Evan

  The flight time to Space Station 13 was going to be right around three hours. The fact that it was in the relative immediate vicinity of Horizon’s Retreat was a welcome boon. Typically, when chasing new bounties, the greatest hurdle wasn’t the fighting or even the capture—it was simply pinpointing their location. The Nova System, or Nova Galaxy depending on who you asked, spanned roughly one hundred and twenty thousand light years across. Federation space alone accounted for about twenty-four thousand of those light years, while the Pollox Empire claimed nearly thirty thousand more. The rest belonged to the eastern frontier, a chaotic expanse composed of uncivilized worlds, splinter colonies, and small interstellar governments and empires always on the edge of collapse. All of this to say, getting a brand-new bounty only a few light years from your current location was an absolute stroke of luck. Thinking about it now, the fact that I’d landed on the very same station as the Gamma Hounds back when I first received my moniker had been one of the luckiest coincidences of my life.

  After the briefing, everyone scattered to make their own preparations. Donning my power suit and helmet, I felt a relieved shudder ripple down my spine. As much as I’d come to enjoy the freedom of relaxing without it from time to time, walking around without the familiar weight almost left me feeling naked and exposed. I tried not to frame it that way in my own mind—I didn’t need another metaphor to emphasize how poorly I tended to handle social interaction. With the radiation protection sealed and the suit calibrated, I headed down to the hangar. Walking down the steps, I nearly tripped over something small and quick.

  “Woah there, big man!”

  I stopped and looked down. “Sorry.”

  The affable fennec only waved it off in good humor, his grin disarming as always. Together we crossed the hangar and each gravitated toward our respective fighters. The Alis was still as pristine as when I had last left it—not that I imagined a few days of neglect would make any difference to a machine I had obsessed over keeping in perfect condition. Climbing into the cockpit, I began to boot the systems, only to be met with what I dreaded: Firmware Update Required. I confirmed the prompt with a sigh and sat back as the process began. Waiting those few minutes, I glanced at the sync switch with only the faintest hint of regret. Looked like I was going to have use for those three long hours after all. Rolling my shoulders, I reached for the small storage compartment under the console, pulled out my old toolbox, and set it open at my side. When the firmware finished patching, another prompt immediately appeared: New Firmware Detected. Run Diagnostic Check? I hit yes, resigned, and began the long grind of calibrations.

  About an hour in, I was only halfway through when a small face popped into my view at the edge of the cockpit.

  “Whatcha up to, Evan?” Ratchet asked, curiosity alive in his tone as he watched me painstakingly work through the checklist.

  “Setting up the sync switch again.”

  The fennec grimaced. “Want some company?”

  I shrugged, though in truth I was relieved to have the offer. Not wanting to slip back into the default silent personality the helmet always seemed to push me into, I pulled it off and set it down. “Sure. Just be ready to duck out when I say so.”

  Ratchet tilted his head. “Why’s that?”

  I pointed over my shoulder toward the bulky unit behind my seat. “Because when I run a diagnostic on the battery, it puts out a nasty surge of beta radiation.”

  Ratchet only nodded, unfazed. “How long do your scrubbers take to clean the cockpit after that?”

  “Only a few minutes. And if my helmet’s back on, I don’t notice it.”

  The fennec leaned further over the seat to peer at the tangled mess of components. “Who installed this?”

  “I did. One of the first modifications I put into the Alis. Added it after I got thrown up against a T-3 Talon on an early bounty.”

  That got him to whistle low. “I don’t blame you. Those things are walking bunkers with wings.”

  He wasn’t exaggerating. Every Talon was a heavy fighter built like an omnidirectional bulkhead, weighed down with enough armor plating to shrug off almost anything short of concentrated fire. Their one balancing factor was that they flew like slabs of iron, almost completely incapable of fine maneuvering. But the T-3s pushed the concept further, doubling down on armor and mounting oversized blasters to each wing, effectively turning the craft into a flying turret. Their only weak spot was the cockpit, but even that was shielded with reinforced glass layered under energy shielding. Up to that point, my tactic had been thermal rockets to chew through shields—it had taken three of them and an unreasonable amount of luck to bring that Talon down.

