The sensor station's display bathes Jodie's face in pale blue light as she tracks their quarry. A single blip crawls across the screen, marked with distance indicators that hover stubbornly at ninety-eight thousand kilometers.

  "Still on course," she murmurs, adjusting a dial that does absolutely nothing to improve the fuzzy return. "Same heading for the last six hours."

  Trigger stands behind her chair, arms crossed, watching the gradual drift of the contact across the display. The Cinder runs nearly silent around them, her reactor dialed down to ten percent, her active sensors cold. Even life support hums at minimum capacity, leaving the bridge uncomfortably chilled.

  Three days of this. Three days of creeping through the void like a submarine trailing a destroyer, always at the very edge of detection range. The corvette ahead of them has no idea they're being followed, too focused on their illicit cargo to check their six properly.

  'If we're going to return back to Tantalus in time for Farworth's contract, then we need to have this wrapped in up in two days at most,' Trigger muses, shifting his weight slightly as his eyes move to the little red circle on the edge of Jodie's screen.

  He'd been skeptical at first when Jodie proposed her backup plan. A tracking virus planted on the drive, dormant until the drive touches any networked system, then it sends a ping. The program is hidden between some decoy data left on the plundered drive, keeping it well protected from being rooted out. Clean, nigh-untraceable, and far more elegant than what he'd originally planned.

  His first instinct had been more direct. Walk into Reese Point, find someone who looks important, and start asking questions. If they resisted? Put a blaster to their head and ask again.

  'This way is better. Less chance of our target running off,' he admits to himself, watching Jodie make another minor adjustment.

  "Contact's accelerating slightly," Jodie reports, keeping a careful eye on the dot at the edge of the screen. "Probably beginning their approach vector to Reese Point. We should be there within the hour."

  From his station, Lars looks up from the large, revolver-like pistol he's been polishing with a rag. "Finally. I was starting to think we'd die of old age before getting there."

  "Tell me about it," Eli grumbles from his seat, though his tone suggests he's equally restless. He doesn't look up from his wristcomm, where he's studying a rough readout of Reese Point.

  Trigger's not sure why the revelation that Reese Point was a pre-fab station was surprising to him. Around here, one can buy a spaceworthy vessel for the price of a new car back on Strangereal, so is a pre-made space station really that big of a stretch? Perhaps they could have a space station one day.

  "Aren't you like a sniper or something?," Mila asks Eli from where she's doing stretches near the viewport. She falls forward into a smooth handstand legsplit that… Really leaves nothing to the imagination in her tight flight suit.

  Trigger politely looks away.

  "Aren't you supposed to be patient and stuff? Snipers sit in one place for the perfect shot all the time." The mink follows up, throwing herself forward in a half-flip and landing on her hindpaws neatly.

  "There's a difference when you're outside and have a rifle resting on your shoulder," Eli replies back, rotating his map to look at another part of the station.

  Trigger glances at their newest, and likely very temporary crew member. Eddy sits at one of the redundant bridge stations, his terminal turned off, and looking deeply uncomfortable in borrowed clothes that don't quite fit his gecko frame. He's been a chatter box despite no one but Mila bothering to humor him, but now he's uncharacteristically quiet, perhaps finally understanding the gravity of what he's gotten himself into.

  "How long will it take for the virus to activate once the drive is plugged in?" Trigger asks Jodie.

  She doesn't look away from her screen. "Assumin' that they don't inspect it on an air-gapped system? The moment that drive connects to anything at Reese Point. Could be minutes after they dock, could be hours. Depends on how eager they are to fence the data."

  "And you're certain it'll work?"

  Jodie turns to look at him, one eyebrow raised. "Nidhogg helped write it. What do you think?"

  A fair point. Although he's still wary of the AI, its work is undeniably thorough.

  "Contact's changing vector," Jodie announces, drawing everyone's attention. "Bearing two-seven-mark-four. They're definitely on approach."

  Trigger straightens. "Then it's time. Eli."

  The eagle sharply looks up.

  "Lars."

  The dog stands and holsters his gun.

  "Eddy."

  The gecko gulps. "Fuck my life…" he mutters.

  "Let's get ready," Trigger orders, turning to the bridge exit. "Eddy, do not leave my sight."

  Mila's stretching comes to an abrupt halt. "Wait, what?" She springs to her feet, tail bristling. She bounds away from the front viewport and over the bridge stations, touching the ground with barely a sound. A grasping hand takes the back of Trigger's green flight suit. "You're leaving me behind?"

  "Someone needs to stay with the ship," Trigger says evenly, pausing and looking over his shoulder as Eli, Lars and Eddy (with one of Lars' large hands gripping his shoulder) keep walking.

  "But I'm..." She flounders. "I'm part of the team too! You've seen what I can do out there. Why am I getting benched?"

  Trigger shrugs off her hand, turning to face her. The real reason sits heavy in his chest.

  Reese Point isn't just dangerous, it's a particular kind of dangerous. The kind where an attractive girl might draw the wrong sort of attention.

  In space, he can gun down anyone who targets her, draw fire, make a grand spectacle of how much of a threat he is. Mila, and anyone else, becomes a background concern to any hostile when he bares the Wyvern's teeth.

  On the ground, however? He's far less certain, as this'll be his own first ground op.

  "I need someone I trust watching the Cinder," he says instead. "Someone who can back up Jodie if boarders try anything while we're gone."

  "Lars could stay," Mila counters, crossing her arms. "He's bigger than me."

  "Lars has ground combat experience I might need at the station." Trigger keeps his voice steady, not letting his emotions peek through. "Taking more assets than necessary while leaving our carrier vulnerable makes no tactical sense."

  Mila's ears flatten as she processes the logic. Her mouth opens, then closes. The fight slowly drains from her posture.

  "I... yeah, okay," she sighs a puff of steam on the cold bridge, looking away. "That makes sense. I just..." She kicks at an imaginary spot on the floor. "I wanted to see what it's like. A real criminal hideout, you know? All real spacers experience it."

  "A lot of real spacers also bite it on stations like this," Eli says flatly as he passes them.

  Trigger watches her deflate further, then turns to follow Eli toward the hangar. Behind him, he hears Mila's quiet sigh and retreating footsteps.

  They're halfway down the corridor when Lars falls into step beside him. The big rottweiler leans in, voice low enough that only Trigger can hear.

  "Your reasoning makes sense this time, boss," Lars rumbles. "But you can't protect her from the ugly parts forever. Girl like that, trying to make it as a spacer? She's gonna see it all eventually. Better she gets it out of the way sooner rather than later."

  "I know," Trigger replies quietly. They pass a bulkhead, boots echoing in the narrow passage. "But not today. Let me prepare her first."

  Lars gives him a long look. "Speaking from experience?"

  The image flashes unbidden through Trigger's mind. Brown hair, bright eyes, a cocky grin. "Trigger! Help me!"

  "I'm not losing another rookie," Trigger says, the words coming out harder than intended.

  Lars nods slowly. They continue toward the hangar in silence, Eddy's nervous chatter from somewhere behind them the only sound besides their footsteps. The four make their way up to the sparse armory, where Eli slings his rifle across his back and takes a few extra power packs for his pistol.

  As Trigger takes a spare power pack for his Havoc-7, he spies the words "Anti-Venom" etched into the barrel of Eli's rifle.

  "Hey, don't I get a gun?" Eddy asks, as he's led back out of the armory empty-handed. "Hey, what gives!? I offer ta show you folks around this nasty-lookin' hive and you don't even let me carry a bit of self-defence! That's real fucked up! What if I get shot! Or what if one of you gets shot cuz' I couldn't watch your back!"

  "Shut up, you fly-eating fuck," Eli says bitingly, his scowl deep. "I wouldn't trust you with a strip of cardboard cut into the shape of a knife, let alone a gun."

