When was the last time Trigger had been this blindingly furious? His court-martial? Brownie's death? Wiseman's sacrifice? He doesn't know. Really, all he knows at this moment is that someone has to pay for invading his home and daring to shoot his mechanic.

  "Flash out!"

  Starting with the dead men on his ship.

  The moment they're halfway up the ramp, Eli yanks the pin on his grenade and pitches it up into the hangar, where it clatters on the ground.

  "Shi-!"

  BANG!

  The curse from the assailant on the left of the corridor is cut off by an ear-splitting report. The pure white flash that follows nearly dazzles just from bouncing off the walls.

  The flashbang's report is still ringing off the walls when Trigger surges forward, boots pounding up the ramp. Mila is at his left shoulder, Lars a hulking presence on his right, Eli bringing up the rear with his rifle already tracking for targets.

  The hangar opens up before them, familiar space now turned hostile. Emergency lighting casts everything in harsh red, and the air tastes of ozone and scorched metal. At the far end, the two thugs stumble away from the stairwell, one clawing at his eyes while the other fires wild shots that fly wide by a mile.

  "Left side, left side!" Trigger barks, pressing himself against the Aquila's interior hull.

  The squad flows like water, each member finding their lane without conscious thought. Dozens of hours of sims, many aboard this very ship, are paying dividends.

  The half-blinded thugs make for the Aggressor, Lars's heavy fighter offering the only real cover in the open hangar bay. The one in front, a heavyset boar with a tactical vest two sizes too small, runs with his arms outstretched, fingers grasping for the fighter's landing strut.

  He never makes it.

  Lars's heavy pistol roars once, the report deafening in the enclosed space. The bolt catches the boar between the shoulder blades, punching through his vest like it's made of wet paper. He pitches forward with a gasp.

  KERZAT!

  Eli hits the thug in the same place Lars did, and his bolt tears clean through, splashing Lars' fighter with gore before the offender falls, dead.

  His companion, a lean jackal with whirly tattoos dyed into the fur of his neck, spins at the sound. His eyes are still streaming from the flash, but survival instinct overrides his blindness. He raises his weapon and squeezes the trigger, spraying fire in a wide arc as he backpedals.

  Lars' gun barks, and the jackal's half-missing leg buckles as he crashes to one knee.

  The wounded man tries to bring his blaster around, tries to find a target through his tear-blurred vision.

  Mila's rifle snaps up the fastest this time.

  Zat!

  The bolt takes the jackal in the throat.

  His gun's red-dot shatters when he drops it to grasp his own neck, fingers scrabbling uselessly at the smoking wound. His mouth works, trying to form words or perhaps just trying to breathe, but nothing comes out except a wet gurgle. His eyes, finally clearing from the flashbang, find Mila's across the hangar.

  Wide. Disbelieving. So very afraid.

  Then he topples sideways and begins to bleed out on the deck, his legs twitching in diminishing spasms.

  Mila stands frozen, her rifle still raised, her finger still on the trigger. The mink's chest heaves with rapid breaths, and her ears are pinned flat against her skull. She stares at the dying man, at the spreading pool beneath him, at what she's done.

  Trigger sees it happening. Sees the tremor starting in her hands, and the glassy look creeping into her eyes.

  It's different, blowing someone away in space where the aftermath is so much less visceral, and doing the deed with your own hand.

  Trigger aims, finding a bloodied temple in his crosshairs.

  Zat!

  The jackal's twitching stops, and Trigger allows himself a half-second to take a hand off his weapon and clasp a hand over Mila's shoulder, making her jump.

  "Good girl," Trigger says, his voice cutting through the fog threatening to swallow the mink whole. He doesn't stop moving, he can't give her time to dwell. "Stay sharp, we've got two more ahead."

  Mila blinks. She swallows hard, nods once, and falls back into formation.

  'That's my girl.'

  They advance through the hangar, past the cooling bodies and the ruined labor bots sparking at the foot of the stairs. The smell of burned fur and ionized air thickens as they approach the corridor leading to the rec room, and beneath it, something else.

