Two days had passed since their explosive departure from Reese Point.

  Honestly, the escape went smoother than anyone expected. Marceti took their call within minutes of hitting safe space, her satisfaction more than evident through the holo. "Excellent work, Strider Squadron. I'll meet you at Tantalus in forty-eight hours for the package transfer." She had no questions about the catastrophic damage a smuggler station suffered around the same time, as reported by newsfeeds several sectors around.

  They'd made tracks to Kellan's Refuge, a small shipyard and mining station tucked between two mineral-rich asteroids a few lightyears away. It was the kind of place that didn't ask questions if you had money in hand, money they definitely had. Trigger had the Cinder repainted in neutral grays, officially registered under Strider Squadron's new PMC license, and had the damaged plasma flakker's capacitor replaced. His trust in Jodie's expertise only rose by the day, but a second opinion on critical systems never hurt, so he also tossed the station a few creds for an inspection. The shipyard's chief engineer, an old wolverine with the fur on his hands stained black with oil, gave them a clean bill of health. "Whoever maintains this boat knows their stuff," he'd said, making Jodie beam with pride.

  During the two-day transit, they'd cataloged Eddy's haul. The gecko's sticky fingers had netted them over a hundred thousand in raw frontier notes, cred chips, and Venomian marks, plus another hundred thousand in jewelry, rare liquor, and what turned out to be encrypted data drives filled with records of LeShanks' dealings. Even Eli's hostility toward their newest member had dulled for a few hours when he'd seen the pile of treasure.

  "Still a liability," the eagle had sighed, but with notably less venom than usual.

  With fresh paint and fuller pockets, Trigger found himself hunched over supply lists in preparation for their shopping run on Tantalus. Farworth's contract to Griath loomed, and if the reports were accurate, they'd need every advantage they could get.

  Well, he was hunched over supply lists until he was dragged away by Eli this morning, that is.

  The rec room's holoprojector casts security footage across the far wall in crisp detail. Trigger sits forward on the couch facing the projector, elbows on knees, watching himself move through LeShank's casino for the third time. Beside him, Eli lounges easily, occasionally pausing the feed to point out mistakes.

  When Trigger gave Nidhogg the order to ransack LeShank's personal terminal, the AI also took a copy of every camera recording that captured their visages on the station, wiping the data afterward. This morning, Nidhogg announced that it had finished parsing the footage for after-action analysis.

  Of course, Eli jumped at the chance to grill Trigger, so here they are.

  On the screen, past-Trigger ducks behind an overturned table as blaster fire sparks overhead.

  "Stop." Eli's talon jabs at the remote, and the image freezes. "See that? What were you thinking right there?"

  Trigger studies the frozen frame. "I needed cover fast."

  "Wrong kind of cover." Eli rewinds five seconds. "Watch your sight lines. That position gave you protection from the main group between the slot machines, sure, but you're completely exposed to the balcony," he points to said balcony over the inside of the casino entrance. "Lucky for you those guards were too busy pissing themselves to capitalize."

  The eagle lets the footage play. Sure enough, Trigger's past self has to scramble when fire comes from above. He moves fast enough to be a blur in the recording, but still nearly takes a bolt for the trouble.

  "Ground combat is as three-dimensional as flying," Eli continues, his yellow eye reflecting the screen's light. "Always account for vertical threats. In the air, you think in spheres. On the ground, you need to think in layers. Floor level, elevated positions, overhead, and sometimes below around ledges."

  Trigger nods, committing the lesson to memory. On screen, he watches himself sprint across open ground to reach Lars's position, poised to cover the dog's flank.

  "And that." Eli pauses again. "What's wrong with that movement?"

  Trigger examines his frozen form mid-stride, weapon raised but not firing. After a moment: "No suppressing fire. Left myself exposed for two seconds."

  "Two seconds is forever in a firefight." Eli's cybernetic eye whirs as it focuses. "You've got good instincts, I'll give you that. Your reaction time is fucking supernatural, but good tactics multiplies the effectiveness of any decent trait, like speed and reflexes," he says, pausing to give Trigger a stare. "You got any cybernetics, or a biomodded adrenal gland, or are you just a freak?"

  "Just a freak," the man answers blithely.

  The eagle grunts and hits the projector remote, rolling into the next part of the firefight.

  The rec room door slides open. Mila pads in wearing the plaid skirt and black sweater she picked up on Tantalus.

  'That's becoming her favorite outfit,' Trigger dully notices.

  "What are you boys watching?" She takes the narrow place between Trigger and the arm of the couch, practically squishing herself into his side. "Oh! Is that the casino footage? Keep going! I wanna see how it went!"

  Trigger shuffles over to give the mink more room, but she just follows, her hip against his. When he sends her a questioning look, the yellow mink just grins back.

  Whatever makes her happy...