  The Cinder shudders gently as Jodie's voice crackles over the intercom. "Beginning final approach. Docking in two minutes."

  Trigger stands at the front ramp, checking his pistol one final time. Behind him, Lars rolls his shoulders, the movement making his jacket creak. Eli leans against the bulkhead, rifle slung across his back, watching Eddy with undisguised contempt. The gecko fidgets under the scrutiny, scales shifting color slightly.

  Through the small viewport beside the ramp, Trigger catches his first glimpse of Reese Point.

  It's more familiar than he expected. A central cylinder serves as the station's core, not unlike the design of the International Space Elevator back on Strangereal. A massive wheel structure encircles it, connected by four thick spokes that probably house transit systems to the main body. The outer ring bristles with landing pads, each one occupied by fighters, shuttles, and small freighters.

  No capital ship berths, though, or berths for anything larger than a strikecraft. Even the Cinder is a touch too big for a proper landing.

  The ship lurches slightly as something makes contact with the hull. Through the viewport, Trigger watches massive robotic arms tipped in magnets unfold from beneath the docking ring, reaching up. They grip the Cinder's hull with surprising gentleness, guiding her nose toward one of the larger atmospheric barriers.

  "Contact with docking arms," Jodie reports. "They're pulling us in now."

  The view shifts as the arms maneuver the Cinder forward. The shimmering blue of an atmospheric shield grows larger, and then they're pushing through it with a faint crackling sound. The nose of their ship breaches into pressurized space, though most of the Cinder remains outside, held steady by the magnets.

  Trigger pulls his sleeve back and looks down at his wristcomm. "If we need to escape in a hurry, can you undo the mag-clamps holding the ship?"

  The device lights up, a loading wheel turning for a second before vanishing. "AFFIRIMATIVE," Nidhogg's mechanical voice grounds out.

  Nodding, Trigger lets his sleeve fall as a soft thunk reverberates through the deck plating.

  "Docking complete," Jodie announces. "Pressure's good on the other side. You're clear to disembark."

  "Copy," Trigger responds, hitting the ramp controls.

  Hydraulics hiss as the front ramp begins to lower. Stale station air floods in, carrying the distinct cocktail of recycled atmosphere, engine coolant, and unwashed bodies that seems universal to every frontier station. Eddy wrinkles his snout.

  "Home sweet home," the gecko mutters.

  "Move," Eli growls, shoving him forward.

  Trigger takes point, stepping onto the ramp as it finishes its descent. The docking bay beyond is exactly what he expected from a smuggler's haven. Dim lighting, suspicious stains on the deck plating, and enough questionable characters to fill a prison transport to bursting.

  "Remember," he says quietly to his team, "we're customers looking for information. Keep it casual until we have our target."

  "Define casual," Lars rumbles, eyeing a group of rough-looking spacers who've stopped to stare at the Cinder.

  "Don't shoot anyone unless I do first," Trigger clarifies.

  "Works for me," Eli mutters.

  They step off the ramp and into Reese Point proper, only to be stopped five steps in by a bald sphinx cat in a too-large space suit with a datapad in hand.

  "Stop!" The cat calls, looking at them with greedy eyes. "Due immediately, five-thousand creds for landing fees, plus a thousand for an unannounced arrival, plus twenty-five hundred for oversize craft fees," he grins, cracking a scab on his jaw.

  Eddy lets out an affronted gasp that could win a movie award on its own. "Did you just-! Boss, p-please," he stammers, going to grab Trigger's arm with trembling hands, then pulling back as if he might end up burned. "We can't have another bloodbath, not after last time. The screaming... the body parts..." He shudders dramatically. "Please, let me handle this for you, it'll take j-just a second!"

  Before anyone can respond, Eddy's already pulling the sphinx cat aside, leaning in with a horrified stage whisper. "Do you have any idea who you just tried to extort?"

  The cat's expression doesn't change. He picks at his scab with one claw, looking supremely unimpressed. "Kid, this ain't my first dance. You're what, the fifth crew this week to try the 'do you know who you're talking to' bit?" He snorts. "Gets old."

  Eddy shakes his head frantically, and Trigger watches as the gecko's scales shift from their usual green to an almost pure white. It's genuinely impressive color control.

  "No, no, you don't understand," Eddy insists, casting fearful glances back at Trigger. "Look at him. Really look at him."

  The cat sighs but humors him, squinting at Trigger, who returns the gaze with his typical hard stare. The sleazy dock attendant can only meet his eyes for a few seconds before he falters and looks away.

  By now, a few others on the docks are listening in, even if they pretend to be busy with something else.

  "Now," Eddy continues, voice dropping even lower, "what species is he?"

  That gives the cat pause. His eyes narrow as he looks back and studies Trigger more carefully, taking in the flat face, the minimal fur, the strange proportions. "Some kind of... simian?" he ventures uncertainly. "Shaved ape maybe?"

  Eddy's eyes go wide with mock confusion. "You don't know who he is? For real? But how..." He trails off, then gasps as if struck by sudden realization. "Oh. Oh no. You really haven't heard yet." He gulps. "How has word not reached Reese Point about the escape? The massacre?"

  The cat's confident demeanor wavers slightly. "What massacre?"

  The laugh that bubbles out of Eddy's throat is so nervous, so anxious, that one would think he's a moment away from a total breakdown. "Brother… How deep in are you with Reese Point? Or the real players? Do you… Do you know what happened… you know where?" he asks ominously, adding more turns in his story.

  The cat stops to think, his imagination playing across his dirty face, until he stiffens, apparently coming to an unpleasant conclusion. His eyes lock onto Trigger once more, this time with alarm.

  All around, spacers and dockworkers alike make themselves scarce, all apparently wanting to be anywhere else right now.

  'You're drawing attention, Eddy,' Trigger frowns to himself. 'Wrap this up already.'

  The dock cat seems to mistake the frown for something else, and averts his eyes, his skin pale.

  Eddy, however, just winks at Trigger, then returns back to his story.

  "If you don't, then I won't say nothin'. You don't want to know. Hell, I don't want to know. The shit I see everytime I close my eyes…" Eddy sucks in a shaking breath as he addresses the cat, patting his shoulder. "Just… Forget you saw us, okay? We'll be in and out, I bet you know what for, and if we're lucky, the body count will be low. My boss is not a patient man."

  The dock attendant, now shaking, looks down at his datapad. He presses a few buttons with sweaty paws, then looks up at Trigger meekly. "F-Fees are waived for you, sir. Have a nice day," he weakly mutters before scurrying away.

  Once he's out of sight, Eddy saunters back over with a wide grin. "Easy as pie!" he crows.

  "And not very covert," Trigger takes the wind out of his sails. "I'm not a bioweapon from Venom."

  "But it's a fitting story!" the lizard protests. "Sent that shaved ballsack-looking pussy packing, didn't it?"

  Trigger sighs and points towards the distant tram station. "Don't do it again. Now walk."

  The tram ride to the station's central hub is cramped and smells like more than one rider is in need of a shower or five. Trigger stands near the door, one hand on the overhead rail, watching the inner workings of Reese Point flash by through grimy windows. Maintenance tunnels, exposed conduits, the occasional suspicious figure lurking in an access way.

  When they finally emerge into the main market in the bowels of the station, the assault on the senses is immediate. Noise, smells, movement everywhere. Trigger's eyes sweep the crowd, cataloging threats out of habit, but something else catches his attention.

  Apes. More than he's seen anywhere else in this universe.

  A group of chimps haggle over ship parts at a nearby stall. Two orangutans in worn flight suits argue about payment outside what looks like a bar. A gorilla in mechanic's coveralls shoulders past them rudely, offering no apology.