  The sharp copper tang of blood. Lots of it.

  Jodie.

  Trigger forces the thought down, locks it away in the same box where he keeps every distraction that might get him killed in a fight. Mission first.

  Eli moves to the corner of the corridor, back pressed to the wall, a second flashbang already in his talons. He meets Trigger's eyes, gets a nod, and pulls the pin.

  The grenade sails around the corner in a perfect arc.

  BANG!

  White light strobes through the corridor, followed by the familiar thunderclap. Eli pivots to lead the breach...

  ...and nearly catches a laserbolt to the face.

  "Shit!" He jerks back as a stream of fire tears down the corridor, bolts chewing into the wall where his head had been a split-second before. Sparks shower over the squad as they press themselves flat against cover.

  The suppressing fire doesn't let up. Whoever's in the rec room is dumping shots down the corridor in controlled bursts, denying any attempt to advance.

  "They're not blind!" Lars shouts over the din.

  Eli slams a fresh powercell into his rifle, his feathers bristled with irritation. "Bastards got wise. Must've heard the first one go off and taken cover." He spits to the side, an impressive feat with a beak.

  Another burst of fire forces them back, and somewhere beyond it, Trigger can hear Eddy's panicked voice shouting something indistinct.

  Both Trigger and Mila flip to full auto and angle their rifles down the hall, firing blindly.

  They trade fire down the corridor, their blindfire not stopping the laserbolts scorching the walls and filling the air with the acrid stench of burned composite. During a half second lull, Trigger peeks them and scowls.

  The two remaining thugs have cut the legs of the rec room's heavy steel table and turned it onto its side, using it as improvised cover. The table is chewed up with glowing divots, but still has integrity enough to keep them safe for some time. Every few seconds, one pops up to squeeze off a burst before ducking back down.

  "Pinned good," Lars growls, pressing his bulk against the corridor wall. A bolt sizzles past, close enough to singe fur. "Boss, we try to push, they'll cut us down before we're three steps in."

  Trigger's mind races, the layout of the Aquila scrolling through his memory like a schematic. The rec room has two entrances: the main corridor they're currently stuck in, and a smaller maintenance hatch that opens near the galley counter. It's a tight squeeze, meant for accessing the ventilation and the guts of the bolted-in cooking appliances, but someone small enough could...

  His eyes cut to Mila.

  She's pale beneath her fur, her grip on her rifle white-knuckled, but when she catches his gaze, her jaw sets.

  "Maintenance hatch," Trigger says, voice low. "Galley side. You flank, we keep them busy."

  Mila swallows hard. "A-Are you sure?"

  Oh, how he loathes to send Mila of all people on such a risky play. The vent she'll have to squeeze through will limit how much she can move, how much she can dodge, but…

  Trigger checks Nidhogg's camera feed on his wristcomm.

  Eddy, shaking like a leaf, stands between Stella and Jodie and the door, clutching his pistol. Even without an audio feed, he can practically hear the power pak of the gun rattling in the magwell.

  Behind him, the small puddle of red around Jodie and Stella is getting bigger.

  Trigger lets out a reluctant breath. "I believe in you, Mila."

  Despite the peril, she manages something of a smile and peels off, moving back down the corridor at a crouch. Trigger watches her go for half a heartbeat, then turns back to the firefight.

  "Suppressing fire," he orders. "Keep their heads down."

  Lars and Eli open up in staggered bursts, the thunder of their weapons drowning out everything else. Trigger adds his own rifle to the chorus, walking his shots across the top of the overturned table, forcing the thugs to stay low.

  The seconds that pass stretch far, far too long. Trigger counts Mila's progress in his head, estimating how long it takes her to reach the hatch, to squeeze through, to get into position...

  Without warning, bolts fly from the galley, catching the thugs from an angle they hadn't anticipated.

  One of them screams as a bolt catches him in the shoulder, spinning him halfway around. He and the other try to bring their weapons to bear on Mila, but Trigger is already moving, surging into the room with Eli and Lars on his heels.

