"Oh, come on!"

  Mila's curse echoes inside the cockpit of the Stratos Wyvern as her eyes dart across the unfamiliar mess of controls, switches, and readouts. Half of them are labeled in a language she can't read, and the other half use symbols that might as well be ancient hieroglyphs. 'Is this Belkan or Erusean?' She can't help but wonder as she takes in the unfamiliar script. 'Which one of these turns down the control sensitivity? I know it's here! I saw it in the handbook!'

  The team is running their daily drills, and of course, she drew the short straw and got stuck in this deathtrap.

  Again.

  A shrill tone cuts through her grumbling.

  [MISSILE ALERT]

  The warning splashes across her HUD in angry red, and Mila's stomach drops as she spots the contrail lancing up from the simulated battlefield below. A SAM, its seeker head locked onto her like a hungry predator.

  'Oh shit!'

  Instinct takes over. Mila wrenches the stick to the side, and the Wyvern responds with terrifying enthusiasm. The world blurs as the fighter corkscrews through the air, G-forces slamming her into the seat. Her vision tunnels, gray creeping in from the edges as blood flees her brain.

  'Don't black out don't black out don't black out...!'

  The missile screams past, close enough that she swears she can hear it, and detonates somewhere behind her in a flash of simulated fire. Mila gasps, forcing herself to breathe through the pod's grav-unit Gs as the grayout slowly recedes.

  Her stomach lurches in protest. Breakfast was a mistake.

  Once her vision clears and the nausea settles into something manageable, Mila angles the Wyvern's nose toward the offending SAM site. The targeting reticle drifts over the launcher, and she squeezes the trigger.

  The muon cannon flashes with its pink light.

  Below, the SAM emplacement vanishes in a brilliant flash of displaced matter, leaving nothing but a smoking crater where a weapons platform used to be. Overkill doesn't begin to describe it.

  'Okay,' she admits grudgingly, 'the gun is nice.'

  But everything else about this craft? Absolute nightmare fuel.

  Trigger makes flying the Wyvern look effortless, like it's just an extension of his body. She's watched him weave through asteroid fields and enemy formations with a grace that borders on the supernatural. In his hands, the Wyvern is a scalpel.

  In hers, it's a rabid animal on a frayed leash.

  The fighter is fast, she'll give it that. Maneuverable too, capable of turns tight enough to pop blood vessels. And the shield generator, apparently salvaged from a craft twice this size, means she can actually take quite a few hits without becoming a rapidly expanding cloud of debris.

  But damn it the fly-by-wire system is stupid sensitive, and she doesn't know how to turn it down. One twitch of her wrist sends the craft into a spiral, which is made even worse since they're in-atmo with a gravity well below them. One overcorrection and she's pulling enough Gs to kiss consciousness goodbye. It's like trying to thread a needle while riding a pre-stellar chemjet rocket.

  'I miss my Caracal,' Mila mourns internally, sparing a glance at the friendly blip on her radar tagged as STRIDER-2.

  Eli drew her baby today, and the thought of that grumpy bird's talons on her controls makes her want to scream, even if it's just a sim. At least he's treating it well, from what she can see. The Caracal weaves through the simulated canyon system steadily, picking off targets with economical bursts of laser fire. Not having optical camo tripped Eli up a little at the start, but one near miss is all it took for him to play it more carefully.

  Another friendly marker, STRIDER-3, pulls her attention. Lars drew the Revived, and the big guy is handling the stealth fighter well. His flight path is steady, unhurried, letting the craft's long-range laserbolters do their thing and zap targets from beyond retaliation range. Without any huge targets, the underbelly hardlight lance hasn't been fired up once.

  And then there's Trigger.

  STRIDER-1 is down in the weeds, hugging the terrain so close that Mila half-expects him to clip a simulated tree. The Aggressor, Lars' ugly gunship, darts between structures and over ridgelines with less than a meter to spare sometimes. Every few seconds, another ground target winks out of existence on her tactical display.

  "Reminds me of an A-10 I flew once," he'd remarked when they were assigning craft, a rare note of fondness in his voice.

  Whatever an A-10 is, it must be really good at close air support, because Trigger is dismantling the simulated ground forces with single strafing runs while leaving the skies to the rest of them.

  The team comms chirp, and Lars appears on her left against the canopy. The projection shows the big guy is positively squished in the Revived's small cockpit, but he's still wearing a smile. "Ay, hermana. How is the big white bird treating you?"

  Mila fixes the dog with an ugly stare. "How do you think? It's like flying a super secret spy car with a zillion buttons, but all of them punch me in the chest with a lead… No, an ogonite boxing glove on a spring!"

  He laughs, and something in the background creaks as his shoulders move up and down. "No need to be so dramatic! At least you haven't g-loc'd and crashed it yet…" Lars says, looking to the side and covering his smile. "...Like some of us have."

  "You want to experience a friendly fire event, Ortiz?" Eli's furious, scowling mug appears on Mila's canopy next. His cyber eye flashes a hostile red as he speaks. "If you do, then by all means, run those slimy fuckin' jowls of yours some more."

  "Big talk from a guy flying a stock Caracal," Lars raises an eyebrow and turns his nose up. "If you want to go, then-"

  "Hey!" Mila interrupts with a squawk when she realizes what Lars just said. "What's wrong with my fighter?!"

  Lars falters. "Ah, I didn't mean anything by it, Mila. You use it well, it's just-!"

  "Strider-1 to all, focus on the mission," Trigger finally speaks up, his face joining Eli and Lars on the glass. Another target goes dark on the radar, and an orange flash casts itself across Trigger's lightly frowning face for a moment. "We only have a few more places to hit before this base's operating capacity is finished. Save inter-team deathmatches until after debrief and evaluation."

  "Tch," Eli scoffs and looks away.

  "Can do," Lars answers with a thumbs up.

  "Trigger can I please have some inertial dampening, just a little?" Mila whines without any shame. "I can barely turn in this thing!"

  He shakes his head. Damn it. "During training, simulated fighters should be as faithful to their real counterparts as they can."