  Eli looks at each one with open murder in his eyes, and Trigger has to raise a hand to keep him from drawing his pistol on the gorilla who pushed past them.

  "Keep a lid on it," Trigger orders quietly.

  The eagle sneers at him, but keeps his gun in its holster.

  Eddy leads them deeper into the market, weaving through narrow aisles slick with grime. They pass a gun shop with military-grade hardware displayed openly in the bar-covered window, each piece resting on red velvet as though it were fine jewelry. The serial numbers have all been lasered off by a machine, leaving bright, perfect rectangles of bare metal in the finish of each weapon. A pair of bored-looking guards lounge just inside the door, both cradling rifles that look far too well-maintained for a place this filthy.

  The military hardware tapers off as they step into a wet market where the air grows humid and sour. Things that might be food glisten under flickering strip lights, each slab or carcass hanging from rusted hooks and dripping fluids Trigger doesn't want to identify. A tank of something vaguely eel-like burbles in one corner, its inhabitants stacked on top of each other, jaws gnashing slowly. Somewhere nearby, a cleaver slams down with a meaty thunk followed by a wet scrape.

  Further in, the light dims further, swallowed by clouds of spice-laden smoke and the low murmur of transactions. Shops here are nothing more than tables and crates where dealers measure out colorful powders on old scales, grow disgustingly strong-smelling herbs under jury-rigged lamps, and pass out pills in unmarked bottles to anyone with cash. Too many of the customers look gaunt, their fur patchy, cheeks hollowed, eyes darting in every direction as if searching for threats only they can see.

  The centerpiece of this drug haven looms ahead. A tall, narrow building clad in corrugated metal, stretching all the way up to brush the low ceiling. Its windows are opaque with grime, and from the warped doors drift faint, curling wisps of something sweet and chemical, a scent that clings to both the nose and tongue like syrup steeped in a mold culture. A muffled bassline thumps from within, out of rhythm with the rest of the station's noise.

  "Ech. I don't know how shitholes like this don't spontaneously go dark from disease epidemics," Eli mutters, sidestepping a puddle of something viscous on the bare metal floor. He casts a narrow-eyed glare filled with disgust down a maintenance hallway between two storefronts, and Trigger follows his gaze.

  In the unlit space, two shapes are… getting rather familiar with each other against the wall, carelessly dripping on the floor below them.

  Grimacing, the human averts his eyes.

  "You know joints like these?" Eddy asks Eli lowly, leading them along and keeping his head on a wary swivel and his ears open.

  "Just enough to get contracts for work," the eagle replies, rolling his shoulder and jostling his rifle. "I don't make a habit of lingering."

  The gecko nods. "I getcha. This place? Ain't the worst I've seen. You think you've seen it all, that nothin' can surprise you, then boom! Some poor fuck in a mechanized collar walks up to you with a contract, beggin' you to buy a decade or more of their time so they can avoid debt internment to Cheyat, or worse." Eddy's lips twist uncertainly. "Personal liquidation."

  "Slavery is practiced in Cheyat space?" Trigger asks with a deep, disappointed frown.

  Eddy peers back at him pensively, like Trigger might snap at him if he answers incorrectly. "Legally, cap'n? It ain't slavery. They have debt, and debt internment is Cheyat corp's hundred-percent legal answer if they can't come up with the scratch to keep their debt out of the hundred-thousand cred limit. Selling off everything they got and years of no-questions-asked servitude usually pays for it. No matter how bad a guy you sign yourself over to, it's better than the internment colonies. In there, you accrue interest on your debt, get your repayment docked for facilities, quarters rental, food, insurance, having kids, everything. Once you're in… You ain't getting out."

  "Slavery with extra steps, then," Trigger replies, his mood soured thoroughly.

  Trigger's face remains in a scowl that parts the unwashed throng around them until they're passing what looks like a junk shop that the man glances into.

  It's cleaner than most of the other establishments, selling what appears to be overstock and surplus goods. Probably fell off the back of various transports… Maybe.

  But there, between a case of ration packs and poorly repackaged holo-projectors, sits a stack of small boxes. The image on the topmost one shows a Javelin-class corvette in miniature on a stand, "Build Your Own!" emblazoned across the top in cheerful letters.

  Trigger stares at it for a moment, remembering the handful of plane models he built during his downtime in the war, and how he left them all behind in a little display case in his apartment.

  It was a soothing little activity, one he didn't have to rush, a rare thing in his life. A new case of models sounds like it would brighten his quarters up some.

  "Boss?" Lars asks, noticing he's stopped.

  Without answering, Trigger pushes into the shop. The proprietor, a nervous-looking monkey of some sort, watches as he steps toward the table by the window and picks up the model kit. Turning it over, Trigger examines the rear print.

  "How much?" He asks, looking over to the shopkeep.

  "Uh…" The monkey bites his lip. "Fifty credits?"

  Trigger fishes eighty-five in frontier notes from his suit's inner pocket and puts them on the counter, along with the box. "Have someone deliver this, some glue, model paint, and a hobby knife to the Javelin-class at docking bay eleven."

  The monkey's eyes widen at the extra credits. "Y-yes sir! Right away!" He says, scooping up the money and the plastic-wrapped box. "Arnold!" He hollers, stepping into a door behind the counter. "Job for ya!"

  When Trigger emerges back out of the store, Lars is grinning. "A model kit? Really?"

  "I like them," Trigger says without shame.

  Eli just rolls his eyes. "We done shopping? We have actual work to do."

  "Well, lucky for you, guy," Eddy pipes up, clearly enjoying this glimpse of normalcy from the tall, scary captain. "I've been keeping my ears peeled as we've been walking, see, and it sounds like info brokers around here usually set up shop in the lower entertainment areas. More noise to cover signals, if you know what I mean."

  Trigger nods. "Lead the way," he tells Eddy, ignoring the amused look Lars keeps shooting him.

  Eddy jabs the call button of the battered lift door set into the wall. "Entertainment deck should be one floor down," he says. "Just… don't lean on the rails unless you're the gambling type. Elevators don't get the best care in joints like these."

  "And there aren't stairs?" Lars asks, raising an eyebrow. "What if there's a fire and the elevator is out?"

  The gecko stops to think, snapping his fingers to try and jog his memory. "Whats that song by Quasar Green? The one about a fella having a crap day then going nutso when his house burns down?"

  "'Crispy Critter'?"

  "Thats it! You're living the Crispy Critter music vid experience then!"

  "God help us…" Eli sighs.

  The doors grind open a moment later to reveal a narrow cage of steel bars and patchwork plating. A faded safety placard in three languages warns against exceeding maximum capacity, though the weight numbers have been scratched out and replaced with "DON'T."

  They file in, with the elevator creaking when Lars puts his full weight down, then begin the lurch-filled descent.

  The ride seems to take forever, but finally the doors scrape open onto a broad mezzanine level. The space stretches out between two floors; above, a wide balcony wraps around a sprawling bar lit in neon and dotted with private booths and a few unmarked doors. Below, the thrum of music and the clink of chips drift up from a casino floor that proudly advertises, in looping holo-script, LIVE SHOWS & DIVERSE COMPANY – ALL SPECIES WELCOME.

  Lars' gaze lingers a fraction too long on the flashing signs promising "variety" before he catches Trigger watching and pointedly looks away, coughing into his fist.

  "I don't care what you do during your downtime," Trigger flatly tells the dog. "Strider Squadron isn't covering treatment for venereal diseases, though."

  Eddy guffaws, only to be silenced by a swift whack upside his head from a large hand.

  They head for the bar, as it's as good a place as any to start. The air grows warmer as they climb the stairs, the scent of stale alcohol mixing with synthetic citrus from an overworked diffuser hidden away somewhere. Inside, the crowd is a mix of rough spacers, nomads in patchy EVA suits, and a few too-polished faces who look like they're here on business rather than pleasure.

