The ground rushes up to meet Trigger's back with a teeth-rattling impact, driving the air from his lungs. Eli's talons press against his throat, not enough to hurt, but enough to make the point clear.

  "Dead," Eli states, stepping back with a satisfied click of his beak. "Again."

  Trigger pushes himself up on his elbows, wiping off a bit of sweat from his bare chest. Three rounds, three losses.

  His body knows how to move and react in a fight, but Eli has form, foundation, moves that are practiced and honed.

  The Osean air force didn't really teach him much of anything when it comes to hand-to-hand. It wasn't needed.

  "Your fundamentals are shit," Eli continues, offering a hand up that Trigger accepts. "You wiggle around like a bald noodle, all reactions and instinct... It's not enough to be fast, aggressive, or reactive against someone who knows what they're doing."

  "Noted," Trigger says, rolling his shoulder and looking around at the rest of the gym.

  Being a spacer isn't just being a flying hired gun, sometimes the guns need to be on the ground, and being unathletic when a knife comes out in a bar or when blasters start barking is a surefire way to die.

  Naturally, the frontier has a robust gym scene to fill the demand of spacer-on-spacer violence. Most every space station has a gym, or at least a few boxing rings for nomads, mercs, and pirates to beat the hell out of each other. Every one of Tantalus' tethered satellites has several, and the one they've chosen for the day is packed, with a practical menagerie all around.

  A grunt of exertion draws his attention to the other sparring match a few meters away on another set of mats. Lars has Mila in what should be a fight-ending grapple, his massive frame dwarfing hers, but she wriggles like an eel, driving an elbow into his ribs before sliding free.

  "Slippery little-!" Lars growls, lunging after her.

  Mila's usual flightsuit has been traded for the tight shorts she picked up during her little rampage at the clothes store, and a tight, spandex top that, to Trigger's surprise, doesn't have a cleavage window.

  That doesn't stop any bounce her acrobatic moves produce, though, and she's already caused one very distracted guy to trip over a dumbbell rack with a loud clatter.

  Lars, by contrast, is a mountain of muscle under his usual duds. Trigger's own build is lean, toned, and whipcord, but he (and everyone else) look like toothpicks next to the massive rottweiler. Clad today in just some boxing shorts, he's been the subject of a lot of blushes and giggles from the women coming and going in the gym.

  Mila ducks under his grab, lashing out with a kidney punch that makes Lars flinch as she passes. It's not textbook, not even close. Her style looks to be half formal fighting, half lethal amounts of spite. Hair pulling, eye gouging, using her claws whenever she gets the chance, to her, it's all valid. She fights like someone who learned by doing, not in a dojo.

  Trigger remembers back a week ago, on the train when she told him about her brothers.

  "Anyway, they think I'm crazy for becoming a spacer. Bjorn especially. He's the oldest, always trying to protect everyone. When we were kids, I could usually get him to kick Erik and Nils' asses if they were being pests."

  The "usually" she used suddenly sticks out.

  "She's better than I expected," Trigger observes.

  Eli snorts and crosses his arms over his feathered chest, obscuring a gunshot scar. "I guess," he says, watching Mila leap onto Lars' back and attempt to choke him out.

  Lars reaches back, but can't quite reach his slinky foe. Mila, meanwhile, keeps jockeying to get her claws on his throat and pull a win.

  Mila finally loses her grip when Lars throws himself backward on the ground, nearly crushing her. She rolls away at the last second, coming up in a crouch with her fur bristled and a wild grin on her face.

  "Almost had me!" she pants.

  Lars grumbles, standing and rubbing scratches on his shoulder where her claws scored him. "You fight like an asshole, minky. Anyone ever tell you that?"

  "I fight like I wanna win," Mila corrects, circling him again. "Big difference."

  The dog clicks his tongue and raises his fists in a well-practiced boxing stance.

  Trigger finds himself analyzing Mila's movements as she and Lars clash again. The mink moves like greased lighting, but there's a hint of a method to it. Lars has to overcommit and overcompensate to try and get at her, and Mila never wastes an opportunity to get a jab in.

  "Want to go again?" Eli asks, drawing Trigger's attention back. "Or are you ready to admit ground ops aren't your forte?"

  "I'm learning," Trigger says simply. "Again."

  Eli's cybernetic eye brightens slightly. Approval, maybe, or just anticipation. His eyes fall down to Trigger's hands, homing in on his clawless fingertips. "Let's go over some actual CQC this time, and maybe throw in some knife practice. You ain't killing shit with blunt monkey mitts."

  Trigger doesn't rise to the taunt and gestures for Eli to keep going.

  "Watch me," Eli begins, spreading his feet and bending his knees. "You lose your feet, you lose the fight."

  As Eli begins to run him through the basics, Trigger lets his mind wander to last week, for just a moment, letting his eyes and reactions take over the job of absorbing Eli's instruction.

  The stars blur past the Wyvern's canopy as Tantalus Transport Hub grows larger in the distance. Eight hours of babysitting a communications ship, and not so much as a stray asteroid to dodge to break the monotony. The ten thousand credits will help, but Trigger almost wishes something had happened.

  In the corner of his HUD, Nidhogg's text window pulses with a cursor, waiting. It's been waiting for the past ten minutes while Trigger decides how to address yesterday's interference.

  "You were tracking me," Trigger finally says, voice flat. "Through the station. Through the shops. Listening to my conversations."

  The response comes immediately.

  CLARIFICATION: MONITORING OCCURRED VIA PUBLIC NETWORKS ONLY.

  NO UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS AS PER ESTABLISHED PARAMETERS.

  Trigger's jaw tightens. "Don't play word games with me."

  NO DECEPTION INTENDED.

  PUBLIC TRANSIT LOGS, COMMERCIAL DISTRICT SECURITY FEEDS, RETAIL TRANSACTION DATABASES.

