Trigger snaps awake in only a second, a dream of tearing a drone in half with machine gun fire in the skies over Farbanti already fading from his memory. He blinks, mentally taking stock of himself.

  The bare-metal wall inches from his face is dark, the bed under him is less of a bed and more of a slab with a mattress, and his hand is clutching his pistol under his thin pillow. Turning over silently, he looks over to the other bed in the small room, finding a blanket-covered form, back facing him, with only blonde hair and a pair of round ears visible.

  Right. Yesterday wasn't a dream. Space, animal people, pirates, and all that.

  The day prior, after drinks and some overpriced bar food, he and Mila went and secured lodging for the night. Renting a room on the station was simple enough, but the ever-fluxing price due to the station keeping track of vacancy in real-time added an unfortunate element of randomness.

  They could have rented a small sleeping pod each for four-hundred credits, but two-bed rooms happened to be hovering at seven-hundred creds and some change, so both decided sharing a room was the way to go in the name of stretching their money.

  Well, "room" is a generous word to describe their temporary quarters. "Large closet with two beds bolted to the walls" fits much better. Besides the beds, there is a AC vent on the ceiling, a holo projector in place of a TV, a single ceiling light, a steel footlocker at the base of each bed, and a touchscreen panel in the wall acting as a thermostat, projector remote, light switch, and phone all in one.

  Not the most comfortable, but a single bed room with any standard hotel amenities started at an eye-watering seventeen-hundred creds a day, so Trigger dealt with the spartan space, even if it reminded him of his time in prison.

  Standing silently, Trigger pulls on his flight suit from yesterday, belts his gun on, and makes his bed, making sure the covers are straight with neat ninety-degree angles. Satisfied, he opens his footlocker, taking a set of civie clothes from within.

  Turning the pants around, he frowns at the sewn-shut tail hole in them.

  After they made sure they had a place to sleep, Mila then took him shopping once she learned Trigger had the clothes on his back and nothing else. The official station market was closer than the port bazaar, and although Mila warned him that the prices were steep, he still wanted to see what was there for reference.

  Since Kalibo III isn't part of any major trade routes, everything in the supermarket-like station store was marked up a heinous sum. The standard currency around here, Cornerian credits, seem to be a rough 1:1 with Osean credits with a few exceptions.

  That's why when Trigger saw a single t-shirt in the station store was fifty credits, he turned on a heel and left.

  They didn't get to explore the sprawling bazaar, which had its own entire station floor, as a dour-looking goat woman selling clothes and textiles from the back of her box truck-like ship was one of the first stalls. She had clothes for pretty much every body plan, but only a few sets that would fit Trigger's tall form, and no pants without openings in the rear for tails to slip through. After sliding her a bit of cash, the proprietor closed up the tail holes.

  'Once funds allow, I should look into seeing a proper tailor,' he folds his clothes under his arm and checks the wall panel, looking to see if any shower stalls are open and the current price of entry tokens.

  Twenty credits for five minutes of hot water. Guh. "Mila was right. They really do nickel and dime you," he mutters, tapping the button for a much more agreeable five cred cold water token.

  Please see reception to collect token(s)! The panel flashes in cheery colors.

  The walk to reception, getting the token, the walk to the men's showers, and the shower itself take all of fifteen minutes. When Trigger returns, his new partner is sitting up in her bed, her hair a mess and her groggy eyes focused on the wall, where the holo projector is playing the news.

  "…rising tensions in Libret territory," the anchor is saying as Trigger closes the door behind him. The sound is low, but clear enough to catch. Mila doesn't turn to acknowledge him, still blinking slowly at the screen.

  On the wall, a prim cougar news anchor sits at a desk with a projected starmap behind her, certain regions glowing red or yellow depending on some criteria. "- With supply convoys between Tantalus Transport Hub and the Outrim Spindle hit three times this week alone. The treaty brokered between the Libret Confederation and Lylat Outer System Authority is growing strained as convoys along their borders are ransacked, according to sources in LOSA. Pirate activity is expected to escalate in these regions in response to growing instability."