  Trigger picks a booth with a good view of both the main floor and the balcony rail. They slide in, Lars and Eli taking the flanks while Eddy sprawls like he owns the place.

  A waitress, a tall and sharp-eyed cheetah with an apron over an outfit that shows off more than it hides ambles over. "What'll it be?" she asks, tone flat from long habit and notepad ready.

  "Old Fashioned, Cornerian style," Eli is the first to answer.

  "Surpise me," Trigger repeats the side-step he used on Kalibo.

  "You got mezcal?" Lars asks, getting a nod from the waitress. He grins. "One glass, neat."

  "Dockside Sling. Real citrus if you've got it, babe, salt foam on top," Eddy winks at her.

  She scratches each one down, but before she can leave, Eddy raises a scaly hand.

  The lizard leans forward, voice dropping. "Hey, babe, before you go. You ever hear about any fresh opportunities for some fellas with an empty cargo hold?"

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Her expression doesn't change, but her eyes cool a degree. "I hear a lot of things," she says, pen hovering.

  Trigger studies her, reading the set of her jaw and the way her casual tone seems a little too rehearsed. He reaches into a pocket, pulls out a folded stack of fifty notes, and slides it onto the table without ceremony.

  "Top shelf for us tonight," he says, meeting her gaze. "Keep the change."

  The rustle of paper against paper seems to loosen her posture. She takes the bills and tucks them into her cleavage without counting them, then gives him a small smile. "Right away~"

  She turns away toward the bar, hips swaying.

  Eddy leans back in the booth with a grin as the waitress disappears through a door behind the bar. "Smooth move, boss. Real pro. That little bit with the notes? You looked like you've been doin' that your whole life."

  Trigger takes a slow breath. "I just did what felt cliché," he replies flatly. "Which meant it was probably right."

  Lars lets out a short bark of laughter, and even Eli smirks a little.

  It isn't long before the waitress returns, balancing their drinks on a scratched serving tray. She sets each one down, then slides a receipt onto the table in front of Trigger. "Enjoy," she says, already moving off toward another booth.

  Trigger lifts his glass, taking a sip and finding the amber liquid served to him smooth and smoky. With his other hand, he flips the slip of paper. Beneath the printed list of their orders is a scrawl in neat, deliberate script: ask for LeShank followed by a comm address.

  He tilts the receipt toward himself, shielding it with his hand as he keys the address into his wristcomm. The message he sends is short and to the point: Looking for LeShank.

  The reply comes back almost immediately, as if automated. Reese Point. Casino floor. Ask for Private Parlor Nine.

  Trigger goes to lower his sleeve, but pauses when he gets another message, finding it to be from Jodie.

  Got a ping, drive just lit up for a couple seconds. Signal's coming from somewhere close to your position. - Jodie

  He brings up the location on his wristcomm, cross-referencing it with the station's public deck plan. The ping sits just on the far side of their current position, close enough that the rear of the casino could cover it.

  "Looks like we're right on the money," Trigger says, finishing the last gulp of his drink.

  The others follow suit, Lars knocking back the last of his mezcal in one pull, Eli draining his Old Fashioned in a slower, deliberate sip. Eddy coughs as a bit of his own drink goes down the wrong pipe in his haste.

  They slide out of the booth and make for the stairs, leaving the bar behind. The hum of voices and music grows louder as they descend toward the casino floor, lights from countless holo-displays flickering over the crowd.

  The casino's entrance is a stark contrast to the grimy bar above. Polished chrome and glass frame the doorway, with two massive bouncers flanking either side. A bear and a rhino, both in ill-fitting suits that do nothing to hide the weapons underneath.

  The guards try to stop them and force them to surrender their weapons, to which Eddy jumps in, saying they're here for business, not pleasure, and they're not getting anywhere close to any tables or money. They go back and forth as the gecko's smooth-talking fails, until Trigger, tired of the bickering, steps forward. "We have business in parlor nine, and you're interrupting," he says with a frown and a narrow-eyed, hostile stare.

  Maybe it was saying the number of the parlor, or the menacing forms of Lars and Eli flanking him, but the guards lose their spirit after that and allow them to pass.

  The casino floor assaults the senses with a peculiar brand of painted-on excess. Everything that should gleam is slightly tarnished, every surface that should be clean has a faint film of grime. Holographic dancers gyrate above craps tables with worn felt, their projections flickering occasionally. Slot machines ping and whir, half their lights burned out but still somehow managing to separate fools from their money. The carpet might have been red once, but years of spilled drinks and worse have turned it a mottled brown. It's trying so hard to be aristocratic, but achieves something closer to a truck stop with delusions of grandeur.

  They weave through the crowd to parlor nine, just another door past the high-stakes tables. Inside, a small anteroom holds a desk and a secretary who clearly moonlights on the main floor. Her outfit leaves nothing to the imagination, all strategic cutouts and sheer fabric.

  "Gentlemen," she purrs, not bothering to look up from filing her claws. "Business with Mister LeShank?"

  "That's right," Trigger confirms.

  She glances up at last, eyes appraising them before she stands. "This way."

  A short hallway ends at another door, this one flanked by two alert guards, one a wolf, the other a tawny feline, both in light armor with rifles in loose grips.

  "Only one at a time," the secretary says with a plastic smile.

  Wordlessly, Trigger steps forward.

  The office beyond is everything the casino wants to be but isn't. Real wood paneling, genuine leather furniture, carpet thick enough to lose a boot in. Behind a massive desk sits a pig, rolls of fat barely contained by an expensive suit, multiple chins wobbling as he grins.

  Two more guards stand at his sides, hands resting near their weapons. It's what's behind the desk that really draws Trigger's eyes.

  Behind the pig, an imposing, humanoid combat bot looms. Its armor plates are scuffed, and its joints are sheathed in mesh for protection. Its right arm ends in a twin-barreled weapon, and its head, painted with a crude gold skull, has its optical sensors locked on Trigger from the moment he enters.

  "Welcome, welcome!" the pig effuses, gesturing to a chair. "Please, sit! Tell LeShank what Parlor Nine can do for you today."

  Trigger settles into the offered chair, letting feigned admiration color his voice as he forces a smile. "I've heard a lot about you, LeShank. They say you're the man to see in all of Libret space when someone needs information. The best at what you do."

  The broker's grin widens, preening under the flattery. "They're not wrong! LeShank knows everything worth knowing. No one leaves LeShank's casino or parlor unhappy!"

  "I'm hoping we can work out a trade," Trigger continues. "I need to know who might be heading to the Griath system in the next few weeks. Cargo manifests, crew rosters, that sort of thing."

  "Griath system?" LeShank's eyes light up. "Oh yes, yes! Very popular destination lately. LeShank has exactly what you need!" He swivels to his terminal, stubby fingers pecking at the keys. "For the right price, naturally. Let's see what we have..."

  Trigger watches the pig's expression carefully. The grin remains for a few seconds, then begins to falter. Confusion creeps across the pig's features as he scrolls through screen after screen.

  "That's... hold on a moment," LeShank mutters, clicking frantically. "This isn't... why is it all..."

  "Having trouble with your latest data drive?" Trigger asks casually.

  LeShank freezes. His small eyes dart from the terminal to Trigger, and the temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees.

  The guards shift slightly, hands moving closer to their weapons, and the combat bot's neck creaks as it adjusts position.

  "It was a serious mistake letting me walk in armed," Trigger goes, making the guards tense.

  "You…" LeShank says, all warmth gone from his voice.

  Trigger's hand blurs to his holster.

  ZATAT!

  Two shots crack out in rapid succession, so close together they almost sound like one. Both guards crumple, neat holes between their eyes, their limp fingers dropping the rifles they never got the chance to raise.