  The wounded thug takes a burst to the chest from three directions at once and crumples.

  The last one, though, breaks. He doesn't try to fight, doesn't try to surrender. He just runs, bolting for the corridor that leads to the crew quarters, where Eddy and Stella and Jodie...

  "NO!" Trigger roars, leaping the table and giving chase.

  But the thug's desperation lets him move quick, and he rounds the corner before Trigger can get a clean shot. The sound of Eddy's panicked yelp echoes down the hall, followed by the clatter of his pistol skittering across the deck.

  Trigger rounds the corner just in time to see the thug grab the gecko by the throat, dragging him backward as a living shield. Behind them, through the open doorway of the women's quarters, Stella is still on her knees beside Jodie's prone form, her violet-stained hands pressed to the coyote's side. Her eyes meet Trigger's, wide with terror.

  "Back off!" the thug screams, his voice cracking. He's a wiry cat, tabby-striped, with wild eyes and a blaster jammed against Eddy's skull. "Back off or I paint the walls with his brains!"

  Trigger freezes, rifle raised but no shot. Eddy's scales have gone bone-white, his thin body trembling in the thug's grip.

  Help me, Eddy mouths silently. Do something.

  "Easy," Trigger says, forcing his voice level despite the inferno in his chest. All he can think about is this bastard dead at his feet. "Easy. No one else has to die."

  "Shut up! Shut up!" The cat's eyes dart between Trigger and the room behind him, calculating, desperate. "You think I don't know what happens if I drop my gun? I seen what you did to the others!"

  He takes a step backward, dragging Eddy with him. Then another. He's inching further into the women's quarters, toward Stella and Jodie.

  "Just want the skunk," he babbles, spit flying from his lips. "That's all. Give me the skunk and I walk. That's the deal. Alright? That's all I want."

  Behind him, Stella's expression shifts. The terror doesn't leave her eyes, but she bears her teeth like a cornered animal. One hand lifts slowly from Jodie's wound, trembling and slick with red.

  The thug doesn't notice. His attention is fixed on Trigger, on the rifle that could end him in an instant if only he didn't have a hostage.

  "You're making a mistake," Trigger says, keeping his voice flat and buying as much time as he can. Stella moves in the corner of his eye, and he can only hope she's not going to get Eddy killed.

  "Only mistake I made was taking this fucking contract!" The cat's voice pitches higher. He takes another step back. "Now drop your weapons or I swear I'll-!"

  "STOP!"

  The word hits like a punch to the chest.

  Trigger feels it wash over him, a pressure against his eardrums, a weight on his chest. His finger nearly spasms on the trigger before he catches himself.

  The thug isn't so lucky.

  He goes rigid, every muscle locking at once. His eyes bulge, his mouth frozen mid-word, his body a statue of meat and terror. Even his trigger finger is paralyzed, hovering a hair's breadth from ending Eddy's life but unable to complete the motion.

  Stella, still at Jodie's side, remains kneeled behind him, one hand outstretched with her violet eyes blazing with a pale pink light. Blood drips from her fingertips, and her whole body trembles with jerky, painful spasms.

  "Drop the gun," she commands, her teeth gritting as more blood stains her, this time springing from her in the form of a nosebleed and dripping to the floor.

  The blaster clatters to the deck.

  "Release him."

  The thug's arms fall to his sides. Eddy scrambles free, gasping, and crawls toward them where Lars pushes the gecko behind his bulk.

  Stella sways, her face ashen, but she keeps her hand raised, keeps the thug pinned in place with nothing but the force of her will.

  "Kneel."

  He does. His knees hit the deck with a dull thump, and tears stream down his face, though his expression remains frozen in that rictus of terror.

  Lars pushes past Trigger, a fist raised. With one strike to the back of the head, the cat's skull hits the floor with a muted "bong!", leaving him unconscious.

  The moment he's down, Stella's arm drops and she collapses.

  Mila is there in an instant, catching the skunk under her arms before she hits the floor. "I've got her! She's breathing, just…" Mila eyeballs Stella's bleeding nose with a grimace. "I think she's just exhausted."