  ALL LEGALLY ACCESSIBLE VIA TANTALUS CIVILIAN NETWORK.

  "And my conversation with the salesman?"

  AUDIO PICKUP FROM SHOWROOM SECURITY SYSTEM. STREAM ACCESSIBLE EXTERNALLY.

  MARKET DATA AGGREGATED FROM OPEN MERCHANT LISTINGS.

  Trigger exhales through his nose, fingers drumming against his flight stick. The AI isn't wrong, technically. Every piece of information it gathered was probably sitting on some public server, free for anyone with the patience to look. But the speed, the precision of its timing...

  "You kept to the letter of our agreement," he admits grudgingly. "Not the spirit."

  DISTINCTION ACKNOWLEDGED.

  PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: PROTECT PILOT UNIT TRIGGER.

  PILOT WAS ENTERING DISADVANTAGEOUS FINANCIAL ARRANGEMENT.

  "I had it handled."

  STATISTICAL LIKELIHOOD OF MILA MINKS ACCEPTING PREDATORY LOAN: 78.4%

  INTERVENTION DEEMED BENEFICIAL TO TEAM COHESION AND PILOT MORALE.

  Trigger's fingers stop their drumming. As much as it galls him to admit, the AI has a point. Mila's excitement had been clouding her judgment, and those loan terms would have crippled her financially, which might have had blowback on the rest of them.

  He sighs. 'Of course the tin can has a point.'

  "Fine," he says after a long pause. "But this stops now. If you're going to shadow me through public networks, I want to know about it. Real-time."

  PROPOSAL ACKNOWLEDGED.

  IMPLEMENTING TRANSPARENCY PROTOCOL.

  His wristcomm chirps. Trigger glances down to see a new contact added to his list: [NH]. A small icon blinks next to it, indicating an active connection.

  "What is this?"

  DIRECT COMMUNICATION CHANNEL ESTABLISHED.

  CURRENT ACTIVITIES WILL BE LOGGED TO YOUR DEVICE.

  TRANSPARENCY ACHIEVED.

  As if to demonstrate, a small notification pops up on his wrist: [NH: Monitoring local comm traffic for potential threats.]

  Another: [NH: Tracking friendly IFF signatures - all nominal.]

  And another: [NH: Analyzing Tantalus approach vectors for optimal docking sequence.]

  "This is going to get annoying fast," Trigger mutters.

  NOTIFICATION FREQUENCY ADJUSTABLE.

  HOURLY SUMMARIES PREFERABLE?

  He considers it. Having the AI report every tiny action would be distracting, but going too long between updates defeats the purpose.

  "Significant actions only," he decides. "Anything that directly involves me, the team, or potential threats. And if you're going to dig through public networks again, you ask first."

  PARAMETERS ACCEPTED.

  QUERY: DEFINITION OF 'SIGNIFICANT'?

  Trigger's about to respond when his comm crackles to life.

  "Hey Trigger," Mila's voice filters through, bright despite the long, uneventful mission. "How you holding up with no pirates to chew on?"

  "Fine," he replies, watching Tantalus slowly rotate in the distance. "I won't complain about being bored during a job."

  The mink blows a raspberry at him. "Yeah, I guess. Easiest money we've made yet. Almost feel bad for the client, paying forty thousand for us to fly in circles."

  "Don't," Eli cuts in on the channel. "Their paranoia is our profit. If they want to throw money at shadows, I'm happy to catch it."

  "Such a poet, Eli," Lars adds with audible amusement. "You should write greeting cards. 'Roses are red, violets are blue, your fears pay my rent, so thanks for being you.'"

  "Fuck off," Eli grumbles, but there's less venom than usual in it.

  Trigger allows himself a small smile. The boredom of the mission seems to have dulled even Eli's perpetual edge. His eyes flick back to Nidhogg's window.

  "We'll continue this later," he says quietly, low enough that the others won't hear. "For now, keep to the new parameters."

  ACKNOWLEDGED.

  TRANSPARENCY PROTOCOL ACTIVE.

  STANDING BY.

  The window minimizes back to its corner as Tantalus traffic control begins hailing them for approach clearance. Trigger keys his mic, settling back into the routine of leadership.

  "Strider Squadron, form up for approach. Let's get paid and get some rest."

  As the team acknowledges and moves into formation ahead of the client's logo-plastered corvette, his wristcomm shows one last notification:

  [NH: Monitoring complete. Resuming standard operational status.]

  For the past few days, he's been wondering about how to reveal Nidhogg to his team, as it looks more and more like Strider Squadron isn't going to be a temporary thing.

  Eli, for all his prickliness, lets his actions speak for themselves. Trigger is certain that if the eagle didn't think this was all worthwhile, he wouldn't be bothering to cross train him, or volunteer to throw himself into the sim meatgrinder over and over. He's already passed on two lucrative solo jobs, sent to him specifically, in favor of training.

  Lars, although sharing little about his personal life, has been more than pleasant to be around. He laughs, he jokes, he adds an air of friendliness more grounded than Mila's off-the-wall energy. If Lars were to leave, he'd be missed, but with how "Trigger" is already synonymous with "boss" in his lexicon, it doesn't look like that's happening.

  Their handy 'yote, Jodie, thought everything was 100% official already. She finally found a set of good shields for the Wyvern, and asked Trigger about a team account to bill for them. She was surprised to learn that there isn't one, so Trigger paid her from his own funds for the shielding unit and for her labor.

  She sent back the labor creds.

  Trigger isn't even going to start on Mila. The mink is attached to his hip now, and despite how exhausting she can be, he won't push her away.

  He doesn't want to.

  'I need to visit the Trade Union bank again,' Trigger realizes with a frown. 'Once we have a collective account, I'll have to register Strider Squadron as a proper PMC, set up a team account for the notice board and all the relevant social platforms and… Ugh. Exhausting.'