  LeShank shrieks like a stuck pig and throws himself behind the desk with surprising agility for someone his size. "Kill him! KILL HIM!"

  The combat bot's processors catch up to the violence. Its twin-barreled arm swings up with servos whining, but Trigger's already moving, diving left as the bot opens fire. The leather chair he'd been sitting in explodes in a shower of stuffing and wood splinters as bolts of red rip through it.

  From the hallway, more gunshots erupt. The sharp KERZAT! of Eli's rifle mixed with the deeper boom of Lars's handcannon. Someone screams, and there is the dull thud of bodies dropping to the floor.

  Trigger dives behind a heavy bookshelf near the door, the air ripping with the bot's opening burst. Fist-sized holes chew through the paneling, shredding the wall behind him into clouds of dust and splinters. The concussive thump of each shot rattles his teeth.

  'I hope my model made it back to the ship,' he thinks idly, surprised at how little the gunfire is actually bothering him. He rakes an arm along the shelf, knocking a cascade of dusty volumes into the floor, and sights through the gap they leave. He has time for one squeeze of the trigger, and his shot sears across the room, punching a neat, smoking hole through the mesh at the bot's neck joint.

  The return fire comes immediately, heavy bolts shredding leather bindings and paper around him into confetti. 'If it's not there by now,' he thinks, flattening himself against the floor, 'it probably won't make it in time for this hot exfil.'

  "SECURITY!" LeShank howls from behind his desk. "CODE RED! CODE RED!"

  The bot keeps advancing, each lumbering step making the floor vibrate, its smoking barrels tracking for any sign of him before firing.

  Trigger clicks his tongue as he stands again, glancing through a sliver between the shelves. Bracing his back against the wall, he plants both boots against the bookcase. Muscles coil, then he shoves.

  The tall shelf groans, then tips forward slowly, like a tree with an axe taken to it, until gravity asserts its hold. The impact is brutal, books and splinters exploding across the room. The bot staggers under the crash, the shelving breaking apart into jagged chunks that turn the once-pristine office into a storm of debris.

  "Boss, you good?!" Lars' shouts between shots on his and Eli's side of the door.

  "Help when you can!" Trigger calls back, eyes on the bot as it starts to straighten, shedding splinters from its armor.

  The door slams open and Eli leans in, rifle already shouldered. The confined space amplifies the WHUMP–WHUMP of two high-powered shots, each one snapping the bot's head back and carving clean, smoking holes through its armored plating. The gold paint of its skull stencil flakes away in curling strips around the wounds.

  The machine stumbles but doesn't drop, servos letting out a pitched whine as it steadies itself. Its barrels swing toward the doorway and answer with a storm of fire, forcing Eli to curse and dive back into the hall.

  "Tough bastard!" he snarls from cover.

  Trigger seizes the opening. He breaks right in a sprint and raises his pistol, firing off a trio of shots into the killbot's head and drawing the bot's sensors to him.

  For a split second, it tries to track both him and the doorway in a moment of indecision, or perhaps processing lag, giving Trigger ample time to get out of the way. He drops into a low slide across the plush carpet, the fibers catching at his flight suit, and comes up behind a velvet couch just as bolts scorch the air where his torso had been.

  Through the chaos, he can hear LeShank still whimpering behind his desk.

  With the bot's attention split, Eli bursts back in, and Lars barrels through the doorway right behind him, both with guns raised.

  The bot's twin barrels swing toward the doorway, servos grinding as it tries to lock onto both targets at once. Eli's rifle speaks first.

  KERZAT!

  The shot is surgical, punching through the bot's elbow joint in a spray of sparks and hydraulic fluid. The arm spasms, barrels jerking sideways just as it fires. The burst goes wide, stitching a line of holes across the ceiling that rain plaster and insulation.

  Lars doesn't hesitate to take the opening. The massive rottweiler charges like a linebacker, closing the distance in three thundering strides. The bot tries to bring its damaged arm back on target, but Lars is already there.

  His huge hands clamp onto the bot's weapon arm. Servos grind in protest as Lars's muscles bunch and strain, forcing the barrels up, up, up. The bot fires again, wild shots blowing out light fixtures in a rain of glass.

  "Eat this, you metal puto!" Lars snarls through gritted teeth.

  With a final surge of strength, he wrenches the still-firing arm around. The twin barrels press against the bot's own head unit, under where a chin should be. The machine has just enough time for its optical sensors to flicker in what might be electronic surprise.

  BUDDA-BUDDA-BUDDA!

  The bot's head explodes in a shower of sparks and twisted metal. Its body goes rigid, shudders once, then topples backward with a crash that shakes dust from the ceiling.

  Lars steps back, breathing hard, flexing his hands with a wide grin. "Always wanted to do that."

  In the sudden quiet, LeShank's whimpering makes way for the sounds of raised voices down the hallway.

  "Everyone alright?" Trigger asks as he rises from behind the couch he was using as cover. When he gets two nods in return, he smiles slightly. "Good work."

  During the short lull, Trigger's eyes turn to the dead guards, who are partially buried under all the debris of the fight.

  Thousands are dead at his hands, the war made sure of it, but this is the first time it's ever been so close, so personal.

  'Is it bad, I wonder,' Trigger thinks, staring down at a blank-eyed face frozen in surprise, 'how little I feel?' He shakes his head, clearing the thought. 'Questions for later.'

  They converge on the desk, weapons trained on wherever LeShank might be hiding. Trigger nods to Lars, who reaches under the desk and hauls the pig up by the collar of his suit.

  "Please!" LeShank squeals, sweat and what might be tears running down his jowls. His hands grasp Lars' wrist with a trembling grip. "We can work something out! I have creds! Marks! Whatever you want, I can get for you!"

  LeShank's frantic babbling fills the air as Trigger steps over splintered wood and scattered books toward the terminal on the desk. "I can triple whatever they're paying you! I have connections across all of Libret! You need weapons? Ships? I can-!"

  Trigger ignores him. He pulls up his sleeve, a retractable data cord springing free from his wristcomm. "Nidhogg," he says, jacking the wire into the access port of the broker's terminal. "Everything. Now."

  The screen flickers, with Nidhogg's recently obtained encryption cracker popping up on it. Lines of code begin streaming through the window at impossible speed.

  LeShank's eyes go wide. "What are you… NO! That's encrypted! You can't!"

  The terminal pops with a sharp crack, smoke curling from its vents as Nidhogg shreds firewalls and peels back layers of encryption like tissue. The scrolling text blurs into static, then the screen goes white… black… and finally dies with a pitiful electronic whine.

  "DATA ACQUISITION COMPLETE," Nidhogg's voice sounds almost satisfied through Trigger's comm. "FULL RECORDS OBTAINED."

  "My files!" LeShank wails. "Do you have any idea what you've-!"

  "Lars."

  The rottweiler doesn't hesitate. The meaty paw holding LeShank rises, then falls, slaming LeShank's head into the desk with a dull thud. The pig's eyes roll back, and he collapses limp. Lars then swings him up and over his shoulder like he's hauling feed.

  "Time to leave," Trigger says for them all.

  They burst from the office and straight into laser fire. Guards are flooding up from the casino floor, finally answering the code red with guns blazing. The first two through the door barely register Eli crouched in the hallway before his rifle roars once, piercing through one and into the other, killing both.

  "Go, go, go!" Trigger barks, snapping shots into the neck of a guard trying to flank from the side. The man falls, eyes wide as he clutches his cauterized neck.

  They charge through the anteroom, making the secretary scream and dive under her desk. Smart woman.

  The casino floor is utter pandemonium. Gamblers scatter like roaches, diving under tables and trampling each other to get clear of the firefight. A croupier abandons his table, chips flying everywhere when the table tips. The holographic dancers keep looping above the building riot, their programmed smiles never falling even as bolts pass through them.

