Nine days of watching and waiting had settled into routine.

  Trigger leans back in the Aquila's sensor station chair, eyes scanning the displays that tracked the Haul-o-Rex as it lumbered through space ahead of them.

  Farworth clearly had a screw loose with this stunt of his. The old badger's freighter looks like a cargo hauler that had swallowed a small station whole. Oversized containers hung from every hardpoint, connected by magnetic brackets and temporary scaffolding that gave the ship an ungainly, top-heavy silhouette. Additional containers were stacked up and out on makeshift platforms fitted to the original cargo pods, turning what was already a slow vessel into something that moved like a pregnant whale.

  "How that thing doesn't shake itself apart every time it changes course is beyond me," Jodie had muttered two days ago, and Trigger was inclined to agree.

  The sensor rotation had become second nature. Mila took the dawn shift, her natural energy suited to the start of each cycle. Lars handled midday, content to monitor while watching a telenovela on the side. Eli covered the evening watch, using up his considerable focus before bed, and Trigger took the night hours himself, finding the quiet and dimmed lights conducive to thought. Jodie and Eddy (with the supervision of Jodie) would come in and cover when breaks were needed.

  Nidhogg, of course, was constantly watching as well, and Trigger seriously doubts the AI would miss anything, but having a real set of eyes on the sensor station isn't something he's willing to go without.

  Most of Jodie's time thus far has been spent in her corner of the hangar, getting her workstation set-up. Like every crew chief Trigger has ever had, she's been quite particular about how she does her thing, with everything from how her tools are organized to how her time is blocked out needing to be just right. Once set up, though, she turned into a whirlwind, drafting up proper maintenance schedules for the fighters and the Aquila itself. Her part printer has been humming away the entire time, producing minor bits and bobs for the fighters.

  After Jodie had settled in, Trigger authorized Nidhogg to give her the Stratos Wyvern's full blueprints and specs. The coyote took one look at the Belkan "enhanced" design, sighed, and snatched a beer bottle out of Lars' grip as he passed by.

  Eddy, to Trigger's surprise, has also been productive. The gecko compiled a small list of unofficial players in the Griath system and what dirty deeds they were likely involved in. According to him, he'd called "a few pals of mine" to introduce him to people here and there in the area… In return for some credits, of course.

  So far, the journey itself has been mercifully uneventful. The single incident worth noting had been a civilian corvette that failed to respond to standard identification requests, sending Strider Squadron to general quarters for a few tense minutes before the vessel's captain finally answered with profuse apologies about a malfunctioning comm array.

  Yesterday, their small convoy had grown. Two other Trade Union freighters with their own escort wings had joined up as they approached the Griath gate corridor, forming a three-ship convoy for mutual protection. The sight of eight fighters and a carrier accompanying the merchant vessels seemed to boost morale considerably.

  Farworth had been particularly vocal over open channels, regaling his fellow merchants with tales of "his elite protectors" and how he'd "never slept more soundly with so much valuable cargo aboard." Whether the old badger was genuinely grateful or simply trying to get on his competitor's nerves, Trigger couldn't say.

  Now they sat in the queue outside the Griath system gate, running final systems checks while waiting for clearance from the gate authority.

  The gate itself looms colossal, ten kilometers across, its broad ring dwarfing every vessel nearby. A small station that must be more reactor than living space clings to one side like a barnacle, its outside lit with steady blue lights. Along the edges of the window to space countless lightyears away, a faint yellow glow pulses, not from any lamp but from the exotic alloy laced through the structure. Traffic control beacons trace neat sequences along the ring as ships slot into their approach lanes, preparing for transit to an entire different section of the galactic arm.

  Trigger finds himself staring at the ring, wondering if that yellow glow comes from xanion, the spacebending material said to make stable wormholes possible. He muses, briefly, whether xanion could be paired with the Belkan displacement tech in the Wyvern, if the two together might yield something even more fearsome.

  The thought of flying into a sortie with a thousand 8AAMs in the Wyvern's belly makes him smile.

  He doubts he will know anytime soon. A single ingot of the stuff can buy a premium, factory?new fighter even in a bad market.

  The soft hiss of the bridge door announces Mila's arrival, followed by the gentle clink of ceramic. Trigger glances over his shoulder to see the mink padding across the deck in stocking-sleeved legs, her favorite sweater… and nothing covering her panties.