  Mila huffs and crosses her arms. "W-Well, how about we put a dampener in the real Wyven? Can I have some then?"

  "I don't like how it alters feedback, so no," her captain and boyfriend bluntly shoots her down. "You're doing well. Stick with it."

  The mink wants to groan, but the praise stifles it in her mouth, so she just settles with a grumble.

  The rest of the mission goes smoothly. The scenario randomly generated by Niddy is a simple one, with only a single wave of air reinforcements. She and Eli keep the riff-raff in the air mostly contained, and Lars and Trigger shred the last point on the map. After a pass overhead to confirm all the targets are well and truly down, they flee to the east.

  As they cross the line out of the operating area, the simulated Wyvern around Mila dims, and she lets out a relieved sigh as the air conditioning kicks on. 'Ugh. I need a shower,' she thinks, sticking out her tongue and pulling at her sweaty flightsuit.

  [OPERATION: HEAT LIGHTNING - SUCCESS]

  Battlefield: Terrestrial exoplanet - Plateaus - 1.05 G

  Weather: Cloudy

  AIR TGT: 18/25

  GRD TGT: 45/45

  CRIT TGT: 8/8

  The usual post-mission map pops up before her as a 3D hologram and starts playing. The blue arrow that is Trigger dives low along with the green of Lars. Eli's yellow stays with her red as they jet to meet the first wave of incoming bogies.

  "Mission success," Trigger begins plainly, only his voice coming through. "The indicated power plants were destroyed. Both air and ground resistance was heavier than intel suggested, but we suffered no losses. Lars…"

  Mila can imagine the rottie straightening up in his seat.

  "Well done for your first time flying the Revived. Eli, anything to add?"

  "Hrmph. Use the cloak more. It's there for a reason," Is Eli's curt addition.

  Lars sighs. "I would if it didn't make the cockpit hotter than a cloudless day in Herrado."

  "Herrado?"

  "Erg…" Lars hesitates. "The colony I grew up in, boss. Arid place."

  "Ah, I see. Next…"

  They go around in a circle, analyzing everyone's performance with the main pilots of the traded fighters giving their own thoughts as to how the borrowers did, with Mila coming up last.

  "...All in all, an acceptable job, Mila," Trigger finishes. "Your performance and rate of improvement exceeds expectations."

  Outwardly, the words are clinical, but she can hear it, the tiny sliver of pride in his voice that makes everything between her belly and her knees warm. Biting her lip, Mila crosses her legs.

  Maybe moving into Trigger's room was a mistake. Getting to bathe in that sharp, yet subtle crisp fabric-hydrocarbon-MALE scent of his every day is just making the 'let's take it slow' caveat to their relationship so much harder. Add in stuff like this?

  Wew.

  But at the same time, letting things play out on their own between them makes her lips want to pull back into a snarl, and there are two big rivalsreasons why.

  Jodie jokes about crushing on Trigger, and will even sometimes playfully flirt, cackling when she gets an oblivious, deadpan reply. Seems innocent, but one can never really know…

  And then there is Stella Kaliman, the stowaway and ship doctor until they get to Lylat Outer System space.

  Something profound changed after that raid on the ship weeks ago. Before that, the skunk walked on eggshells around her man, wary to a point bordering on scared. Now? There is something else there, something new that resulted in lots of staring from afar and unconscious tail-floofing when Trigger walks by. She's seen it before, both in real life and on the-

  "Mila?"

  Trigger's voice yanks her out of her thoughts, and she gives her head a shake, flopping her round ears. "Huh? What was that?"

  "I said get cleaned up and make a list of items you would like requisitioned for work. We're prepping for the last jump before Tantalus, so we need to vacate the VR pods to divert power for FTL," Trigger says. After a moment, he clears his throat and speaks again. "And… think about what you'd like to have for dinner. I promised you a date once we were back in hi-sec space, and… well…" He trails off, a rare note of uncertainty in his words.

  Oh. Oh that's right! He did!

  Grinning so wide it hurts, Mila jumps up and out of the VR pod, sprinting out towards the hangar and to the front of the ship, worries long forgotten.

  'Oh shoot. I know I said I wanted to use the black dress, but I really don't wanna do a full body-brushing to keep any loose fur off of it. Maybe the red one? Hmm...'

  It's becoming apparent to Trigger that the surface-level culture of Cornerians roughly matching that of Strangereal was blinding him to the deeper, more intricate bits that can't just be observed to be understood. Scent, he's learning, has a whole heap of meanings that play into interactions, and sadly, his weak human nose is blind to a lot of it. He has, however, started paying attention to what little he can.

  Mila is the most obvious one. Her almost-vanilla-but-not-quite smell is a result of her using soap that doesn't provide the warm, full scent, but rather dulls it. It's much stronger when she works up a sweat or gets agitated, gaining a sort of spicy kick that is a bit offputting to other women, mammals most of all. Her ears and the fluff on her chest both are a tad different from each other, and he has to wonder if her tail follows the pattern.

  Jodie, by contrast, is more mono-scented from her work environment and coyote heritage. Petrichor and clean denim mingles with a nameless smokey scent that has a tiny bit of an edge with little deviation between days. Not unpleasant by any means, but unusual.

  Most surprisingly, Stella is the most subtle of them all. Hers is akin to floral honey, and so delicate that it's easily missed. Perhaps he's unfairly stereotyping her for being a skunk, but Trigger was expecting something more harsh. Somewhat like Mila, Stella does get a bit of a sweet-sour zing under stress.

  Eli, Lars, and Eddy just smell like their own respective soaps and deodorants. There is seemingly nothing to pick up from near-passes like with the women of the crew, and he's not going to make things strange by asking to smell them.

  Laugh at Trigger being a social bulldozer all you wish, he still knows not to roll over awkward landmines with too high of a yield.

  Like now, watching over Eddy's shoulder, all he can detect with his nose is clothes detergent, peppermint scale-scrubbing powder, and… alcohol?