  Two more guards pop from behind a bank of slot machines, guns raised. Trigger and Eli fire in unison, crossing their shots in the middle, and both guards crumple to the floor.

  "There!" Lars shouts, free hand pointing toward the exit, LeShank bouncing limply on his shoulder.

  The bouncers at the door make the mistake of stepping in their path with pistols in hand. Trigger plants three rounds center mass into the bear without breaking stride, and the man spins away, dropping his gun to clutch his sucking chest wounds. Eli, meanwhile, removes part of the rhino's head with a blast of his rifle, knocking the large man to his back and adding yet another stain to the casino carpet.

  They hit the mezzanine at a dead run. The decrepit elevator stands open as if by miracle. The ride up groans and rattles like it's trying to shake them out, every second dragging.

  The doors slide open to reveal a team of mercs waiting, scowling, weapons ready. Trigger's quickdraw is far, far faster than anything they can manage, however. A handful of sharp cracks later, and the mercs are sprawled on the deck before they can even think about firing.

  It's quickly becoming clear to Trigger that none of the security forces around here are anything close to professional. They're rigid in stance, rushing in and holding down their triggers with shaking hands, and using only the most basic of tactics. Twice Trigger has seen the station gunmen fall prey to friendly fire. Their ineptitude, to him, explains why his reflexes let him keep a firm upper hand.

  By contrast, Eli and Lars are by far his tactical superiors on the ground. Their guns are raised long in advance towards spots threats pop up from, their bodies angled to keep their profile as small as possible, and both are careful to not linger in long sightlines, moving from cover to cover. The man does his best to mimic them and keep the few lessons Eli has imported to him in mind.

  Again, he wishes his ship had VR pods. Ground ops aren't always going to be this easy, he thinks, and he'll be happy for any kind of practice.

  The mercenaries mixed with the guards, who must have been hired on hasty emergency contracts, are better, if only just. A few try to pick them off from a distance, limited in what they can do with LeShank in the crossfire, only to be counter-sniped by Eli.

  No slowing down. They crash onto the station tram platform, scattering a crowd with shouts and screams. A lone technician freezes at the controls of a waiting tram, eyes wide.

  Eli shoves his pistol under the man's chin. "Docking ring. Now."

  "Y-yes! Yes, sir!" The tech's hands shake so hard they fumble the keys before hitting the right sequence.

  Lars dumps LeShank into a corner where he groans once and stays down. The doors slam shut, and the muffled thunder of boots and shouting fades behind them as the tram picks up speed.

  "They'll be waiting at the stop," Eli says, checking his rifle's charge.

  "Let 'em come." Lars' teeth show in a grin as he cracks his knuckles.

  Trigger checks the readout on the side of his pistol. Still plenty of charge. His wristcomm crackles.

  "Trigger? What the hell is going on over there? The whole station just went on alert!" Mila's voice is tight with worry.

  "Warm up the ship," he says. "We're coming in hot."

  The tram begins to decelerate, the hum of its motors dropping in pitch. Through the cracked forward windows, Trigger spots them, at least eight guards and a few hastily conscripted mercs dug in along the docking ring platform. Some crouch behind cargo crates, others kneel by thick support pillars, all with weapons leveled on the arriving car.

  "Contact front!" Trigger barks, just as the first volley slams into them.

  The windows erupt inward in a blizzard of glass shards and superheated air. Laser bolts punch through the car, hissing past in streaks of light, leaving molten-rimmed holes in seatbacks and bulkheads. The stench of burning plastic and scorched metal fills the cabin, acrid enough to sting the nose.

  "Shit!" the tram driver yells, throwing himself flat. A bolt slices across the control panel inches from his head, leaving a smoldering black trench through the console.

  Everyone hits the deck as fire pours in. A shot punches through the floor near LeShank's limp form, close enough to make the unconscious pig twitch.

  "This isn't good," Lars growls, tearing a bolted-down seat from the floor and jamming it against the wall as another layer of protection. "They've got us pinned."

  Trigger's mind races. From the way the tram is rolling and slowing, he's guessing they have only three seconds until the tram stops completely. Three seconds until they're sitting ducks in a metal coffin.

  No time to second-guess.

  "Moving!" He vaults up and launches himself through a shattered window, tucking into a roll as he hits the platform. Glass digs into his back and bolts snap past him instantly, chewing at the deck plates in glowing scars.

  'Armor,' he mentally kicks himself as he remembers that he forgot something so basic for his supply checklist. 'Need to look into soft armor.'

  He fires on the move, two quick shots forcing a guard behind a crate to duck, another hitting one dead in the eye, dropping him limp over the crate he was using as cover. Half the platform swivels toward him, muzzles flaring in frantic, undisciplined bursts.

  Trigger dives into the narrow mouth of an alcove, slamming against the cool metal wall just inside a restroom entry. Fire chews the bulkhead behind him, sparks raining down.

  But he's done what he needed to do - give his team time to counterattack.

  Eli surges up through the tram's shattered side, rifle braced steady against the edge. His first shot drops a guard center mass, the second blows another off his feet mid-turn as he tries to track Trigger's movement.

  Lars clambers out right behind him, LeShank hoisted like an unwilling shield. No one dares put a round through their own payday, giving the rottweiler freedom to fire with his free hand. His pistol booms twice, one round catching a guard peeking from cover, the second tearing into another man's jaw and dooming him to a closed-casket funeral.

  The platform becomes a killing field, crossfire raking it from three angles. Guards and hired guns caught in the open crumple where they stand. Those still breathing scramble for deeper cover, their semi-professional formation collapsing into panic.

  "Push through!" Trigger shouts, breaking from the alcove and charging forward. His fire joins the others, hammering the guards' positions until there's nothing between Strider Squadron and the docking ring but scorched deck plating, the acrid haze of burned composites, and the nauseating stench of burnt fur and flesh.

  They sprint across the docking platform, bodies and spent power cells littering their path. The Cinder's nose looms ahead, still poking through the atmospheric barrier like a metal cliff face.

  "Jodie, drop the ramp!" Trigger barks into his comm.

  "Already on it!"

  The boarding ramp hisses open before they reach it. Mila stands at the top, a rifle raised, covering their approach. Her eyes widen at the sight of LeShank draped over Lars's shoulder.

  "Is that-?"

  "Talk later! Move!" Trigger cuts her off, pounding up the ramp.

  They pile inside. Lars dumps LeShank unceremoniously on the deck with a grunt. Eli immediately takes position at the top of the ramp and fires into another group of station gunmen, making them jump into cover. Mila lets a wild burst rip on the other side of the ramp with her rifle, most of her shots going wide, but it still forces heads down.

  "Nidhogg, release the mag clamps. Now!" Trigger orders, loosing bolts from his pistol every time someone dares point a blaster their way.

  "DISENGAGING MAGNETIC LOCKS."

  Through the corridors, he can hear the station's alarms wailing, an urgent warning that they have seconds before Reese Point scrambles fighters.

  A deep CLUNK reverberates through the hull as the magnetic clamps release. The front ramp pulls up and the ship shudders at its shields come online, and not a second too soon, as bolts begin to pelt the bow.

  "We're free!" Jodie announces on the intercom.

  "Then get us out of here," Trigger orders back, running up to the bridge with Eli and Mila on his tail. Lars brings up the rear with their groaning captive, turning instead to head to the middle floor of the bow, likely to drop off Marceti's package in the ship's tiny brig.

  The Cinder lurches backward, pulling free of the docking ring with a scrape of metal on metal. Through the viewport, Trigger can see station security flooding onto the platform they just left, too late to do anything but watch, as he drops into the captain's chair and catches his breath.