  This mink…

  Putting aside her less-than-professional dress for now, Trigger takes note of the steaming mugs held in each of her hands. As Mila walks, a yawn stretches her features, bearing her sharp, pearly teeth.

  "Morning, Trigger," she mumbles, extending one of the mugs toward him.

  Trigger accepts the offered drink, wrapping his fingers around the warm ceramic. He glances at the chronometer in the corner of his display, finding it reads 0547 hours.

  "Your shift starts soon," he observes, taking a cautious sip of the pale brown liquid. The taste hits him immediately. Rich, with hints of unsweetened vanilla and something almost nutty, but decidedly unique in flavor. The warmth of it spreads through his chest, and he can already feel the caffeine working its way into his system.

  "In about ten minutes," Mila confirms, settling into the officer seat beside him. She cradles her own mug close, inhaling the steam. "How was the night shift?"

  "Quiet." Trigger takes another sip, studying the unfamiliar beverage. "What is this?"

  Mila gives him a puzzled look before her ears perk up in understanding. "Oh, right. You wouldn't know." She grins, suddenly animated despite the early hour. "It's called skalkaf. The stuff is an export from lots of LOSA tundra worlds, like my homeworld Hjagard."

  She gestures enthusiastically with her free hand, nearly sloshing her drink. "The beans are grown in greenhouses, then set out in the snowfields to freeze. The cold makes the flavor better and ups the caffeine content. It's great stuff to have in the morning!"

  "I can tell," Trigger smiles a touch at her bright face.

  "I practically lived on the stuff in college," Mila continues, settling back in her chair. "Got lucky and found a whole bag of beans in one of the food crates we picked up, so I figured today was the day to bust it out," she says, looking out the viewport to the gate several dozen kilometers away.

  Trigger nods, his attention splitting between the conversation and the sensor readouts. Everything remains quiet, with the convoy holding position and the gate team firing messages off to the merchant vessels rapidfire. "What did you study in college?"

  Mila's ears flatten slightly, and she looks down into her mug. "Business degree," she says with a sheepish laugh. "I wasn't really cut out for it, though. If it hadn't been for my gymnastics scholarship, I would've been totally sunk. I barely scraped by as it was. Heck, Cathy saved my ass a ton of times by recording the lectures I missed because I was at parties. If not for her I would have flunked."

  She shrugs, taking a long drink. "Not that it mattered in the end, since I became a spacer anyway, so all those accounting classes were kinda useless."

  "Education's never wasted," Trigger says quietly. "Even if you don't use it directly."

  "I still wish I saved the money I spent on textbooks. You know they made us buy paper textbooks for like two-hundred credits a piece? How greedy and wasteful can you get?!" The mink huffs and turns in her chair to face him more fully. "What about you? What'd you go to school for?"

  "I didn't." The admission comes easily, without the defensiveness that might have colored it years ago. "Joined the Air Force at eighteen. Straight out of high school."

  Mila giggles, the sound bright in the dim bridge lighting. "I can totally believe that."

  Their conversation drifts from there, with Mila sharing stories about her brothers, Trigger finding himself mentioning fragments of life in Osea before the war. Nothing too deep, nothing too personal, but more than he's shared with anyone in… months, really.

  He realizes, as Mila giggles once more, this time at some dry observation he's made about military rations, that he's probably spoken more words to her in the past two weeks than he had to anyone during his entire last year on Strangereal.

  "They didn't just have you twiddling your thumbs 'til the war started, did they?" Mila asks after he tells her how he went from initiation to flight-ready in only two years.

  Trigger shakes his head. "No. I flew aboard a carrier for patrol missions every so often, but I was later transferred and made a temporary member of the Osean national flight demo squad, the Red Devils. I flew in place of a lieutenant who was out for maternity, then transferred to Mage Squadron when she returned."

  "You flew in airshows!" the mink exclaims excitedly, her red eyes wide and shining. "Oh, LOSA would have in-atmo fighters do airshows every year over Hjagard's capital. We'd drive through like, four hours of snow every year to see them. You gotta tell me about it! Did you steal the show? Oh! Maybe we can do airshows for cash sometime! Can you teach-"

  The sensor station chimes softly, indicating an incoming transmission. Trigger glances at the display, then back at Mila.