  "Eddy," Trigger looks down at the gecko in the sensor station with a frown. "You're not drinking on the job, are you?"

  The gecko's hands shoot up defensively as he whirls around, tearing Trigger's hand from his headrest.

  "No no no, boss, absolutely not! I ain't gettin' sauced on the clock, that's unprofessional!" Eddy protests, his tail curling nervously around the base of his chair. "I just had a little sip of some somethin'-somethin' with lunch, you know? A toast! To celebrate gettin' back to hi-sec space in one piece!" He clasps his hands together pleadingly. "We almost got squished by a Sov battlecruiser, boss. A man's gotta unwind a little after that kinda brush with the reaper, yeah?"

  Trigger stares at him for a long moment, letting the silence stretch just enough to make the gecko squirm.

  Then he sighs. "Don't make a habit of it."

  "You got it, chief! Stone cold sober from here on out!" Eddy's relief is palpable. He spins his chair back toward his console, then pauses when Trigger doesn't move. "Uh... was there somethin' else?"

  "Your progress on Yelsav and Burrowmand."

  "Ah, right, right." Eddy pulls up a series of files on his screen, scratching at the scales beneath his chin. "So, Yelsav's the easy one to dig up dirt on, but the hard one to actually nail. Guy fits the corpo dirtbag stereotype to a T, you know what I mean? Lots of skeletons in closets, bodies in shallow graves, the whole nine parsecs." He waves a hand dismissively. "Problem is, none of it's hard proof. Rumors, whispers, circumstantial crap that'd get laughed outta any court worth its salt. I thought about askin' Niddy-"

  The speakers on Eddy's console chirp. "Designation: Nidhogg. Use correct designation…"

  "-to see if he could bust into some servers or somethin' if I got my mitts on a lead, but then I thought 'Nah, Yelsav probably airgaps his shit so lookin' is a waste of time' and decided not to."

  The gecko taps through a few more screens, shaking his head.

  "No ties from Yelsav to any mercs operatin' in Griath, neither. And that mystery 'brain project' from the chat logs? Nothin'. Nada. Zilch." He leans back, crossing his arms. "Guy's good at coverin' his trail. Real good. Either he's got a whole team scrubbin' his footprints, or he's paranoid enough to make sure there was never a trail in the first place."

  'About as expected…' Trigger closes his eyes. "And Burrowmand?"

  Eddy perks up slightly. "Now that's where it gets interestin'. Got some leads, but I'm waitin' to hear back from a friend of a friend who knows stuff, you know?" He taps the side of his snout conspiratorially. "What I can tell ya is that Burrowmand's definitely some kinda underworld fixer. And not a small-time one, either. If he's got ties directly to Trade Union big shots like Yelsav, then we're talkin' serious pull. The kinda guy who can make problems disappear, or make people disappear if the creds are right."

  The captain re-opens his eyes. "Timeline?"

  "Week or two. Maybe." Eddy shrugs, his scales rippling with the motion. "These things take time, boss. Gotta let the feelers feel, you know? Push too hard, and people clam up. Or worse, they start askin' why you're askin'."

  Trigger nods slowly. "Keep at it. Report anything significant immediately."

  "You got it," Eddy says, but before he returns to his work, he gives Trigger a searching look. "Hey, bossman? When you find who called the hit on Stella and got Jodie shot… is he going to end up like that cat bastard you wrapped in a tarp and whipped out the airlock?"

  A rare scowl finds its way to Trigger's face. "If they should be so lucky."

  Leaving Eddy to his work, Trigger moves to the captain's chair and settles in, focusing on other thoughts for now. Through the main viewport, the Tantalus Transport Hub grows steadily larger, its familiar sprawl of docking arms and habitat rings a welcome sight after weeks in the frontier. Traffic thickens around them as merchant vessels, patrol craft, and passenger liners jostle for approach vectors.

  'Back to civilization,' he thinks, watching a luxury yacht glide past on the port side. 'Such as it is.'

  The comm console chirps with an incoming hail. The sender ID reads HAUL-O-REX.

  Trigger accepts the call from the captain's chair, and Farworth's mustachioed face hovers over his armrest.

  "Captain Trigger!" the badger greets, spreading his hands. "I wanted to extend my personal gratitude before we part ways. You and your squadron performed admirably throughout our journey."

  "Just fulfilling the contract, Mister Farworth."

  "Oh, come now, no need for such modesty!" Farworth chuckles, though there's a knowing glint in his eye. "I knew the trip would carry its share of dangers, what with the state of things in Griath. But nearly getting flattened by a Sovereign warship?" He shakes his head, whiskers twitching. "That was decidedly not in my projections."

  Trigger waves off the praise with a slight motion of his hand. "You were a pleasant client, Mister Farworth. You supplied us with special equipment on request when you had no obligation to do so." His mind flicks to the MQ-99 drones currently stuck to the Aquila's belly, still largely untested outside of that single engagement. "I hope we can work together again someday. Perhaps with Strider Squadron as the client, next time."

  Farworth's bushy eyebrows rise a fraction. The badger is no fool; he can read between the lines well enough.

  "Is that so?" A thin smile spreads beneath his mustache. "Well, such an arrangement would certainly shake the dust off some old, content coots. I'll keep that in mind, Captain."

  He pauses, adjusting something off-screen.

  "For now, I'll turn you over to my XO to discuss the matter of payment. It's been a pleasure, Captain Trigger. Until we meet again."

  The screen flickers, and Farworth is replaced by Dobs, the doberman looking as stern as ever. The next several minutes are consumed by the dry but necessary business of finalizing services rendered: itemized lists of completed objectives, fuel expenditure deductions, hazard multipliers, and the inevitable haggling over what constitutes "above and beyond" versus "standard contractual obligations."

  In the end, even with their cut reduced by various fees and the half-percent they lost for the MQ-99 parts, the final number settles at 2.9 million credits.

  Not bad for a few weeks of work, even if those weeks included a heavy cruiser, multiple fighter engagements, and a boarding action.