  Jodie spins the ship on its axis, bringing the main engines to bear. "Hang on to something!"

  She punches it. The Cinder leaps forward, acceleration pressing them into their seats before the inertial dampeners can compensate. Reese Point shrinks rapidly in the rear displays, its blinking lights becoming pinpricks against the black.

  "We've got incoming!" Mila's eyes go wide as she looks down at the sensor station. "Multiple fighters launching from the station. Eight... no, twelve, shit, twenty contacts!"

  The first wave of fighters closes fast, their engines burning bright against the void. The Cinder's turrets swivel to meet them, spitting fire.

  "Lars, portside flakkers!" Trigger commands just as the dog steps into the bridge. "Mila, starboard! Eli, get to the top turret!"

  Each of them jumps up and takes a weapon station as ordered, taking a moment to orient themselves, then the Cinder's turrets swivel and spit death.

  Lars scores first, his stream of fire catching a fighter that banked too predictably. It explodes in a brief flower of light. Mila clips another's wing, sending it spinning away.

  But twenty fighters is too many. They swarm the Cinder like angry hornets, laser fire splashing across her shields in rippling waves of blue. The bridge lights flicker as the shield capacitors greedily suckle down power.

  "Shields at seventy percent!" Jodie calls out, wrestling with the controls as impacts rock the ship. "Sixty-five..."

  Another fighter explodes under Eli's precise shooting, but three more slip through their defensive net. Their combined fire hammers the shields, and Trigger stares down at the captain terminal on his armrest pensively as the blue bar representing the shield continues to fall.

  "Sixty percent! They're focusing fire on our engines!"

  Trigger switches to the tactical display with narrowed eyes, counting hostile markers. Too many. Twenty fighters is just too much for their corvette.

  "Fifty percent!" Jodie's voice rises with stress.

  Trigger's seen enough. "All pilots, set turrets to autofire and get to the hangar. We're launching."

  They abandon their turrets and sprint for the hangar. The deck plates shudder under continued impacts. By the time they reach their ships, the ship's red emergency lights flip on as every bit of free power is being dumped into the shield.

  Trigger slides into the Wyvern's cockpit, slips his helmet on, and runs through his preflight checks like lightning. "Strider Squadron, sound off."

  "Strider Two, ready," Eli reports.

  "Three, engines hot," Lars confirms.

  "Four, let's do this!" Mila adds, excitement bleeding through her nervousness.

  The hangar doors cycle open. Stars and laser fire fill the view.

  "Launching!"

  They burst from the Cinder, then immediately break as fire converges on their position. Trigger rolls inverted, locks onto two fighters trying to bracket Mila, and fires. The Wyvern's cannons tear through both in a single burst.

  Already, he can tell these are simple goons, there isn't a worthwhile dogfight to be had here. They're just pests picking at his ship.

  Deep down, an animal in its cage snarls, irritated more by flies than any legitimate threat.

  Pulling into a high-G turn, Trigger lines up another shot. Three more fighters vanish in quick succession, barely having time to react to his presence. The Wyvern dances through their return fire like they mailed their moves to Trigger weeks ahead of time.

  "Damn, boss," Lars breathes over comms, watching another fighter disintegrate. "Leave some for us."

  Trigger doesn't respond. He's already locked onto the next target. And the next. The Wyvern's pink muon pulses hit dead-center each time, and with each hit, another fighter goes out in pieces.

  "I can't shake him!"

  "Break! Break! He's on your tail!"

  The radio is filled with chatter from their pursuers, and each second that ticks by sees distress form in their ranks.

  "Shit! I'm hit! I'm-!" The transmission dies in static.

  "He's everywhere! I can't-!" Another transmission is cut short, this time by the hiss-shatter of a cockpit explosively despressurizing.

  "Fall back! Form up on - BRRRZZT - no, scatter! Scatter!"

  "Reese Point, I need reinforcements, no-!"

  The final cry for help out into the void is truncated, ended by a burst of charged muons.

  In less than a minute, the entire area is clear of hostiles, leaving Strider Squadron floating quietly alongside their mothership.

  Looking out at the stars, Trigger takes a moment to himself. 'Feels the same,' he realizes, going back to the firefight in LeShank's office only twenty minutes prior.

  Jodie's voice cuts through, ending the tranquility: "Heads up! Looks like that call for help went through! Sensors show Reese Point's warming up another wave. We got more fighters prepping to launch."

  An annoyed scowl paints itself on Trigger's face.

  "Strider Squadron, defend the Cinder," Trigger orders, already banking hard toward the station. "I'll handle the second wave."

  "Trigger, are you sure?" Mila asks, a video stream opening on his HUD, showing him her worried frown. "I know you're… you, but that's a lot to handle alone…"

  The man unclips his O2 mask just long enough to give her a small smile. "I'll be fine, just stay back."

  He pushes the Wyvern's engines to maximum, streaking back toward Reese Point with Mila's concerned face on the HUD until the connection drops. As the station grows larger, he can see them clearly. Fighters are lined up on the docking ring's landing pads, canopies closing, engines beginning to glow.

  Sitting ducks.

  The Wyvern's railgun deploys with a mechanical chunk-kathunk, the massive weapon unfolding from beneath the fighter's belly. The magnetic coils around the barrel whine as Trigger lines up his shot, not at the fighters, but at the structure beneath them.

  The gigantic EM spike is impossible to miss. Through the docking ring's viewports and atmo-shielded hanger doors, warning lights begin flashing in rapid succession on the walls. Someone on Reese Point's sensors just realized that something isn't right.

  Trigger watches the charge indicator on his HUD climb. Eighty percent. Ninety. The Wyvern shudders slightly from the contained power.

  One hundred.

  He fires.

  The tungsten round crosses the distance in an instant, a blue-white streak that punches through the docking ring's hull like tissue paper. The entry point vaporizes, and the exit wound on the far side blows out in a spray of molten metal and atmosphere.

  The overpressure wave within the structure ends anyone within fifty meters of the impact zone instantly and mercifully, their bodies simply coming apart at the seams under forces they were never meant to endure. The fighters on the landing pads crumple like tin cans, their pilots crushed before they even understand what's happening.

  Microseconds later, the kinetic energy from the slug ripples outward.

  Metal screams and rivets snap as the entire section of the ring where the round passed through begins to buckle and tear, aided further by the rapid decompression. Emergency bulkheads try to slam shut, but the structural damage is too severe. With a grinding shriek that Trigger can almost imagine hearing through the vacuum, that whole portion of the docking ring rips free from its connecting spokes, leaving two of the four spokes twisted, but lucky for anyone riding the trams inside them, still whole.

  The ruined section tumbles away into space in two pieces. Bodies, fighters, cargo, it all spills out like blood from a severed artery. Secondary explosions bloom as fuel lines rupture and emergency power systems overload, trying to feed ineffectual atmo-shielding.

  The remaining docking sections of Reese Point go dark as emergency systems redirect all power to containment and life support.

  Trigger watches the devastation for a second, but before he turns and flies back, he opens his radio on all bands.

  "Don't challenge Strider Squadron."

  His promise of violence sent out in the yawning void, Trigger turns the Wyvern about-face and throttles up, leaving in a cruise.

  "FTL jump is done calculating and coordinates are locked in," Jodie says as Trigger comes into range, professional despite a slight tremor in her words. "We can go as soon as you're aboard."

  "Copy. Strider Squadron, return to ship."

  As they vector back to the Cinder, none of the team has much to say, and Trigger can only imagine it's because they're still processing what he did. Trigger glances once more at the distant debris field that used to be part of Reese Point.

  With any luck, the message will stick.

  Once the fighters are safely back in the belly of the corvette and the hangar doors are closed, the four pilots meet and slowly make their way to the bridge as Jodie makes their final jump preps.

