MFCR Mars Ranger Patrol, Book 6: White Hat, Black Hat

MFCR Mars Ranger Patrol, Book 6: 

White Hat, Black Hat

By Curtis A. Neil. 

 

Index

Chapter 1 – The Colt
Deputy Ranger John Scott receives a long-awaited package that reveals his preference for an old-fashioned weapon in a modern world.

Chapter 2 – No Mining Stubs Accepted
Businesses on Ceres Station begin refusing Mining Stubs after discovering many are counterfeit, forcing real cash back into use.

Chapter 3 – Consolidated Midbelt Mining
Scott and Alvarez investigate the source of the fake Mining Stubs and meet with company security.

Chapter 4 – How Do You Tell the Real From the Fake?
The Rangers analyze patterns in the counterfeit stubs and discover connections to high-stakes poker games and other suspicious activity.

Chapter 5 – He Fought His Way Out
A violent incident at a warehouse on Vesta Station reveals a dangerous suspect wearing improvised armor.

Chapter 6 – Orson Lang
A smooth-talking stranger arrives on Ceres Station asking questions about the counterfeit problem.

Chapter 7 – They’re Losing on Purpose
Scott goes undercover at a private club to understand how the fake stubs are being moved through the gambling scene.

Chapter 8 – Bad Medicine
The investigation expands when diluted oxygen and compromised pharmaceuticals begin appearing alongside the fake stubs.

Chapter 9 – Thin Ice
With limited resources, Scott and Alvarez prepare to raid a remote asteroid suspected of being the center of the operation.

Chapter 10 – Asteroid Interior – Sealed Cave System
The Rangers assault the asteroid and confront the man in improvised armor.

Epilogue – The Flight Home
On the return to Ceres, Scott and Alvarez reflect on the man they arrested and the uncomfortable parallels between them.

Chapter 11 – Harry Lime Will Do
In front of the Magistrate, the captured man plays with identities while making it clear the trouble is far from over.

Ceres Station – Outer Ring, Deck 4 (“The Barn”)
Cycle 2148.12

Chapter 1

John Scott sat in the worn recliner, boots off, the cactus-fiber rope turning slowly in his hands out of habit. The wall screen was running Rio Lobo. John Wayne’s big, weathered face filled the frame in vivid Panavision color as the old lawman rode into town looking for answers and trouble. Scott had seen it before, but it never got old.

In an age of compact power cells, lightweight polymers, and weapons that favored speed and low recoil over raw power, a man who still wanted a mechanical revolver was considered either stubborn or sentimental. Most Rangers and station security had long ago switched to lighter, more efficient sidearms. Even the big rotary cannons used self-contained solid rounds now — less waste, less weight, more ammunition before reloading.

John Scott had never fully made the mental switch.

As a Ranger, he carried the much lighter pneumatic flechette pistol as his agency-issued service sidearm. It was the practical choice — safer in a spaceship, less likely to over-penetrate, and more than enough for most situations. Of course, a good Ranger tried hard to never have to point a weapon at anyone, much less fire one in the line of duty.

But something deep inside Scott had always wanted a real six-shooter.

A soft chime sounded from his comm unit on the side table.

He glanced over. A message scrolled across the small screen:

Galactic Express Delivery
Package for Deputy Ranger John Scott
Delivered to Ranger Headquarters, Ceres Station

Scott frowned, then smiled faintly. He set the rope aside, swung his feet to the deck, and pulled his boots on. He paused the movie, grabbed his jacket, and headed out.

---

Ceres Station – Ranger Headquarters

Captain Elena Ramirez looked up from her desk as Scott walked in. Madelin was at the dispatch station, watching the delivery drone that had just docked.

“Scott,” Ramirez said, raising an eyebrow. “What’s so important you had a personal shipment routed straight to Ranger HQ?”

Scott gave her a small shrug. “Didn’t want it sitting in general cargo, ma’am. Some things you don’t take chances with.”

He signed the release tag, carried the package to the work table, and cut the outer wrapping. Inside was a polished walnut box. Madelin drifted over, curious.

Scott flipped the brass latch and lifted the lid. Green velvet lined the interior, contoured to hold the weapon. He reached in and carefully lifted out the revolver — a gleaming black barrel and cylinder, rich walnut grips, every surface finished with obvious care. It was a Model 1878 Colt Single Action Army, chambered in .45 Long Colt. A classic design from another era, built when men still trusted brass, steel, and mechanical simplicity.

Madelin gave a low whistle.

Ramirez studied it for a moment, then looked at Scott.

“If you intend to carry that as a service arm,” she said evenly, “you’ll be buying your own ammunition.”

Scott nodded once. “Understood.”

Ramirez wasn’t finished. She stepped closer and tapped the cylinder with one finger.

“And don’t ever use it in a spaceship or any dwelling in contact with space. One of those big .45 Long Colt rounds will punch straight through a bulkhead and let the air out. That’s why we use soft-tip flechettes. They don’t over-penetrate.”

Scott turned the revolver slowly in his hands, admiring the balance. The weight felt honest. The mechanism was simple, strong, and proven. No power cells to fail. No delicate systems to go wrong. Just a cylinder, a hammer, and a cartridge design that had been doing its job for nearly two hundred years.

“I know, ma’am,” he said quietly. “This one’s not for shipboard work. It’s… something else.”

Ramirez held his gaze for a second longer, then gave a short nod, satisfied he understood.

“Just so we’re clear,” she said. “I’m not telling you not to have it. I’m telling you to be smart with it.”

Scott carefully returned the Peacemaker to its velvet-lined case and closed the lid.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Madelin watched him with a small smile. “Two years of saving, huh?”

Scott picked up the walnut box and tucked it under his arm.

“Some things,” he said, “are worth waiting for.”

He nodded to both women and headed back toward the outer ring, the weight of the box solid against his side.

Ramirez watched him go, then glanced at Madelin.

“Man’s been talking about one of those since before you got here,” she said quietly.

Madelin nodded. “Still took him two years to pull the trigger on buying it.”