  As the security footage begins playing again, they keep running through it, with Eli highlighting the worst parts and telling Trigger no-nonsense what he should have done. Mila squirms a little as she watches the carnage, and there isn't a better word for it, for they left over thirty bodies in their wake, but she doesn't avert her eyes.

  A small part of him wants to comfort her, though he's just not sure how. Does he put an arm around her shoulder, or a hand on hers? That only gives rise to another dilemma, namely, is it appropriate for a superior to do such a thing for a subordinate? All of his training screams NO, but for some unfathomable reason, the urge, no matter how small, remains.

  "You can't protect her from the ugly parts forever. Girl like that, trying to make it as a spacer? She's gonna see it all eventually. Better she gets it out of the way sooner rather than later." Lars' words echo in his head.

  In the end, he does nothing, even if some part of him is rubbed the wrong way by the inaction.

  'Is what I was taught about subordinate/superior relationships in the air force applicable to a mercenary group? Doesn't seem like there is a real answer…'

  "We're finding VR booths in Griath," Eli declares, pulling Trigger from his introspection. "If you get to torture us in pilot sims, then I'm doing the same to you for ground ops. I will not follow anyone shittier than me."

  The captain smiles. "Looking forward to it," he replies, genuine as can be.

  Eli's face twists, looking both like a grimace and a trace of respect at once as he rewinds the footage. "This time, I want you to identify every mistake before I point it out. Let's see if any of this is sinking in."

  Before they can start over, the ship intercom fizzles with static before Jodie's voice comes through. "Final approach to Tantalus, folks. Ten minutes to dock."

  "We'll continue this later," Eli says, killing the projection with a click of the remote.

  Eli, Trigger, and Mila make their way to the bridge, finding Jodie at the pilot's station with Eddy hovering nervously beside her. The gecko stares down blankly at the panel beside hers while Jodie points at various controls.

  "...and this is the nav panel. See? It's not that complicated." Jodie's patience sounds strained.

  "But there's so many buttons!" Eddy protests, his still stubby tail trying to curl anxiously. "Why the hell does a glorified map need this many buttons!? What if I press the wrong one and we fly into a star or somethin'? Or what if one makes the ship explode?"

  Trigger can feel the stare Jodie levels the gecko with.

  Lars watches from the sensor station, poorly concealing his grin behind one massive paw. "Yeah, Jodie. What if he presses the self-destruct?"

  "There's no self-destruct button on the nav panel!" Jodie snaps. "That ain't even a singular button! It's a sequence you gotta enter at the captain's chair!"

  Eddy's eyes go wide. "There's an actual self-destruct on this tub?! What is this, the fuckin' sub-luminal ages?!"

  Jodie introduces her hand to her face. Even with fur to muffle the impact, there is still a muted smack!

  Through the viewport, Tantalus Station grows larger, its massive bulk rotating slowly against the stars. The tethered satellites orbit lazily around the central hub, connected by transit tubes that gleam in the reflected light of the system's sun.

  Trigger moves to stand behind the captain's chair, not sitting but placing a hand on its back. "Everyone, a moment."

  The bridge quiets. Even Eddy stops fidgeting.

  "I'm not much for speeches," Trigger begins, his dark eyes moving from face to face. "So don't expect this often. But our first official operation as Strider Squadron went well. Despite the short time we've been together..." He pauses, seeming to search for the right words. "I'm proud of what we accomplished."

  Mila smiles, bright and happy. Lars straightens slightly, and even Eli's perpetual scowl softens a fraction.

  "After we dock, I'll be meeting with Marceti to transfer the package and negotiating with Farworth for an increased rate given what we now know about Griath." Trigger's expression hardens slightly. "The situation there is deteriorating faster than the public reports suggest, and with a carrier, we're worth far more than a group of freelancers."

  "How much are we talking?" Lars asks.

  "Double, minimum. Triple if I can manage it." Trigger glances at the chronometer on the armrest of the captain's seat. "After that, supply run. Have personal items figured out ASAP, and speak to me for work requisitions."

  Lars raises a finger and opens his mouth to speak.

  "Exercise equipment and proper food are already on my list."

  The dog's mouth closes, his lips rising into a pleased grin.

  Trigger looks at the faces around him. "Questions?"

  Eddy raises a hand and waves it like a gradeschooler trying to get his teacher's attention. "Whaddya want me to do?"

  "If you're so eager, begin making connections in the Griath system and research key players operating below the law in the area and surrounding sectors," Trigger says, making Eddy's face fall with the boring assignment. "Your network use will be monitored for now, so mind your opsec."

  "Hey, I ain't no amateur!" Eddy shoots back with surprising heat. "I don't just blab whatever to whoever! Give me some credit!"

  Trigger raises a hand to forestall further complaints. "Just making sure," he replies dryly. "Releasing details regarding the Wyvern or Nidhogg are doubly forbidden. Purposeful disclosure is grounds for immediate removal."