  Trigger folds his towel and sets it aside with the rest of his dirty laundry, then pulls open the footlocker by his bunk. Mila grunts a tired greeting.

  The news feed cuts to a shaky video: a long, train-like freighter limping through a starfield, its hull peppered with scorch marks and one engine sputtering. A clipped voiceover continues, "LOSA command says they are stretched thin. Captain Jora Vex of the LOSA 8th Interdiction Fleet stated, quote, 'We need more men, more ships, more everything! We're being asked to police eight sectors with one battlegroup! We urge travelers to stick to safe, well patrolled lanes and to exercise caution even then.'"

  The scene returns to the anchor, who swipes a clawed finger across the screen in her desk before continuing. "For our major story this morning, the Free Sector Accord has filed a formal complaint to the Trade Union over what they claim is predatory toll pricing on the gate corridor near the Griath system. With only one viable gate in the region, smaller merchants say they're being squeezed out of the market. Likewise, colonies in the Griath system claim they're suffering from a lack of fairly priced goods. Governor Kai Lao of the colony of Killigan had this to say."

  "It's outrageous," the feed cuts to a tiger with a rumpled suit, tired eyes, and gray fur dotting his muzzle. "The Trade Union knows what they're doing. By pricing out unsponsored merchants, they're inflating prices in Griath and every system behind us in the star lanes to the detriment of our citizens. The price of basic naonite CPUs is up almost forty percent this year, and our colonies simply don't have the facilities or capacity to produce our own on a proper scale, hobbling our ability to produce and repair everything from datapads to entire ships. Is this the thanks we get for braving the frontier and taming planets for the people of tomorrow?"

  The feed cuts back to the anchor for a second. "Oliver Yelsav, representative of the Trade Union, had this to say in reply."

  "It's not our intention to cause unrest in Griath," A, fittingly enough, vulture on the holo screen says, adjusting his tie. Behind him is a fountain made of a silvery metal inlaid with circuit-like lines of brilliant yellow, and behind that, a large, glittering skyscraper, whose sign is partially cut off by the camera angle. "Nor is the Trade Union 'pricing out' non-affiliates. The toll increases are part of a joint fundraising initiative with AstroNet Assembly intended to fund the building of another set of gates and the clearing of a new star lane. We understand that the good people of Griath are experiencing moderate financial distress, and the Trade Union extended its sympathies with attempted aid, but the brokering of relief deals with system leadership has been stubbornly refused time and again. We with the Trade Union urge the peoples of Griath to pen your governors and local leaders to express your dissatisfaction with their inaction."

  Slipping off the shower sandals the reception desk provided and putting them neatly in the corner for the housekeeper, Trigger keeps an eye on the news. The vulture, Yelsav, speaks so smoothly that he's almost tempted to believe the words at face value.

  Almost.

  "Meanwhile, representatives from the Lylat Diplomatic Corps have reiterated their intent to maintain neutrality in all frontier disputes, despite calls from several outlying colonies for LOSA intervention. Senator Carith of Corneria spoke before the Planetary Assembly yesterday, saying, quote, 'We cannot afford to extend our patrol net or step into disputes without the cooperation of regional players.' No official statement yet from General Pepper or Fleet High Command. The full story, at seven."

  Mila finally speaks, voice rough. "Same as always," she mutters. "Talk big, act small."

  Trigger gives a noncommittal grunt, but he's dedicating everything he hears to memory. Many of the names and terms mean little right now, however.

  The anchor continues, unfazed. "And finally, a spike in high-tech thefts across several sectors in Sovereign Reach space has prompted a formal investigation. According to reports, unknown parties have been stealing warpdrive cores, advanced reactor parts, and even weapons systems from salvage yards and under-guarded depots. The unknown parties have made use of advanced surveillance countermeasures during their raids, leaving security footage corrupted. Experts fear a buildup of power somewhere off-grid and suspect Andross loyalists as possible culprits, but no group has claimed responsibility. That story, at nine. Lylat Yonder News eXpress will return after these messages."

  Mila turns to Trigger as a commercial takes over the screen. "Guess it's shaping up to be another fun week in the outer lanes." She runs a hand through her fur, then squints at him. "You sleep alright?"