Ramirez gave a faint, almost fond shake of her head.

“Some men,” she said, “don’t rush the things that matter to them.”

---

Chapter 2: No Mining Stubs Accepted

At first, no one thought much of it.

The Mining Store, the Miners Hotel, the tool shop out near the docks, and half a dozen smaller outfits all took Mining Stubs the same way they always had — without much more than a quick look and a nod. A miner would slide a stub across the counter for a meal, a new pair of gloves, a tank of oxygen, or a night’s lodging, and the stub went into the drawer with the rest of the day’s take. It had been that way for years.

The trouble didn’t show up until the businesses tried to cash them in.

When the Mining Store took their weekly bundle of stubs over to Consolidated Midbelt Mining, the clerk ran them through the system like always. This time, three of the tickets came back flagged. One number had never been issued. The other two were duplicates — both had already been redeemed earlier that same week by someone else. The store manager stared at the screen for a long moment, then asked the clerk to run them again. Same result.

By the end of the week, the Mining Store was sitting on nearly two hundred credits in stubs they couldn’t redeem.

The Miners Hotel had it worse. A pair of roughnecks had paid for a full week’s lodging with high-denomination stubs. When the manager tried to cash them, four out of the six tickets were either invalid or already used. He spent two days trying to track down the men who’d paid with them, but they’d already shipped out on a hauler. He was out the money and the room.

The tool shop near the main airlock had a different problem. Their stubs looked right at a glance — same paper, same markings, same general wear. It was only when they tried to redeem a batch that they noticed the serial numbers were running in sequences that didn’t match anything Consolidated had on record for the last six months.

Most places still took the stubs without question. They had to. A lot of miners didn’t carry much hard currency, and turning away a stub meant turning away business. But the losses were starting to add up.

The Rusty Rocket had always looked like it had been dropped onto Ceres Station straight out of the middle of the twentieth century. Turquoise and baby blue booths lined the walls, pink neon trim glowed softly above the counter, and chrome details caught the light from the overhead panels. The back wall was covered with framed photographs of old rockets and spacecraft — everything from early chemical boosters to the big interplanetary haulers that still ran the Belt routes. It was the kind of place that served mushroom steaks and tofu scramble because real meat was priced like rare earth minerals. Most regulars didn’t mind. The coffee was decent and the portions were honest.

Shirley had been watching the problem with the Mining Stubs grow for nearly two weeks. She’d always been careful with them, but even she was getting burned. Three different miners had paid for meals and drinks with stubs that later turned out to be worthless. When she took the latest batch to Consolidated, the woman behind the counter didn’t even bother running them all.

“Half of these are no good,” the clerk said flatly. “Either never issued or already cashed. We can’t pay out on them.”

Shirley stood there for a long moment, staring at the small pile of paper on the counter.

That evening, she took a piece of cardboard and a marker from under the bar. She wrote in block letters, then taped the sign to the inside of the front window where everyone would see it when they came through the door.

SORRY – NO MINING STUBS ACCEPTED
Please cash at the Mining Company first.

A few regulars grumbled when they saw it. One tried to argue. Shirley didn’t budge.

“You want to eat or drink here, you bring cash or a verified stub,” she told him. “I’m not eating any more bad paper.”

Word spread fast. Within two days, three other businesses on the same level had put up similar signs. The Mining Store was still taking stubs, but only after running them through a portable reader one of the Consolidated security people had loaned them. Even then, they were turning away two or three a day.

No one knew exactly where the bad stubs were coming from. They just knew they were showing up more often, in larger amounts, and from people who didn’t seem to care when a stub was refused.

For the first time in years, real cash was starting to matter again on Ceres Station.

---

Chapter 3: Consolidated Midbelt Mining

Scott read the report one more time before tossing it onto Alvarez’s desk.

“Four different businesses in the last ten days,” he said. “All sitting on Mining Stubs they can’t redeem. Some of the ticket numbers were never issued. Others are duplicates of ones already cashed.”

Alvarez leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes. “And nobody can say exactly who passed them the bad ones.”

“Hard to track when half the places just drop the stubs in the drawer and move on,” Scott replied. “Shirley at the Rusty Rocket finally had enough. She’s not taking them anymore.”

Alvarez stood up and reached for her jacket. “Then I guess we’d better go talk to the people who actually have to honor these things.”

Consolidated Midbelt Mining occupied a large section of the lower levels near the main processing docks. Scott and Alvarez were met at the security desk by a broad-shouldered man in a dark blue company uniform. His name tag read Robert Ross, Security.

Ross had the look of a man who was more comfortable holding a wrench than sitting behind a desk. His hands were calloused, and there was a faint grease stain on one cuff that he hadn’t quite managed to scrub out. He offered his hand with a tired but genuine smile.

“Rangers,” he said. “Appreciate you coming out. We’ve been getting hit pretty hard on this stub thing. Come on back. I’ll walk you through what we’ve got.”

He led them through a set of reinforced doors into a quieter section of the complex. Ross talked the whole way, but there was a practical edge to his voice.

“We run eighty-three active sites right now. Some are small — three or four miners with a couple of bots. Others have forty, fifty people plus automated rigs. When a prospector hits something worth keeping, a lot of them come to us. We offer stock, a job, or a straight buyout. Most take the stock and stay on. Works out for everybody… except when somebody starts flooding the system with fake paper. Then it gets messy fast.”

He glanced back at them with a short, humorless grin.

“Like I said on the comm, we’re not happy about this. Fake stubs hurt everybody — us, the miners, and the merchants. But I’ll be straight with you. We’re not going to hand over everything without knowing where it’s going. Astro Mining works a lot of the same ground we do. They’ve been trying to pull claims and people away from us for years. I’m not giving them anything they can use as a weapon against us.”

“Understood,” Alvarez said. “We’re not here to play corporate politics. We just need to stop the counterfeiting.”

Ross gave a short nod.

“That’s what I like to hear. I’d rather be out fixing actual problems than sitting in meetings talking about them.”