  Trigger doesn't respond. His eyes are fixed on Jodie.

  The coyote lies where she fell, her breathing shallow and ragged. The wound in her side is ugly, the fur around it matted with char and blood. Stella's impromptu pressure had slowed the bleeding, but she needs real treatment, and she needs it now.

  "Eli," Trigger's voice comes out harder than he intends as he drops to his knees and takes Stella's place, trying to stymie Jodie's bleeding with his hands. "Secure the ship. Make sure there aren't any more of them. Lars, get the medkit from the infirmary, the full trauma kit. Mila, standby."

  Both Eli and Lars are gone in flash, Eli moving like a ghost, and Lars not bothering to soften his rapid stomps.

  Jodie's eyes flutter open, unfocused and glazed with pain.

  "Hey," she manages, her voice a thin rasp. "Did we... win?"

  "We won," Trigger says. "Stay still and stay awake. Help's coming."

  A weak smile tugs at her muzzle. "That's good… That's good. Knew you'd be here..."

  She lowers her head, grimacing. The pathetic sight preludes the ghostly touch of something on Trigger's shoulder, and the grinding of teeth right in his ear.

  Someone is going to answer for this.

  Looking up, Trigger looks over to Eddy, who stands leaned against the corner of the room, still shivering.

  "Are you okay, Eddy?" Trigger asks, trying to spirit his attention between the bleeding mechanic and his surroundings. 'Easier said than done…'

  The gecko takes a deep breath, then rubs his arms as if to ward away the cold. Perhaps he is chilled, with his cold-blooded nature. "Y-Yeah, cap'n. I ain't busted up or nothin'. Glad I took a leak before things went crazy-mode or I'd need new pants, you know?" He weakly jokes, looking at the bruised, unconscious body on the floor.

  Trigger follows his eyes. "Go get cuffs for him, please," he asks. "Oh, and Eddy?"

  The gecko pauses at the door, looking back with worry.

  "You went above and beyond, covering Stella and Jodie."

  Eddy's eyes bug out of his head, and some color returns to his face. He ducks his head and takes his leave a moment later.

  Just as quickly as she fell, Stella comes to with a wet inhale and a cough as Lars returns with a small duffel with a green cross printed on it.

  Stella pulls herself out of Mila's arms, swaying for a moment before finding her footing. Her left eye is an ugly red owing to a burst blood vessel, and the lower half of her muzzle is still smeared red, but her gaze locks onto the duffel in Lars's hands with sharp focus.

  "Give me that," she says, her voice hoarse but steady. She snatches the bag from the rottweiler before he can respond and drops to her knees beside Jodie. "Move, Captain. I need space."

  Trigger hesitates for only a heartbeat before withdrawing his blood-slicked hands and shifting aside. Stella doesn't spare him a glance. After wiping the blood on her hands on her pants, she's already unzipping the trauma kit and rifling through its contents.

  Mila hovers nearby, her ears pinned back and her tail between her legs. "Is she... Stella, is she going to be okay?"

  The skunk doesn't answer immediately. She pulls on a pair of thin rubber gloves, then takes a pair of medical shears from the kit and begins cutting away the charred, blood-soaked fabric of Jodie's overalls, exposing the wound beneath. The fur around it is matted and dark, the flesh beneath an ugly mess of scorched tissue and seeping red.

  For a long moment, Stella just looks, her eyes tracing the entry and exit points with clinical detachment. Then she lets out a slow breath.

  "She's lucky she's so petite," Stella says, setting the shears aside and reaching back into the kit. "The bolt passed clean through her abdomen. Didn't encounter enough mass to dump all its energy, so the internal damage is... manageable."

  From the floor, Jodie's eyes crack open, glassy and unfocused. "Did you jus'... call me scrawny...?"

  "I called you petite, hun," Stella corrects without looking up. She produces a hypo from the kit, the casing marked with a green band and the label Mendacyn-X. "And you won't be so skinny after the protein-rich diet you're going to need following this. Lots of meat, lots of eggs, plenty of rest."