  "Looks like we're cleared for transit," he says, typing an acknowledgement and sending it off. "I'll tell you about the airshows another time. Is everyone else up?"

  "Yup!" Mila chirps.

  Trigger nods, drains the last of his mug, then sets it down and thumbs the intercom button on the console.

  "Attention Strider Squadron," he begins, voice echoing through the whole ship. "We've been cleared for transit through the gate to Griath, and the next phase of the mission will be beginning shortly. All hands, report to the bridge for briefing."

  His orders given, Trigger turns his head and gives Mila's attire a pointed look.

  "Awwww but I just put these on!" The mink complains, tugging one of her thigh-highs up a little more.

  "They're very nice, but not rated for flying or combat," Trigger lets his eyes trail up one leg.

  Mila pauses, rubbing her chin. "Sooo… If I got stockings that are rated for some abuse, would they be okay to wear every day?"

  "Mila?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Go get dressed."

  She sticks her tongue out at him, but still takes his empty mug when he hands it to her, then shuffles off back to the women's bunks.

  Trigger waits only a few minutes before the crew begins filtering onto the bridge. Jodie and Eli arrive first, both fully alert despite the early hour. The coyote carries a steaming mug of her own while Eli is as crisp as can be, probably used to working at any hour, the man thinks.

  Lars ambles in a moment later, yawning and stretching his arms above his head until his joints pop audibly. He's already in his usual duds with his handcannon in its holster.

  Eddy arrives next, that characteristic easygoing expression on his scaled features. The gecko has been settling into shipboard life quickly, Trigger notes. Probably because having an official assignment makes him feel secure. It's harder for Cheyat hitmen to get their hands on someone part of a roving mercenary outfit.

  Mila returns last, now properly dressed... Mostly. The front zipper on her flight suit is halfway down to her navel as it usually is. She gives Trigger a mock salute and a grin.

  Once everyone is assembled, Trigger stands from the captain chair.

  "The real mission starts now," he begins, his voice carrying the authority that had gotten him through the Lighthouse War. From the corner of his eye, Nidhogg's red circle avatar flashes on the console, telling him that the AI is listening too. "From this point until we're back in relative security, all crew members are to remain on high alert, and all pilots are to be ready to launch at a moment's notice."

  He turns his attention to Jodie. "Since I want our pilots ready to fly, much of managing the Aquila is going to fall to you. I apologize for the increased workload. I'm going to look into getting us a dedicated carrier pilot soon. If you need to, use Nidhogg to take some of the load off."

  The coyote waves dismissively. "Don't worry about it, boss," she says, taking a moment to drink from her mug. "It ain't that big a deal. It'll cut into my other work a little, but I can prioritize."

  "Why not just have the AI do all the flying?" Eddy pipes up, words spilling out quick in his street?slick accent. "I mean, hey, no disrespect to anyone here, yous all handle your sticks fine, but c'mon, that artificial brain's gotta be sittin' there twiddlin' its thumbs. Why not let the tin can do the heavy liftin' while we kick back a little, huh? Seems pretty capable to me, maybe even more than capable."

  "'We' kick back, huh?" Eli scoffs.

  Trigger's expression remains neutral. "I don't want to encourage over-reliance on Nidhogg. That could cause our own skills to rust." He fixes the gecko with a pointed look. "If you're so concerned about workloads, you can assist Jodie again."

  Eddy's face falls as he realizes his question just earned him more duties. "Ah, hell..."

  "Moving on," Trigger continues. "Eddy, you mentioned you'd identified some unofficial organizations operating in the Griath system. What did your contacts turn up?"

  The gecko whips out his datapad with a flourish, scrolling quick as his mouth runs even quicker. "Oh yeah, lemme tell ya, loads of interestin' stuff here, boss. You got your garden?variety smugglers, all small?time operators, just a fellas takin' advantage of the shortages, nothin' real organized, just folks lookin' to make a fast cred. Then, you got a couple so?called crime lords, makin' power grabs on planets with lower sec, tryna carve up territory while the legit authorities are too stretched thin. I talked to some wise guys, got us a few places we can get stuff or move stuff if the creds are right. Whole scene's like a rat race with blasters, if ya ask me."