  Trigger closes the call and pulls up the crew management interface, fingers moving across the haptic display as he begins the process of divvying out shares.

  2.1 million to the operational account. That covers fuel, ammunition, repairs, docking fees, and the ever-present need for a financial cushion against the unexpected. The Aquila is an economical little boat, so the funds will last for some time.

  The remaining 800,000-odd credits get split among the crew according to the standard shares they'd agreed upon when formalizing Strider Squadron's PMC status. Lars, Eli, Mila, Jodie, and Eddy each see their personal accounts grow by a healthy sum. Eddy's wristcomm beeps at his station, and Trigger can hear him choke when he sees the creds that hit his account.

  For Jodie's share, he makes sure to include an additional bump. Hazard pay for taking a blaster bolt meant for someone else. It's the least he can do.

  Trigger's finger hovers over the confirmation key.

  Then he pauses.

  Stella.

  She's not an official member of Strider Squadron. She's cargo, technically, a passenger they're ferrying to LOSA space in exchange for her medical expertise. The original agreement didn't include any form of compensation beyond safe passage.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  But she saved Jodie's life. Stopped the bleeding, stabilized her vitals, kept her breathing when a less skilled medic might have lost her. And during the firefight itself, Stella burned herself out stopping that last attacker, giving them the opening they needed to end the threat.

  Trigger's fingers move again. He was already planning to take only half a share, as excess personal money is useless to him, so he earmarks his other half for her.

  'It's not charity. It's payment for services rendered.'

  He confirms the transactions and leans back in his chair, watching the numbers update across the board.

  'Now,' he thinks, glancing at the time display, 'about that date.'

  Guh. The idea of going to an overpriced restaurant filled with types who look down on working men and dining on too-small portions is not his idea of a good time.

  'Could I get out of it somehow? What excuse would work?'

  Then after a half-second of consideration, the idea is trashed, albeit reluctantly. 'I promised a date, so a date I will provide. Ugh. I need proper clothes…'

  As Trigger morosely begins to look up clothing stores on the station, the Aquila gently yaws towards the entertainment satellite tethered to the massive central station. Even from hundreds of kilometers away, lights shine neon on the buildings jutting from the disk and the radio feed lights up with two dozen new transmissions, all of them music.

  Then one signal cuts through the rest. "MVC Aquila, this is Tantalus Traffic Control. We read your IFF. You are on approach to Satellite Four - Entertainment. State your purpose."

  Before Trigger can answer, Nidhogg grabs it. "Tantalus Traffic Control, this is MVC Aquila. We are requesting docking clearance at Satellite Four - Entertainment."

  The voice that plays through the comm station speakers is polite, measured, and utterly indistinguishable from an organic. The words are as androgynous as they are soft and disarming, making it dangerously easy for listeners to trust. If he didn't know any better, Trigger would swear they came from a human.

  It's no wonder Nidhogg managed to steal nearly half his databank using social engineering. Who would ever suspect the owner of a voice like that to have malicious ends?

  'Well, perhaps I would. Eli too, maybe,'

  "Copy, Aquila. Standby," the traffic controller goes silent for a moment. "MVC Aquila, you are cleared for docking at Entertainment Satellite Docking Ring three, berth seventeen. Welcome to Tantalus."

  "Thank you, Tantalus Traffic Control. MVC Aquila signing off."

  Once the radio clicks off, the AI's voice regains its flat inflection and slight metallic flanging. "Beginning landing procedures. Stand by."

  Trigger thumbs the ship-wide intercom. "All hands, we're on final approach to Tantalus. Meet on the bridge."

  The responses trickle in over the next few minutes. Jodie is first through the door, moving with far more ease than she had two weeks ago. The limp is gone, her stride steady if not quite back to its usual briskness. Color has returned to her, and the haunted look that she tried so hard to hide in the days after the attack has faded to something closer to her normal wry demeanor.

  She's healing well, though Stella insists on another week before she's cleared for any strenuous activity. Something about internal tissue needing time to fully knit, and the dangers of reopening wounds that only look closed on the surface.

  Lars follows shortly after, ducking slightly as he passes through the doorway out of habit. Eli arrives next, his cybernetic eye performing its usual sweep of the room before he settles into his customary spot on Trigger's right. Mila bounces in with a grin already plastered across her muzzle, still riding high from the promise of their date. Eddy, the only one who was already here, spins his chair around and stands.

  Stella hovers near the back, arms crossed loosely over her chest. She's been doing that a lot lately, Trigger notices. Keeping herself on the periphery, present but not quite part of the group.

  Once everyone is assembled, Trigger rises from the captain's chair.

  "Pay has been distributed to your accounts," he begins without preamble. "You should have received your shares already."

  Eddy's hand drifts to his wristcomm, as if to confirm the hundred and twenty thousand credits are still real.

  "We'll be taking a week of shore leave here on Tantalus before we continue north toward LOSA space. Use the time to decompress, resupply, and handle any personal business."

  Mila pumps a fist in the air. "Yes! Finally!"

  "A whole week?" Eddy's grin threatens to split his face. "Boss, you're too good to us! I know this place on Sat-4 that does the best fried kessler beetles, and there's this card game I've been meanin' to get back into, and-"

  "Don't gamble your cut away in a single night. If you wind up in debt to loan sharks, you'll have to kill them yourself." Eli cuts in with a biting click of his tongue.

  "Hey, I resemble that remark!"

  Idly, Trigger wonders if the loan sharks are actual sharks in this universe, then he shakes it away. "In the background, Eli, Nidhogg, and I will also be looking to recruit a PR manager and legal consultant, ideally a single person who fits both jobs, so you may see people in and out of the ship. Please be polite and fully dressed outside of your bunks," he says, giving Mila a sidelong look.

  He gets a tongue stuck out at him in return.

  Lars chuckles, a low rumble in his chest, while Jodie shakes her head with a smile tugging at her muzzle.

  "Eh? Why can't Niddy just do all that junk?" Eddy asks, an eyebrow ridge rising. "A crazy AI brain has gotta be better at arguing semantics in a courtroom, right?"