He stopped outside a conference room and opened the door. Inside, two people were already waiting.

“This is Elena Kwan, head of Payroll and Redemption, and Marcus Reed from Accounting. They’re the ones who’ve been drowning in bad stubs.”

Kwan didn’t waste time with pleasantries.

“We started seeing problems about three weeks ago,” she said. “At first it was just a few tickets that didn’t match our records. Then it became a steady stream. Some numbers were never issued at all. Others were clean duplicates of stubs we’d already paid out on. The worst part is we can’t always tell which merchant got stuck with which fake.”

Scott leaned forward. “Any pattern to where they’re showing up?”

“Mostly around Ceres and the inner belt stations,” Reed answered. “We’ve also seen a noticeable spike after some of the bigger poker games that run out of the Miners Hotel and a couple of the private clubs. High-value stubs. The kind that would normally come from a good strike or a long contract.”

Alvarez made a note. “You think someone’s using the games to move the fakes?”

“We don’t know for sure,” Kwan said. “But it’s one of the things that stands out. A lot of these bad stubs are coming in large denominations, and they’re appearing in places where cash changes hands fast.”

Ross leaned back in his chair, the easy smile still in place, though his eyes had gone harder.

“We’re willing to help. We’ll give you access to our redemption logs and the list of known fakes. But I’m not turning over our full employee records or our distribution schedules. Not yet. Not until I know this isn’t someone inside trying to make us look bad — or worse, someone from Astro trying to damage our reputation with the merchants.”

Scott studied him for a moment.

“Fair enough,” he said. “For now, we’ll start with what you’re comfortable sharing. But if this turns into something bigger, we’re going to need more.”

Ross met his eyes and gave a short nod.

“Understood, Ranger. Just remember — we’ve got competitors who would love to see us tied up in this kind of mess. We’re not going to make it easy for them.”

---

Chapter 4: How Do You Tell the Real From the Fake?

Back at Ranger Headquarters, Scott and Alvarez sat across from each other at her desk. Consolidated had given them access to their redemption logs for the last two months, along with a list of known counterfeit stubs. It wasn’t everything, but it was a start.

Alvarez scrolled through the data, highlighting clusters as she went.

“Elena Kwan walked us through their system before we left,” she said. “Every legitimate Mining Stub has a unique serial number. When it’s redeemed, it gets marked as used and can’t be cashed again. The paper also has a chemical marker that reacts under a specific light. Most of the fakes fail at least one of those checks.”

Scott tapped one of the flagged tickets on the desk.

“So how are they getting into circulation in the first place?”

“That’s the problem,” Alvarez said. “They look good enough at a glance. Most merchants don’t have the equipment to check the chemical marker or run every serial number in real time. By the time the stub reaches Consolidated, the damage is already done.”

She turned the screen so Scott could see it.

“Look at this. There’s a clear spike in bad stubs after the big poker games at the Miners Hotel. Same pattern at two of the private clubs. High-value stubs, mostly. And they’re appearing in batches, not scattered randomly.”

Scott studied the dates. “So someone’s either using the games to pass the fakes, or they’re getting paid in fakes and then spending them.”

“Or both,” Alvarez said. “Either way, it’s not random. Someone’s moving these things in volume.”

Scott leaned back in his chair. “Question is who. Could be someone inside Consolidated with access to the system. Could be Astro Mining trying to make them look bad. Or it could be professionals who don’t care who gets hurt as long as they make money.”

Alvarez didn’t answer right away. She pulled up another set of reports, then frowned.

“There’s something else,” she said quietly. “We’re starting to get scattered complaints about diluted oxygen tanks. Miners bringing tanks back because the mixture is off — too much CO2, not enough usable oxygen. And the pharmacist down on Level Three told me this morning she’s started spot-testing pharmaceuticals before she dispenses them. Amoxicillin, iodine, even Calsarite. She’s found inconsistencies in at least four batches this week.”

Scott was quiet for a moment.

“Fake pay stubs are one thing,” he said finally. “Diluted oxygen and bad medicine? That’s something else.”

Alvarez nodded. “This isn’t a few people trying to make a little extra on the side. This is organized. Someone’s producing fake stubs, moving them through the games, and apparently branching into other supplies. They’re not just cheating the system. They’re putting people at risk.”

Scott stood up and walked to the small viewport that looked out over the main concourse. Down below, miners and station workers moved through their day like nothing had changed.

He thought about the sign Shirley had taped up in the window of the Rusty Rocket.

After a moment, he turned back to Alvarez.

“We need to find out where these stubs are being printed,” he said. “And we need to find out who’s moving the oxygen and the medicine. Because if this keeps spreading, people are going to start getting hurt for real.”

Alvarez closed the file on her screen.

“Then we’d better move fast,” she said. “Because whoever’s behind this, they’re already ahead of us.”

---

Chapter 5: He Fought His Way Out

Scott was halfway through a cup of mushroom coffee when the message came through on the main board. Alvarez was already reading it by the time he reached her desk.

“Ranger team out of Vesta Station ran into trouble last night,” she said. “They were checking a warehouse on the lower docks — tip about stolen mining equipment and supplies. It turned into a firefight.”

Scott leaned over her shoulder. “Anyone hit?”

“Two Rangers took minor wounds. Armor stopped the worst of it. The suspects weren’t so lucky. Two down, one got away.”

Alvarez scrolled further.

“The one who got away was wearing heavy improvised armor. They described it as thick plates bolted together — looked homemade but effective. He fought his way through the warehouse, took hits, and still made it to a ship. They tried to disable it, but he got clear.”

Scott was quiet for a moment.

“Improvised armor,” he said. “That’s not common.”

“No,” Alvarez agreed. “And it lines up with some of the things we’ve been hearing. The fake stubs, the diluted oxygen, now this. These aren’t just small-time operators trying to make a few extra credits. They’re organized, and they’re willing to shoot at Rangers when they get cornered.”

She pulled up the attached report and read the last section out loud.

