"Lost? Lost how, exactly?" Spider growled. Arrha kept his head bowed, hiding gladly behind the obscurity of his helmet. He knew that even the slightest show of insubordination could send his employer into a cold fury. "Ambushed during the exchange on Mars," the Associate explained. "The last transmission confirmed delivery. A dozen prototypes with verified serial numbers." "And?" Spider pulled up a foundry spec of the weapons in question: compact Pulse Rifles powered by experimental ammunition. He had paid a premium for classified information from the foundry's research division. Had they double-crossed him? "After the buyer left, the comms link went dark," Arrha explained. "I dispatched scavs, and they found the bodies. Looks like Torch Hammers, Line Rifles, and Slug Rifles did the work. They scuttled the ship but left the scrap." "So it's true," Spider mused quietly. The crime lord's apparent calm disquieted Arrha. Such deliberation usually preceded a drastic move that would undoubtedly endanger them all. The Spider did not disappoint. "Load my Ketch," he declared. "We're headed to Mars." "My Baron," Arrha blurted out unadvisedly, "let me handle this matter. I'll track down the shipment and the thieves." "Of course you will," Spider replied. "On pain of docking." "But this is bigger than one shipment. It confirms what I've been hearing of an emerging market on the Martian frontier. One with well-funded new players… and no regulatory oversight. A bloodbath in the making." "Now get my Ketch!" he snapped. "We're already late."