  The gecko gulps at the word "removal" and nods rapidly, his surly edge dying as he looks at the walls with a measure of nervousness. "So, uh, I guess the robot is going to be watching like, I dunno, some fucked-up cyber pidgeon on my shoulder, then?"

  "CORRECT," Nidhogg's voice plays through every speaker in the bridge, making Eddy wince.

  Eddy was understandably skeptical when told of Nidhogg, since AI of Nidhogg's caliber are still considered fantasy almost everywhere in the galaxy, but Trigger's dead-faced assurance that the plane-bound AI is the real deal put a wedge in the door that was Eddy's disbelief.

  The comm system chimes, pulling Trigger from his musing. "Unidentified vessel, this is Tantalus Traffic Control. Your IFF is not on record. State your designation and purpose."

  Trigger leans over Mila's shoulder to activate the response. "Tantalus Control, this is MVC Aquila. Requesting docking clearance."

  A new paintjob wasn't the only thing they got for the ship formerly known as the Cinder. With the new looks, a new name was needed as well. A few were floated from every member of the crew, with Mila and Eddy enthusiastically tossing out a dozen each. With so many names to pick from and not caring too much about what a stepping stone like a simple corvette was called, Trigger told them all to pick one, write it on some paper, and they'd draw it at random.

  Eddy was rather put out when he was told Shaggin' Wagon was getting tossed if picked.

  In the end, it came down to Espada, Aquila, Kuna, Scavenger, and Mega Murderizer Plus, from Lars, Eli, Mila, Jodie, and Eddy respectively. Eli didn't crow about his victory when Aquila was drawn, but he did scowl less that night.

  "Copy that, Aquila. Transmit your registration for verification."

  Jodie returns her attention to her console. "Sending now."

  A pause, then: "Registration confirmed. Aquila, you're cleared for Docking Ring Seven, Berth Twenty-Two. Mid-size accommodation. Welcome to Tantalus."

  "Acknowledged, Control. Aquila out." Trigger straightens. "Take us in, Jodie."

  "Aye, Captain." She grins at the formal address, clearly enjoying the official feel of it all. The corvette banks gently, angling toward their assigned berth.

  As they approach, Trigger notices several other mercenary vessels docked nearby. A sleek Cornerian interceptor, a battered but functional freight-runner with obvious weapon modifications, and what looks like a rebuilt military patrol boat much like their own. Time would tell if they're competition, or potential allies.

  "Smooth as silk," Jodie murmurs as she guides them through the docking ring's energy field. The Aquila settles onto the large landing pad with barely a tremor. The landing struts settle with a final groan as the Aquila's engines power down.

  Trigger stands, already running through logistics in his head. "Eli, take the loose valuables from Eddy's haul; coins, jewelry, anything that we can't use. Find buyers on-station."

  The eagle nods. "I know a few places that don't ask questions. Want me to push for top credit?"

  "Just get fair value. We don't have time to haggle over every piece." Trigger turns to Jodie, pulling up his wristcomm. "Get what you need to keep us flying."

  Jodie pulls her datapad from the large pocket on the chest of her overalls when it beeps with a new message. "Twenty thousand!? Trigger, that's... that's proper mechanic bay money!"

  "Then get proper mechanic bay tools," he replies simply.

  The coyote looks up from her device, her eyes sparkling and her tail wagging behind her. "Captain, if you spoil me more often, I'm going to end up with a crush."

  In the corner of Trigger's vision, he spies Mila frown slightly.

  "Lars," Trigger turns his attention to the rottweiler, "go with her. Extra hands for carrying and extra eyes for trouble."

  Lars stands with a smile. "Can do, boss."

  As Eli, Lars, and Jodie file out, and as Eddy takes his datapad to the men's bunks with a mumbled gripe, Trigger's wristcomm chimes with notifications, making him look down at it.

  'I should see about getting a new wristcomm,' he thinks idly, opening his browser and doing a search for mil-spec wristcomm. 'This used one is fine, if slow, but more features could be useful.'

  The fifth result seems promising.

  SENTINEL MKIII WRISTCOMM? – MIL-SPEC FIELD MODEL

  By Snowford-Law Inc

  Quantum-Encrypted Comms - Secure channels with superb tamper and snoop resistance.

  Multiband Hi-Power Antenna - Reliable signal even with poor repeaters and obstructions.

  FleetNet? Integration - Auto-sync with ships, drones, HUDs, and more

  Ruggedized Polymer Shell With Trinium-Weave – Shockproof, EMP-shielded, waterproof to 300m.

  1,000-Hour Combat-Rated Energy Cell - Recharge in under 24 hours with any OWC cable

  Built-In Accessories - Hi-Speed OWC cable, holo projector, hard-light projector, multi-scanner, and more, all standard.

  Expanded Memory - 100 TB on-board storage with expansion slots.

  For When the Job Needs Done, No Matter What.

  See details for limited lifetime warranty.