“‘Subject was heavily armed and wearing what appeared to be reinforced plating across the torso and limbs. Returned fire effectively and showed no hesitation engaging law enforcement. Escaped aboard a modified light freighter. Transponder was spoofed or disabled. Last known vector took him out-system.’”

Scott rubbed his jaw.

“Sounds like someone who’s done this before,” he said. “Or at least planned for it.”

Alvarez looked up at him.

“You thinking this is connected to our counterfeit operation?”

“I don’t know yet,” Scott admitted. “But it’s the same kind of people. They’re not afraid of a fight, and they’re protecting something worth shooting over. Could be the same crew moving the fake stubs and the bad oxygen. Could be someone else entirely.”

She stared at the report a moment longer, then made a decision.

“Put in a request for everything Vesta Station has on that warehouse. Manifests, surveillance, known associates — whatever they’ve got. And see if any of the dead suspects had Mining Stubs or company scrip on them.”

Scott walked over to the viewport and looked out at the busy concourse below. Miners, haulers, and station workers moved through their day like usual.

Somewhere out there, someone was moving fake pay stubs, watered-down oxygen, and now shooting at Rangers when they got too close.

He thought about the Colt sitting in its walnut case back in the Barn.

Not yet, he told himself. Not until you need it.

But the feeling in his gut told him that day was coming faster than he’d like.

---

Chapter 6: Orson Lang

He arrived on the afternoon shuttle from Vesta Station, dressed in a well-cut but practical jacket and carrying a small case. His papers identified him as Orson Lang — an independent mining consultant and occasional investor looking for promising claims and stable operations.

He moved through Ceres Station with the easy confidence of a man who belonged wherever he happened to be. He stopped at the Mining Store to ask about current claim activity, chatted briefly with a clerk about production numbers, and even bought a small tool kit “for old times’ sake.” He spoke with the calm, measured tone of someone who had spent years underground and now preferred to work with numbers and contracts.

Later that afternoon, he made his way to the lower levels and found Robert Ross outside the Consolidated Midbelt Mining security office. Ross was finishing a conversation with two of his people when the stranger approached.

“Excuse me,” the man said with a polite smile. “I’m Orson Lang. I’ve been looking over some potential investments in the area and I heard Consolidated has been having some trouble with counterfeit Mining Stubs. I was wondering if I might ask a few questions — strictly for my own due diligence, of course.”

Ross studied him for a moment, then gave a short nod.

“Robert Ross. Security. What do you want to know?”

They spoke for several minutes. Lang asked intelligent, specific questions about how the fakes were being detected, how widespread the problem had become, and whether it was affecting day-to-day operations. He listened carefully, asked follow-up questions, and never pushed too hard. When Ross mentioned that the Rangers were now involved, Lang simply nodded.

“That’s probably for the best,” he said. “These things have a way of getting out of hand if they’re not dealt with quickly.”

Before he left, Ross gave him the same warning he’d been giving merchants and miners for the past week.

“Just be careful who you take stubs from,” Ross said. “We’re still sorting out how many fakes are floating around.”

Lang smiled and touched the brim of an imaginary hat.

“You know, I’d love to stay longer and hear more,” he said warmly. “But I’m afraid I have places to be. Thank you for the warning about the stubs. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He shook Ross’s hand and walked away down the corridor, moving with the unhurried pace of a man who had gotten exactly what he came for.

Two hours later, Orson Lang was gone from Ceres Station.

He hadn’t raised a single suspicion.

---

RANGER INTERNAL BRIEFING

Subject: Unknown – Aliases: Harry Lime / Orson Lang
Status: At Large – Considered Armed and Dangerous

Known Aliases:

• Harry Lime – Name given during direct confrontation with Rangers in the outer Themis Cluster. Subject appeared amused when using the name.

• Orson Lang – Used recently while on Ceres Station. Presented himself as an independent mining engineer and investor. Described as polite, well-spoken, and confident. Spoke with Consolidated Midbelt Mining security without raising suspicion.

• Ned Kelly – Informal nickname used by some Rangers due to the subject’s repeated use of heavy improvised armor.

Physical Description:
Male, approximate age 40–50 (estimates vary).

When encountered in combat, subject wears thick, crudely constructed armor plating across the torso and limbs. Armor appears homemade but provides significant protection against standard flechette rounds.

When operating under civilian cover, subject presents as clean, well-groomed, and professionally dressed. No armor observed during these encounters.

Known Activities:

• Suspected involvement in the production and distribution of counterfeit Mining Stubs.

• Possible connection to the distribution of diluted oxygen supplies and tampered pharmaceuticals (Amoxicillin, Iodine, and Calsarite have been flagged in multiple incidents).

• Subject and associated crew have shown willingness to engage law enforcement with lethal force when confronted (see Vesta Station warehouse incident).

Behavioral Notes:
Subject displays a theatrical and self-aware demeanor. Appears to take some enjoyment in the use of aliases drawn from historical or fictional figures.

When operating under cover, subject is described as charming and articulate. He does not appear to rely on intimidation in civilian settings.

When cornered, subject has demonstrated both tactical awareness and a high tolerance for risk, including fighting through armed opposition while wearing heavy armor.

Assessment:
Subject is believed to be part of a small but organized criminal network operating across multiple sectors. He is considered the most visible and dangerous member of the group due to his willingness to engage Rangers directly and his apparent leadership role. His use of multiple, well-crafted aliases suggests a high degree of operational discipline.

Real identity remains unknown.

Recommendation:
Approach with caution. Subject should be considered armed and extremely dangerous. Any sightings should be reported immediately to central dispatch.

---

Chapter 7: They’re Losing on Purpose

Alvarez had been staring at the data for nearly an hour when she finally spoke.

“I think I’ve got something.”

Scott walked over to her desk. She turned the screen so he could see it.

“Every time there’s a big game at the Miners Hotel or one of the private clubs, we see a spike in bad stubs showing up in the system a day or two later. Not small ones either. High-value tickets. And they’re clustered — same denominations, same rough time frame.”