  Eddy pauses, scales shifting faintly as he leans in with a conspiratorial squint. "But the big find, lemme tell ya? There's chatter about splinters in the Salvager's League gettin' their claws dirty. Word on the lanes is that a lot of 'em seem to know where skirmishes are gonna go down ahead of time, and they're camped out for days in strategic spots threatening any other ops with a bolt to the mouth if they don't scram. Then outta nowhere, the Sovereigns and Libret are slugging it out there, a tenth of a lumen from the SL teams. Once its all said and done, they get a tidy pile of junk to scoop up."

  Trigger's lips tug downwards into a bit of a frown, a conspiracy already forming an ugly image from the dots connecting in his head.

  'Could it be as simple as the Salvager's League profiting from an informant? Or is it something deeper?'

  Before he can jump to conclusions, Trigger pushes the thoughts away. "I see… Keep researching these events when you don't have other pressing duties," he says with a nod.

  "Any questions?" Trigger asks, scanning the assembled crew.

  The bridge remains quiet for a moment, everyone processing the information. When no one speaks up, Trigger nods once.

  "Dismissed. Return to your duties." He pauses, looking at Jodie and Eddy. "You two stay."

  Lars stretches with a series of pops and ambles off toward the hangar, probably heading back to his weights. Mila gives a small wave and bounds off with a smile. Eli, however, decides to remain and keep an eye on the proceedings.

  Once the others have left, Trigger moves to the communications console and opens a channel to the Haul-o-Rex.

  "Haul-o-Rex, this is the Aquila. We're ready to proceed when you are."

  Farworth's voice crackles back through the comm, sounding pleased. "Excellent, Captain! We're making our final preparations now. Should be ready to depart within the hour."

  "Understood. Aquila will take point position for the transit."

  "Splendid! Looking forward to working with you again."

  Trigger closes the channel and turns back to find Jodie settling into the pilot's seat, her hands tapping away at the keys. The Aquila's engines hum to life as she begins the pre-transit checklist.

  "Formation?" she asks without looking up.

  "Standard escort lead. Keep us two kilometers ahead of the convoy."

  The gate transit itself passes without fanfare, not even a tingle to signal the instant travel through space. Trigger watches the sensors as space around them shifts, stars rearranging themselves into new constellations as they emerge in the Griath system.

  Then the nav system beeps urgently with an error, displays flickering as the computer struggles to reconcile its position data with local star charts. The hiccup lasts only a few seconds before the systems update and compensate, but it's a reminder that they're now in less civilized space.

  "Sensors at full power," Trigger orders as Jodie guides them into formation ahead of the merchant convoy. "First stop is…" Trigger checks his wristcomm. "Jonsa II. One day subluminal cruise."

  Behind them, the Haul-o-Rex and its fellow merchants lumber along, their escort fighters maintaining tight protective formations. The sight of the overloaded vessels makes Trigger shake his head slightly. Farworth truly placed his faith in them considering his ridiculous cargo configuration.

  As the first hour passes without incident and they settle into the cautious flight toward their first waypoint, Jodie glances back from the pilot's station.

  "You should get some rest," she says, noting how Trigger has been at his post since before dawn.

  He's been through worse than one sleepless night, and the mild fatigue pulling at his eyelids is nothing serious. "I'm fine," Trigger answers.

  Jodie turns, draping her arm over the back of her chair as she stares at him with an eyebrow raised.

  Eddy doesn't jump in, but a blind man could see the agreement in the eye that keeps flicking back to Trigger, and how only reluctance to criticize his scary captain is what holds the gecko's mouth shut.

  "Don't be stupid," Eli finally says from the door, a scowl darkening his face. "No arch holds if you let the keystone crack. Go nap or something. The ship isn't going to catch fire because you shut your eyes."

  Trigger chews on his lip, concern for his crew looping around in his chest. "Fine," he concedes, chagrined as he stands from his station. "Wake me if anything, and I mean anything, seems off."

  "Will do," Jodie confirms with a pleased smile, already turning her attention back to the flight controls.

  Trigger makes his way to his quarters, sending a wave to Lars in the rec room as he passes them on the way. Shrugging the weight of command off his shoulders for a bit like one might a coat, he steps into his quarters and shuts the door, only to freeze when he turns.