  "Designation: Nidhogg. Use correct designation," the AI sighs over the intercom. "Error: Position of legal representation and-slash-or public relations manager requires physical organic presence for optimal performance. Organic beings are unnerved by faceless non-organic intelligence, reducing efficacy. Solution: Working in tandem with organic."

  "As Nidhogg said, he will work with the proposed candidate so they may do the best job they can. That said, please do not create undue work for them," Trigger finishes.

  Trigger lets the moment breathe. A week feels indulgent, perhaps even reckless given the unknowns still circling them. Yelsav, Burrowmand, whatever this "brain project" is, all of it points to something larger, something that won't wait patiently while they sip drinks and window shop.

  'It would be safer to refuel, rearm, and move immediately,' he thinks. 'Minimize our exposure, stay ahead of whoever's hunting Stella.'

  But nearly two months of constant tension, multiple engagements, and watching Jodie bleed out on the deck of their own ship... He's not about to push his crew past their limits. Frayed nerves and exhausted bodies make mistakes, and mistakes in their line of work tend to be fatal.

  A full week. They've earned it.

  His gaze shifts to Stella, who has been conspicuously silent throughout the exchange. The skunk meets his eyes and offers a small smile, tinged with resignation.

  "I understand, Captain," she says before he can speak. "I'll remain aboard and out of sight."

  The words are calm and accepting, but there's a weight behind them that doesn't escape Trigger's notice. Weeks cooped up in a corvette, and now a week more while everyone else stretches their legs on the station. It can't be easy.

  …But with an active arrest warrant hanging over her head, wandering around a hi-sec station is asking to be caught. One facial recognition sweep, one bored security officer running IDs, and she's in cuffs. Or worse, back in the hands of whoever wants her badly enough to send bounty hunters.

  Trigger inclines his head in acknowledgment. "Make a list of everything you need for the infirmary and forward it to Nidhogg. Medical supplies, equipment, whatever you require."

  He pauses, then adds: "There are also some personal credits set aside for you. Order whatever you like from the station's merchants via Nidhogg, and I'll have someone accept delivery at the airlock on your behalf."

  Stella blinks, surprise flickering across her features. "I... Captain, you don't have to-"

  "I don't care to hear your refusal," Trigger states simply, leaning forward and stopping Stella's words with a hard stare. "Fair work done aboard my ship receives fair compensation."

  For a moment, the skunk looks like she wants to argue. Then she dips her head, a genuine warmth softening her expression. "Thank you, Captain. I... thank you."

  Jodie clears her throat, breaking the moment before it can turn awkward. "Speakin' of the door," she says, jerking a thumb over her shoulder, "I need to get started on that ramp. Those amateurs back in Griath did patch work on it, but I want to see for myself that it ain't gonna fall off the moment we hit rough atmo somewhere."

  "Jodie," Stella's voice sharpens with a note of warning. "Light duty, sis. I mean it."

  "Yeah, yeah." The coyote waves a dismissive hand as she heads for the exit. "Lookin' ain't liftin', doc. I'll be fine."

  One by one, the others filter out. Lars ambles off toward the front hatch. Eli vanishes without a word, likely to run whatever personal errands a man like him runs. Eddy practically skips out, already tapping away at his wristcomm with a wide grin.

  Stella lingers for a moment, her gaze meeting Trigger's one last time. Something unreadable passes behind her eyes before she turns and disappears down the corridor toward the infirmary.

  Then it's just Trigger and Mila.

  The mink grins and leans forward, swaying her hips and tail behind her. "So, date night…"

  "Date night," Trigger parrots, giving her an unsure smile. "I still need to find a place, make a reservation, and find appropriate clothes…" He trails off when Mila falters a little. "Is something wrong?"

  "Oh, Trigger," Mila sighs, standing straight and putting a fist on her hip. "You're not supposed to tell me these things…"

  "I'm not…?" He questions, brows furrowed. "Is this some sort of Cornerian faux pas I've committed? If so, it was not intended."

  Mila opens her mouth to answer, a finger raised, then she stops and rubs her chin. "Um, no, not really. It's just normally when a guy doesn't have everything for a fancy date figured out beforehand, he's supposed to bluff his way through and make it work."

  "You'd prefer for me to lie to you?" He asks, one side of his mouth falling into a frown. "That doesn't seem conducive to a healthy relationship, so I would prefer to not do that."

  The mink stares at him blankly, then snorts and giggles behind a hand. "Trigger, you're so adorable sometimes!"

  'I am so confused…' The pilot complains to himself, not resisting when Mila takes his arm and pulls him up and out of his chair.

  "Okay, so we'll save the fancy date for another time," she begins, pulling him along towards the hanger. "First, we've got to go get you some more clothes! Both for our date and for just every day, because your drawers are so empty! I let it slide last time because you were like just my captain and stuff, and luckily I did some cataloging on the way back here and know where the hottest stores on the station are! Once we're done there, there is this place on the seventh floor I wanna try called "Baraga's" because they're this casual dining fusion place that-"

  Blinking helplessly at the barrage of words, Trigger can only hang on as he's taken half-against his will.

  "The Javelin at ring three, berth seventeen. The front ramp airlock will open when you arrive. Just place everything in there."

  The human-ish robot before Trigger finishes packing a tall, guncase-like box with the myriad of shopping bags that were just in his hands, then clips the top closed. Spinning in a neat 180, it kneels with its rear to the fridge-shaped container, letting four clamps spring out of its flat back and grip tight. When the bot stands again, its cargo comes with it.

  "Beep-deep?" It asks, pointing with a three-fingered hand to the screen mounted in its torso, which flashes - Please deposit 60cc!

  Trigger waves his wristcomm at the robot, making the message on its torso vanish in favor of a loading wheel. Then it sounds a happy jingle and swaggers past, playing a song as it walks with a lot of attitude for a machine.

