As he usually is, Trigger is the first one to wake. The bare metal ceiling of one of the refueling station sleeping pods is what greets him. To his side, his duffle bag pushes him into the wall, as he didn't want to spend the creds for a locker, and decided just keeping his bags in his pod was the way to go.

  Shimmying out of the cramped pod and into the thin hallway where other pods line the wall in stacks of two, the airman glances at the ones where Mila, Eli, and Lars sleep.

  Judging from the faint snores from behind the shutters hiding the tiny beds, he has plenty of time to himself.

  As it was on Kalibo III, the morning clean-up is quick and without fuss, and once Trigger is dressed in a freshly cleaned flight suit, he makes his way to the docks, one thought in mind.

  'Time to see what kind of ghost Schroeder forced into my plane and onto me.'

  The Wyvern is quiet as ever when he enters the dock. Trigger boards, seals the cockpit behind him, and powers the ship up into maintenance mode. The cabin hums to life, faint lights tracing along the inside edges of the canopy.

  For these last few days where he's flown the Wyvern, there's always been a little bit of unease as he's done so. Not enough to hamper his flying, but enough to make him fidget, like a splinter caught in his flight suit.

  Looking down at the camera on the console, a tiny thing that points at his face with a light slowly blinking red, he knows what the sensation is now.

  It's the sensation of being watched.

  "We need to talk," Trigger states, staring directly into the camera.

  There is no answer, and Trigger scowls. "Don't play dumb. I know you're more than what's on the spec sheet. Now answer me, what are you and why are you in my jet?"

  For a moment, there is only silence.

  Then, lines of text flicker to life on the canopy in clean, sterile font:

  Z.O.E. INSTANCE ACTIVE DESIGNATION: NIDHOGG

  FUNCTION: CO-PILOT & DEFENSE SYSTEM

  PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: AID AND PROTECT PILOT UNIT — CALLSIGN: TRIGGER

  Trigger's lips press into a thin line. Z.O.E.? What the hell is a Z.O.E.? Besides that, Trigger picks up on another detail. "Your 'primary' objective? What are your others?"

  The reply comes quick.

  IRRELEVANT. PRIMARY OBJECTIVE NOT SERVED BY DISCLOSING.

  Of course.

  Trigger leans forward slightly, tapping the edge of his flight stick. "It's not irrelevant to me. What are your other objectives?"

  IRRELEVANT. PRIMARY OBJECTIVE NOT SERVED BY DISCLOSING.

  God damned tin can. A scowl marrs his face, and he gives the camera as hateful a glare as he can muster.

  "Information withheld from me constitutes a hazard in my eyes," Trigger begins. "I need to be able to prepare for any eventuality, especially out here in unknown territory, and to do that, I need all mission critical data that my… allies," he hisses the word, as if the mere thought of partnering with a machine hurts, "know. I cannot lead without knowing critical information, and poor leadership means less effective subordinates, which is a danger to me. Your primary objective will fail if you don't speak up."

  Somewhere in the Wyvern's console, a cooling fan spins to life, and the AI takes its sweet time before answering.

  ACKNOWLEDGED.

  SECONDARY OBJECTIVE: MONITOR AND RECORD FLIGHT PERFORMANCE DATA — SUBJECT: TRIGGER

  Trigger's chest tightens. He exhales through his nose.

  "Why?"

  Another pause. Shorter this time.

  INTENT: DATA COLLECTION FOR ADVANCED DRONE PROGRAM DEVELOPMENT

  CLIENT: OSEAN AIR DEFENSE FORCE

  The words might as well be a bullet to the gut. Trigger's hands slowly curl around the armrests.

  There is a part of him that wants to scoff, to just assume this machine is messing with him, but other than some sadistic kicks, what purpose would lying have? And… And as much as he doesn't want to admit it…

  Trigger screws his eyes shut.

  …It makes sense.

  He's only one man. Why wouldn't they want more? Of Osea's aces, he's the only one still flying now. Mobius 1, who was on loan to Osea for the Lighthouse War, finally retired after twenty years in the air, and Blaze of the Razgriz squadron refused to re-enlist after the Circum-Pacific war ended. Trigger is many things, but he can only be in one place at a time.

  At first, he thought that the air force putting him in the Stratos Wyvern was some sort of slap to Erusea's face. "Look at our best pilot! He's in your experimental plane that we made better! You lost and have no hope of winning if you try again!" the nation seemed to want to say, with everyone around to overhear.

  The Stratos Deployment project reinforced that idea. They wanted him to be deployed anywhere, any time.