  "Well enough," He says simply.

  "You sure? You're up way early. It's only…" She rubs her eyes and looks at the clock in the corner of the holo screen. "Six-thirty Cornerian standard."

  He nods again, sitting on his bunk and raising an eyebrow at the commercial on-screen, showing an ad for a 'nano-vibration' brush that claims to be good for any fur type. "I usually get up early."

  The mink girl groans and throws her blanket off, standing. "Of course I join up with a morning guy. I want to sleep in on the weekends, you hear?" she declares, straightening her shorts and sleeping top.

  A frown flashes past Trigger's face. "When operations allow," he shoots back, before flipping a little blue coin Mila's way.

  She fumbles the catch and almost drops it, but once it's in her hand, she holds it up to the light with a smile. "A shower token? For me? Maybe I judged you too quickly Tri-" She cuts herself off and squints at the coin. "Trigger? This is for five minutes of cold water."

  "Overestimated. I didn't need two."

  The mink's shoulders slump. "Fuck me. What have I gotten myself into?"

  "What do you mean there isn't any shielding!?"

  "Were my words unclear?"

  Jodie, the mechanic assigned to Trigger's landing pad, looks at him as if he's lost his mind. Her brown eyes switch between Trigger's blank face and the datapad in her hand, as if one of them will change with enough incredulous, uncomfortable stares.

  Trigger, however, isn't really sure what the big deal is.

  The coyote woman licks her lips, trying to find the words she wants. "Mister Trigger, I… I don't…" She sighs in exasperation and spreads her arms in a 'fucking really?' gesture. "None of the things I encountered during my inspection for your transponder repair make any sense. Let's go down the line."

  She turns her datapad around and shows the man the screen, pointing at the top line with a gloved finger. "I checked your weapons and fuel core first thing. Standard safety stuff, making sure you didn't park a time bomb in the station. What do I find in the nose gun? A god-damned charged particle cannon!"

  "Muon cannon, to be precise."

  Trigger's interjection is ignored as the mechanic continues, slowly picking up steam. "How did you miniaturize a charged particle cannon? These things need a dedicated proton accelerator, and you need a full battleship with a secondary reactor at minimum to fit all the fixings onto one ship and power it all!"

  "I didn't miniaturize it," Trigger answers back calmly.

  "Then who did?"

  "The fighter's designer."

  The coyote's eyes bore into him with a glare. "Oh, you're real cute. Fine, be a smart ass. Answer me this, though. Why is there a railgun in that bird's belly? I can tell you've fired it from the oxide on the inside of the assembly. How are you powering an energy hog like that? And how is the ship still in one piece? The recoil should have sheared the whole thing in half, or blown the railgun off after the first shot!"

  "Powered by large capacitors that charge between shots. EML sits on a sled with a gel piston. Handles recoil well. Didn't feel much," Trigger waves his hand dismissively.

  Jodie's hands tighten around her datapad, the leather of her gloves making a creaking sound. "Gel? Not anti-grav? How big is the slug it's tossing?"

  Trigger rubs his chin, thinking. "Tungsten. About fifty-five kilograms."

  "And the muzzle velocity?"

  "Seventeen thousand meters per second in standard atmosphere. Probably faster in space."

  The mechanic looks down at her datapad, punching in the numbers and shaking her head. She regards the output pensively, and enters her calculations again. "That… That's not possible. You're telling me a gel piston is handling almost two-hundred meganewtons of force? And you can actually control it and not instantly explode?"

  "Yes," Trigger answers back, deadpan as ever.

  Mila, who is watching the exchange off to the side, gives her two cents. "It's nutty, but I watched Trigger absolutely gut a frigate with one shot of his railgun, so it seems legit to me."

  Jodie lets out a ragged sigh and rubs her forehead. "You know what? I'm not even going to ask why the munitions bay is ten-times bigger than it should be. Something tells me I won't get a real answer. That ain't even the most egregious thing, so let's move on to the bad shit. Why are there no shields, Mister Trigger? Don't you dare tell me a bird this pretty wasn't designed with them."