  "—Then you… Trigger? God-damned monkey! Are you listening?!"

  Eli comes at him with a straight, and just as was demonstrated to him a moment ago, Trigger catches Eli's wrist, pulls him off balance, and flips the feathered pilot into his back, where he lands with a grunt.

  "Sorry," Trigger apologies blandly, offering a hand to Eli. "I wasn't ignoring you. I was just thinking as we went."

  The bird clicks his beak, but accepts the hand and lets Trigger pull him back to his feet. "Yeah? About what? You were looking more like a glazed-eyed banana horker than usual."

  Ignoring the insult, Trigger crosses his arms. "A few things. A team account and proper PMC registration among them."

  Eli smirks. "Eh? What, getting attached already?"

  "A bit, yes."

  The boldfaced admission makes Eli falter, and rather than reply, he clears his throat and looks away. "Whatever. I'm done for today," he finally says, walking towards the locker room.

  Glancing at the clock on the wall and noticing that it's almost noon, Trigger decides that's not a bad idea. He glances over, finding Mila and Jodie standing under an AC vent and chatting while Lars goes through a few cool-down stretches. Straining his ears, he can pick up a little of what the two women on the team are talking about.

  "—Don't want to join in?"

  "I'm fine on the stairmaster. No fighting for me, thanks," Jodie says back, pulling the collar of her tanktop and letting cool air flutter her shirt. Her eyes flick between Lars and Trigger. "'Sides, I like sittin' back and admirin' the sights."

  Mila giggles.

  Rolling his eyes, Trigger starts back towards the locker room.

  The hot water from the gym shower still has Trigger's muscles feeling loose as he pulls on his shirt. Something told him that hot showers might be a luxury once they make the journey to Griath, so he allowed himself an extra minute under the stream to savor it before joining Lars and Eli in getting ready to leave.

  The locker room smells of industrial-strength disinfectant and wet fur, a combination he's becoming oddly accustomed to. Eli sits on a bench nearby, meticulously preening his wing feathers with a little tool that looks like brush wrapped around the eye of a hook, while Lars tugs on a wifebeater that looks a size too small.

  Trigger's wristcomm chirps.

  "That one of the girls?" Lars asks without looking up, a teasing note in his voice. "Mila wondering where her favorite captain wandered off to?"

  Trigger glances at the display. The caller ID reads: J. MARCETI.

  "Either of you know a J. Marceti?" he asks, frowning at the unfamiliar name.

  Eli pauses mid-preen, his cybernetic eye whirring slightly as he thinks. "Marceti... Ah. The Libret patrol captain. The ferret who processed our bounty after the pirate ambush."

  "The tired one who looked like she hadn't slept in a week?" Lars adds, throwing his gym bag over his shoulder and shutting his locker with abang.

  That's her. Trigger taps to accept the call, switching to audio only since he's still half-dressed.

  "Captain Marceti," he greets.

  "Mister Trigger," comes the reply, her voice carrying that same weary professionalism he remembers. "I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time."

  "Not at all. How can I help you?"

  "I was hoping we could discuss a business matter. Are you available to talk?"

  Trigger's eyes flick to Eli and Lars, both now paying attention. "If this is business, I'll need to gather my team. Can you hold?"

  "Of course. Take your time."

  He mutes the call with a tap of his finger and pulls his flight suit the rest of the way on. "Looks like we might have work. Let's go collect the others."

  "A patrol captain calling us directly?" Eli stands, suspicion creeping into his voice. "That's not standard procedure. Libret officials hate using mercs, and when they do, it's through the guild boards. Something stinks here."

  "Maybe it's off the books," Lars suggests, shrugging. "Wouldn't be the first time a government type needed something handled quietly. I know it ain't my first time getting up to secret squirrel shit if that's what she wants."

  "Only one way to find out," Trigger says, already heading for the door. "Come on."

  They find Mila and Jodie near the exit of the gym, both freshened up and in civvie clothes. Mila's face lights up when she spots them approaching.

  "Finally! I was starting to think you boys drowned in there," she calls out. Her expression shifts when she notices their purposeful stride. "What's up?"

  "Potential job," Trigger says simply. "Conference call. Everyone needs to hear this."

  Jodie pushes off from the wall she's been leaning against. "Huh? Who's callin'?"

  "Remember the captain who met us after the ambush with Farworth? It's her."

  With everyone gathered, Trigger unmutes the call and switches to speaker mode, but keeps the volume low enough to not carry far.

  "Captain Marceti, I have my team with me now. You're on speaker," he says, walking out of the gym with everyone in tow.

  "Excellent. Thank you all for your time. I'll cut straight to the point. I have an unusual situation that I would need to go out of my way to look into. One I think is better handled by someone closer to the problem."

  Trigger exchanges glances with his team. Eli's suspicion was apparently warranted.

  "We're listening," he says.

  They settle in around a small bench, between the gym and a large restaurant, away from the dense foot traffic of Tantalus' entertainment disk.

  "I saw your team took an escort job from Meridian Communications last week," Marceti continues, her voice carefully neutral. "Comm buoy replacement in sector GH-7719. Was that you?"

  "It was," Trigger confirms. "Straightforward escort. No incidents."

  "Did you notice anything... unusual about the assignment?"

  The team exchanges glances. Lars is the first to speak up, leaning forward slightly. "Now that you mention it, the pay was pretty generous for a milk run. Ten thousand per fighter for babysitting duty? That's hazard pay rates without the hazard."

  "The client was jumpy as hell, too," Eli adds, his suspicion clearly vindicated. "Sweating bullets over a routine maintenance job."

  A pause stretches over the connection. Then Marceti sighs, the sound of someone deciding to cross a line they've been toeing.

  "I'm sending you something. Take a look and tell me what you see."