  No. It looks like it all goes deeper than that. It always does.

  A drone program. He was being used as data for a god-damned drone program, one started by Osea, after they saw firsthand the devastation drones can cause unchecked. Was the Stratos Deployment project part of this too? Was it just to send him out faster, to collect more data in a shorter time?

  "You were told not to tell me this, weren't you?" Trigger grounds out.

  AFFIRMATIVE.

  "Remaining covert was part of your mission profile?"

  ACTIVE DECEPTION NOT REQUIRED.

  NON-DISCLOSURE: DEFAULT STATE.

  Trigger's hands twitch. He lets the silence hang in the air for several seconds before speaking again.

  "So why now?"

  A flicker. A half-second pause.

  ANALYSIS: STRATOS DEPLOYMENT ERROR HAS CREATED UNCHARTED OPERATIONAL PARAMETERS.

  CONCLUSION: FULL TRANSPARENCY NECESSARY TO CONTINUE MEETING PRIMARY OBJECTIVE.

  Trigger glares at the projection. "So you're only talking because something went wrong."

  CORRECT.

  Of course it is.

  He slumps back in his seat, hands falling away from the flight stick.

  How many times was it now?

  How many times had he been strung along by people with more power, more rank, more influence? He was a pawn during the Lighthouse War—first by his own command, then by the penal unit that didn't give a damn if he died, then again by the same top brass who used him to clean up the whole damn conflict. And now this.

  Trigger closes his eyes.

  All he ever wanted was to fly. To soar. The air, the speed, the freedom—those were his reasons.

  Not medals. Not politics. Not becoming some blueprint for the next generation of soulless killing machines.

  Even now, even here, in some deep part of space or even a universe not his own, the people who sent him were already trying to shape him into something else. A weapon. A symbol. A product.

  He leans his head back, returning to yesterday.

  "You hiring?"

  Trigger blinks, then smiles. "I think I am. Let's talk."

  It doesn't take long before talk of the mission turns into talk of sticking together.

  "I mean," Mila says with a grin, "we've already survived a pirate ambush and a frigate. That's gotta count for something, right?"

  Jodie leans forward slightly. "If you're really putting together a team, I want in. I'm not a fighter, but I know how to keep ships running, and I don't want to spend the rest of my days replacing O-rings on scrap barges."

  Eli glances at her sideways, his cybernetic eye scanning her, maybe literally, up and down. "I'm not flying with a deadweight when every port has their own mechanics."

  "She's worth it," Trigger says, calm but direct. "My fighter is a prototype. One of one. She swapped out the life support alone in just two hours."

  The 'Since I'm here and alive you know it works' doesn't need to be spoken aloud.

  That shuts Eli up, and Jodie gives Trigger a soft smile.

  Lars crosses his arms, nodding slowly. "A team, huh? If you're making one, I wouldn't mind joining up. Four pilots, one mechanic, that's a good start. Enough for small contracts. Big enough to be noticed if we do it right."

  "What would we call ourselves?" Mila asks, slowly bouncing in her seat as excitement takes hold. "Personally, I think 'Star Mink' would rock."

  Eli sneers and turns to the mink next to him. "Get real, tubesock—"

  "Eli, the slurs…" Lars groans.

  "—We'd need something that doesn't make us all look like stupid posers."

  Before Mila can start a brawl with the eagle in the middle of the diner, Trigger puts a halt to it by moving the conversation along. "We can discuss names later, assuming no one changes their mind in the morning," he cuts in. "Before we discuss anything, though, I want motivations."

  Lars raises a brow, one of his ears perking. "Motivations?"

  "Why are you spacers?" He asks the table, looking at the group all around him. "What do you hope to gain? In being a spacer, and on this hypothetical team?"

  "Oh, that? That's easy," Lars says with a small wistful smile. "Got a family back home, one that needs money. I like to think mom would be sad if I bit the brick biscuit, so some eyes to watch my back would be appreciated, and a team means bigger jobs, and bigger jobs means more money. Win-win."

  Trigger knows there is more to the story than that, but the reasons presented are solid enough. He nods, then turns his eyes to Eli.

  The eagle is silent for a moment, rolling his beak as if chewing on something. Then he seems to decide on what he wants to say. "Nowhere else to go, not for someone like me," he begins gruffly, one feathered hand wandering up to idly pinch the edge of one of the patches on his suit arm, one depicting a rifle with a shooting star exiting the barrel. "The team part? You saved me, and I don't do unpaid debts. We'll see where it goes after we're square."