  When Trigger says nothing, Jodie drums her fingers on her arm quietly for a moment before losing patience "Well?"

  "You clearly said not to tell you my fighter was designed without shields, so I didn't," he replies, his lips twitching.

  The coyote woman's palm slaps across her face, and a brown eye glares at him through her fingers. "Are you going to take this seriously, or do I need to get another mechanic for you?"

  Trigger wipes any humor from his face and regards the mechanic evenly. "You don't need to worry about my pla - ship," he corrects himself at the last moment. "All I need is a valid IFF. Everything else is inconsequential."

  "It's not inconsequential!" Jodie hollers back, drawing a few eyes that just as quickly look away, though some ears around remain perked. "No shields! No armor! No inertial dampeners! Glass canopy! Alloy construction! Hydrocarbon fuel! And a life support system so piss-poor that it would be outlawed in even the lowest, most rundown parts of the galactic arm!"

  She whirls around to face the Wyvern, her tail whipping. Then she spreads her arms. "It's a beautiful, unreal bird. Such fine lines, painstaking fit and finish, every wire straight and every weld neat…"

  This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

  Then she throws her head back and claws at her hair. "And it's a god-damned deathtrap! Catch one bolt, one burst of flak, a single sweep from a laser, and you'd be dead! That's if one of the weapons doesn't fail, or the spacial imposition hazard in the belly doesn't go off!" She turns back around, eyes wild. "Do you understand what kind of flying clusterfuck this thing is?! How easily you could be killed?!"

  Trigger doesn't reply right away, instead giving the coyote time to catch her breath. "Every time I take hold of a flight stick," he begins. "I'm reminded."

  The wind falls from Jodie's sails, and her shoulders slump. Still, she looks between him and the Wyvern, biting her lip. "It's not safe. Not officially spaceworthy and not cleared for take-off as it is, and an IFF refit won't change that. That's my stance as a mechanic of Kalibo-III."

  Disappointing, but Trigger nods. "Will I need to fight my way out?"

  Beside him, Mila stiffens and gives him a pensive, uncomfortable stare.

  Unease passes Jodie's face so briefly, that Trigger nearly misses it. "No," she shakes her head. "No. You won't. I can't clear this thing to leave in the state it's in. Libret Confederation law won't let me, but I'm sure I can get it in a proper minimum-legal spec before the end of the day. You need more life support than just a CO2 scrubber and a rubber gasket to seal the cockpit."

  A sigh escapes the human's mouth. "My funds are limited."

  "I'll do it pro bono," the mechanic says back, a hint of desperation in her voice. She takes a step towards him, both her hands gripping her datapad. "I'll source the parts, do the install, and you can be on your way. Simple as that."

  Trigger's eyes narrow.

  "I don't mean to sound… well, mean, but why go that far for a stranger?" Mila asks what Trigger is thinking, a confused frown on her face.

  "It's…" Jodie sets her jaw, conflict in her eyes. She looks away briefly. "I don't want you getting spaced to blowback on me, is all," she replies flatly.

  Mila's red eyes settle into a glare. "There's more to it than that. C'mon, spill!"

  "How long will this take?" Trigger asks calmly, raising a hand to forestall any further interrogation from Mila.

  Jodie looks down at her datapad, pressing a few buttons. "Three or four hours, give or take."

  Nodding, Trigger makes himself comfortable on a nearby crate forgotten by one of the robot-driven forklifts. "Go on," he waves a hand.

  Her muzzle rising into a small smile, the woman jogs off, dodging between a laughing group of mercs and a forklift moving a small engine.

  Once she's out of earshot, Mila hops up on the crate where Trigger is and sits at his side. "Are you sure that was a good idea? Just trusting her like that?"

  "I don't trust her. It's why I'm staying and watching," he says back, watching a distant ship that looks like a space-version of a tugboat make its landing, its outer hull covered in cylindrical containers. "Can you find us a job while I'm here? Don't care what we do, so long as the pay is worthwhile."

  The mink nods, her frown easing. "I bet with Griath getting starved out, we can probably get a job as escorts headed that way easy, and for some half-decent creds, too," she muses aloud. "I'll ask around. Don't have too much fun without me!" She hops off the crate and waves over her shoulder.