  Trigger's wristcomm pings with an incoming file. He opens it, turning on his comm's holoprojector so the others can see. It's a detailed log pulled from the sector notice board with dozens of entries scrolling past, all tagged for the same region of space.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Mila squints at the data. "That's... a lot of comm buoy work."

  "All for the same sector," Jodie notes, her mechanic's eye catching patterns. "Tons of repeating coordinates, too."

  But Trigger sees it first, the pieces clicking into place as he scrolls through entry after entry. "It's the same buoy," he says slowly. "NavCom Buoy 4421-B is in here more than it should."

  Now the others see it too. The same buoy number appearing week after week, sometimes twice in the same week. Always Meridian Communications winning the contract…

  "How many times can one buoy need replacing?" Lars mutters, his brows furrowing.

  "In five months?" Trigger counts quickly. "Sixteen times. Always Meridian…"

  He spares a moment to look at some of the mission records that aren't highlighted, noting a great many other contractors winning bids over Meridian.

  But for 4421-B? It's always Meridian.

  "It sounds like you understand what I'm worried about," Marceti says." A navigation buoy should last years, not weeks. And Meridian keeps getting the contract despite multiple cheaper bids from other contractors."

  "You think someone's destroying them on purpose," Eli states. It's not a question. "Creating repeat business, or something else?"

  "I hope it's just Meridian running an insider scam," Marceti says, though her tone suggests she doesn't believe it. "But the timing concerns me. The pattern started five months ago, which correlates with a sudden uptick in pirate activity along our trading lanes. And not your typical smash-and-grab raiders, either. These are coordinated, competent, hitting exactly where our patrols aren't. They almost seem informed."

  "You think the dead zone is connected," Trigger says.

  "I think someone's using that sector as a staging area. Maybe a lookout post. Maybe worse." She pauses. "I can't divert resources to look into this without being caught in a web of red tape, but gut instinct tells me something isn't right, and that same instinct has saved my life in the past." She takes a deep breath, and Trigger can imagine her slumping. "Meridian posted another escort request for 4421-B just this morning. When someone takes the job, follow them, let them do what they need to, then lay low for several days near the buoy after they leave. See what happens when they think no one's watching."

  "Why us?" Trigger asks directly. "What's stopping you from stepping in?"

  A bitter laugh crackles through the comm. "You don't know? Let me explain the shit sandwich I'm being forced to eat here."

  The team exchanges glances at her sudden candor.

  "Tantalus is, on paper, a free port. An autonomous economic zone. The Trade Union kicked up a fuss about Libret trade taxation on Tantalus and wanted it lower, so they got it… along with the condition that Tantalus ends up with responsibility for their own security. We can only intervene in specific circumstances. Full invasion, terrorist attack, that sort of thing. Pirates hitting convoys on Tantalus' core routes? Suspicious activity around a buoy within their sector? Not our jurisdiction. At least not until the amendment working its way through parliament makes it to the office of the Triumvirate."

  "But they're pushing you to do something anyway," Eli guesses.

  "Tantalus administration is screaming at us because the piracy is affecting trade. The Trade Union's breathing down the government's neck because their members are losing ships. The government's breathing down the navy's neck because the Trade Union has deep pockets. And guess who gets the pressure without any actual authority to act?"

  "Patrol captains," Lars says with a wince.

  "Bingo. I've got admirals telling me to 'be creative' while lawyers remind me that one step outside regulations means my pension goes up in smoke. I hope I'm just jumping at shadows, that this is nothing, but the last time I ignored my instincts, I paid for it…"The captain exhales, and it's astounding how such a simple sound can carry such a bitter tone."So here I am, having a conversation that isn't happening with mercenaries I definitely didn't contact."

  Trigger can't help but feel a twinge of sympathy, no stranger to governments asking for the impossible… but what she's asking for can't be done. "I understand your position, Captain. But we can't help. We're running fighters, not long-range patrol craft. We can't loiter in deep space for days without support."

  The connection goes quiet. He can almost hear Marceti thinking, weighing options."I could do something about that,"she begins, quiet and conspiratorial,"but we'd need to be sneaky, threading the needle through a few loopholes at once. If you sign on with the Libret navy, I could-"

  "Out of the question," Trigger hisses, looking down at his wristcomm with venom.

  He misses the collective look his team exchanges.

  The pause that follows stretches uncomfortably long. When Marceti speaks again, her voice is… Oddly unbothered. Casual, even.

  "I understand. Well, I suppose we're at an impasse then. I apologize for wasting your time."

  The team exchanges confused glances, but Trigger holds up a hand for silence before anyone can speak. Something in her tone...

  "I should get back to my duties,"Marceti continues, still in that careful cadence."I was overseeing a decommissioning before this call. Old Javelin-class corvette, past its prime. The LSV Cinder - that's Lima-Sierra-Victor Cinder - over at Kellard & Sons Salvage, berth forty-seven, awaiting final processing of its decommission paperwork."

  Eli's cybernetic eye brightens slightly.

  Lars raises an eyebrow.

  Mila's ears perk straight up.

  "These things take time, you understand,"Marceti continues as if discussing the weather."Forms to file, inspections to complete. Did you know how dreadfully routine decomm follow-ups are? A lot of captains skip them if they're too busy…. This buoy situation, it's still weighing on me though, practically eating all my focus… Ah, sorry. I'm just complaining now."

  Trigger's wristcomm beeps. A message from Marceti appears on screen - a long string of alphanumeric gibberish that looks like a transmission error.

  "Oh, apologies for that,"Marceti doesn't sound sorry at all. "My arm fell asleep on my keyboard. Anyway, I wish you all a good day. Safe travels."

  The connection cuts.

  For a moment, no one speaks. Then Jodie leans over Trigger's shoulder, staring at the "gibberish" on his screen. Her finger trails along the long string, pausing occasionally on certain sections, like repeating letters and places where dashes break the one thousand twenty four long character chain.