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  Mila, looking like a deer in the headlights, stares back from his bed with his pillow pressed to her nose.

  "Uh…" The mink begins after a long moment, lowering the pillow and expelling the deep breath she was holding. A sheepish grin rises to her face afterward. "Hi Trigger! Fancy meeting you here!"

  "Fancy meeting me in my own room?" He asks, crossing his arms.

  "Oh, right. Heh. I was just… wondering what soap you used?" she asks with a nervous laugh, returning the pillow to where it belongs and standing, a blush blazing through the thin fur of her ears. She looks everywhere but at his face, her fingers twiddling.

  The man looks down at her flatly. "Cheyat Necessities. Unscented."

  "WowgreattoknowI'lltryitsometimethanksbye!" she says so quickly it blends into a single word, then she zips past him and out the door, slamming it behind her.

  …Only to slam the end of her tail in the door.

  "Owowow! Fuck!"

  The door opens half an inch, letting the frazzled bit of fluffy tail pull free, then slams shut again.

  For a moment, Trigger gives the door a hard stare, then sighs, kicks off his boots, and lays down, closing his eyes.

  'Maybe I am more tired than I expected if I just imagined that,' he thinks, turning over. '...Why do my covers smell like vanilla?'

  The lush green colony world of Jonsa II grows within the Aquila's viewport as they begin the final approach to the planet.

  The trip, much to Trigger's silent boredom, was quiet. He expected to be awakened from his nap for a raid, but woke up a few hours after his nap began to find nothing amiss, leading to a rather normal day aboard the Aquila.

  He sat with Lars in the rec room and tried to follow the spiderweb of a story in the holoprojector, which was impossible due to needing to see the past nine seasons, and how the actors spoke a language similar to Sapinish half the time.

  "Well, if you want to watch Siete Hermosas Estrellas, you can get away with just seasons one through four, then the double special in season five and half of seven," Lars began when Trigger asked what the hell was going on. "You see, Claudia is the second and illegitimate daughter of vineyard owner Hugo Del Moral, and there is some irony with the name there because-"

  Then Trigger was saved by a bored Eli, who dragged him away to spar in the hangar with some dull hard-light knives. Trigger mentally crossed off an upgraded wristcomm for Eli since the eagle's is already top-of-the-line and fitted with its own HL projector. He lost more than he won, but secured one solid kill on Eli before they called it quits.

  The day ended after a hearty meal with the rest of the team, and only one fight break-up after Eddy pissed off Eli for talking with his mouth full.

  When Trigger awoke this morning, he remained on high alert and spent most of his time on the bridge with Jodie and Eddy, but none of the ghosts on the edge of their sensor range dared make a move.

  Now, Jodie is just finishing up all the bureaucracy as they settle into orbit.

  "Welcome to Jonsa II, Aquila…" The tired voice of a planetary traffic controller speaks through the radio before it disconnects.

  Jodie leans back in chair, wiping a hand across her furred brow. "Phew. We made it."

  "Has Farworth transmitted his approach vector to one of the orbital stations yet?" Trigger asks, settling into the captain's chair.

  Jodie's finger touches a button on her console, pulling up the convoy's flight plan. She blinks, then looks back at him with surprise clearly written across her muzzle.

  "He wants to go planetside," she says. "Full atmospheric descent to the surface."

  Trigger raises an eyebrow. The Haul-o-Rex looks ungainly enough in open space, and he can't imagine how that flying disaster is going to handle atmospheric entry with all those external cargo containers.

  "Can it actually be done?" he asks.

  Jodie scratches behind one ear, thoughtful brown eyes looking down to her console then to him once more. "Well... technically, yeah. Harvester class ships like Farworth's were made for movin' all sorts of stuff and can do atmo, even if most captains avoid it these days." She pulls up a technical schematic on her display. "Getting down is gonna be real interesting, though. And that hauler sure ain't coming back up with all its cargo still attached."

  She gestures toward the viewport where Farworth's overloaded vessel hangs in space like a bloated pufferfish. "He must be planning to dump enough planetside to escape gravity again, he has to be. It'll save money, dodgin' the stations, but damn if it ain't sketchy."