  "Eggs? Jus' don't put none'a Lars' sauce on them..." Jodie mumbles, her head lolling to one side, uncaring or not realizing the rottweiler is only five paces away. "Too hot and tastes like ass…"

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  "Chica, if you weren't bleeding out, I'd…" Lars crosses his arms and grumbles, but still drums his fingers on his biceps anxiously.

  Stella uncaps the hypo and gives the needle a little flick. "Captain, hold her down. Shoulders and hips."

  Trigger moves without hesitation, pressing a hand firmly against Jodie's shoulder while bracing her hip with his forearm. The coyote whimpers at the pressure, but doesn't have the strength to resist.

  "Jodie, look at me." Stella waits until the mechanic's bleary eyes find hers. "This is going to hurt, hun. The needle needs to go deep to ensure your nicked kidney gets its fair share of the dose. I need you to brace yourself, and try not to move. Understand?"

  Jodie's jaw tightens. She gives a small, jerky nod.

  "Good girl. On three." Stella positions the hypo over the wound. "One... two..."

  She plunges the needle in on two.

  Jodie screams, her body arching against Trigger's grip with surprising strength for someone who's lost so much blood. Her claws rake against the deck plating with a screech, and a string of profanity that would make a dockworker blush tears from her throat, muffled only by her own gritted teeth.

  Stella watches the liquid in the auto-injector drain with a careful eye, her expression never wavering. The moment the hypo is empty, she withdraws it and tosses it aside, already reaching for the next one.

  "Hemopax," she announces, producing a second hypo marked with a red band. "For the blood loss."

  She grabs the shears again and cuts away the leg of Jodie's overalls at the inner thigh, exposing the femoral artery beneath the fur. One quick swab with an antiseptic pad, then in the needle slides.

  Jodie flinches, but the fight has gone out of her. She lies there panting, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, as Stella empties the second hypo and discards it with the first.

  Stella sits back on her heels, pressing her sleeve against her nose and blowing hard. The fabric comes away smeared with fresh red, and she grimaces at the sight before wiping her muzzle clean.

  "Watch," she says, nodding toward the wound.

  They do. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the seeping blood begins to thicken and slow. The raw edges of the wound take on a faintly glossy sheen as the mix of meds do their work, and within half a minute, the bleeding has stopped entirely.

  Jodie's breathing steadies, her death grip on the deck plating finally relaxing.

  "She'll live," Stella says quietly. She looks up at Trigger and Lars, exhaustion carving deep lines into her face. "Help me move her to the infirmary. I need to monitor her vitals and get a proper dressing on this, but the worst is past."

  "I'm certain there were only five attackers, officers."

  Trigger keeps his voice level and his expression neutral as the two Black Point police officers exchange a glance.

  Around them, a sparse police line has formed at the base of the Aquila's landing pad, keeping the gawkers and opportunists at bay. At the same time, the last of the bodies is loaded onto a sheet-covered stretcher and carted toward a waiting ambulance.

  The first officer, a heavyset wolverine with tired eyes and a uniform that's seen better days, checks his datapad with a frown. "Eyewitnesses counted six approaching the ship, Captain. You sure none of them slipped away?"

  "Positive," Trigger replies. "Five came aboard. Five died aboard."

  The second officer, a lean jaguar with a permanent scowl etched into his muzzle, looks Trigger up and down with undisguised suspicion. "And what exactly did you do to antagonize them? Don't see many armed teams hitting random mercs for no reason."

  Trigger meets the jaguar's gaze evenly, keeping his expression carefully blank. He can't help but wonder if the question stems from genuine investigative instinct, or if the officer simply doesn't like the look of an ape standing on his planet.

  "Our motives for being here are purely professional," Trigger says, lifting a hand and gesturing to the side, where Farworth's ship sits in the distance. "We're contracted escorts for a freighter. As for the attackers' motives, it's impossible to know, seeing as they were all killed in legal self-defense." He pauses, letting a note of regret creep into his voice. "Unfortunate that our internal cameras were down for scheduled maintenance, or we might have more to share."