Scott studied the dates. “You think someone’s using the games to move them.”

“I think someone’s losing with them,” Alvarez corrected. “Look at this group of players. They show up regularly, they play high stakes, and they consistently walk away with real cash even when they lose most of their buy-in. If they were winning big with fake stubs, someone would’ve noticed by now. But if they’re losing on purpose…”

Scott nodded slowly. “Then nobody looks twice at them.”

Two nights later, Scott sat at a corner table in one of the private clubs off the main concourse. He was dressed in off-duty clothes — dark pants, a worn jacket, and a shirt that had seen better days. On the table in front of him sat a bottle of Kentucky Bourbon. It was the real thing, but only about ten percent of what was inside the bottle. The rest was tea, with just enough lemon juice to keep the taste from being too obvious.

He was playing badly on purpose.

The problem was, the cards weren’t cooperating.

Scott had bought in with a high-value counterfeit Mining Stub, just like the players Alvarez had flagged. He’d been trying to lose steadily — folding decent hands, calling when he shouldn’t, and making the occasional careless raise. But somehow he kept winning small pots. Not enough to look suspicious, but enough that he was having trouble dumping the stub’s value the way he needed to.

He took a sip from the bottle and made a face that had nothing to do with the cards. The tea and lemon weren’t fooling anyone who actually drank bourbon, but it was good enough to keep up appearances.

Across the table, a heavy-set miner in a stained work shirt glanced at him with a crooked grin.

“You’re having a hell of a night for someone who looks like they’re trying to give their money away.”

Scott gave a short, dry laugh. “Just one of those nights.”

He folded another hand he probably should have played and watched the pot get pushed to the player on his left. Slowly but surely, the counterfeit stub was shrinking.

It wasn’t fast enough for his liking, but it was working.

By the end of the night, he’d managed to lose most of the stub’s value. When he cashed out, he walked away with a decent amount of real cash in his pocket — exactly what the players Alvarez had been watching were doing.

He met her outside the club two hours later and handed her the cash.

“They’re losing on purpose,” Scott said. “Spreading it out over a few hours so it doesn’t look obvious. By the time they cash out, they’ve turned most of a fake stub into real money.”

Alvarez looked at the cash, then back at him.

“You’re sure?”

Scott nodded. “I tried to do it myself tonight. Even when I was playing like an idiot, it was harder to lose than I expected. These guys have been doing this for a while. They know how to make it look natural.”

Alvarez was quiet for a moment, turning the cash over in her hands.

“Then we need to find out where they’re getting the stubs,” she said. “Because if this is how they’re moving them, someone has to be supplying them in volume.”

Scott looked back at the club entrance, then out at the busy concourse beyond it.

“Yeah,” he said. “And I don’t think they’re printing them in their quarters.”

---

Chapter 8: Bad Medicine

Scott and Alvarez stood in Dr. Rao’s small, cluttered office. She looked tired. There were dark circles under her eyes, and a half-empty cup of cold coffee sat forgotten on her desk next to a stack of test results.

She held up a bottle of Amoxicillin.

“This batch is under strength,” she said flatly. “Not enough to kill someone outright in most cases, but it won’t clear an infection properly either. I’ve got miners walking around with half-treated cases because they think they’re protected. Some of them are getting worse, not better.”

She set the bottle down harder than necessary.

“The pharmacist is testing everything now. Every bottle, every case, every shipment. It’s slowing us down, and it’s scaring people. We’re already seeing cases where miners are refusing treatment because they don’t trust what we’re giving them. I can’t blame them. I wouldn’t want to take medicine I wasn’t sure about either.”

Dr. Rao looked directly at Scott and Alvarez.

“This isn’t just inconvenient anymore. It’s dangerous. If this keeps going, someone is going to die because we gave them watered-down oxygen or fake antibiotics. I need you to find whoever’s doing this.”

Alvarez glanced at Scott, then back at Dr. Rao.

“We’re looking into it,” she said. “We think it’s connected to the counterfeit Mining Stubs.”

Dr. Rao gave her a hard look.

“Connected how?”

“The same people moving the fake stubs seem to be moving bad oxygen and compromised medicine,” Scott said. “We’re not sure how yet, but the routes overlap.”

Dr. Rao didn’t look impressed.

“Find them,” she said. “Before someone dies because we gave them watered-down oxygen or fake antibiotics.”

Later that day, Scott and Alvarez sat in a quiet corner of the Rusty Rocket with a man named Jonas Hale, a mid-level supply coordinator who had been feeding them information for the past week. He looked nervous and kept his voice low.

“I don’t know who’s behind it,” Hale said. “But I know how it’s moving. Someone higher up the chain is placing orders through secondary suppliers. Good sources get bypassed. The warehouse managers get a cut to look the other way and sign off on the shipments. It’s not just oxygen. I’ve seen cases of Amoxicillin, Iodine, even Calsarite coming through the same way.”

Alvarez leaned forward. “Do you know where it’s coming from?”

Hale hesitated, then nodded.

“There’s an asteroid out in the outer belt. Small. Mostly abandoned. Supposed to be just a storage site for surplus equipment. But I’ve seen manifests routing both the bad medicine and a lot of high-value Mining Stubs through there. Too much volume for it to be random.”

Scott studied him. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure enough that I’m talking to you,” Hale said. “These people don’t mess around. One of the warehouse guys who asked too many questions stopped showing up for shifts. No one’s seen him since.”

Alvarez looked at Scott.

“That’s our lead,” she said quietly.

Scott nodded. He was already thinking about the asteroid, and about the man in improvised armor who had fought his way out of a warehouse on Vesta Station.

Whoever was running this operation, they were protecting more than just fake pay stubs.

They were protecting something worth killing over.

---

Chapter 9: Thin Ice

Scott and Alvarez stood in Captain Ramirez’s office. On the desk between them was a single data slate with Jonas Hale’s information.

Ramirez read it twice, then looked up.

“This is thin.”

“Very thin,” Alvarez agreed. “One man’s word, based on manifests he shouldn’t have seen. Could be a trap. Could be a red herring.”