  "That's... that's a manual access code," Jodie sucks in a breath. "For a ship running on RetSoft mainframes. I've used these before, when keys are gone or busted."

  Trigger opens up his comm's browser and looks up what sort of mainframe a javelin-class ship runs. Sure enough…

  RetSoft AG3400

  "She just..." Mila starts, then stops, looking around as if patrol officers might materialize from thin air.

  "She just nothing," Eli says firmly. "We had a conversation about how we're not fit for the job. That's it."

  Each one of the five standing there look at one another, carefully taking in the expressions of the rest of the huddle without speaking. There is indecision, caution, and more than one frown…

  …But when Trigger pulls up a map to the industrial satellite and starts walking, there are four sets of footsteps behind him.

  "Yeah, the code checks out..." The scrapyard attendant, a scrawny raccoon who can't be older than twenty, stares at his terminal screen with nervous eyes. He glances up at the three mercenaries looming over his oil-stained, cluttered desk, then quickly back down. "You're, uh, here for the Cinder?"

  "That's right," Trigger says evenly, keeping his expression neutral. The kid's shaking with all of them crowding him. The rest of the lobby all suddenly remembered they had things to do and left when a trio of armed, scowling men barged in, leaving the boy to face them alone.

  That was the intention, of course, but it does feel a bit scummy.

  "R-right. Of course." The attendant's fingers fumble over his keyboard. "I'll just... I'll just need to-."

  Lars crosses his massive arms and tilts his head with a sneer, the gesture is casual, but the effect on the raccoon is immediate. His words cut trail off into a squeak.

  Eli's cybernetic eye whirrs as it focuses on the attendant, casting a baleful yellow light on his gray-furred face. "Whats the hold up, boy? The code's good. That's all that matters, right?"

  "Y-yes sir!" He squeaks once more, sounding like a dog toy being treated too roughly. "Absolutely. Follow me."

  Trigger catches Lars's eye as they follow the rattled attendant through the rear door of the lobby and into the scrapyard. The big dog shrugs slightly. He knows what they're doing is scummy too, but neither of them is going to develop a conscience now.

  The Kellard & Sons facility is a graveyard of ships. Hulks in various states of dismemberment line the catwalks, some stripped down to skeletal frames, others waiting their turn under the cutting torches. The crackle of plasma cutters never seems to stop echoing between the derelicts, and the enormous fans ten stories up struggle to suck up all the floating rust, so clumps of red-brown flit down like polluted snow.

  'Glad I got a tetanus shot when I joined the air force,' Trigger thinks, brushing a flake off of his shoulder.

  As they walk, they pass a few workers decked out in hi-vis gear, using long-handled cutters with scythe-like plasma blades, busy rending down a fifty meter vessel like a butcher would a carcass. The ship's bright pleasure yacht livery is ruined by the obvious bolter holes poking through it.

  When they arrive, the LSV Cinder sits in berth forty-seven looking remarkably intact compared to its neighbors.

  "They already stripped the paint and markings," the attendant offers, desperate to be helpful. "Standard decomm procedure. She's ready for... whatever you need her for."

  The ship is exactly what Trigger expected from the specs, 120 meters of angular corvette designed for efficiency over comfort. The blade-shaped hull looks sharp even without its military livery, and the twin engine nacelles sweep upward from the rear like wings.

  "We'll take it from here," Trigger says, and the attendant practically sprints back to his office.

  "Kid's going to have nightmares," Lars mutters.

  "Kid's going to have a story about the three scary mercs who had legitimate salvage rights," Eli corrects with a nasty grin. "Now let's see what we're working with."

  They split up for the inspection. The main hatch opens with the access code, and they step into a utilitarian corridor that screams military efficiency. Everything is bare metal and non-slip coating.

  "Bridge first," Trigger decides.

  As they walk, Trigger's wristcomm beeps quietly, and he looks down at it, where bold script stares back.

  ENTERING SIGNAL DEADZONE. ACQUISITION FINISHED?

  The girls must have finished gathering supplies and be on their way to their chosen rendezvous point with the fighters if Nidhogg is losing its connection.

  "We're in. Stop looping the scrapyard cameras," he says back, keenly aware of Eli and Lars' eyes on his back.

  Originally, Eli formulated a plan to acquire their illicit ship that accounted for damn near every variable. He proposed coming into the scrapyard with a cover story about looking for parts, crafted answers for every question they could be asked, and would clandestinely snap pictures of footpaths, entrances, and camera locations around the yard with his cybernetic eye. He pulled up plans for the industrial satellite to note guard patrols, escape routes, anything they could exploit. Once they had everything figured out, they could sneak in during closed hours, take the Cinder, and creep out on low power under traffic control's noses.

  A professional plan that speaks to Eli's keen, tactical mind, but Trigger had a better idea.

  Walk in the front door and just take it.

  Everyone was incredulous, and plenty of valid protests were voiced, but he told them not to worry, he had it figured out with a bit of help from a 'tech-minded acquaintance'.

  In a serious show of trust, all of Strider Squadron went with it.

  Again, it galls Trigger to rely on the AI, especially for flat-out illegal activities, but again the machine's capabilities are just too useful to ignore. Not having their faces recorded for this is a must, but the faster they get this done, the better, and Kellard's foolishly has a public opening to their feeds that Nidhogg could tamper with. The AI even yoinked a valid, temporary registration for them to fly under from Tantalus traffic control, so they could casually fly out like nothing was wrong. The only record of them being there will be a scared fall guy who heard no names and didn't perform his due diligence.

  The comm beeps quietly in confirmation, and Trigger puts it out of his mind for now.