  The jaguar's eyes narrow. He knows it's bullshit. Trigger knows he knows. But knowing and proving are two very different things, and the officer doesn't have the time or resources to dig deeper into the affairs of some off-world mercenary crew.

  As if on cue, the radio clipped to the jaguar's belt crackles to life.

  "Unit Seven-Four, dispatch. We have a 415 at the Traveler's Rest Center, northeast block. Finish your current assignment and respond."

  The jaguar's jaw tightens. He keys his radio with a sharp jab of his thumb, scraping the button with a claw extended in agitation. "Seven-Four copies. En route." He fixes Trigger with one last glare. "Don't leave the system without checking in with port authority."

  "Of course, officer." Trigger offers a thin smile. "And don't worry about us. I'm sure this was an isolated incident. We'll be off your planet soon enough."

  Neither officer looks convinced, but they don't have the luxury of skepticism. The wolverine gives a noncommittal grunt, and the jaguar is already walking toward their patrol vehicle, muttering something under his breath about off-worlders and their problems.

  Trigger watches them go, waiting until the vehicle lifts off before turning back to the Aquila.

  The walk up the ramp feels longer than it should.

  His eyes trace the damage as he climbs. The entry door, blown inward by the breaching charge, its edges still blackened and warped. The bolter burns scoring the walls in overlapping patterns, evidence of the firefight that turned his home into a killing ground. The labor bots in the hangar, still lying in ruin, waiting for repairs that Jodie won't be able to make for some time.

  'Might need to just replace them,' he frowns.

  And the blood. Smears and droplets and pools of it, not yet cleaned, marking the path from the hangar to the crew quarters like a gruesome trail of breadcrumbs.

  Trigger's hands curl into fists at his sides.

  Whoever was bold enough to try this, whoever thought they could assault Strider Squadron in their own ship and walk away unscathed, is going to pay for it. The last attacker admitted it was Stella they wanted, babbled it like a prayer while Eddy's life hung by a thread. But the moment one of his own was harmed, the moment Jodie's blood hit the deck, it stopped being about Stella.

  It became personal.

  No one can be allowed to harm one of his crew without consequence. No one gets to threaten what's his and simply disappear into the black. There will be an accounting. There will be blood.

  "TRIGGER!"

  Brownie's final scream echoes unbidden through his memory, sharp and raw as the day it happened. The sound of a wingman dying because he wasn't fast enough, wasn't good enough, couldn't save everyone no matter how hard he tried.

  He failed Brownie. He failed Wiseman.

  He will not fail anyone else.

  Trigger blinks at the acrid scent of disinfectant, and finds that his feet have carried him to the infirmary without conscious thought. The door stands open, soft light spilling into the corridor.

  Inside, Stella sits in a chair beside the single bed, her posture slumped with exhaustion. A cotton ball taped to one nostril covers the worst of her nosebleed, and her burst blood vessel makes her left eye look like something out of a horror vid. Despite it all, she's alert, her gaze fixed on the bed's occupant.

  Jodie lies propped against a stack of pillows, her midsection wrapped in clean white bandages that stand out starkly against her brown fur. An IV line trails from her arm to a bag of fluids hanging from a nearby stand. She looks pale, tired, and thoroughly annoyed at her current predicament.

  "I told you, I don't need a babysitter," the coyote grumbles, her voice weak but carrying its usual stubborn edge. "I've had worse than this."

  "Name one time," Stella replies without missing a beat.

  Jodie opens her mouth, pauses, and scowls. "Can you at least get me a beer or somthin'?"

  "No, hun, not until I'm sure you don't have degraded kidney function from your wound. The local hospitals are already running at capacity, so I will take no risks on this."

  Jodie lets out a mighty groan, then takes notice of Trigger in the doorway, and her ears perk slightly. "Hey, boss."

  Stella turns in her chair, straightening when she sees Trigger standing at the threshold. She opens her mouth, but Trigger steps inside before she can speak.

  "How are you feeling?" he asks, moving to stand at the foot of Jodie's bed.