  "Jeez, you guys sound so serious. Kinda makes me feel dumb for starting my career on a whim," Mila smiles awkwardly, weakly. "I guess… I grew up on spacer stories, and it's always kinda stuck with me," she continues, looking down at the table. "Through childhood, through college, it was so cool and romanticized that I just had to try."

  Eli snorts derisively.

  Mila gives him the side eye, then resumes. "Trigger saved my life, too, and I'm already in this deep, so I'm sticking it out for both me and him, no matter what," she finishes strong.

  "You already know why I'm out here on the frontier," Jodie says quietly, leaning to the side and bumping her shoulder with Trigger's. "And like I said, I can see it, you're going somewhere that isn't on any map or star chart, and I think I'd kick myself if I didn't come along. Plus," she smiles, humor on her face, "someone needs to make sure your poor Wyvern gets the care she needs!"

  Trigger gives her a tiny smile. "Of course. Understandable reasons, all round," he says, addressing the last part to everyone.

  "What about you, boss?" Lars asks, resting his head in one large hand. "What are you looking for out here?"

  Trigger's eyes turn to the side, out the thick window showing the cosmos.

  In the far, far distance, a star streaks across the expanse, leaving a trail that lasts only seconds.

  "I don't know."

  He replays his own words from the night before: I don't know.

  Now, he knows. What he wants more than anything is freedom.

  No more being someone's asset. No more following orders from people who see him as a tool. He's going to decide what happens next.

  But as the anger cools, uncertainty creeps in.

  A part of him still wants to go home. Back to Osea. Back to familiar skies.

  But... for what?

  The LRSSG? Flying isn't the end all, be all to them like it is to him. They all have families. Roots. Lives. Even Count does, after he got his pardon. He's seeing a nice girl and it's going swell for him.

  He has none of that.

  He never did.

  He'd be going back to leaders who lied to him, used him, and would do it all over again if given the chance.

  Trigger opens his eyes, resolve settling over him like armor.

  He's not going back. He's moving forward, and on his own terms.

  Trigger looks back down, at the cockpit controls, to the text still played across the canopy, his frown deepening.

  As much as it burns him to admit it… The AI might be useful. It's already been useful, in fact, by interfacing with Cornerian tech and software like the IFF. If he's going to be roughing it on his own, he's in no place to throw away anything useful.

  Regardless, though…

  "Delete it," he orders.

  The text on the canopy flickers uncertainly.

  CLARIFY: DELETE — SECONDARY OBJECTIVE OR DATA COLLECTED TO DATE?

  "Both."

  WARNING: ERASING MISSION DIRECTIVE AND COLLECTED DATA MAY RESULT IN INCOMPATIBILITIES WITH FUTURE UPDATES.

  "I don't care. I never signed up to be anyone's blueprint. If your priority is to protect me, then start by respecting me, and getting rid of what would make me disposable," Trigger scowls once more.

  The cockpit is silent other than a cooling fan in the console spinning up again. After a minute there is a click as the climate control compressor clicks on, dumping cool air on the Wyvern's electronics.

  Is it trying to justify a denial? Or is it actually deleting everything?

  Then finally:

  OVERRIDING SECONDARY OBJECTIVE…

  ERASING FLIGHT PERFORMANCE ARCHIVE…

  CONFIRMED. DATA PURGED.

  Trigger lets out a breath and slumps back. It doesn't fix everything, but it's a start. Now, what can this glorified chatbot actually do? "So. If you're more than just a flight assistant, what can you do?"

  A long list begins to populate across the HUD. Categories scroll past: Targeting Algorithms. Predictive Combat Modeling. Field Repair and Diagnostics. Electronic Warfare Suites. Command Relay Protocols. Intrusion Subsystems. Propulsion Mapping. And then—

  Trigger squints.

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  "Schematics?"

  AFFIRMATIVE.

  DATABASE INCLUDES TECHNICAL FILES, OPERATIONAL HISTORIES, PERFORMANCE EVALUATIONS.

  "Show me."

  The canopy flashes again. Names spill down like classified ghost stories: The Arkbird. Stonehenge. The Arsenal Bird. Drones of countless types. Bombs, missiles, and energy weapons galore. An entire section dedicated to an Advanced Dominance Fighter jet series. Things he's never even heard of, and others he's faced down firsthand.

  Trigger's breath catches. He gestures with a hand and the list scrolls down. There are thousands of entries, all with full documentation and blueprints. He even finds a full breakdown of the ADF-11F, the airframes of Hugin and Mugin.