  Rather pricey at five-thousand creds new, but a bit more research says the Libret navy passes these out to their commandos, who love the things to death for actually being reliable. What Trigger really finds interesting, though, is the onboard hard-light projector and all the uses it brings to the table.

  'Having a knife and basic tools on hand all the time is a little too tempting. I'll buy this one with my personal account,' he justified the money spent to himself, adding the device to the list of wanted supplies he posted to Tantalus' bulletin board. Once they're more flush with cash, he'll do the same for the rest of the team.

  Only a second later, he's got three bids to deliver it, along with the rest of the team's shopping list.

  He scrolls through the bids, considering. The business of moving goods in space is enormous, and even stations need their own internal logistics networks. Post a need, credits talk, and goods walk, or in this case, get hauled by mag-lifts and cargo sleds.

  Couriers on the station bulletin board are already responding to the posted supply requests that went live when the ship landed. Runner services, bulk suppliers, provisioners, all offering to source and deliver his list of essentials directly to the Aquila.

  Food stores, medical supplies, fuel, emergency gear, spare parts for common systems, all the bog-standard necessities that keep a ship operational. He could have included Jodie's tools in the bulk order, saved a few hundred credits by buying a standardized set, but really, he wants the team mechanic to get what she knows is good, and what will work well for her. Most of what he did find in his cursory research did look fine, though.

  Well, except for the Cheyat brand Pure Value Pro Ship-Saver set he saw. The wrench in the ad's thumbnail had a crack that was obviously filled with bondo for fucks sake.

  Bad tools mean bad work, and bad work in space means death. It's better to let Jodie splurge.

  All in all, the courier services will add maybe five percent to his costs, and there's always the risk of items going missing or being swapped for inferior goods on skeevy stations, but the risk is acceptably low on Tantalus. With their schedule tight, it's credits well spent.

  Trigger selects a few different services to spread the risks, assigning different portions of his list to each. His wristcomm pings with acceptance confirmations a moment later. Estimated delivery: one to four hours for most.

  "Soooo…" Mila sidles up to Trigger and lightly wraps her arms around one of his, prompting him to look up from his wristcomm. "What are we going to be doing?"

  "I'm going to call Farworth," he replies, gently pulling his arm from her grasp. "Can you sign for any deliveries that show up while I'm busy?"

  Another frown finds its way to her face. "And after that?"

  "We wait for Marceti," he answers.

  "And after that?"

  "Prepwork for tomorrow," he says, noting how her shoulders slump. "Is something wrong?"

  "No, it's just…" Mila pauses, looking away. "It's nothing. Don't worry."

  Now Trigger's own lips turn downwards. "It is something, though. If you have something you need to say, I'll listen."

  The mink girl doesn't answer right away, instead biting her lip and moving her eyes to another corner of the bridge. "I was kinda hoping we could hang out, or something, but if we're going to be that busy, I'll-"

  "Okay."

  "-get a book or," Mila stops short and gives him a surprised blink. "Wah?"

  "I'd be happy to," Trigger gives her an enthusiastic smile, though he's sure it doesn't come off that way. "The prepwork won't take all night, but I think you'll find I'm not what most people call 'fun'."

  Mila beams.

  The negotiation with Farworth had been a battle of wills dressed in polite conversation.

  The old badger's eyes had lit up when Trigger mentioned they'd acquired a carrier, allowing them to escort the Haul-o-Rex all the way to the Griath system without refueling stops. That enthusiasm dimmed considerably when talk turned to compensation.

  "Strider Squadron may be newly formed," Trigger had argued, leaning forward the cam on his terminal, "but we have experts on our crew and serious hardware. You saw what we could do with just fighters."

  "A single Javelin," Farworth had countered, adjusting his spectacles. "And four fighters. You're asking for rates I'd pay an established outfit with a proven track record spanning a decade, not weeks."

  "We saved your cargo from a horde of pirates and gutted a frigate, all without losses and without your hauler's shields taking even a stray shot. Creds used on us are well spent."

  "I am aware, Captain! I saw what you did! However, Griath is deteriorating by the day. Common pirates are a concern, yes, but not the greatest threat we could face."

  Back and forth they'd gone. Trigger highlighting their capabilities, Farworth emphasizing their inexperience. The badger was shrewd, giving ground slowly and only when it seemed like Trigger might walk.

  In the end, they'd settled on terms that left Trigger initially cold: 200,000 credits upfront, plus 2.5% of net profits from the venture.

  "You understand a figure like that means nothing to me," Trigger had said flatly. "I need proper numbers."

  Farworth's whiskers had twitched in what might have been amusement. "Of course, of course, let me tell you about our scope, then. My Haul-o-Rex will be carrying fifty million credits worth of desperately needed goods. Conservative estimates put our return at 160% in Griath's current market."

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  Trigger had done the math quickly. Two and a half percent of an eighty-million credit profit meant…

  'Two million credits.'