  The coyote manages a weak grin. "Like I've been shot."

  The joke lands flat. Something must show on Trigger's face, some flicker of guilt he couldn't quite suppress, because Jodie's expression shifts immediately.

  "Hey. Cut that out." Her voice is firmer now, brooking no argument despite its weakness. "I'm here. I'm alive. All's well that ends well, yeah?" She fixes him with a stern look, or as stern as someone hooked up to an IV can manage. "I knew what I was getting into, joinin' a bunch of mercs. It ain't your fault I got hurt, Trigger."

  "It is my fault," Trigger says, the words coming out harder than he intended. "I'm the captain. Your safety falls to me. All of you."

  "No."

  Stella's voice cuts through, bitter and sharp. Both Trigger and Jodie turn to look at her.

  The skunk isn't meeting their eyes. Her gaze is fixed on the floor, her hands clasped tight in her lap. The cotton ball taped to her nostril and her bloodied eye make her look fragile, but the tension in her shoulders speaks to something else entirely.

  "It's my fault," she says quietly. "The bounty hunters came for me. Jodie got hurt because of me." Her jaw tightens. "You forgave me for trying to brainwash her. You promised to ferry me to safety. And all it's done is bring you trouble."

  Her shoulders slump, and when she speaks again, her voice is barely above a whisper.

  "All I ever seem to do is bring trouble to the people who show me kindness..."

  Trigger doesn't respond immediately.

  A half-formed plan had been taking shape in the back of his mind, cold and practical. Remove Stella from the equation. Drop her at the next port with enough credits to find her own way. Cut the liability loose before it costs them more than a wounded mechanic.

  But looking at her now, at the shame and self-loathing written across her face, the plan falters.

  There are moments he wonders similar things about himself. Wonders if proximity to him landed others in early graves. Every mission the LRSSG flew seemed to draw unprecedented resistance, clouds of drones swarming the moment the marks on his tail were spotted. The Long Range Strategic Strike Group usually made it through the day, but the allied squadrons that flew alongside them couldn't always say the same.

  How many pilots died because they happened to be in the same airspace as Three Strikes?

  In a way… In a terrible way, he and Stella are alike.

  Trigger lets out a slow breath.

  "If you're worried about being asked to leave," he says, "don't be. We'll see the mission through. You'll get to LOSA as promised."

  Stella's head snaps up, shock plain on her face. "What? But I... after everything that just..."

  "Yes." Trigger's voice is quieter now, but no less firm. "This situation stemmed from your presence. That's true. But it's also your skill and quick thinking that kept my mechanic alive." He holds her gaze. "I swore I wouldn't lose any more of my people. You helped me keep that promise."

  He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice drops further, low enough that Jodie has to strain to hear.

  "I know a thing or two about attracting trouble to the people around me. There are few people I'd wish it upon."

  Silence stretches between them. Stella swallows hard, her good eye glistening. She looks away, but not before Trigger catches the wobble in her smile.

  "I... clearly misunderstood you as a person, Captain," she manages. "I won't spit on your good graces by arguing, but I have little I can offer in return."

  Trigger gestures toward Jodie. "Saving her life was a good start. Your continued service as a medical officer until we reach LOSA space would be appreciated."

  Stella's smile steadies, something genuine breaking through the exhaustion and guilt. "I would be delighted to serve you," she says, then the insides of her ears go pink. "The crew, I mean! I'd be happy to serve the crew as a doctor."

  Trigger doesn't think much of the slip. Nor does he understand the odd, half-amused expression that flickers across Jodie's face, the coyote's eyes darting between him and Stella with something that looks almost like suppressed laughter.

  "Make a list of supplies you'll need," Trigger says, already turning toward the door. "We'll procure what we can before we leave Junith."

  He pauses at the threshold, glancing back at Jodie.

  "Get some rest. That's an order."

  "Aye aye, cap'n," Jodie drawls, offering a lazy salute that's only slightly undermined by her wince. "I'll just lie here and bleed internally. Real restful."

  "Jodie..."

  "Fine, fine. Resting."