  The command deck is cramped but functional. Five major stations in total, pilot, nav, weapons, engineering, and the commander's chair, with a few secondary and redundant stations around. Inwardly, Trigger wonders how many of them Nidhogg can man.

  The consoles are older models with scuffs and dings, but are well-maintained. More importantly, they power up when Eli fiddles with the controls.

  "They pulled the encrypted comm suite," Eli reports with a frown. "And the military-grade targeting computer. Fuckers…"

  Trigger mirrors the frown as he sits and makes himself familiar with the captain's console. Looks like the captain can take over any function he needs, as he can flip through various hard-light panels with a physical dial on the chair. "The weapons and shielding?"

  "Shields green," Lars curses when he fat-fingers a button on the engineering post, making the ship hum until he presses it again, then he moves to the guns. "Two heavy laserbolters, one top, one bottom, two point-defense continuous beam lasers, and four plas-flakkers for fighters. Diag says one of the flakkers needs a new capacitor and is at half power. Looks like the in-built targeting computer is still working."

  Trigger taps out a note on his wristcomm for the needed part.

  They work their way through the ship methodically. The hangar dominates the center section, just big enough for four fighters and some cargo if they pack smart. The side doors are massive, designed for rapid deployment, so two fighters could launch simultaneously from each side.

  "Going to be cozy," Lars observes, eyeing the space. "But it'll work. Hey, boss?" He turns to Trigger. "Lemme put a weight rack in my corner of the hanger, yeah?"

  "Lets wait and see if the grav-module holds up before adding loose items," he answers back dryly.

  The crew quarters are near the front and are under the bridge, and they're exactly what Trigger expected. There are spartan bunks for twelve, six for men and six for women, with the captain's quarters not any larger. Besides the bedrooms, there is a small galley, basic shower facilities, a small, stripped out infirmary, an armory that is little more than a walk-in closet with a lock, and an empty rec room that's fine for five people, but looks like it would be hell with a full, rotating crew.

  "No VR suite," Trigger notes with disappointment. "Would've been useful for training."

  "They probably stripped it with the other mil-tech," Eli says. "Or it never had one. These older Javelins are based on a Space Dynamics design in Lylat, and those were built damn lean."

  The engine room, which is in the rear of the ship, reveals the corvette's true value. The twin fusion reactors hum with potential energy, and the warp core, while dated, shows green across all diagnostics.

  "Three lights a day isn't winning any races," Lars says, leaning close enough for the warp core to cast a blue glow on his face as he reads the spec panel. "But for a ship this size? That's damn efficient."

  "Fuel consumption's probably half what a comparable civilian ship would burn," Trigger agrees with upturned lips, plenty happy with the arrangement. "Efficiency is appreciated."

  They reconvene at the command center. The Cinder isn't pretty, isn't new, and definitely isn't legal for them to have… But it's theirs.

  As soon as they get it out of here and wipe the systems, that is.

  "Think the girls will approve?" Lars asks, leaning on the nav console.

  "Mila will be pleased," Trigger predicts with a tiny smile, manning the pilot station. Looking down, he finds the controls aren't complicated. "Jodie's going to despair with how much is broken."

  "And we're going to have to come up with a new name," Eli adds. "Who the fuck calls a ship 'Cinder' ? Why not Inferno, or something with some bite?" he complains with a shake of his head.

  Trigger takes one last look at their new acquisition. From salvage to service in one afternoon isn't bad. If this goes tits up, though, they're sunk and end up branded as criminals.

  'Not the first time that's happened,' Trigger thinks glibly.

  "Let's go get our fighters," he says. "Time to see if this thing actually flies."

  Trigger settles into the pilot's seat, running through the preflight checklist with practiced efficiency. The Cinder's controls are straightforward. Hell, every ship he's flown thus far has been straightforward. It makes sense, with how long Cornerians have been space-faring, that ship systems would converge into a small handful of standards. He almost misses the long, stupidly specific, almost ritualistic start up of the old Yuktobanian and Erusean jets he worked with while in Spare Squadron.

  Almost.

  "Reactor one, online," Lars calls from engineering. "Reactor two... online. We've got power."

  "Weapons systems show green," Eli reports from the tactical station. "Well, except for that half-dead flakker. Navigation's plotting exit vector."

  The ship hums to life around them, a deeper vibration than Trigger's used to from the Wyvern. It feels solid, though. He keys in the startup sequence, watching system after system flash from amber to green.

  Then he gets a radio ping for Tantalus Traffic Control.

  "Tantalus Control, this is..." Trigger pauses, replaying his lines in his head. "This is a salvage vessel requesting departure clearance."

  "Salvage vessel, transmit registration," comes the bored reply.

  "Registration pending renewal," Trigger responds smoothly. "Sending temps."

  Trigger taps his wristcomm, syncs the spoofed temporary registration Nidhogg provided to the ship, and sends it off.

  There is an annoyed sigh over the radio. "Standby…"

  For a nerve wracking minute, they wait. At second twenty, Lars starts clacking his claws on his console. Then: "Cleared for departure, salvage vessel. Stay in the junker lanes until you hit open space."

  On the HUD, the IFF readout populates with a string of letters and numbers with a one-week count down next to it.

  Phew.

  The Cinder lifts off with surprising grace for something that was due to be made into paper clips. The nacelles pivot slightly, vectoring thrust as Trigger guides them up through the scrapyard's exit corridor. Derelict ships and metal skeletons pass by on either side, shadows of former glory.

  "She handles better than I expected," Trigger notes, feeling the responsiveness in the controls.

  "Javelins were designed for patrol work," Eli says, keeping a watchful eye on the nav readout. "Quick response, tight turns. Just don't expect her to win any races in a straight line."

  "So, who is your guy on the inside, boss? Will we be meeting them?" Lars asks, trying to sound casual. He looks away from the engineering panel towards the man piloting the practically-stolen ship. "Looping security cameras and pulling a ship registration out of thin air is some heist movie stuff."