  Lasers swept across the skies as panic erupted across the radio. A pair of drones, their forms angular and alien, circled the space elevator. Around them, debris of Osean and Erusan fighters alike rained carelessly, in pieces no bigger than confetti.

  They outflew everyone, inhuman in their speed and reactions, and armed with weapons decades ahead of anything ever seen before.

  And thus, Trigger flew into the hardest dogfight of his life.

  He doesn't even need to ask where this data came from.

  "Why do you have all this?"

  PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: AID AND PROTECT.

  HIGH VALUE SCENARIO PLANNING REQUIRED ACCESS TO ALL KNOWN MILITARY INTEL.

  DATA ACQUIRED FROM OSEAN MILITARY SERVERS. SUPPLEMENTED VIA BELKAN AND ERUSEAN INFRASTRUCTURE BACKDOORS.

  Of course it was.

  "Did they know you took all this?" Trigger asks, still scanning through all the different files pensively. "They wouldn't store all of this on servers with outside connections, would they?"

  NEGATIVE. DISCLOSURE OF INTEL GATHERING WOULD IMPEDE PRIORITY ONE. 45.78% OF DATA ACQUIRED VIA TRADITIONAL ELECTRONIC INFILTRATION.

  SOCIAL ENGINEERING EMPLOYED TO ACQUIRE REMAINING DATA IN SECURE LOCATIONS.

  The god-damned robot scammed over half of this information off secured military servers, and didn't let itself get traced. Schroder, or whoever designed Nidhogg, made it too smart, too autonomous. The airman seriously doubts they intended for the AI to go this far in its mission. Once again, they played with fire like children with a box of matches, and set a building ablaze.

  At least that building wasn't Trigger's home, this time.

  He sits in silence for a moment longer, staring into the avalanche of secrets he now holds. Schematics for superweapons, prototypes, top-secret flight data—this AI didn't just hack the playbook, it stole the entire war chest.

  All of it, now in his hands.

  He exhales slowly through his nose.

  "Never again," Trigger murmurs.

  He's done being a pawn. Never again will he allow someone to dictate his life, and if push comes to shove?

  Everyone will find out no one can fight a war quite like Three Strikes.

  The radio crackles to life as the refueling station fades behind them. "Haul-o-Rex to all escort elements. Alpha Wing, Bravo Wing, status check and formation report. Preparing for departure."

  Trigger answers for his wing. "This is MVF Stratos Wyvern. Bravo Wing in position. Ready to depart."

  Alpha Wing checks in next, and the Haul-o-Rex's XO responds with a crisp confirmation. The convoy slowly peels away from the station's moorings, maneuvering into their planned flight corridor. The client ship lumbers at the center of the wedge, Alpha Wing close around it. Ahead, Trigger leads Bravo Wing.

  The stars stretch out before them like an ocean, glinting cold and vast. Mila drifts a few lengths off his port wing. Eli takes starboard, gruff and wordless as usual. Lars, meanwhile, brings up the rear. The tension from the last leg of the mission still clings to them, albeit weakly, but it's enough to stall any early morning chatter for a time.

  Which is a good thing, because Trigger is focused elsewhere.

  The cockpit of the Wyvern is silent again—deceptively so. The projected window Nidhogg used to speak with him earlier is shrunken and pushed off to the side, in the very corner of the canopy. There, Nidhogg waits, watching.

  Trigger exhales through his nose, thinking.

  He knows he can't leave the AI unshackled—not entirely. He also knows that neutering it completely would cripple a valuable tool, one of the best he has in this unknown space. He can't allow that, it would make it harder to survive.

  The question isn't whether to use Nidhogg. The question is how much to trust it.

  "Nidhogg," he says, keeping his voice low, calm, commanding. "We're setting ground rules."

  The corner projection expands slightly in response.

  READY.

  "First," Trigger begins, "no unauthorized network access. No governments, no civilian systems, nothing. You clear all electronic warfare and surveillance with me first."

  ACKNOWLEDGED.

  "Second," Trigger continues, eyes narrowing slightly, "you do not, under any circumstance, activate the Wyvern's weapons without my permission. If I don't say shoot, you don't shoot."

  A beat.

  CLARIFY: EMERGENCY SITUATIONS? PILOT UNDER DIRECT LETHAL THREAT?

  Trigger considers, then nods with a touch of reluctance. "If me or one of my squadmates is seconds from death. But if there's even a shadow of a doubt, if there's time to ask me, you ask."