  'Or perhaps it's walking oddly to maintain balance,' Trigger thinks unbidden, looking at the other courier bots in their charging cradles. 'I don't know why. These things seem to have room for gyros. Walking like that might make the bot accidentally hit someone.'

  The entertainment disk is packed to the gills with as many people as can be, and with good reason, as every distraction and vice anyone could ever want is hidden away here. Restaurants, bars, arcades, theaters, clubs, and clubs that are not brothels according to their signage. All that and more awaits anyone willing to look for it on the huge satellite.

  Of course, it's still a space station, so places where people are not supposed to linger were not given much consideration. Trigger has to lean against the wall outside the Speed Robo delivery station, or he'll be noticeably blocking the walkway.

  He's pulled from his musing when Mila emerges from the restroom a ways down from the corner where all the delivery bots are stationed. She shakes a little bit of residual water from her hands and quickly glues herself to his side again, her mildly damp fingers lacing with his.

  "So where is this place you wanted to try?" Trigger asks, falling into lockstep with Mila.

  The walk to Baraga's takes them through three floors of the entertainment satellite's commercial district. Mila fills the journey with a running commentary on everything they pass: a boutique she wants to revisit later, a kiosk selling novelty hats shaped like various predator species (his girlfriend was disappointed by the lack of a mink hat), a holographic advertisement for some new racing sim that has her pulling his sleeve and asking if they can get a copy for the VR pods. Everything seems to catch her attention.

  Trigger listens, offering the occasional nod or monosyllabic response, content to let her voice wash over him. It's... nice. The cadence of her words, the way her tail swishes with each new observation, the warmth of her hand in his. He could get used to this.

  "Oh, here it is!"

  Baraga's occupies a corner unit on the seventh floor, its entrance flanked by minimalist planters filled with some kind of pale, feathery grass. The interior continues the theme: smooth gray walls, white furniture, abstract light fixtures that cast soft, diffuse glows across the dining area. Everything is clean lines and muted tones.

  'Bland,' Trigger thinks as a hostess, a young vixen in a crisp uniform, leads them to a booth near the window. 'Sterile, even.'

  But Mila slides into her seat with a satisfied sigh, her eyes bright as she takes in the space, so Trigger keeps his opinions to himself.

  "What can I get you two to drink?" the vixen asks, producing a small tablet from a pocket on her apron.

  "Cherry Collie, please!" Mila chirps. "Light ice."

  Trigger glances at the drink menu. Many of the options are still foreign, even months after going native, but luckily he's assimilated enough that not everything is unfamiliar, as the name of Lars and Jodie's favorite beer catches his eye. "Is your Kaltenwald bottled or on tap?"

  "Tap, sir."

  "A Kaltenwald, then, thank you."

  The hostess nods and slips away, leaving them alone.

  Mila leans forward on her elbows, her tail curling around to rest on the seat beside her. "I still can't believe how much we made on that last mission," she says, shaking her head slowly. "A hundred and twenty thousand credits. Each! I've never had that much money before in my life!"

  She laughs, a bright, disbelieving sound.

  "Heck, one more job like that and I'd make more in a few months than my mom makes in a whole year. And she's a dentist! Certified for mustelids, canines, felines, and a few others!" Mila's ears flick. "That's crazy, right? Like, actually insane?"

  'A dentist.'

  Trigger files the information away. He's always thought Mila's teeth were particularly white and even, her smile bright enough to light up a room, and now he knows why. Proper dental care from youth, courtesy of a mother who knew what she was doing, has gone a long way.

  'I'll have to thank her someday,' he muses. 'For making sure her daughter's smile is so pretty.'

  "It's good pay for dangerous work," he says aloud. "Hazard compensation."

  Their server returns a moment later, a frosty beer and fizzy soda on her tray. Once she sets the drinks on the table, she holds her tray under her arm and withdraws her tablet again. "Are we ready to order?"

  The offerings on the menu are a chaotic fusion of cuisines he's never encountered. Krellian bread bowls, Vannix-style wraps, something called a "Deluvian platter" that comes with a warning about the spice. Half the ingredients are words he can't even pronounce, let alone identify.

  Mila orders something with enthusiasm, rattling off modifications and substitutions like she's done this a hundred times.

  "And for you, sir?" The vixen's stylus hovers over her tablet.

  "The same," Trigger says, closing the menu with perhaps more force than necessary.

  Mila grins at him knowingly but mercifully doesn't comment.

  As they wait for the food, she takes a pull of her cherry soda, smacking her lips with a smile. "So," she begins, "what's the plan for our next gig? With a couple million in the bank, we should be set for a while, right?"

  Trigger shakes his head. "Two million credits is far too little for what I have planned."

  Mila's eyebrows rise, but she doesn't interrupt.

  "In the short term, we'll be picking up supplies here on Tantalus. Specialized medical equipment for Stella, to start." He takes a sip of his drink, organizing his thoughts. "A new set of robots to replace the old cargo units. Including a team of commando bots for security."

  The words come easily enough, but a small part of him hesitates on that last point.

  Commando bots. Combat-capable machines, armed and armored, all slaved to the Aquila's command network. To Nidhogg's command network.

  He's still wary of the AI. He might always be wary, given what he knows of Nidhogg's origins and capabilities. The thing is Belkan to its core, and Belkan technology has a nasty habit of biting the hand that wields it.

  But if it helps prevent another boarding action, another night of gunfire in the corridors and blood on the deck plates...

  He'll give the AI some dangerous new playthings.

  Mila doesn't seem to notice his brief pause, too busy slurping at her drink, so Trigger continues.

  "I'd also like to bring on a dedicated legal expert. Someone who can navigate contracts, liability issues, and local regulations without us having to guess." He sets his glass down. "That's the short term. Longer term..."

  He fixes Mila with a pointed look.

  "Don't purchase any fighter parts without consulting Jodie first. I have plans for some refits to our current craft. And later..." He lets the word hang for a moment. "Custom jobs."

  Mila's eyes go wide.

  He can see the moment it clicks, the realization of what "custom jobs" means coming from him in particular. Her tail poofs slightly, and her grip on the table tightens.

