced some form of payment and put it on the counter.
“Exactly. Wish I could say the same for me.”
He took the payment: physical coinage, real metal, scraped and dented Hiigaran dinara - and slid it into a drawer.
“You watch your back out there. It isn't the big sins. It’s always the small ones.”
KUn-de didn’t respond. It turned. Walked into the red-lit hall. The door hissed shut behind it, and the ambient whir of the station returned to its default static hush.
Somewhere, a speaker crackled out a message in Taiidani, half-corrupted by poor packet sync.
And the shopkeeper, alone again, sipped from his cup.
“Always the small ones...”