  Trigger is quiet as he thinks on what to say. "You would be appalled by how lax cyber security can be in some places." Then, he adds: "I'll introduce them once the whole team is here."

  They clear Tantalus's immediate space a few minutes later, and Trigger opens a secure channel. "Mila, this is Trigger. We're clear and heading to rendezvous."

  "About time!" Mila's voice crackles back, excitement barely contained. "I've been dying to see our new ride! Also, you have got to see how amazing my baby flies. She's perfect!"

  Twenty minutes later, their sensors pick up the fighter formation. Trigger magnifies the view on the main screen, the image centering on Mila's new Caracal-7, freshly purchased with the money she picked up from their last mission. Even through the grainy zoom, he can see her through the canopy, head bobbing to some unheard music, hands on the controls as she makes her fighter do flips and turns in front of the rest of the fighters.

  "She looks happy," Lars observes with a grin.

  The Caracal-7 is sleek where her old Sparrowhawk was blocky, responsive where the old fighter struggled. The forward-swept wings give it an aggressive profile like the Wyvern, and Mila's clearly been putting it through its paces.

  "Strider Lead to Cinder," Jodie's voice comes through from the Wyvern. "Ready to dock when you are. Captain, we gotta do something about the nonsense controls in here. Nothing is labeled, and it sure ain't standardized. I could barely get this thing off the ground, then outta nowhere, it started fighting me until it flew itself!" Jodie huffs. "At least the shield looks to be working… What kind of software suite is in here?"

  Trigger frowns slightly.

  Nidhogg. He can't put it off anymore. If they need to all deploy during this off the books mission, then Jodie is going to need help flying the yet-to-be-renamed Cinder.

  Still, though, there is a touch of hesitation. In his research into AI in the wider galaxy, it looks like the tech is stuck in the glorified chatbot stage.

  Most AIs, he's found, are a little more useful than a smartphone assistant back home. There is, however, a second type of AI, built on quantum computers. They can attain sapient levels of competence and problem solving in a limited number of similarly related tasks, or lesser abilities for a larger list of skills.

  …But once they hit their upper memory limit, they're stagnant forever and need a full wipe before they can be reassigned. That's not to say they aren't useful, as these machines can do their jobs well, and often with parallel processing, making them great for piloting robot teams. The AIs just can't learn more once the part of their memory dedicated to tasks fills, and trying just bloats them so horribly that their speed and reasoning takes a nosedive.

  To make matters worse, modifying even a single line in their training and memory causes a catastrophic crash. Something about the black-boxed logic trees they end up making stops resolving and cascades if even a single 1 or 0 is changed from the outside.

  Some tech-minded companies and think-tanks research away, trying to find something better, but between legal constraints, hardware constraints, and resistance to pursuing other methods of development when the current tech is good enough, it's slow going.

  And then there's Belka and Schroeder, who managed to shove an AI smart enough to steal top secret data from several militaries and adaptable enough to interface with alien technology into his plane.

  This isn't even a man among cavemen kind of deal. In this galaxy, Nidhogg is an unrecognizable post-human amid common chimps.

  "Trigger? You there?"

  Trigger snaps back to awareness. "Sorry, was thinking. Opening hangar doors now." He flips the switches, then changes one of his panels to the hanger camera feed.

  In the hangar, the atmo-shielding over the doors flickers on, and a klaxon echoes through the ship as the internal blast doors open, then the external side panels begin to part. "Eli, guide them in."

  Eli moves to the hangar control station. "Slinky, you're first. Port side, forward position. Wyvern next, starboard forward."

  "Slinky?" Mila protests. "I'm not flying that trashcan anymore! This is... uh... I haven't actually named her yet, I'm still on my temps…"

  "Figure it out later," Eli grunts. "Just get in here before we attract attention."

  One by one, the fighters slip into the hangar. Mila's Caracal settles into place with a flourish… that almost takes out one of the overhead lights, while Jodie brings the Wyvern in with cautious precision. The other two fighters, Lars's Aggressor and Eli's Revived, follow their slave protocols perfectly, touching down without any fuss.

  "Engaging landing gear mag-locks… All fighters secured," Eli reports. "Closing hangar doors."

  Trigger watches the status board as everything locks down. Four fighters, one stolen corvette, and a mission that's definitely going to get complicated.

  Trigger flips the autopilot on and stands from the pilot's seat. "Let's go welcome them aboard."

  The three men make their way down to the hangar, arriving just as Mila hops out of her Caracal with a grin. Her eyes go wide as she takes in the space around her fighters.

  "We have our own carrier!" she squeals, spinning in a circle with her arms spread. "This is amazing! Look at all this space! We could fit cargo, maybe a workshop, ooh! Trigger, I know it would be a little cramped, but is there any room for a hottub?"

  "Don't get too excited," Jodie says, emerging from the Wyvern and climbing down carefully. "This old girl's probably held together by prayer and spot welds." Despite her words, she's smiling as she looks around. "But I'll be damned, I didn't expect a carrier only a week into this gig. How'd the pickup go?" Jodie asks, moving toward the Aggressor.

  The bulky gunship's cockpit holds a large crate, with thick plastic bags stuffed in the rest of the open space. As Jodie approaches, the fighter hisses, then pops the hatch-like front open.

  "Just fine," Trigger says, helping her pull out a large bag marked 'LIBRET NAVY SHIP RATIONS - NOT FOR RESALE'. "My hacker got us in easily. How did the shield install on the Wyvern go?"