  Trigger studies the freighter through the viewport. Even from this distance, he can see how the jury-rigged scaffolding and external containers have completely thrown the ship's aerodynamics into the trash. What could have been a routine atmospheric entry is going to be… Interesting.

  "This should be educational," he mutters.

  The radio crackles to life as Farworth's XO's gruff voice fills the bridge. "Aquila, this is Haul-o-Rex. We're initiating descent to the colony of Hayward Mill. Transmitting our landing coordinates to your nav system now."

  "Acknowledged, Haul-o-Rex," Trigger responds, watching as the data streams across Jodie's console. "We'll follow you down."

  Through the viewport, the massive freighter begins a delicate maneuver that defies all common sense. The Haul-o-Rex slowly rotates, presenting its stern to the planet below, and begins a controlled backwards burn with its maneuvering thrusters. Every few seconds, the main engines fire in short, precise bursts to keep their descent from becoming an uncontrolled plummet.

  "Well, I'll be damned," Jodie mutters, running a sensor sweep. A readout bathes her face in blue as her screen lights up. "Their frontal shields are powering down. They're routing all that juice to the rear arrays, probably hoping to keep the re-entry heat from cooking those external cargo pods. Or their engines."

  Trigger can only shake his head as he watches the engineering nightmare unfold. The Haul-o-Rex looks like a flying scrapyard held together by prayer and stubbornness, yet somehow Farworth's crew is making it work.

  "Follow them down," he orders. "Maintain a healthy standoff distance. If that thing comes apart..."

  "We don't want to be anywhere near the debris field," Jodie finishes, already adjusting their descent vector.

  As they begin to hit the upper reaches of Jonsa II's atmosphere, Trigger reaches for the ship's intercom. "All hands, prepare for atmospheric entry. Secure any loose gear and brace for turbulence," His voice plays through the ship, echoing once.

  The Aquila shudders as they work their way into the thermosphere proper, her hull groaning a complaint under the stress of re-entry. Even with her sleek design and proper atmospheric configuration, the descent is shaky. Trigger can only imagine what the crew of the Haul-o-Rex is experiencing as their engines ramp up and scream at maximum burn, fighting to keep hundreds of tons of jury-rigged cargo from becoming an unguided meteor.

  Through the growing atmospheric haze, he watches the freighter's engines glow white-hot as they strain against gravity's pull, firing into the ship's retrograde relentlessly.

  Down, down, down they go, but as the overloaded hauler slowly comes to a stop midair halfway into the stratosphere, suspended by bright flares of white, Trigger finds his eyebrows close to his hairline.

  'Huh. I didn't give Farworth's crew enough credit. He knows the limits of his ship well. Perhaps this isn't the first time they've done this?'

  The hauler slowly tilts forward as its engines lower their output, until it's level with the ground below. It turns, and begins descending once more with the Aquila on its wing, towards a bustling spaceport.

  They find their assigned landing pads quickly, near the edge of the port with other vessels between a hundred and two-hundred meters long, then touch down, with the Aquila's landing more casual than the Haul-o-Rex's careful and quite wobbly balancing act on struts.

  Once the Aquila's engines cycle down, the crew is gathered up on the bridge once more, standing at attention before Trigger.

  "According to intel," Trigger begins, looking over each member of his team, "Jonsa II is the most well-off planet in the Griath collection of systems owing to their location close to the gate corridor, but even then the planet is still being hit by shortages and an increase in crime. Farworth has his own ground security, but wants Strider Squadron close by just in case. At least one combat-ready member should be minding the Aquila and Farworth at any time. Do not hesitate to call for backup for any reason if we're not at full strength."

  He gestures out the bridge viewport, to the space port and the city beyond. "If you're exploring the city during downtime, I insist that you travel in pairs and remain armed. Staying out of trouble with the locals goes without saying."

  "Soooo, do I get a gun now?" Eddy asks, raising his palms in surrender when Trigger gives him a pointed look.

  The captain keeps up his stare, then sighs. "Yes, you do. Once we're done, take a spare from the armory. Do not draw it unless you need to."

  The lizard breathes a sigh of relief. "Jeez, make a guy sweat, why don't ya?" he grumbles, tugging at the collar of his shirt.

  "That also reminds me of another thing I've been neglecting; appointing an executive officer," Trigger continues, turning his gaze to Eddy's side. "Eli."