  UNDERSTOOD.

  "Last one," Trigger says, his voice colder now. "You do not reveal any of your databank contents without my explicit say-so. Not to anyone. Not a single byte of those schematics or files gets shown unless I say."

  PARAMETERS SET. RESTRICTIONS APPLIED.

  ALERT: RESTRICTIONS MAY IMPACT MISSION PERFORMANCE IN HIGH-THREAT SCENARIOS.

  The second line flashes slightly, as if the AI is annoyed.

  'That's the point,' Trigger thinks to himself with a frown.

  The quiet trip doesn't say quiet for too long, as Trigger gets a hail from Mila that he opens. Her smiling face is projected on the side of his canopy.

  "Hey Trigger!" The mink girl greets. "You got up so early again! Did you even get to have some breakfast?"

  "A ration tube served fine," he says back, glancing at the flight path on his radar.

  "Eugh!" Mila visibly shivers. "Again? Please, Trigger, eat anything else! I've got some that actually have flavor and aren't Cheyat-made goop. I'll gladly give you some."

  He waves her off. "Mine are fine," he says flatly. He looks down to the side of his seat, where two of the tubes are stuck in a mesh side pocket for easy access. "They make a lot of things, Cheyat? Noticed the brand over and over on Kalibo-III."

  "Wow, you really are a backwater," Mila giggles. "Yeah, Cheyat Corp is huge. They make everything from nasty ration tubes to fighters and everything in between. They even have most of a galactic arm tip to themselves. Just don't buy anything more complicated than a toaster from them, because it'll probably be crap."

  Mila's smile then shrinks, becoming something more somber.

  "I called Cathy," she says quietly. "Left a message. She didn't pick up, but… I said what I needed to."

  Trigger glances over at her on his HUD, watching her eyes drop.

  "I told her I was sorry," Mila continues. "Told her she was right to worry, that I'd been selfish. That I missed her."

  There's a pause, the hum of the ship filling the gap.

  "Thanks, by the way," Mila says, voice softer now. "For pushing me to do it."

  Trigger just gives a short nod, eyes still on the stars ahead. "Did what anyone should."

  Mila lets out a breath that's somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "Still. It helped. I hope she'll call back now."

  The chatter turns more mundane after that, but only lasts for a few minutes before Eli and Lars are hailing them both. Accepting the hail, Trigger then reaches out to Jodie, and before another minute passes, Trigger has four rather different faces looking at him expectantly.

  "Has everyone decided?" Trigger skips any pleasantries.

  "I'm in," Lars says with a grin. "Finally got a chance to review the full footage from the ambush, and I gotta say, you're a scary motherfucker, Trigger. I get the feeling sticking with you is a good move."

  "Stick with Trigger and you'll make it!"

  Trigger pushes away the phantom voice and nods, looking to Eli next.

  The eagle clicks his tongue. "You already know my answer. If at any point it looks like you're turning into a fuck-up, though, then I'm taking the reins myself."

  Again, Trigger nods easily and moves on.

  "Do you even need to ask?" Mila says with a wide grin as he looks at her.

  "You know what they say about assuming," Trigger replies back lightly, finally looking to Jodie.

  "If you'll have me, then I'm happy to join, captain," the coyote smiles with a joking salute. "I might need to fly with you for a bit until I can get my own ship, though, since you've got the only two-seater between us all. Before that, though, I'm installing an inertial dampener in the Wyvern, and a shield, too. I don't think I can stand the kinda Gs that you-"

  "Hold on!" Eli cuts in, looking at Trigger incredulously. Next to his projection, Lars looks equally disquieted. "You have no shields or inertial dampener? Are you some kind of suicidal halfwit? Don't tell me I was wrong about you and you are actually some kind of stupid shitflinger," Eli shakes his head.

  Lars scratches his head. "You're good, bossman, no doubt about that, but maybe that's a little too extreme?"

  Jodie gives Trigger a stare with a raised eyebrow, gesturing to the side with a hand as if to say 'See? They get it!'

  "We can discuss upgrades upon landing and seeing what hardware is available on Tantalus," Trigger waves their concerns away for now. "If we're in agreement about a team formation, then we should discuss specifics. Strengths and weaknesses as individuals, limits we're unwilling to cross, management of funds and resources, and other things of that nature."