  "You should have shot the main part of the station," Eli comments offhand to Trigger. "If you were going to blow it up, you shouldn't have half-assed it."

  Mila levels the avian with a glare. "That's messed up. Shooting a bunch of fighters on the dock is one thing, but I bet there were people who didn't deserve it down in there."

  "I gotta agree with minky on this one," Lars says. "There were a lot of poor saps looking down on their luck in there. Bet they were stuck, either because of the drugs, or gang shit, or just being too broke to afford a ride out."

  "Spacing 'em would be a mercy," Eli replies flippantly.

  The debate about collateral damage continues as they walk, until a rhythmic knocking cuts through their conversation. They all freeze.

  Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

  "You hear that?" Mila asks, turning her head to and fro. Her round ears turn too, and Trigger idly wonders what they'd feel like between his fingers.

  The sound comes again, muffled but insistent. Lars points toward hangar bay two. "Coming from over there."

  They approach cautiously, weapons half-drawn. The knocking grows louder, more desperate.

  THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.

  "It's… on the door?" Eli asks more than states, frowning.

  Trigger hits his comm. "Jodie, belay that jump. Check external cameras for bay door two."

  "Bay door two? Why would I..." There's a pause. When Jodie speaks again, confusion colors her voice. "Uh, Trigger? There's someone in an EVA suit pounding on the door. Like, actually pounding. With their fist."

  The team exchanges glances. Trigger keeps his hand on his pistol. "Open it."

  The bay door cycles open with a hiss. A figure in a bulky EVA suit tumbles through the atmospheric barrier, briefcase clutched in one hand. They hit the deck hard, scrambling to rip their helmet off. As soon as their helmet is ripped off, the four of them are treated to the sight of none other than Eddy sprawled out, gasping.

  "Air... getting... low..." Eddy gasps, his green scales pale with oxygen deprivation. He lies there for a moment, chest heaving, before pushing himself up on shaky arms.

  Then the gecko's expression shifts from relief to outrage.

  "You LEFT me!" He points an accusing finger at them, voice climbing. "I'm in there doing my part, and you fuckin' assholes just take off! Do you have any idea what I had to go through? The shootout! The explosions! Jumping after the ship AFTER you took off! Clinging to the side in the middle of a damn dogfight! And nobody thought 'hey, where's Eddy?'"

  Trigger blinks. In the wild escape, he'd genuinely forgotten about their guide. "I... forgot you were with us."

  "You FORGOT?" Eddy's voice cracks.

  "Thought you died in the shootout," Eli offers with a shrug.

  Lars scratches his neck. "I remembered. Just didn't really care, if I'm being honest."

  "Oh, that's rich! That's just fantastic!" Eddy throws his arms up, nearly dropping the briefcase. "Risk my life, save my own ass, pick up some prime loot like a real team player, and this is the thanks I get!?"

  "Wait," Mila interrupts, blinking as she processes the "loot" part. "What's in the briefcase?"

  Eddy clutches it protectively. "Wouldn't you like to know? Maybe if someone had WAITED for me, then-"

  "Eddy," Trigger says flatly.

  The gecko deflates slightly. "It's... You know, stuff! Look, when you all started shooting and everyone scattered, I hit the deck. Then when the guards rushed past to chase you guys, I figured, why waste the opportunity?"

  He shifts the briefcase to his other hand, gesturing wildly. "So I went through the casino, which was crazy, by the way, people trampling each other, chips everywhere, and doubled back to LeShank's office. The door was wide open, bodies on the floor, that big combat bot in pieces..."

  Eddy's eyes light up despite his indignation. "And there's all this stuff just sitting there! I figure 'Hey, dead guys don't need it!' There was frontier notes in the desk drawers, some venomian marks, this sweet briefcase, some jewelry in the wall safe, couple of rare bottles of Cornerian brandy and some damn-old wine-"

  "So you looted a crime scene," Eli states flatly, ignoring how he helped make that very crime scene to punch down at the gecko.

  "It's not looting!" Eddy protests, clutching the briefcase tighter. "It's like a… you know, a posthumous donation! LeShank's either dead or getting a cozy prison cell, and those guards definitely weren't using their wallets anymore. It's... salvage! Maritime law or whatever!"

  Trigger sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Why did you even bother coming back? You just listed all the ways you were almost killed with us."

  Eddy gapes at him. "Are you joking? Are you actually joking right now?"

  The gecko starts counting on his fingers. "Let me paint you a picture here. I just watched you three take on at least three dozen guards and win without a scratch while I'm scrambling behind trying not to get shot. Then I cling to your hull while this maniac," he points at Trigger again, "kills fifteen pilots in about a minute. THEN I watch him cripple a whole space station with one shot!"

  His voice rises with each point. "And then! AND THEN! That message over the radio? 'Don't challenge Strider Squadron?'" Eddy shivers theatrically. "How could I NOT want in on whatever you people are up to? Clearly, sticking with you is the winning move here!"

  Stick with Trigger and you'll make it!

  Trigger screws his eyes shut for a second.

  Eddy then grabs the limp tail of his EVA suit, flopping it around. "You know my old crew was so cheap they didn't even have a proper EVA suit for my species? I had to drop my tail to squeeze into a piece of shit made for an ape! Do you know how much that hurts? I had to do it every few weeks too! Just the hand-me-downs you gave me were already a step up!"

  Trigger raises an eyebrow and glances at Lars. "My transmission actually carried all the way over here?"

  Lars nods. "The Wyvern's got a damn powerful radio, boss. When you talk, it carries."

  Turning back to Eddy, Trigger crosses his arms. "What exactly can you contribute to my team?"

  "I... lots of things!" Eddy fumbles for a moment, then drops to one knee and pops open the briefcase with a flourish.

  It's stuffed to bursting. Credit chips, loose bills in multiple currencies, jewelry of gold and an odd violet metal that glints under the hangar lights, a stack of data drives, two bottles of red and amber alcohol, and even what looks like some rare coins in collector sleeves. A small fortune in portable wealth.

  "Consider this my audition fee," Eddy says, looking up with hopeful eyes. "I'm smart, I'm resourceful, and I just proved I can handle myself when things get hot. What do you say, Captain? Give a gecko a chance?"

  Trigger stares down at him for a long moment.

  The truth is, Eddy… was actually useful. Saving them credits at the dock, navigating Reese Point, even his theft could provide valuable intel if there is anything worthwhile on the plundered data drives that Nidhogg doesn't already have. And if he managed to escape that chaos, find an EVA suit, and make it back to the ship during a firefight... he's clearly not dead weight. Not entirely, at least.

  With another sigh, Trigger gestures toward the bridge. "Take the case up there so we can inventory it, then find yourself a bed in the men's bunks."

  Eddy's face splits into a massive grin. "Yes! You won't regret this, boss! I promise!" He turns and meanmugs an imaginary mirror. "Name's Eddy, Eddy McCarick of Strider Squadron." He can't hold the serious face for long and grins again. "I like it already!"

  "We'll see," Trigger mutters, already walking away. "Jodie! Begin jump sequence. We've wasted enough time here."

  Eli falls behind as they walk to the bridge, eyes locked to the back of Eddy's head.

  "So there I was," Eddy launches into a retelling of his side of the op to Mila, gesturing wildly with the briefcase, "wedged between two slot machines while the guards were running down towards where the shootin' stopped, and I'm thinking 'this is it, Eddy, you're done for. They're gonna find you and know you're up to somethin,' but then I see the cap'n and scary-eye walk out and-"

  The eagle reaches up and rubs his temples with both hands, a headache already forming behind his organic eye.

  "Fuck," he mutters under his breath.

  Forget getting shot at, the payday for putting up with the lizard had better be good.