  "Not awful, I suppose," Trigger kept his face stony, even if he found the figure more pleasing. Two million would keep their stomachs full, ships fueled, and weapons loaded for some time. Hell, it was almost enough to jump to a different corvette if he were so inclined to spend recklessly.

  "Perhaps more," Farworth added. "You never know in the volatile world of commerce."

  Were they in person, they would have shaken on it. "We depart at 0800 sharp. Don't be late, Captain."

  That was only ten minutes ago, and now Trigger's wristcomm is beeping once more as he steps out of his quarters. Looking down at it, he sees one message from Marceti waiting.

  "We're on our way." is all it says.

  Trigger makes his way down to the hangar, already hearing the whine of a hoverlift before he reaches the bay doors. Inside, he finds Mila with a datapad, signing off on a delivery while a dalmatian in company overalls guides his hoverlift through the open bay.

  "That's the last of the fresh goods," the courier says, setting down several crates wrapped in blue freshness seals. "Sign here and here."

  As Mila taps the indicated spots, Trigger's attention catches on two new additions along the hangar wall. A pair of labor bots stand in freshly mounted charging cradles, their forms utilitarian and bulky. Yellow and black warning tape wraps their exposed joints, each strip labeled "PINCH HAZARD - DO NOT TOUCH" in bold text. Their heads are little more than camera arrays on swivel mounts, and their broad hands and strut-like feet are unpainted.

  "Hey, you two!" Mila calls out, waving at the bots. "Time to earn your keep!"

  The machines come to life with a series of mechanical clicks and whirs. They walk over with measured, deliberate steps, both bending down and carefully lifting a crate as a team before moving to a corner of the hangar. Trigger watches as they secure the cargo with tie-down straps, their movements efficient if stilted. Once their current crate is secure, they move to take the next one.

  "Trigger!" Mila takes notice of him and bounds over, her tail swishing with excitement. "How'd it go with Farworth? Are we gonna be rich?"

  "It went well," he replies, still watching the labor bots work. "We'll be well compensated."

  Mila follows his gaze. "Oh yeah, the bots! Aren't they great? I'm so glad these got delivered first. Do you have any idea how much of a pain it would've been hauling all this crap around myself?" She flexes an arm playfully. "I mean, I could do it, but why bother when we've got mechanical muscle?"

  "Were they difficult to set up?" Trigger asks, noting how the bots seem to anticipate each other's movements as they secure another crate, avoiding collisions and moving in-sync without any lag.

  "Nah, super easy!" Mila shakes her head, blonde hair bouncing. "Niddy tossed out the stock programming and got them working for me. Took like, five minutes?"

  "DESIGNATION: NIDHOGG," the AI's voice emanates from the wristcomm hidden under Mila's sleeve. "REQUEST: USE CORRECT DESIGNATION."

  "You know I'm gonna keep calling you Niddy, right?" Mila grins down at her wrist.

  The AI doesn't dignify her with an answer.

  Trigger debates pressing Nidhogg about exactly what it programmed into the labor bots. The AI has been nothing but helpful so far, but some part of him still snarls at the thought of trusting anything Belkan that can think, and most things Belkan that can't.

  …But the bots are just moving cargo, nothing suspicious yet. He'll leave it for now, and have Jodie check them over later.

  "Marceti's on her way," he tells Mila instead. "She'll be collecting our guest."

  "Finally!" Mila's ears perk up. "That guy's been nothing but complaints since he woke up. 'The cell's too small,' 'the food's terrible,' 'you'll pay for this.'" She affects a whiny voice for the quotes. "Like, man, you're lucky Lars didn't break more than your nose."

  "So," Mila continues, stepping closer to Trigger. "After Marceti picks up her package, we're still on for tonight, right?"

  "We are," Trigger nods. "Any thoughts in mind?"

  The mink opens her mouth to speak, then thinks better of it and rubs her chin. "How about you pick? What do you want to do?"

  Trigger… finds himself stumped by Mila's question.

  'What do I actually like to do? Is it bad I have to think about it?'

  Flying, obviously. But burning fuel on a leisure flight after today's expenses would be wasteful, and his idea of fun in a cockpit would render most people unconscious in seconds.

  Talking about jets, and now starships, always engages him, but experience has taught him that most people's eyes glaze over when he starts explaining the aerodynamic advantages of variable-sweep wings versus fixed configurations. Most don't even know what oblique wings are, and he put Count to sleep trying to explain the mechanics behind them last time he broached the subject with someone.

  His taste in entertainment runs toward dry political thrillers and military documentaries. Somehow he doubts Mila would enjoy a three-hour analysis of some obscure war's economic aftermath.

  Bars, restaurants, and clubs are fine, but not his first choice… Or his second. Or third. Really, he goes to those to humor friends.