  The eagle stiffens, his organic eye widening. All around, the others look at him with surprise.

  "You've gone out of your way to aid in both mine and the team's improvement, decisively voicing what needs to be said and offering expertise whenever it's needed. Your experience is clear." Trigger says, folding his hands behind his back and nodding towards the sniper. "Will you accept the position?"

  It takes a long moment for Eli to regain his voice, and when he does, he lets out a mighty sigh and screws his eyes shut. "Fine," he eventually grumbles. "Letting a bald freak like yourself free reign without a leash is a bad idea anyway. If you want me as your XO, then I'll do it. Remember that you asked for it when I tell you a scheme of yours is shit, though."

  "Good. There is one condition, however."

  Eli's eyes open in a glare. "What is it?"

  "Above all other mission parameters," Trigger blinks briefly, swearing he sees Wiseman's smiling face on his eyelids. "A one-hundred percent survival rate for Strider Squadron is the most important, and will always be most important. Any mission where a member does not return is a catastrophic failure."

  The fight drains out of Eli's stance like a basin with its plug pulled, and this sigh is even more explosive than the last. "Springing the hard part on me after I say yes… You're a shitty boss, you know that?" He snorts, his usual bite absent.

  "Precisely why I want an XO," is Trigger's glib answer. "Now, any questions for the ground part of the assignment?"

  A few hours later, Trigger and Mila maintain watch from atop an empty cargo pod on the Haul-o-Rex's landing pad. The spaceport around them buzzes with an undercurrent of trepidation, a hive of activity where people of all shapes and sizes move with purpose, mostly desperation that's been mounting for months.

  Hoverlifts and cargo transports dart between landing pads at speeds that have to be unsafe, rarely being stopped by port authorities. Their tired operators load and unload crates and whole cargo pods, never getting a moment of rest.

  One reckless lift driver, a young hedgehog with an open-backed jumpsuit for his spines, nearly runs over a mustelid dockhand whose species Trigger can't place right away. A fistfight breaks out when the dockhand rips the hedgehog off the lift, and it's not until the hedgehog is bleeding on the ground do the stretched-thin dock guards realize and move in to break it up.

  It's not immediately obvious here in the spaceport where those with credits have congregated, but even among the merchants and traders, Trigger can see that the weary and haggard outnumber the well-fed and well-rested.

  One can only wonder how the city is faring, considering the number of police stationed here to keep the port under control.

  Local police hover cruisers are parked strategically throughout the port, positioned to prevent any straight-line escapes, clearly designed to slow down would-be thieves long enough for security to respond. The uniformed officers patrol in pairs, clad in armor, helmets with visors that obscure their eyes, and their hands never straying far from their sidearms.

  But of anything, it's the sheer number of hired guns that really tells the story. The port is thick with mercenaries. Every ship that isn't a merchant vessel offloading goods to waiting lines of hoverlifts, or a passenger transport taking people in - never dropping anyone off, Trigger notes - is either a merc corvette or a cluster of fighters sharing a landing pad.

  Trigger's eyes sweep the controlled chaos, cataloging threats and opportunities carefully. Griath's desperation is written in every hurried transaction, every nervous glance, every weapon worn openly rather than concealed. It reminds him a bit of post-war Farbanti, in that way. He takes a deep breath, finding the fresh air of Jonsa II leagues more pleasant than the recycled interior of a ship.

  "Stay alert," he tells Mila. "This kind of environment breeds mistakes, and desperate people do unpredictable things."

  "I'm keeping an eye out," she promises, kicking her legs as she swivels her head around, giving a bit more care to Farworth's little circus.

  Farworth's status as a card-carrying member of the Trade Union is showing in how the Haul-o-Rex dominates the attention of this end of the spaceport. The overloaded freighter's entrance was a huge spectacle, as it was the largest ship parked in the spaceport, doubly so with its wild cargo configuration. The port then had to wheel its largest non-fixed gantry crane over, an event that took hours with the crowd, and by then, Farworth had the attention of every reseller and straight consumer this side of the port.

  The hauler's crew were quick to get a temporary storefront set up, using sections of tall chainlink fence with dark plastic woven in the links, making an opaque wall. There was a line out the door before anyone could even be sent out to advertise.