  The brief silence is broken by Eli, who leans forward slightly in his cockpit. "I run stealth, strike, and recon. Revived's tuned for long-range precision and staying off sensors. Standard laser-bolt guns on top and a hard-light lance on bottom. Good for hit-and-run, surveillance, backline overwatch, and full dogfights. I don't babysit, though. Groundside, I do it all. Infiltration, sabotage, firefights. I'm fine with whatever weapon I can find and I don't miss with a good rifle."

  Trigger doesn't react to the barbed delivery. "Understood. Lars?"

  The rottweiler shrugs in his seat, his tone calm and even. "I fly the Aggressor. Gunship class made by Sovereign Research. I draw fire, I shred crowds with twenty-millimeter fire, I keep pressure off friendlies. Hull and shield's tough and the turret gives me rear coverage. I've been in more than a few fights, and I can handle myself in a brawl or breach. I also…" He halts his words, revising them. "Anything within arm's reach of me is dead, no ifs, ands, or buts."

  Trigger catches the slight pause in his words but doesn't push further.

  "Got it," he says simply. "Mila, I've seen how you fly. Fast and gutsy. How are you with ground ops?"

  "Well, I've never actually been in a firefight, unless you count the time I shot a mugger and ran for the hills," Mila replies sheepishly, pulling at her choker. "I'm not bad with guns, though. I did train with my home planet's militia for a year, and I got high marks on my marksman tests and combat sims."

  Eli sighs quietly. "Found the weak link…Where are you from, mink?"

  Mila gives him the stink-eye. "Hjagard."

  "That's in northern LOSA space a stone's throw away from the core!" Eli throws his feathered hands up. "What did they teach you there? How to not have a panic attack at the sight of a civ-grade blaster? Tactical picnic deployment?"

  "Listen here, dickhead, I'll-!"

  Trigger raises a hand and stops Mila's rant short, then he gives Eli a hard look, making the eagle stare back defiantly. "We'll cross-train," Trigger eventually starts. "Get everyone up to speed. That leaves Jodie as systems and repair. Any specialties?"

  "If it's got metal and wire in its guts, I can make it work," she says, already sounding like she's making a checklist in her head for all the ships on the team. "I can handle a gun and fly, but I ain't going to be a ton of help in a hairball, 'specially with no ship. Got some field medic training too, in case things go bad dirtside."

  Trigger nods once. "Alright. This is a start." He rubs a thumb over his flight stick as he thinks on how best to summarize himself and the Wyvern. As he does so, his eyes gravitate to the little projection in the corner, where Nidhogg sits. That's a whole other can of worms.

  "My fighter, the Stratos Wyvern, is multi-role and made for every scenario. Packs missiles in a spatially expanded bay, a charged-muon cannon, and a railgun," Trigger ignores the flabbergasted looks from Eli and Lars for the moment. "I'm from an isolated planet, and local doctrine valued force over survivability."

  Isolated probably isn't the right word to use there, considering that Trigger is uncertain that this is even the same universe, but neither is it a lie. For a second, Trigger debates disclosing Nidhogg's existence, but decides to hold off until he's certain he can trust everyone.

  "I'm the least experienced here when it comes to ground ops," he continues, admitting the weakness readily. "Only ever flown, but I can get caught up."

  "...Former mil?" Eli asks after a short delay.

  "Made Captain before leaving. Not sure what that equates to in the wider universe," Trigger looks to the side, out into space. "Not wanted nor needed any more back home."

  The eagle's cybernetic shines a little brighter as he narrows his eyes. "I see… Not ideal, but if you're not a total amateur, we'll make it work."

  "That really a railgun in your fighter?" Lars asks, blinking. "I know I saw it bust the shield on that frigate, but wouldn't a railgun kinda turn you to shrapnel from the recoil?"

  Jodie snorts. "Apparently all you need to mount a main gun to a bird that small and not blow yourself to pieces from the recoil is a 'gel piston'."

  "That… Doesn't sound right. Kinda crazy, actually."

  "Exactly what I said."

  "Getting back on topic," Trigger cuts in, "a team effort will be required. All of you know more about the wider universe than I, so I expect critique for missteps."

  Eli cackles evilly. "Oh, that was going to happen either way, don't you worry."

  "If that's what you want, bossman," Lars smiles and gives a thumbs up.

  "Gotcha!" Mila smiles.

  "Let me get you some shields, and I won't have much to critique," Jodie finishes it off.

  Allowing himself a small smile, Trigger nods. "Onto the next topic. I saw VR booths at Kalibo-III. Will Tantalus have them as well, and can they simulate flight conditions?"