  Then he remembers. The Javelin-class model kit from Reese Point, still in its box on his desk. Between meetings and combat prep, he hasn't even opened it. He's got all the paint and supplies needed to make a miniature Aquila. It'd be nice to have a little keepsake when they eventually outgrow this ship…

  "What do you think about model building?" he asks.

  Mila blinks. "Model building? Like... plastic kits?" Her eyes widen. "Wait, like what that runner from Reese Point dropped off? He wasn't delivering to the wrong ship?"

  "That was mine, yes."

  The mink bursts into giggles, covering her mouth with one hand. "Oh my god, that's adorable! Super serious ace pilot Trigger builds little model ships!"

  For the first time in recent memory, Trigger feels heat creep up his neck. He looks away, studying a particularly uninteresting section of the hangar wall.

  "Hey, no, wait!" Mila's giggles cut off as she reaches out, her hand finding his arm. "I didn't mean it in a bad way! It's just... unexpected? In a good way!"

  She squeezes gently. "I'd love to build it with you. I've watched my brother Nils make one before, but I've never done it myself, so you'll have to show me how."

  Trigger clears his throat, the embarrassment fading. "I will. It's... calming. Requires focus, but you can pace yourself however you like."

  "Then it sounds perfect." Mila beams up at him.

  He smiles right back.

  By the hangar door, the courier finishes off loading the last crate, one labeled EJ LUXURY PAK #3 to the bots and offers a quick salute before departing with his hoverlift. Once the final palette of food is secure, the labor bots march back to their cradles, awaiting their next task.

  Mila and Trigger don't get too much time to chat (or rather Mila doesn't get much time to chat while Trigger listens) before a blacked out, SUV-like hovercar slowly flies towards the Aquila, breaking away from a distant traffic lane high above to hover in the open hanger door.

  The blacked-out hovercar settles onto the hangar deck between the Wyvern and Mila's Caracal with the soft whine of anti-grav units bleeding off their charge. As the side door slides open, Captain Marceti steps out in civilian clothes, dark slacks and a simple gray jacket that doesn't quite hide the military bearing in her posture. Two others in casual wear follow, a burly bear and a lean fox, both trying to look nonchalant, but Trigger still homes in on the jutting of pistols hidden in their clothes.

  "Captain Trigger, Ms. Minks." Marceti extends her hand to each in turn. Her grip is firm but brief. She glances at the Wyvern briefly, then gives her full attention to them. "Jill Marceti. A pleasure to meet you both properly."

  "Likewise," Trigger replies, noting the dark circles under her eyes have somehow deepened even further since their last video call.

  "This way," he says, leading them toward the ship's interior.

  As they walk through the Aquila's corridors, Trigger glances at Marceti. "How did the apprehension go on your end?"

  The ferret woman's jaw tightens. "Messy, but successful. Had my analysts pull records for all of the station's Traffic Control staff and network support quietly. Took them several sleepless days to narrow everything down to our prime suspect."

  She yields to Trigger and steps behind him as the hall narrows a little, thanks to a junction box on the wall. "One Marcus Webb ended up showing inconsistencies. Middle-ranking network support tech, clean record on the surface, but the forgery work wasn't quite perfect. Timestamps that didn't align, educational records from institutions that didn't offer certain programs when he supposedly attended."

  "Marcus Webb…" Trigger thinks. "That name was repeated several times in the data we captured."

  Marceti's lips rise a touch at the news. "Showing up at Tantalus with a raid team based on forged documents and cryptic data entries didn't win me any friends. Tantalus' overseer was... less than pleased, and his complaint made it up the chain. I'm officially on administrative leave pending review."

  They round a corner, boots echoing on metal decking. "Once I present LeShank and the evidence you've gathered, I expect reinstatement within the week."

  "What about the corvette crew?" Mila asks. "The ones who picked up the drive?"

  "In holding at a black site," Marceti replies. "Once this investigation concludes..." She shrugs. "Could go either way. Depends on how cooperative they are and how deep their involvement runs."

  They reach the brig. It's a cramped space with two cells behind blaster-proof glass, the sort of place Trigger is unfortunately well acquainted with. LeShank sits on the narrow bench in one, his broken nose giving his face a lopsided appearance.

  His eyes widen when he sees Marceti and the obvious marines at her side. "No, no, no! You can't do this! I know people! Important people! I'll make you a deal! Just-"

  "Save it," Marceti says flatly. She nods to her marines, who move forward with restraints as the door slides open.

  "Please!" LeShank scrambles back against the cell wall. "I was just the middleman! The real players are still out there! I can give you names!"

  "You'll give us everything during your formal interrogation," Marceti says, utterly sure as her eyes narrow.

  LeShank tries feebly to resist, but a twist of his arm from the fox has him squealing and on his knees in short order. The marines efficiently transfer LeShank from cell to restraints, ignoring his continued protests and attempts to bargain. Within a minute, they have him secured and ready for transport.

  "Captain Trigger," Marceti turns back, extending her hand again. "You've done the Confederation a serious service. When this is resolved, I won't forget it."