Scott didn’t disagree.

“But when you have nothing,” he said, “you jump at something. Right now this is the only solid lead we’ve got on where the counterfeit stubs and the bad medicine are actually being handled.”

Ramirez leaned back in her chair and studied both of them.

“You’re thinking this could be another Shadow Fleet situation.”

Scott met her eyes.

“I am. We went in light once before and nearly got burned. I don’t want to do that again. If this asteroid is what Hale says it is, we’re not just looking at a couple of counterfeiters. We could be looking at the whole operation. I want enough people to take it, not just poke it.”

Ramirez was quiet for a moment.

“I can give you two more Rangers,” she said finally. “That’s it. Headquarters is stretched thin right now. You’ll have four Peregrins total. That’s the best I can do.”

Scott nodded. It wasn’t as much as he wanted, but it was better than going in with just the two of them.

“Understood.”

Ramirez studied him for a second longer.

“You sure about this?”

“No,” Scott said honestly. “But sitting here while bad oxygen and fake medicine keep circulating isn’t an option either.”

Ramirez gave a short nod.

“Then go. But don’t take unnecessary risks. If it looks wrong when you get there, you pull back and we reassess. I don’t want another Shadow Fleet on my watch.”

Scott and Alvarez left her office and headed for the docks.

Two hours later, Justice-23 and Justice-24 slid out of Ceres Station’s main cavern, followed by two additional Peregrins. The four ships formed up and burned toward the outer belt.

Scott sat in the pilot’s seat of Justice-23, the cactus-fiber rope coiled beside him out of habit. Alvarez’s voice came over the private channel from Justice-24.

“You still thinking this could be a trap?”

“Always,” Scott said. “But Hale was scared. That kind of fear usually means there’s something real behind it.”

Alvarez was quiet for a moment.

“Let’s hope it’s the right kind of real.”

Scott looked out at the dark ahead of them.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s hope.”

---

Vesta Mining Asteroid, the Belt

Harry Lime stood in a small side chamber deep in the asteroid’s cave system, listening to the man in front of him.

“They’re coming,” the man said. “Four ships. Left Ceres a few hours ago. Rangers.”

Harry Lime was quiet for a moment, then gave a small nod.

“Of course they are,” he said calmly. “They finally figured it out.”

He walked over to a crate and checked the contents without any visible concern.

“Tell the others to stay ready. No panic. If the Rangers come in shooting, we respond. If they try to talk first…” He smiled faintly. “We’ll see.”

The man hesitated. “You’re not worried they’ll take the whole place?”

Harry Lime adjusted his cuff and looked toward the main tunnel.

“Worried? No. But I am curious.” He glanced back at the man. “I’ve been wondering how good they actually are. Now we get to find out.”

He picked up a data slate and scrolled through it.

“Make sure the important things are ready to move if they have to be. But for now, we wait. Let’s see what kind of men these Rangers really are.”

---

Chapter 10: Asteroid Interior – Sealed Cave System

After the airlock cycled shut, Alvarez looked at the three tunnels branching ahead of them.

Scott studied them for a moment, then spoke quietly.

“If we stay together they’ll pin us the second we show ourselves. We split, we force them to divide their attention.”

Alvarez glanced at him. “You sure?”

Scott gave a short nod. “No. But standing still and getting shot at is worse.”

He pointed to the left tunnel. “You take that one. I’ll take the middle.”

Alvarez didn’t argue. She just gave him a quick look, then moved out.

Scott watched her go for a second, then started down the middle tunnel.

Never divide your forces when you don’t know the enemy’s strength or disposition. The old rule ran through his head. Custer and Chelmsford both learned that the hard way. But staying together would’ve just made them one big target. Sometimes you had to take the chance and hope you were right.

He kept moving.

Scott moved carefully down the middle tunnel, his boots quiet on the rough stone. The tunnel sloped upward, then opened into a wide natural cavern. He stopped at the edge, staying low behind a rocky outcrop, and looked down into the larger space below.

At the far end of the cavern, Alvarez was pinned down behind a stack of ore carts. Two armed men were using another cart as cover, firing steadily in her direction. She was holding her own, but she was outnumbered and exposed.

Scott didn’t hesitate.

He pulled the coil of cactus-fiber rope from his belt, shook out a loop, and stepped into the open just enough to get a clear throw. The rope hissed through the air. The loop settled cleanly over both men. Scott jerked it tight, yanking them off balance, then quickly wrapped the free end around a thick support post and hauled hard. Both men went down hard, tangled and cursing.

“Alvarez!” he called.

She was already moving. She rushed the two struggling men while they were still trying to get untangled from the rope. In seconds she had them cuffed and secured.

Scott gave the rope one last pull to make sure they weren’t going anywhere, then let it go slack.

“I’ll go find the third man,” he said.

Alvarez nodded, already checking the prisoners. “Watch yourself.”

Scott moved deeper into the tunnel system, following the sound of running boots. The only other noise was the faint, eerie echo of zither music drifting through the cave system — the notes bouncing strangely off the stone walls.

He followed the sound of footsteps down a dark side tunnel. A shadow flickered across the rock ahead, then vanished. At an intersection he paused, listening. A faint glimmer of light showed down the right-hand passage. He turned that way.

The tunnel narrowed, then opened into another small chamber. Scott pressed himself against the wall just before the opening and carefully peeked around the corner.

A shot cracked past his head. He dropped into a crouch and risked a lower look. Three more rounds slammed into the rock above him with sharp metallic clangs.

Scott pulled back. He’d hit something, but it hadn’t gone down. The sound wasn’t right for flesh and bone.

Armor.

A cold realization hit him.

He moved fast, crossing to the other side of the opening. Two more shots rang out and missed. From his new angle he got a clearer look.

The man was wearing a crude but heavy iron suit — thick plates bolted and welded together, covering his torso and limbs. It looked homemade, ugly, and effective. A Ned Kelly wannabe, cobbled together from scrap and mining equipment.