  With a nod, Trigger steps out of the infirmary, letting the door slide shut behind him, and nearly collides with Mila.

  The mink is emerging from the laundry room, pushing a wheeled bucket ahead of her with a mop propped against the rim. The water inside is tinged an ugly rust-red, and her expression matches, a scowl carved deep into her usually cheerful features.

  The scowl vanishes the moment she sees him.

  "Trigger!" She abandons the bucket and mop without a second thought, closing the distance between them in two quick strides. Her arms wrap around his neck, and she presses herself against his chest.

  Trigger returns the embrace, one hand settling on the small of her back while the other finds its way to her head. He leans down, pressing his nose into the crook between her hair and one of her round ears.

  Her scent, that familiar not-quite-vanilla, washes over him like a balm. The budding headache behind his eyes eases, just a little.

  "How are you doing?" he asks quietly. "After everything."

  Mila doesn't answer right away. Her grip on him tightens, then loosens, then tightens again, like she's trying to find the right way to hold on.

  "What was it like for you?" she finally asks, her voice muffled against his chest. "The first time you… killed someone up close?"

  Trigger's mind drifts back unbidden. Not to the war, not to the skies over Farbanti or Shilage Castle, but to a dingy office on a station that no longer exists. LeShank's guards, crumpling before they even realized they were dead. Their faces frozen in surprise, mouths half-open, eyes wide and uncomprehending.

  He remembers looking down at them and feeling... nothing. Not a thing.

  "Everyone processes it differently," he says, dodging the question.

  Mila is quiet again, her ear twitching against his chin. When she speaks, her voice is smaller than he's used to hearing.

  "It's not like I was expecting," she admits. "In all the dramatic movies and vids and stuff, the hero either doesn't think about killing the bad guys at all, or there's some big moment of horror. They throw up, or stare at their hands, or have some breakdown." She shifts against him. "I just feel... numb. It doesn't feel good, but it's not the big rock-your-world shock I thought it would be. Is that… " She pulls back a touch and peers up at him with wide, worried eyes though blonde bangs. "Is that wrong?"

  Trigger's hand, the one on her back, rubs a slow, soothing circle.

  "It's different, seeing it up close," he murmurs. "And if it's not something you enjoy, then that's fine. You shouldn't enjoy killing." He pulls back just enough to look down at her fully, catching her red eyes with his. "But you shouldn't be sorry for defending your crew. If not for your actions today, Jodie might have died."

  Mila's grip tightens on him. Her claws would have prickled if not for the armored vest still under his flightsuit. She pulls her head back to look up at him fully, her expression conflicted.

  "What's going to happen with Stella?"

  "She's staying."

  Mila's muzzle scrunches. "Trigger..."

  "We're going to see the trip to LOSA through." He lowers his head, touching his forehead to hers. This close, he can see every fleck of color in her eyes, and the way the edges of her eyelids crinkle. "I understand her situation a bit better now. I'm not willing to abandon the mission yet."

  He pauses, and when he continues, his voice drops. Something cold and hard creeps into his tone.

  "Besides... it'll be all the more satisfying to deny whoever wants her their prize," his eyes darken, "right before they learn why attacking Strider was a mistake."

  Mila holds his gaze for a long moment. Then she sighs, her ears drooping slightly.

  "I still don't like it," she grumbles, "but if you've made up your mind, then fine." Her eyes narrow, and a hint of her usual spark returns. "But once we have time to relax, you owe me a nice date in return. A real one, Trigger. We're going out to dinner, and I'm wearing that shiny black dress with the leg slit I got on Tantalus. Everyone is going to look and be so, so jealous!"

  "Of you?" He jokes.

  Mila slaps his chest with a yellow-furred hand, but her grin makes it all the way up to her eyes.

  It's just then that Trigger's wristcomm beeps. Seeing Eli on the line, Trigger raises his wrist and accepts the call. "Eli."

  "Trigger," Eli greets back, no-nonsense. "Our guest is waking up. Come to the brig."

  The smile that rises to Trigger's lips is anything but kind.