  In a few minutes, Jodie returns with a toolbox slung under one arm and a hovering cart piled high with parts balanced in front of her. Coils of tubing, a sealed canister labeled O Reclaimer Type 3, and several matte-black life support modules are strapped to the top. She looks slightly winded but determined, with a stylus clenched between her teeth and her grimy datapad cradled in one elbow.

  "I had to twist a few arms, but we're set," she huffs, easing the cart to a stop beside the Wyvern. "The new seal's a maglock ring—guaranteed to hold come hell or high water. The scrubber's military surplus, Solana shipyards model, about two generations back. It ain't pretty, but it's double redundant."

  She sets the toolbox down and taps on her pad, then frowns and taps it again, only for nothing to happen.

  "Hey!" She calls over her shoulder to Trigger. "Why's your ship so finicky with maintenance commands? It took me an hour to find one that would open the weapon bay yesterday, then it freaked out and wouldn't open the canopy until I brute forced it. Now it's not responding at all!"

  Maintenance commands? He's not sure he likes the idea of anyone being able to give commands to his fighter, but he's also wondering why it stopped. Just incompatible software?

  A thought crosses him, and Trigger frowns, hoping what he's thinking isn't the case. "Stratos Wyvern!" he barks. "Allow external interfacing for maintenance!"

  This time when Jodie taps her pad, the Wyvern's cockpit canopy opens with a hydraulic hiss.

  God damn it. The AI in the Wyvern is making his blood boil. The airman expected a slightly more useful missile alert, and instead the machine was making its own calls.

  Like a Eursean drone.

  "No shields, but a voice-activated standalone mode?" Jodie mutters, clipping her datapad to her overalls. "Not my first choice in options."

  Jodie climbs up the wing, and the cart filled with parts hovers up with her, then she gets to work.

  Trigger stays quiet as she goes, only glancing over occasionally. It's clear she knows her way around ship guts. He watches her remove tubing, disconnect the existing gel-ring from the canopy lip with what looks like a heated prybar, and carefully install a modular magseal kit in its place. It looks more or less the same as the rubber seal, but with a pair of wires to power it hanging off the end.

  Then she installs the second set of seals along the edge where the canopy comes down to seal the cockpit, taking care to make allowance for the latches. After she wires everything, the coyote lowers and raises the canopy several times before she's satisfied.

  After half an hour of quiet work, Jodie speaks again.

  "This bird's got weird bones," she says, tapping something Trigger can't see from his position. "Parts of it look modular, almost like they were swapped out or repurposed. The scrubber was a travesty, and your whole avionics housing looks… transplanted."

  Trigger crosses his arms. "It's a prototype."

  "Explains a lot," she mutters, then slides back out of the cockpit.

  As she climbs down, she wipes her hands on a rag and squints up at him.

  "I'm gonna run pressure and integrity checks once I finish routing the secondary lines. Then you'll be good for vacuum, jumps, and any other spacer shit you get into. Just… don't take this crate through a radiation belt or anything. The shielding's about as thick as a tortilla."

  Trigger cracks a faint smile. "I'll keep that in mind."

  She grins back—just for a second—then turns serious again and reaches for the next tool.

  "Two more hours. Then she's yours."

  As Mila expected, finding a merchant headed southward towards the Griath system doesn't take long at all. The LYNX broadcast this morning must have lit a fire under the more daring traders, because the station's bulletin board was suddenly filled with requests for escort fighters.

  Mila picks a few, then sets out to the port to meet the clients in question. Most end up being busts, but the last one…

  Rolling up her sleeve and gazing down at her wrist-pad, she gives it a tap and brings up the profile of the last client, dodging around people as she walks. "Okay, freighter 'Haul-o-Rex' in spot O-2 and O-3? Which should be right…" She looks up. "Aha!"

  Parked precariously close to its neighbors and almost spilling out of its spot is a huge freighter ship, two-hundred meters long easily. The massive industrial thing looks a little like a pre-spaceflight semi truck, with the raised bridge in the rear, a long body with slots for cargo containers, and a reverse thruster on the nose that looks like a truck grill.