Scott called out, voice steady.

“We’ve got your two partners. There’s no way out of here. Surrender.”

A rough voice answered from behind the armor. “Never.”

“Last warning.”

The man didn’t reply.

Scott drew the Colt .45 Long Colt from its holster. He held it low for a moment, thumb resting on the hammer.

“Alright, girl,” he whispered. “It’s up to you. Be true.”

He knelt, reached around the corner, and fired once.

The confined space exploded with sound and smoke. The heavy round slammed into the armored man with a thunderous KABOOM followed by the crashing of metal. The man staggered backward and went down hard, the impact ringing through the cave.

Scott stayed low, the Colt still ready.

“Surrender now?” he called.

The armored man lay on his back, breathing hard. One of the heavy plates on his chest was badly dented, and he wasn’t trying to get up. Scott kept the revolver trained on him as he stepped into the open.

He looked down at the man in the crude iron suit.

“What’s your name, Ned Kelly?” Scott asked.

The man gave a short, pained laugh that turned into a cough.

“Harry Lime, old man,” he answered.

Scott was quiet for a second. Then he nodded slowly, understanding.

That explained the zither music echoing through the tunnels.

He kept the Colt steady.

“Well, Mr. Lime,” Scott said evenly. “You and your partners are done here. The only question left is whether you’re going to make this easy or hard.”

Harry Lime stared up at him through the narrow vision slit in his homemade helmet. He didn’t answer right away.

Scott waited.

Harry Lime smiled faintly.

“Old man, don’t be so gloomy. After all, it’s not that awful. Like the fella says, in Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love—they had five hundred years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.”

Scott didn’t smile back.

For a second — just a second — he felt the weight of the Colt in his hand and the almost overwhelming urge to end it right there. This man wasn’t some desperate miner who’d made a bad choice. He was smart. Charismatic. Capable. He could have done almost anything with that mind and that energy.

Instead, he chose to water down oxygen. To sell fake medicine. To flood the system with counterfeit pay so people who worked hard got nothing in return. He chose to profit from making other people’s lives smaller and more dangerous.

And he was proud of it.

Scott’s finger tightened on the trigger.

Then he exhaled slowly and eased the pressure. He kept the Colt steady, but he didn’t fire.

Scott kept the Colt steady on him.

“Get up, Mr. Lime. You’re under arrest.”

Harry Lime tilted his head slightly, then slowly pushed himself up off the ground with a wince. He looked around at the remains of the crude iron suit lying scattered on the cave floor, then back at Scott.

Scott studied him for a moment, then asked quietly,

“What made you come out here?”

Harry Lime gave a short, bitter laugh and brushed dust off his sleeve.

“I heard they have great beaches,” he said. “They were wrong.”

Scott didn’t smile. He just kept the revolver trained on him.

“Turn around,” he said. “Hands behind your back.”

Harry Lime hesitated for a second, then slowly turned around, a faint, mocking smile still on his face.

Scott continued, his voice calm but cold.

“The charges are too many for me to list without missing one. I’ll let the Magistrate read them to you.”

He looked at the back of Harry Lime’s head without any trace of satisfaction.

“One wears the white hat,” John Scott said, “not because it’s the easy path. Because it’s the good path a man chooses.”

Harry Lime gave a short, bitter laugh.

“Still playing the Lone Ranger,” he muttered as Scott secured his wrists.

Deputy Ranger John Scott didn’t answer. He just kept the gun on him until Harry Lime was fully restrained.

---

Epilogue

The trip back to Ceres was quiet. Justice-23 and Justice-24 flew in formation with the two backup Peregrins, the captured prisoners secured in the holds. Scott sat in the pilot’s seat, the cactus-fiber rope resting beside him, the Colt locked away in its walnut case. Alvarez’s voice came over the private channel.

“Orson Lang,” she said. “Or Harry Lime. Either one bother you?”

Scott was quiet for a long moment.

“Yes,” he said finally.

Alvarez didn’t push. She just waited.

After a while, she spoke again, her voice calm.

“It’s because you recognize it,” she said. “Both of you crafted an ideal. You took old stories and legends and built a code to live by. The Lone Ranger. The old lawman who does what’s right even when it’s hard. He did the same thing, only he chose a different story. The charming operator who looks out for himself and doesn’t care who gets hurt. Like looking in a mirror… but everything’s reversed.”

Scott kept his eyes on the stars ahead.

Alvarez’s voice came through quieter.

“That’s why he bothers you. Because the difference between you isn’t the code. It’s which story you decided to believe.”

Scott didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was low.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s exactly why.”

Neither of them said anything else for the rest of the flight home.

---

Chapter 11: Harry Lime Will Do

Ceres Station – Magistrate’s Court, Level 2
Cycle 2148.14

The hearing room was small, functional, and deliberately plain. No wood paneling, no grand seal on the wall — just gray composite bulkheads, a raised bench, and two rows of benches for witnesses and the accused. The air recyclers hummed steadily overhead.

Scott stood at the back with Alvarez, arms folded, the cactus-fiber rope coiled at his belt out of long habit. He hadn’t worn the Colt today. It was still locked in its walnut case back in the Barn. He wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse.

The door on the left opened. Two men in bright orange prison jumpsuits were brought in by station security. Their jumpsuits were rumpled, stained at the knees and cuffs, and one of them had a fresh bruise along his jaw. They moved like men who had spent the last thirty-six hours in a holding cell and hadn’t enjoyed it.

Magistrate Harland J. Marshall looked up from his slate. He was a tall, gray-haired man with steady eyes and the calm demeanor of someone who had heard every excuse the Belt could invent.

“Names,” he said without preamble.

The first man glanced at his partner, then at the floor.

“Riggs,” he muttered.

“Torres,” the second one said, barely audible.

Marshall made a note. He didn’t look impressed.

“Charges include conspiracy to distribute counterfeit Mining Stubs, trafficking in adulterated pharmaceuticals and oxygen, and assault on lawful authority. Do either of you have anything to say before I set your preliminary hearing?”