  "I trust you won't."

  She smiles thinly. "If I can be so bold, please try and keep wanton destruction to acceptable targets. I expect your name will be on many lips soon, not all of them speaking fondly."

  With LeShank and a handful of data drives filled with dirty dealings, Marceti and her men are sent off, leaving Trigger and Mila to wait around for the rest of the supplies to be delivered. Once the replacement chairs for the rec-slash-dining room arrive, Trigger returns to his quarters to get the model kit, and he and Mila situate two of the chairs around a crate and settle in.

  Several times at the start they're interrupted by a variety of deliveries, like proper furnishings for the infirmary, common wear-item parts for the fighters sans the Wyvern, emergency helium-3 canisters for the reactors, a rack of rifles, ammo, body armor, a box of various grenades, and even an anti-vehicle RPG launcher (that Trigger was astounded he could just buy online with his PMC registration number as the only check).

  Besides the critical things, they also receive a weight set that the labor bots assemble in the corner by the Aggressor, a clothes washer to replace the dying one on the ship, a higher-res holo for the rec room, and more or less everything on his immediate need checklist, along with some of the longer term items.

  The buying spree leaves the team account over a hundred-thousand credits lighter than it was. The dent isn't debilitating, not with the two-hundred thousand Farworth provided as a down payment to lock-in their service, the hundred thousand they have in hard currency, and the ninety-thousand credit deposit from Eli for all of Eddy's plundered loot that comes through. However, Trigger isn't sure he'll be comfortable with their finances until they have a million at bare minimum to fall-back on.

  Feeding yourself and keeping a fighter in the air is doable on a shoestring budget, but factor in the Aquila? When something crucial like an engine fault can cost over a hundred grand in parts alone? No, he's not about to risk it.

  Eventually, though, the interruptions halt, and they're left alone to work.

  The soft whoom of Trigger's new wristcomm fills the hangar as he activates the hard-light projector and sits down to resume his work. A translucent blue hobby knife materializes between his fingers, its edge sharp enough to slice through the plastic sprues holding the model parts like butter. He carefully separates each piece from its frame, marveling silently at the technology. The blade feels solid in his hand, generates no heat, and weighs almost nothing. Perfect for delicate work.

  'Shame it disintegrates when it's too far from the projector,' he thinks, having already tested the projector range by making a simple cube and giving it a toss, finding the effective range a paltry five feet. He cuts another bit of plastic free and sets it aside.

  "So what do you think we'll find in Griath?" Mila asks, stirring a small pot of gray paint with a thin brush. "Besides desperate people and inflated prices, I mean."

  Trigger considers the question while freeing a tiny sensor antenna array from its sprue. "Tension. When resources get scarce, people get desperate. Desperate people make poor decisions."

  "Like what?"

  "Hoarding. Price gouging. Theft. Eventually violence." He sets the piece down carefully, under the already-freed bow. "The colonies there are rationing power now. Maybe water too, if their recycling systems are failing. Who knows how long until food follows course."

  Mila hums in thought and holds up the paint pot. "Is this thin enough?"

  Trigger leans over to examine the consistency. The paint still sticks to the brush too fast, and is sure to clump up. "A bit more. See how it's not quite flowing? You want it to be able to flow."

  "Really?" She scrunches her nose. "Won't it be too runny?"

  "The biggest mistake people make is not thinning their paints enough," Trigger explains, returning to his cutting. "Thick paint obscures details, leaves brush strokes. Multiple thin coats give a smoother finish than one thick one."

  "If you say so..." Mila adds another drop of thinner, stirring carefully. "Have you been to places like Griath before? During the shortages?"

  "Not exactly like Griath. But I've seen what happens when supply lines break down." Another piece comes free. "People turn on each other quickly when they think survival is at stake."

  "That's... cheerful." Mila tests the paint again, watching it drip back down into its pot. "Think Farworth knows what he's getting into?"

  "He knows. He wouldn't have agreed to my price hike if he didn't," Trigger sets aside the last piece. "How's the primer?"

  "Ready!" She gestures to another pot of much lighter gray, almost white. "Though I still don't get why we need primer when we're just going to paint over it."

  "Adhesion," Trigger says, arranging the pieces in neat rows according to how they should fit together. "Paint doesn't stick well to bare plastic. Primer gives it something to grip."

  They work in companionable silence for a few minutes, carefully brushing primer onto each tiny component. Mila occasionally steals glances at Trigger's technique, mimicking his light, even strokes.

  "You know," she says, coating a tiny engine nacelle, "this is actually pretty relaxing. I can see why you-"

  The whine of an approaching hoverlift cuts her off. Lars appears through the hangar door, slumped over the controls of an overloaded lift. Jodie sits atop a stack of massive boxes accompanied by a huge rolling toolbox still wrapped in plastic, grinning ear to ear.