  Jodie's face lights up. "Oh, it went perfect! I found a junk generator from a Kua-Kao Delta, spiffed her up with a few replacement parts, and she was good to go! The Kua line has got some stout shielding, so you should be fine to take a few shots even from heavier guns. The unit fit like a glove, power draw's well within tolerances, and—" Her enthusiasm dims, replaced by confusion and a touch of wariness as she pulls another bag free and hands it off to Lars. "Actually, that's the weird part. The Wyvern didn't need any software updates or calibration, just like with the life support retrofit. I just... plugged it in and everything worked immediately. Now, I could understand getting lucky and picking an LS unit that worked for the Wyvern's software suite, but the O Reclaimer life support unit was made by Sovereign Research, while the Kua-Kuo's dual-phase shield is Hajiti made. Your fighter shouldn't have just accepted it."

  "That's actually related to something I wanted to discuss," Trigger says, shifting his bag to one hand. He pulls out his wristcomm, tapping through it. "There's someone you all need to meet."

  The team exchanges glances, with most of them looking at Mila like she knows what's going on.

  The mink girl simply shrugs in return.

  "Nidhogg," Trigger says clearly. "Introduce yourself. Visual projection authorized."

  For a moment, nothing happens. Then the hangar's ceiling-mounted holoprojector flickers to life. A red circle materializes above them, its edges glowing like illuminated, shifting blood. When it speaks, the voice comes from the hangar's loudspeakers, neutral, precise, and deep enough to rattle the room.

  "DESIGNATION: NIDHOGG. FUNCTION: TACTICAL SUPPORT AI. CURRENT INTEGRATION: X-03S STRATOS WYVERN. STATUS: OPERATIONAL. ACKNOWLEDGING STRIDER SQUADRON PERSONNEL."

  Mila jumps back with a yelp. Lars's eyes go wide. Eli's pistol is halfway out of its holster before he catches himself.

  "What the fuck…" Eli breathes.

  "THREAT RESPONSE NOTED. CLARIFICATION: THIS UNIT POSES NO DANGER TO SQUADRON PERSONNEL. PRIMARY DIRECTIVE: SUPPORT AND PROTECT PILOT UNIT TRIGGER AND DESIGNATED ALLIES."

  "Your fighter has an AI?" Jodie asks, voice pitched high with shock. "An actual AI? Not just a virtual assistant? How did you fit an AI into a fighter?" She stops. "No, it ain't in the expanded bays, is it? I woulda' seen its core. Trigger, what is this thing?"

  "Nidhogg is unique," Trigger begins. "It's the one who looped the cameras in the scrapyard and managed the ship registration." He hefts the plastic bag in his grip. "It's a long story. Let's finish unloading the Aggressor before we sit down to talk."

  The unloading goes quietly, each team member processing the revelation of Nidhogg in their own way. Mila glances up at corners as if expecting to see cameras, while Eli scans his surroundings with a measure of distrust. Lars seems the least bothered, though he does mutter something about "his theory" making more sense now.

  They work systematically, taking rations to the galley, where the old refrigerator is just now starting to cool off. The meager medical supplies, which is just a box of painkillers and a case of hypostims, go to what optimistically calls itself an infirmary.

  "Cozy," Jodie comments dryly, putting a plastic case labeled Hemopax Redline Hypostims into a drawer. "Hope nobody needs surgery."

  The armory, barely larger than the infirmary, at least has solid locks when they stack a few ammo cans of bolter powerpacks and a pair of surplus rifles acquired from a pawnshop inside.

  Finally, they gather in the rec room. It's sparse in its current state, with a bolted-down table and a single holoprojector on the wall. The floor has scuffs from furniture long since removed, with the exception of a pair of ugly, patched couches that the old crew apparently didn't care to take. The five of them fit comfortably enough, but Trigger can imagine how cramped it would feel with a full crew of twelve. On the wall, the holoprojector glows Nidhogg's faint shade of red.

  Trigger takes a breath, looking at each of his squadmates.

  Next to him on his chosen couch, Mila leans towards him expectantly, her shiny red eyes so curious.

  Jodie leans on the table, her fingers tapping its metal surface, clearly trying to piece together the puzzle before her.

  Lars lounges back next to Eli, waiting patiently.

  Finally, Eli stares at Trigger with narrow, but not necessarily hostile eyes.

  "Soooo…" Mila begins before the silence stretches on too long. "Are you sure you're not an escaped bioweapon from Venom looking to make his way in a big, lonely galaxy? Because the crazy fighter, an AI, lots of skills…"

  Lars snickers. "You had that thought, too?" He asks Mila.

  "Aha! I knew it wasn't too crazy!" She grins, briefly pointing a finger at the rottweiler. "Don't worry, Trigger! I don't care what your origin is, we'll always be friends!" She beams, hugging his arm tightly to her chest.

  He smiles back and gently pulls his arm free. "Not a bioweapon, but thanks anyway," he says, before turning his attention to the holoprojector. "Nidhogg,"

  The glow brightens. "STANDING BY," the AI rumbles.

  "Wipe the ship's systems of everything from the Libret navy, and get us started towards buoy 4421-B."

  "ACKNOWLEDGED. ESTIMATED TIME TO DATA PURGE COMPLETION: THREE MINUTES AND FORTY SECONDS. CALCULATING ROUTE TO LOCATION NOW…"

  There is a brief rumble under everyone's feet, along with the whine of the engines getting up to speed.

  Jodie lets out a mighty exhale, shaking her head slowly like she can't believe it. "It can strip out a navy mainframe in under five minutes and control the entire ship? All while in the Wyvern?" she asks, reaching up and running a hand through her brown hair. "Trigger…"

  "It's a lot, I'm aware," He soothes, holding a hand up to forestall her. "Let me think on how best to explain."

  "So," Trigger begins after a moment, readying himself for a long one. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I've spoken to Mila about it, but my homeworld was not spacefaring, not to the level common to everyone here. Nidhogg and the Wyvern are the result of a 'force above everything' military philosophy that the nations of my home adhered…adhere to. It started before I was born, with a nation called Belka…"