  At the same time, cargo containers were pulled down from the freighter and cracked open to sell off wholesale, with sections of the cargo scaffolding being sold as scrap once empty.

  The old badger is hoovering money hand over first out of the port, all with a wide, kindly smile on his face from his place in his little store.

  "So how come I didn't get to be the XO?" Mila suddenly asks, looking at Trigger with a pout and downturned ears. "I was the first member of Strider Squad…"

  "Well…" Trigger, for the first time in a while, hesitates, struggling to not be too blunt and possibly hurt her. He averts his eyes, not quite able to put his words the way he wants.

  Mila holds her pout, but her twitching lips give way to a smile and a giggle. "I'm just messing with you, Trigger!" She says, scooting closer on the cargo pod and throwing an arm around his neck, pulling him into a side-hug. The scent of vanilla and something else subtly tickles his nose. "I kinda don't want that responsibility anyway, just don't forget that I was your first!"

  "Phrasing, Mila," the man chides.

  The mink, still smiling, withdraws her arm but keeps herself pressed to his side. As it usually is with her, the urge to avoid contact is strangely absent. He isn't given much time to ponder why, however, as Mila speaks once more.

  "Eli, though?" She asks with a tilt of her head. "Are you sure that making the short-tempered, speciest pottymouth your officer was a good idea? Like, yeah, I get that he's a super-duper ex-mil kinda guy, but what if he runs his mouth or goes on a rant about how much he hates apes again?" she asks, turning her head and looking out to the modest city, where Eli ventured off to put feelers out for a corvette pilot.

  "I trust him to be professional since there is more than just him at stake," is Trigger's simple answer.

  The mink warming his side raises a skeptical eyebrow.

  "Excuse me," a gruff voice calls from below.

  Trigger and Mila look down to see a pair of dour-faced police officers standing at the base of their cargo pod perch. Both wear the full tactical gear Trigger noted earlier, armor plating, helmets with tinted visors, and sidearms positioned for quick access.

  Hopping down from the pod with Mila close behind, Trigger approaches them. "What can we do for you, officers?"

  The lead officer, a stocky bear with sergeant stripes on his sleeve, raises his wristcomm and activates a holographic projection. "Either of you seen this woman?"

  Both of them lean in, studying the image.

  On the projection is a skunk with deep purple fur marked by distinctive white stripes. She's captured mid-stride, looking back at the camera with a furrowed brow and an expression that suggests she knew she was being watched. Her clothing is practical but loose-fitting: a baggy jacket cropped to expose her midriff and equally baggy pants. Someone's arm cuts across the frame, partially obscuring her broad tail.

  Both Trigger and Mila give the projection a once-over before shaking their heads.

  "Never seen her," Trigger says.

  "Same here," Mila adds, squinting at the image. "Who is she?"

  "Keep an eye out for her," the sergeant continues, ignoring Mila's question as he lowers his arm. "We don't have a confirmed name, but she's a wanted criminal active somewhere in the Griath system. Confirmed psychic of some sort. There's a hefty payout for anyone who can bring her in."

  Trigger's interest sharpens. A psychic criminal in the same system where the Salvager's League might be getting advance intel on skirmishes? Once more, he tries not to jump to conclusions, but the temptation is strong. "What's she charged with?"

  The officer's visor turns toward him, reflecting Trigger's own face back at him. "Don't worry about that. If you spot her and can detain her, do so, and contact local authorities immediately."

  Without another word, both officers move on toward another group of mercenaries near a cluster of fighters, their boots clicking against the concrete landing pad.

  Trigger and Mila exchange a look as the police walk away.

  "Well, that wasn't suspicious at all," Mila mutters, climbing back onto the cargo pod. "A big payday but won't say what for? And they're asking mercs about it? These guys must be getting run real thin."

  Trigger follows her, pulling himself and sitting with a bit less grace as his mind works through the implications. A psychic criminal, police going out of their way to make her known, and a system where information seems to flow to the wrong people at the right times.

  "Keep that woman in mind," he tells Mila. "But in the unlikely event we spot her, we observe first. I want to know what we're walking into before we make any moves," he looks up at the horizon, where Jonsa II's large sun is spilling pink and orange across the sky.

  In the unlikely event we spot her. Can he really kid himself at this rate?