  "Special delivery!" Jodie calls out, patting one of the crates. "You would not believe the deals I found!"

  Lars parks the hoverlift with a groan. "Never. Again. Seven different supply shops, Trigger. Seven!"

  "Worth it though," Jodie hops down, practically vibrating with excitement. "Got us a complete diagnostic suite for half market price, a full welding set-up, a small part printer, and - oh! - replacement parts for that sticky portside landing strut!"

  "It works when you hit the landing gear button again, though…" Lars mumbles, only to stiffen with Jodie rounds on him and points a finger in warning.

  Trigger turns his eyes to the bots in their charging cradles, and with a gesture, points them to the hoverlift, making both power on and trudge over.

  "You got some bots, too!" Jodie looks as if she wants to twirl on her paws as the robots lift one of the boxes and turn their cam-like heads towards her, waiting for an order. "Over there," Jodie points to the only open corner of the hanger, by the Caracal. "Don't open nothing, I'll do all the set-up myself."

  As the machines get to work, Lars and Jodie make their way into the hanger to see what Trigger and Mila are up to on their crate-turned-table, and Jodie blinks when she sees the half-primed model expertly organized and laid out. "Huh, so that fella who dropped that box off at the smuggler station wasn't mistaken after all?"

  "Thats what I said!" Mila grins, carefully setting her latest piece, the bridge's controls, down to give Jodie her attention. "Trigger really does live and breathe anything that flies."

  "It's relaxing," Trigger grumbles, forcefully banishing any red from his face. "Everyone should have something to do in their downtime. Griath could be stressful."

  Lars turns his eyes to his fighter, where the basic exercise set the bots assembled sits next to a man-sized drum of fresh 20mm rounds, then he looks over to the various sealed boxes of food by Trigger and Mila. A grin rises to his face a moment later. "Ay, I'm covered in that regard, then."

  Jodie watches the labor bots carefully stack her new equipment, then turns back to the group. "So we're all set? Locked in for this Griath run?"

  "We are," Trigger confirms, setting down his primer brush. "0800 departure tomorrow. Plan to be up at 0600 for prep and briefing."

  Lars stretches, joints popping audibly. "How much are we looking at? And did Miss Marceti come get her pig?"

  Trigger stands and straightens, addressing all three. "Farworth agreed to a rate increase. Two hundred thousand upfront, which we've already received, plus any admin fees and two and a half percent of net profits from his cargo sales in Griath after offload in return for guard duty during. Conservative estimate puts that at a two million cut for us."

  "Two million?" Jodie's eyes widen. "I knew the figures were going to get bigger with a proper carrier ship, but got-dang…"

  "Griath's situation is dire, and will remain so until the gate toll increases are overturned by the Libret parliament." Trigger's expression hardens. "This won't be easy. We'll be earning every credit."

  "And Marceti?" Lars asks.

  "Picked up LeShank a few hours ago. She's on administrative leave for overstepping jurisdiction, but expects reinstatement once the evidence is processed." He pauses. "She owes us, and I won't forget it."

  'If she backs out or screws us over when that favor is called in…' Trigger frowns as his thoughts go to a dark place.

  Mila sets down her brush, primer dripping on the crate. "Huh. You know, I didn't think I'd be getting to stuff like this during my first year as a spacer. This is way bigger than guard duty or escorting little transports."

  "It is," Trigger agrees. "Which is why everyone needs to be sharp tomorrow. Full night's rest, no drinking, equipment checks before bed. The Haul-o-Rex will be a tempting target. Nidhogg will set everyone's morning alarm for 0600 tomorrow, and we launch at 0800 sharp. Be ready."

  Lars and Jodie both nod, the first more firm than the second, then both disperse, with Lars heading towards the weight rack, and Jodie to her still boxed haul of goodies.

  As Trigger and Mila sit back down to resume their work on the miniature Aquila, Trigger lets the calming motions of his brush on plastic take him back to the meditative zen he so rarely gets to enjoy. Once this is done, it's back to business.

  'Interesting times, these are,' he thinks, looking up when he sees a flash of color on Mila's black shirt.

  Mila turns her red eyes up as well, and follows his gaze to her chest. A cheshire grin finds its way to her face.

  "Oh, Trigger!" The mink flutters her eyelashes and tugs at the hem of her sweater, drawing it tight to her body and pulling the neck down to show a perilous amount of cleavage. "So forward! Do you like what you see~?" she asks, tone all mischief.

  "You have some paint primer on your shirt," the man says simply.

  "Wah?" Mila falters and looks down at herself more carefully.

  Staring back up at her is a splotch of white on her sweater, right over her left breast.

  "Nooo!" She stands and darts from the hangar, sprinting for the laundry room and its newly installed washing machine. "Not my favorite sweater!" she cries, voice growing fainter with each step.

  Trigger watches her vanish down the hall leading to the underside of the bow, then calmly resumes his painting.

  'Interesting times, indeed.'