  It's a wonder the station let it land inside. It takes up two oversize landing pads and getting it through the atmo-shielding without smacking the threshold must have taken some piloting talent. Idly, she wonders if Trigger could pilot a larger ship with the same grace he does his Wyvern.

  A giggle escapes her as she imagines the hulk before her pirouetting through the void with Trigger's sour mug at the helm, then she makes her way closer.

  The freighter's final few cargo pods are being loaded and slotted in by the gantry cranes above, which whine and grind in their rails, dropping flakes of rust on anyone below. Crew from both the station and the freighter help the process, with a hard hat-clad dog directing the crane with orange light batons. Others shine lights into the crevices where the pods latch to the ship, inspecting the seals, and one man walking along the spine of the ship steps out onto the topmost pods, stomping on them to make sure they're on tight. A stunt like that would instantly materialize the dock safety authority behind him on a core world.

  Not just one agent. The whole damn authority.

  It doesn't take much searching to find the captain. Off in the corner of landing spot O-3 and busy typing in a laptop on a fold-up desk, an older badger sits, glancing up at the workers around him from time to time. If his ship doesn't give away his wealth, then the desert Katianan finery he's wrapped in does. By his side, an armored doberman with a comlink in his ear and a PDW in his hands stands, looking bored. The bored look morphs into something much more alert as Mila approaches.

  She's gotta hand it to the guard. He focuses far more on the blaster strapped to her leg than her chest.

  As she approaches, the guard (or lieutenant. It's hard to tell sometimes) takes a step forward. "Got business?" He asks gruffly.

  "That I do," she smiles. "I saw the bulletin for escort fighters, and I'd like to speak with Mister Farworth," she winks at the badger behind the desk.

  The inside of the old guy's ears turn pink, and Mila smiles a little wider.

  Jackpot.

  "If you want to apply," the lieutenant begins, frowning. "Then I'm the one you-"

  "I'll handle this one!" The captain interjects, stopping his crewman short. "Of course my dear! You heard correctly. I'm on my way to the hub in the Tantalus system for an offload!" Farworth says, closing his laptop terminal and giving Mila his full attention. "I have a few more spots I'd like to fill for two full teams of escorts."

  "That's wonderful, Mister Farworth!" Mila gushes, really playing it up. "I was hoping you could find space for me and my teammate in your escort. See, we're independent spacers and we're really hitting our stride. Why, just in our last mission, we saw our client through an ambush! Eight pirate fighters and even a frigate!"

  Trigger did most of the work fixing that clusterfuck, but it's better to let imaginations fill the blanks here.

  "Eight fighters and a frigate?" Farworth echoes, clearly impressed as his eyes widen. "My, that's no small feat! And you came out unscathed?"

  "Not a scratch," Mila says with a laugh, brushing a lock of hair from her face and not mentioning her dead wingmates. "Our client didn't have a single scorch on her hull, and not a single quality seal broken on her cargo."

  Farworth gives a low whistle. "Sounds like you're the kind of pilots who could keep my crew out of a lot of trouble."

  "We absolutely are," she replies, resting one hand lightly on the desk and leaning in just enough to push her bust out, drawing the old badger's attention fully. "We have another job lined up," she fibs, "but if I'm being honest, we'd rather join on with someone…" She casts an eye to his hauler and bites her lip cutely, forcing a blush to shine through her fur. "Larger."

  The lieutenant clears his throat loudly. "Captain, I do need to verify crew claims. Her transponder codes, loadout logs-"

  "Lieutenant, please," Farworth says with a sharp glance. "I believe I'm capable of evaluating candidates. You're here to keep the riffraff away, not grill guests."

  The doberman stiffens but holds his tongue, his eyes flicking from Mila to his captain and back again with clear disapproval.

  Mila's smile never falters. "I'd be more than happy to transmit our registry and current loadouts. Everything's above board. Even installed some new life support this morning. Kalibo-III certified." She gives a theatrical little sigh of relief, pulling open her flight suit just a tiny bit more, like she was airing out her fur. "Before that, it got so hot in the cockpit."