Riggs shook his head. Torres stared at his hands.

Marshall’s eyes moved past them to the third man being escorted in.

Harry Lime wore the same orange jumpsuit as the others, but somehow it looked like it had been tailored for him on Savile Row. The fit was perfect across the shoulders. The sleeves were rolled once, precisely, revealing clean wrists. Even the way the fabric draped as he walked suggested the jumpsuit had simply accepted its new role and was doing its best to rise to the occasion. His hair was combed. He looked rested. He looked amused.

The guard stepped back. Harry Lime stood with his hands loosely clasped in front of him, perfectly at ease.

He glanced down at the bright orange fabric, then looked up at the Magistrate with a polite, almost apologetic smile.

“Sorry for my appearance,” he said. “I had to leave my last place in a hurry, and against my will. No time to pack, you see.”

A faint ripple of reaction moved through the room. Scott felt Alvarez shift beside him.

Magistrate Marshall studied Harry Lime for a long moment, then picked up two thin plastic ID cards from his bench and held them up.

“And who,” he asked, “are you?”

Harry Lime tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question with genuine interest.

“Well,” he said, “that depends on who’s asking, doesn’t it? On Ceres Station last week I was Orson Lang — independent mining consultant, occasional investor, very respectable. In the outer Themis Cluster a few months back, I believe I introduced myself as Harry Lime. Some of the Rangers have taken to calling me Ned Kelly on account of the armor. I’ve never been fond of that one, personally. A bit on the nose.”

He gave a small, self-deprecating shrug.

“But if we’re being informal… Harry Lime will do, Your Honor. I’ve grown rather fond of the fellow.”

Marshall set the two ID cards down side by side and looked at Harry Lime over the top of them.

“You seem to collect names the way some men collect stamps.”

“Names are useful,” Harry Lime replied pleasantly. “They tell people what story they’re supposed to believe. I find it helpful to keep a few options available.”

Marshall leaned back in his chair.

“And which story are you telling today?”

Harry Lime’s smile didn’t fade, but something colder moved behind his eyes for just a second.

“The one where I’m standing here in an orange jumpsuit,” he said. “And you’re the one who gets to decide what happens next.”

The room was very quiet.

Marshall studied him for several seconds, then made a note on his slate.

“Harry Lime it is, then. For now.” He looked at the two men in the rumpled jumpsuits. “You two will be held pending further investigation. As for you…” His gaze returned to Harry Lime. “You will be held in maximum security isolation until the full scope of your operation is understood. I suspect that will take some time.”

Harry Lime inclined his head, almost graciously.

“I look forward to the conversation, Your Honor.”

The guards moved in. Riggs and Torres went without resistance. Harry Lime turned to go, then paused and looked back over his shoulder — directly at Scott.

For a moment the charming mask slipped, just enough to show the man beneath it. He gave Scott a small, almost respectful nod.

Then the mask was back in place, and he walked out of the hearing room with the same unhurried grace he’d shown on Ceres Station when he was still pretending to be Orson Lang.

The door closed behind him.

Alvarez let out a slow breath.

“Still think he’s just a clever grifter?” she asked quietly.

Scott didn’t answer right away. He was still looking at the closed door.

“No,” he said at last. “I think he’s something worse. He believes the story he’s telling.”

Alvarez glanced at him.

“And you?”

Scott touched the coil of rope at his belt without thinking.

“I’m still trying to make sure I believe mine.”

He turned and walked out of the hearing room. Alvarez followed.

Behind them, Magistrate Harland J. Marshall sat alone for a long moment, staring at the two ID cards on his bench — one for Orson Lang, one for Harry Lime.

He had a feeling this wasn’t over.

Not even close.

Curtis Anthony Neil/Grok 4.0/ LibreOffice. June  14th. 2026 AD.

Copyright © 2026 by Curtis Anthony Neil
All rights reserved.

Glossary

Astro Mining
A rival mining company operating in the same regions as Consolidated Midbelt Mining. Often suspected of corporate sabotage or dirty tricks.

The Barn
John Scott’s living quarters on the outer ring of Ceres Station. Named for its rustic, Earth-like feel.

Cactus-fiber rope
A strong, flexible rope made from Martian or Belt-grown cactus fiber. Scott carries one as both a tool and a personal habit.

Consolidated Midbelt Mining
One of the largest mining operations in the Belt. Issues Mining Stubs as a form of company scrip.

Flechette
A small, fin-stabilized projectile fired from pneumatic weapons. Standard issue for Rangers because they are less likely to over-penetrate in spacecraft.

Harry Lime
One of the aliases used by the main antagonist. Also known as Orson Lang and (unofficially) Ned Kelly.

Justice-23 / Justice-24
Ranger patrol ships assigned to Ceres Station. Peregrine-class vessels.

Mining Stubs
Company scrip issued by Consolidated Midbelt Mining. Used by miners to pay for goods and services before being redeemed for hard currency.

Ned Kelly
Nickname given to the suspect because of the crude, heavy improvised armor he wears during confrontations.

Orson Lang
An alias used by the antagonist while operating undercover on Ceres Station.

Peregrins
Light, fast Ranger patrol craft used for enforcement and rapid response across the Belt.

Pneumatic flechette pistol
The standard-issue sidearm for Rangers. Uses compressed gas to fire small finned darts.

The Rusty Rocket
A retro-styled diner and bar on Ceres Station, popular with miners and station workers.

Sea Wiz Gatling
A type of heavy rotary cannon that uses solid cartridge ammunition rather than energy or flechette rounds.

Curtis Anthony Neil/Grok 4.0/ LibreOffice. June  14th. 2026 AD.

Artist Copyright June 2026, all rights reserved

Bakersfield, California, USA, North America, Planet Earth (Terra), the third planet from the Sun (Sol), Solar System, Orion Arm, Milky Way Galaxy

Copyright © 2026 by Curtis Anthony Neil
All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

First Edition – June 2026

Published by Curtis A. Neil
Bakersfield, California, USA

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.