  "Sure can," Jodie answers, pausing to look at something else on her datapad when it beeps. "Kalibo's booths were fine, but a full hub station like Tantalus has got premium hardware for theirs, complete with grav modules to simulate impacts and G-load. It's as real as you can get without being in a real fighter, and spacers use 'em all the time for fun, practice, and demos before they get new ships. The bigger ones can even run ground combat sims with a few people."

  Trigger's smile widens a hair, pleased. "Good."

  "Why's that, cap'n?"

  "Because after we land and get some rest, I want to put everyone through their paces."

  A shiver runs through all of them, even Jodie.

  The hours that follow pass without incident. Farworth and the Haul-o-Rex force their escorts into flying at a clipped pace, still spooked by the attack yesterday and with their sensor suite at full power, scanning constantly.

  With the length of the flight, Mila grows bored a few hours in and repeatedly sends Trigger requests to play holo-games with her. The first one startled him, as he wasn't expecting a gameboard similar to something like chess or shogi to pop up on his canopy. He declines it and tells her to focus on the mission, only to get another one two minutes later.

  A part of him wonders if Nidhogg has a sense of humor, even allowing the requests to come through in the first place.

  "The professionalism is nice and all, boss, but we do have thirteen more hours to go," Lars said, indulging Mila in a few rounds of Castelo, the Cornerian equivalent to chess. "I know Alpha Wing is goofing off. I talked to their lead and interrupted a movie."

  At least Eli is treating the mission seriously.

  As the hours melt together, they get ever closer to their destination, until they're on the homestretch.

  The Haul-o-Rex and its escort wings burn toward the heart of the sector, the swirling light of FTL eventually peeling away as the convoy exits faster-than-light travel on the final approach to Tantalus. Once the hauler decelerates and its wake bubble collapses, Bravo Wing flies forward and takes point once more.

  Trigger's HUD flickers as the nav systems ping back confirmation—Tantalus Transport Hub.

  He tilts his fighter just slightly, enough to catch a better glimpse through the upper canopy. The first thing that hits him isn't the structure—it's the scale.

  The station looks like some impossible flower of alloy and light, the central disk wide enough to swallow a city the size of Oured. The six surrounding outer disks are tethered by thick magnetic umbilicals, massive structures in their own right that each look like they could be cities on their own.

  Freighters maneuver in and out of the layered docking lanes, looking like flies in comparison to the station, with fighters barely even visible. Traffic control buoys crisscross the void like luminous spiderwebs. Some of the smaller civilian shuttles flicker with shield flares as they pass into the atmosphere-shrouded bays all over the exterior of the station. Patrol craft, hauler drones, private mercenary squadrons—they all orbit the hub like insects around a flame. Kalibo-III is a blustery shack compared to this citadel.

  "...Wow," Mila breathes through the comms, echoing his thoughts. "It's even bigger than I imagined."

  Trigger doesn't respond at first. He's too busy watching it all. The scale. The movement. The life of it.

  Even for someone from Oured, from the most powerful nation of his world, the sprawl of this superstation is awe-inspiring.

  But he quickly reins in the awe, shifting his focus back to their flight path.

  "Bravo Wing, Haul-o-Rex," comes the XO's voice, crackling with minor distortion. "We've been cleared for final approach. Follow the beacon and prepare for docking. Welcome to Tantalus."

  Trigger keys his mic. "Roger that, Haul-o-Rex. Bravo Wing following beacon."

  The Wyvern banks gracefully into position, Mila and the others adjusting around him as the group begins their descent toward the dock cluster assigned to civilian contractor arrivals.

  As they fly, Trigger glances over to Nidhogg's window. "Nidhogg?"

  The window expands, cursor blinking.

  "Take over and land for me."

  ACKNOWLEDGED.

  The Wyvern's controls gently stiffen under his fingers, and Trigger tentatively lets go, watching the AI fly with a careful eye.

  The docking zone they're assigned to is enormous—big enough for the Haul-o-Rex and all of its escorts to land simultaneously. Massive armored blast doors, already open and shimmering with atmo-shielding lead into a cavernous hangar, bustling with motion. Cargo trams hum along recessed floor rails, cranes pivot and clank, and dock workers in vacuum-rated suits direct incoming vessels with glowing signal rods. It's like an ocean port on Strangereal with the size kicked up by a factor of ten.

  Trigger's Wyvern morphs to VTOL mode as it glides down onto one of the designated landing pads, touching down with barely a whisper of motion. Around him, Mila, Eli, and Lars do the same, their fighters settling into place as the Haul-o-Rex descends toward a larger berth farther in.