  Farworth gulps, the inside of his ears red once more. "Too true, my dear. Nothing worse than stale, warm air." He tries, keyword being tries, to compose himself. "If your paperwork's in order, and you've handled live combat before, I've no reason to doubt your ability."

  "I'll get you those credentials in just a tick," Mila says with a giggle and another wink, making Farworth pull at his collar.

  The lieutenant leans in toward Farworth, voice low but clearly annoyed. "Sir, she's giving a sales pitch. I've heard half a dozen like it this week. At least let me check-"

  "She's confident. She's professional. She's in," Farworth says with finality. "Unless you'd like to personally lead the second wing instead?"

  The doberman straightens with a click of his boots. "No, sir."

  "Didn't think so."

  Mila fights back a smirk as she swipes a finger across her wrist-pad, transmitting all the records. Then she scans the contract that comes back in reply, looking for any nefarious wording. Finding none, she zeros in on the reward.

  'Seventeen-thousand creds a pop to fly to Tantalus? That's two-thousand higher than the ad! In a hi-sec route almost the whole way! Hell yes!'

  Stomping on the greedy cackle that wants to bubble out of her, Mila presses her thumb on the signature spot on the contract, then sends it back. She signs for Trigger as well. Then her tone returns to sweet and light. "Thank you, Captain Farworth. We won't let you down."

  "I'm sure you won't," he replies, grinning goofily and reopening his terminal to hit a few keys. "You're assigned to Bravo Wing. Departure's in sixteen hours. You'll get the route and meeting place once we lock the manifest."

  "I'll see you then," Mila says, blowing her client a kiss and walking off with some extra sway in her hips.

  Behind her, the lieutenant mutters under his breath, "Dammit, captain…"

  "That should do it…" Jodie wipes her sweaty brow and drops her wrench back into the tool chest on the hovercart.

  Just as she said, Jodie finished two hours later on the dot, and Trigger finds himself impressed for the first time in a while. The X-03S is an experimental, schizophrenic fit of a spacecraft, even to him, but the mechanic was able to not only replace a major component with one made for a totally different craft, she did it alone and in just a few hours.

  Though, Trigger hasn't been idle during those two hours. Figuring he should get started on familiarizing himself with the wider universe, he stopped one of the blocky robots milling around the dock while Jodie was working, and promptly broke its programming by ordering it to forget its previous instructions and fetch him a datapad from the lost and found.

  It was a bit of a gamble, seeing as how the robot might get intercepted, or the docks might not have a place where lost items are stored, but Trigger's luck always seems to hold when it's for things of little consequence. Fifteen minutes after marching off, the robot returned with a beat-up tablet in a rubber case. Some remote overseer must have finally noticed the AWOL bot after that, as not even ten seconds later, it slumped forward, powering off and back on again, then walked off like nothing happened.

  The datapad itself wasn't anything special or difficult to figure out, not for anyone who has ever used a tablet computer before. The unlock code was sleuthed out from the pattern of claw marks on the plastic screen protector, and Trigger changed the code to something he'd remember. It was filled with an unfortunate amount of pornograpy, though.

  Ignoring that, connecting to the station extranet was again very straightforward. Some sites took longer to load than others, but considering the servers might be god-knows how many lightyears away, he didn't mind. Thus, his extranet dive began.

  Corneria, home to the Cornerian people, who make up a majority of the galactic population, is the center of it all. Situated in the Lylat system close to the galactic core, the planet is a verdant garden perfect for life, and the Cornerians enjoyed a relatively peaceful pre-spaceflight history. Apparently, they themselves had no idea why their planet gave rise to so many different subspecies of Cornerian, and it's still a genetic mystery to this day.

  Spacefaring for hundreds of years now, the Cornerians have been expanding rapidly, establishing colonies, space stations, contacting aliens, and even refining terraforming tech for inhospitable planets. Many were things the people of Strangereal could only dream of. The only place Strangereal outpaced Lylat is in insane fringe military tech, which is a thought with grim connotations.