  "You mean...?" She doesn't finish the sentence, but she doesn't need to.

  Trigger allows himself a small smile. "That's for later. Much later. We'll need far more capital, the right contacts, and a facility capable of the work." He tilts his head. "But yes. Eventually."

  Mila looks like she wants to vibrate out of her seat. Her mouth opens, closes, opens again. For a moment, he thinks she might actually squeal.

  "Okay, okay, okay," she breathes, visibly forcing herself to calm down. "Later. Right. I can wait. I can totally wait." Her tail says otherwise, thrashing with barely contained excitement.

  Trigger decides to show her mercy and change the subject. "What would you like to do after dinner?"

  The distraction works. Mila's expression shifts from manic glee to thoughtful consideration, one claw tapping against her chin.

  "Oh! I saw this Snootbook post earlier," she says, perking up. "There's a bar a few floors up that opens its stage to indie bands every night. Live music, local acts, that kind of thing." Her ears turn forward hopefully. "Let's go give them a look!"

  A packed bar and loud music? Eh…

  'I do need to take in more of the culture, to learn to live as a Cornerian does. Not knowing anything on a restaurant menu is proof of it. Besides, Mila will make it bearable.'

  "Sounds fun," Trigger smiles.

  Mila beams at him, and for a moment, the bland decor and confusing menu and everything else fades into background noise.

  'I could definitely get used to this.'

  Their food arrives shortly after, and Trigger gives it a once over.

  It's… rather normal looking. A cut of what looks like juicy beef, with vegetable spears inserted between accordion cuts on its face, topped with mushrooms and a savory gravy. On the side, a butter-scented white-orange mash rests beside a small, salad-filled bowl of leafy greens, slivers of something purple, and croutons.

  Looking back up, he catches Mila studying his reaction with a knowing, satisfied face before she digs into her own identical meal with gusto.

  Another smile rises to Trigger's lips.

  'Seems I've little to worry about with you around, Mila.'

  'Tall.'

  That's the first thing Eli thinks of the latest respondent of their ad for a lawyer. Tall enough to nearly look a lanky freak like Trigger in the eye, maybe just enough if her ears are counted.

  The ad that Eli drafted and put up on the station bulletin board was as simple and no-nonsense as he could make it, clearly stating:

  Hiring one (1) legal consultant for mobile PMC.

  Accommodations are cramped and suck.

  High chance of injury or death.

  You will be forced into combat drills.

  Must sign indefinite NDA. (Break this and we kill you.)

  Pay variable.

  …Perhaps it wasn't worded like that one-to-one, but he made damn sure it was clear that this is not a job for the faint of heart. Nor was it one for anyone who demanded a guaranteed premium for their services.

  Yet somehow, there were four, nearly five-dozen respondents within hours.

  Nidhogg proved its worth yet again by filtering out the scams and hopeless cases from the flood of applicants. Identity thieves, jokers, people who clearly hadn't read past the first line, all culled. What remained was a list of eight names that warranted actual consideration, with more coming in.

  Then, at Eli's order, the AI began crawling local social media for an explanation behind the unexpected interest.

  The results were... illuminating.

  It turns out, Strider Squadron's name is beginning to propagate outward.

  Reese Point is totally abandoned now. The criminal element that once infested the station scattered like roaches when the lights came on, fleeing to new hidey-holes across the sector. And during that exodus, some of them talked. Told others what they saw.

  More importantly, what they heard.

  "Don't challenge Strider Squadron."

  Footage is circulating too. Grainy recordings of Reese Point's docking ring shearing away from the main structure, debris tumbling into the void. The skirmish outside Killigan, fighters weaving between capital ship fire. And the crown jewel: a Sovereign heavy cruiser cracking in half, its spine broken by a single fighter's assault.

  "God damn you, Three Strikes!"

  The dying transmission has been clipped, remixed, and shared across a dozen platforms. Strider Squadron and its enigmatic leader, the pilot known only as Three Strikes, are the hot news in certain circles. Mercenaries, criminals, and thrill-seekers alike are passing the videos around like trading cards.

  Oh, there was hate, hate all around. Drug lords vowing they'll get revenge for their ops on Reese Point being ruined, family of dead thugs wishing they'd all die, crime syndicates warning that they won't stand for this, plenty of lowlifes barking like their words meant shit.

  Then someone said: "That's some Star Wolf shit."

  And then hate was joined by fear. The mere suggestion that there is another team even a fraction as capable or bloodthirsty as Star Wolf caused alarm bells to ring all around.

  The only reason they haven't been recognized here on Tantalus is the lack of livery on the Aquila and the absence of clear shots of their faces in any of the footage. Probably thanks to a certain AI scrubbing what it can and muddying the rest.

  'Perhaps we do need a PR person after all,' Eli thinks sourly, scrolling through yet another forum thread speculating about Three Strikes' identity. 'All of this has been going on uncontrolled and right under our noses.'

  He closes the display on his wristcomm and refocuses on the present.

  The cafe by the docks is a modest establishment, the kind of place where dock workers grab a quick meal between shifts. Utilitarian furniture, scuffed floors, the lingering smell of fried food and engine grease. Not exactly the sort of venue a Senior Partner at a prestigious law firm would frequent.

  Yet here she is.

  Eli gestures to the seat across from him. "Sit."

  The snow leopard settles into the chair with a grace that seems almost practiced, her movements smooth and unhurried. Up close, the sixty years stated on her resume are difficult to pinpoint. In fact, the only sign of age he can spot is in the corners of her eyes, and even that is but a faint creasing of skin. Said ice-blue eyes are sharp, assessing him with the same clinical detachment he's using on her.

  "Elijah Gunjar," he states. "Executive Officer of Strider Squadron. You can call me Eli."

  "Catrina Weissfeld," she replies. Her voice matches her gaze: cool, measured, devoid of unnecessary warmth. "Senior Partner at Peron and Associates. A pleasure."

  A pleasure, she says, when really it sounds like a transaction.