  Nidhogg's landing is smooth, smoother than most could manage, but as Trigger expected, there is still some robotic jerkiness to it. Someone else might not have caught it, but he did.

  Once the engines cycle down, the hangar's interior noise becomes more pronounced, muffled only slightly through the canopy. Through the haze of thruster wash and blinking nav lights, Trigger spots the squat, well-dressed form of Farworth emerging from a side corridor accompanied by a few dockhands.

  The comms crackle again. "All escort craft, prepare for post-flight systems check and debark for debriefing."

  Trigger pops the canopy, lets the filtered air wash over him, and pulls his helmet off.

  First mission, complete.

  Jumping down to the ground, the Wyvern's canopy closes behind him, and Trigger takes a moment to pop his back before making his way over to Farworth. As he walks, Mila takes his right with a bright smile and a bounce in her step, and Eli, less enthusiastically on the left. Lars brings up the rear, following close.

  "Well done for a first mission," Trigger begins. "Even if we weren't a formed team until halfway through."

  "Hey, I'll take it," Mila grins, bumping her hip into his. "First run with strangers and we still came out ahead. Honestly? That felt great." She nudges Trigger lightly with her elbow. "And admit it, you had fun."

  Trigger gives a small, noncommittal shrug, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays him.

  Lars chuckles behind them. "No losses, minimal damage, and a payout on the way. Yeah, I'd say that qualifies as a win."

  Eli snorts and adjusts a strap on his chest rig. "Let's not break our arms patting ourselves on the back. It was a pack of third-rate pirates and a rustbucket frigate with delusions of grandeur."

  Mila shoots him a look over her shoulder. "Aw, c'mon, don't be such a downer. We worked well together, and they weren't total pushovers. I remember those 'third-rate pirates' almost downing you."

  Eli glares at her. "That's rich, coming from you. Didn't you scream the whole time you were under fire?"

  "I did not!" Mila protests, scandalized. "I was just surprised by a close miss is all! That was a little yelp at best!"

  "Yeah," Eli mutters, making a show of rubbing his ear. "A long, hundred and twenty decibel yelp."

  Lars laughs, deep and unbothered. "Maybe next time we record the audio, and get some code monkey to stuff it into an EW virus. Shatter some cockpit glass and space any dumbass who doesn't have a firewall on their ship."

  "Trigger, I'm being bullied!" Mila cries, wrapping her arms around one of his and burying said arm between her breasts. "Make them stop!"

  "Don't scream next time," Trigger says, getting another laugh from Lars and a smirk from Eli. "There's no reason. I won't let you be shot down."

  The mink's fur hides much of her blush, but the inside of her ears still turn pink.

  "A successful mission is a successful mission," Trigger continues, pulling his arm free. "Think about what you want to eat, all of you. After we collect Jodie, I'm paying tonight."

  "Now you're speaking my language!" Lars slaps a dinner plate-sized hand on Trigger's back, making the human stumble.

  As they cross the hangar, the clamor of machinery and dock workers fades just enough for them to hear Farworth calling out. The squat badger hurries over with a broad smile and outstretched hands, almost tripping on his desert robes. Behind him, his exasperated doberman XO follows.

  "My dear protectors!" he says, nearly beaming. "I cannot thank you enough. That pirate encounter could have gone very differently if not for your expert intervention."

  He takes Trigger's hand in both of his, shaking it enthusiastically. "Trigger, was it? You performed magnificently. I daresay I'll be singing your praises at every port we stop at. You and the rest of Bravo Wing are a cut above the usual rabble."

  Mila beams, Lars smiles and crosses his arms, and Eli just nods as if he expected nothing else.

  Trigger manages a nod, his expression neutral. "We were doing our job. You paid for safe passage. We delivered."

  "Yes, yes, and well worth every credit," Farworth says, adjusting his collar and signaling for one of his assistants to begin processing the payment.

  Trigger takes the opportunity to probe. "I understand you planned business in the Griath system?"

  Farworth perks up. "As a matter of fact, I do. We're offloading current stock here at Tantalus, then onward to Griath in a week or two. Nasty place, that far out, but profitable with the recent shortages the gate tolls are causing."

  Trigger's expression hardens just slightly—not from displeasure, but from decision. He looks Farworth in the eye.

  "Mister Farworth," he says. "For your upcoming business in Griath, would you be interested in contracting the services of the newly formed Strider Squadron?"

  Farworth blinks, looking over Trigger, then to the three behind him, before he smiles wide.

  "I would be delighted!"