  Anyway, the Cornerians expanded too fast, and the Lylat system lost their grip on the frontier, the wild west of space, which splintered into differing corporations, guilds, and factions, all with their own goals and cultures. The splintering wasn't always peaceful, either. Quite the opposite.

  But as he read, another name kept popping up over and over again.

  Andross.

  An ape born on Corneria, Andross was hailed as a once-in-a-millenia genius. In and out of high school at nine, a PhD at twelve, then a dozen more by eighteen, he pushed nearly every field of Cornerian science forward by decades. His real talent, though, lay in bioengineering. He became obsessive with the subject, birthing twisted, malformed creatures in test tubes just to see how far he could push the limits of life itself, and not at all caring about the consequences. Some suspected he experimented on himself, too, hasting his own decline into megalomania.

  Then the authorities found out the sort of horrors he was conjuring and tried to shut down his experiments, but he wasn't having it. Having anticipated being caught, he threatened to detonate a bomb of his own making right in the middle of Corneria City.

  They called his bluff, but he wasn't bluffing, and over a million lives were extinguished in the following blast, with millions more families emotionally shattered.

  Dumping Andross on the penal planet of Venom for his crimes instead of just shooting him was the worst mistake the Cornerian government could have ever made. He broke out of containment, raised a bio-augmented army of Venomian criminals with countless recruits from the frontier, twisted himself into a monstrosity, and blitzed Lylat with the greatest organized force the galaxy has ever seen, killing millions more. Some places in the Lylat system will never be the same.

  The day the war ended in a narrow Lylat victory, the Cornerian Planetary Assembly quietly passed a bill, one giving them the power to punish first class offenders such as Andross with death.

  These days, Andross is presumed dead, killed at the hands of the now legendary Star Fox mercenary team, but no one can be sure.

  Trigger sets his datapad aside and turns his attention to Jodie, but inwardly, he's burning to read more. 'Knowledge is power, and power is something I desperately need right now, but I've only scratched the surface. Annoying.'

  The coyote taps her datapad, closing the cockpit. "Here goes. Sealing. Pressurizing. Cycling."

  A quiet hiss comes from the jet, and little else.

  Jodie smiles wide as her pad casts a green light on the bottom of her muzzle. "Green as can be! I wish every job was that smooth!" She turns around. "Well, Mister Trigger, that should do you… Unless you'd like me to install a shielding system?" she asks leadingly.

  "No," Trigger waves her off. "I've infringed on your generosity enough. Thank you."

  "You're certain?" Jodie asks, a lopsided frown on her face. "If you're willing to part with some of the space in your missile bay, I could have something installed in just a few hours. I know I've got a full-coverage unit around here somewhere just collecting dust. It would-"

  "Thank you," Trigger repeats, this time with a smidge more of force. "Maybe another time," he amends, seeing the put-out look on her face.

  The mechanic sighs heavily and fingers one of her overall straps. "Fine. Be a hot shot burnout. I'll miss working on this bird, though. Are you running a parallel software suite? The mag-seals and life support worked outta the box, and your IFF only needed a reflash. Didn't have to program a lick."

  'The AI,' he keeps the scowl off of his face. "Something like that…"

  The silence between them quickly grows stilted, and Trigger speaks up once more. "Why do all this for me?" He asks, his dark eyes locking with Jodie's light browns. "You have a reason. One that isn't selfish."

  She breaks the stare. "God damned suicidal spacers… That's-"

  "Trigger!"

  Jodie is interrupted when Mila bounces up, looking as if she just won the lottery. "I got us a good one! A milk run to Tantalus that pays out big! And it puts us right in position to be frontrunners to Griath! We'll be swimming in it soon!"

  The mink girl laces her fingers under her chin and wiggles in place, beaming. "I might finally have enough to sell my Sparrowhawk and get a fighter that doesn't fly like a golf cart! Oh, I'm going to have trouble sleeping tonight!"

  "Lucrative payout, hmm?" Trigger smiles faintly and stands, leaving the crate where he sat for hours. "Good. My plans can start moving, then."

  "Plans?" Mila blinks, with Jodie following suit. "What kind of plans?"

  He smiles, showing a flash of teeth.

  "Big ones."