  Eli appreciates that, actually. He's never trusted people who smile too much.

  "I've seen your resume," he says, cutting straight to business. "Thirty-four years practicing law. Senior Partner at one of the most respected firms on this station." His cybernetic eye whirs faintly as it focuses, pulling up her file in his peripheral vision. "So why does an overqualified woman like yourself want to work for a PMC? You did read all the requirements, right?"

  Catrina's expression doesn't flicker. "I read them thoroughly, Mister Gunjar. Cramped accommodations, risk of injury or death, mandatory combat drills, an indefinite NDA with... creative enforcement clauses." The corner of her mouth twitches, almost imperceptibly. "I found the honesty refreshing."

  That's not an answer, so Eli waits.

  She doesn't elaborate.

  His eye flicks down, taking in the details. Her suit is immaculate, the kind of tailored piece that costs more than most people make in a year. The earrings catching the cafe's harsh lighting aren't costume jewelry either.

  The eagle's cyber eye adjusts, zooming in.

  Genuine mined stones, microscopic faults and all, set in what looks like platinum. Everything about her screams wealth and status.

  "You'll likely be taking a pay cut working for Strider Squadron," Eli says flatly. "At least for the immediate future. We're not in a position to match what your current employment pulls in. Does that not bother you?"

  Catrina waves a spotted hand, the gesture dismissive. "It's not about money, Mister Gunjar. It's about fulfillment."

  She pauses, and something shifts in her expression. The cool professionalism softens, just slightly, into something that might be sadness. Might be.

  "My husband passed away twenty-five years ago," she says, her voice dropping a register. "Between the... thoughtful gifts he left behind and an empty nest, money does little for me but pile up." Her eyes meet his, and there's a weight there that feels rehearsed. "I've spent three decades defending clients in courtrooms. I'm looking for something... different. Something with more purpose."

  Eli holds her gaze, his face betraying nothing.

  'Thoughtful gifts,' he repeats internally. 'Interesting choice of words for a widow.'

  His instincts are prickling. Something about her story doesn't sit right, like a puzzle piece that's been filed down to fit where it doesn't belong, but he can't put a talon on exactly what.

  "Walk me through some of your cases," Eli says, leaning back in his chair. "Highlights. The ones you're proud of."

  Catrina's ears flick, the first genuine reaction he's seen from her. "How much time do you have, Mister Gunjar?"

  "Enough."

  She starts with a corporate espionage case from fifteen years back. A mid-level executive accused of selling proprietary data to a competitor. The evidence was damning: encrypted files on his personal device, a suspicious influx of credits from an offshore account, testimony from three colleagues. Open and shut, everyone said.

  Catrina got him acquitted in six days.

  "The files were planted," she explains, her tone almost bored. "I traced the rather specific encryption software back to the IT department head by inspecting CCTV security and finding him moving about after hours. The man had a personal vendetta. The credits were an inheritance from a great-aunt on Corneria, poorly documented but legitimate. And the colleagues?" A thin smile. "Two were cheating on their spouses with each other, and the third owed gambling debts to interested parties. Their credibility crumbled under cross-examination."

  Eli grunts. "And if your client had been guilty?"

  "Then I would have ensured the prosecution couldn't prove it." Catrina's ice-blue eyes don't waver. "That's my job, Mister Gunjar. What clients did or didn't do is irrelevant to the quality of representation I provide."

  They go through three more cases. A wrongful death suit she turned around by "exposing" falsified medical records. A smuggling charge she got reduced to a misdemeanor through a technicality in jurisdictional law that the prosecution's team hadn't even known existed. A custody battle that she won despite her client being, by all accounts, the far less sympathetic party.

  Each story is delivered with the same clinical detachment, each legal maneuver laid out like moves on a chessboard.

  Eli has to acknowledge, if only to himself, that this woman is as clever as she is cutthroat.

  'Trigger will want to meet her himself,' he thinks. 'But unless she says something catastrophically stupid in the next few minutes, this one is worth a second interview.'

  As if sensing the shift in his assessment, Catrina smooths a hand over her suit jacket and offers what might generously be called a smile.

  "I trust my qualifications are satisfactory?"

  "We'll see," Eli replies noncommittally. "We have other candidates to consider."

  "Of course." She inclines her head. "Though, I do hope it would be possible to... revisit certain requirements, should I be selected. The combat drills, for instance." Her tail curls around the leg of her chair. "Surely a woman of words such as myself could be excluded from such activities. I'm past my prime, Mister Gunjar. My days of physical exertion are behind me."

  "Non-negotiable," Eli says flatly. "Captain's orders. Everyone on the ship trains. If you're hired, you can take it up with him."

  His wristcomm chooses that moment to beep.

  Eli glances down, expecting a routine update from Nidhogg or perhaps Trigger checking in on the interview progress. Instead, he finds a message that makes his brow furrow and his beak click in irritation.

  'You have got to be fucking kidding me.'

  Catrina, observant as ever, notices his expression. "Bad news?"

  Eli's eye lingers on the message for a moment longer before he looks back up. The snow leopard is watching him with polite curiosity, but there's something else there too.

  It's interest. The kind a predator shows when it spots movement in the underbrush.

  "The captain is a busy man, I'm certain," she says smoothly, folding her hands on the table. "But I'm also certain I can convince the mysterious Three Strikes to see reason regarding the drills. I can be quite persuasive when I wish to be."

  Eli almost laughs.

  "You want to butter up the captain?" He stands, tucking his wristcomm away. "Now's your chance. His terminally blonde girlfriend just got arrested for assault, and lawyering her out of holding would be a compelling argument for your special accommodations."

  For the first time since she sat down, something genuine flickers across Catrina's face. Not alarm, not hesitation.

  No, it's amusement.

  The snow leopard rises from her seat, smoothing her suit with one spotted hand. When she meets Eli's gaze, there's a glint in those ice-blue eyes that wasn't there before.

  "Assault, you say?" She adjusts one of her platinum earrings. "I was expecting a challenge."