  “So what’s up with your thrusters?” Ratchet asked suddenly, pulling his head back out of the cockpit before leaning in again with an eager look.

  “Uh… nothing?”

  He raised a brow. “No, seriously. You’ve modified nearly everything else on this beast. What’s up with the thrusters?”

  “I’m being serious. That stuff is literal rocket science. If I start tampering, I’ll probably blow myself up before I get anywhere.”

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  His expression turned unimpressed. He gave the overcharged battery another once-over. “You’re sitting two feet from a fission core that could kill you in twenty different ways, and you’re worried about thrusters? Why not slot in a ZZ battery instead of an OOO?”

  I schooled my face, resisting the urge to look at him like he was an idiot. “Pretty sure that would fry the blasters.”

  “Not if you vent the excess to the thrusters,” he shot back quickly.

  I frowned. “Which I’m not touching, because my acumen with thermodynamics is nonexistent. I’d cause an unfortunate explosion before I ever improved anything.”

  He gestured at me as though to push me further, but I let silence make my point. He groaned and dragged a paw down his face. “Yes, you don’t know rocket science. But you know who does?”

  I finally got it. “You?”

  He grinned.

  “That’s all well and good, but I still have…” I glanced at the diagnostics screen—76 out of 192 complete. “…a while.”

  Ratchet winced. “Another time, then?”

  “Yeah. Drinks on the station after the mission, then maybe thrusters. Sound good?”

  He beamed. “Here I thought you didn’t have friends.”

  The words pulled something sharp out of memory, and I thought of the man I used to spend hours fixing vehicles with. “I had a dad,” I said quietly.

  Ratchet froze like he’d just crushed a puppy underfoot. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  I raised a hand. “It’s not you. You were just bantering. Thanks for taking the time. I appreciate everyone’s patience with me.”

  He didn’t answer in words, just smiled and gave my shoulder a light punch before holding out his fist. I bumped it without hesitation.

  Several hours later the Gamma Ray slowed its acceleration and dropped into sublight speed. All four of us were gathered on the command deck as the nav console confirmed we were approaching Space Station 13. Before long, the hail came through.

  “Approaching carrier, you are in the vicinity of Space Station 13. We are in a state of emergency and you are not cleared to approach. If you are here on behalf of the Federation to render aid, please transmit clearance codes.”

  Normally stations hailed with visuals, but emergencies defaulted to audio-only. Emerald didn’t answer with words—she bent over the console, keyed in several commands, and transmitted the codes.

  “Clearance received, Gamma Hounds. Proceed to main hangar, port three.”

  A confirmation ding followed, and Emerald slotted the instructions into autopilot. The Gamma Ray glided forward, cutting through the bay’s vacuum layer before smoothly settling into port. I caught a last fleeting view of the asteroid belt beyond the station windows before steel and light swallowed the horizon.

  We assembled at the edge of the hangar bay, waiting as the exit cycled open and the ramp extended. Below, a crowd had gathered, panic worn plainly across dozens of anxious faces. Families, most likely—contracted miners’ spouses, children, friends—desperate for word about their loved ones. The sight pulled at me, but all I felt was dread at the thought of stepping into the mass. I hated crowds.

  Emerald

  Emerald looked once more at her team as they stood behind her. Each wore the squad’s signature jumpsuit and ear-comm, save for Evan. His power suit, however, now bore the Gamma Hounds’ emblem across the chestplate. With his helmet in place, she had to rely on his body language, which was always more subdued—rigid, but not awkward. It hadn’t taken long for her to realize the mask gave him a filter, shifting him into something colder, more professional, less prone to words. The galaxy at large didn’t yet know Shadow had joined her squad. This would be his official debut. But she suspected he wasn’t nervous about publicity—he was nervous about the crowd.

  “Ready?” she asked, directing the question at him even though it was meant for the whole squad.

  Both Nia and Ratchet turned to look at him. Evan gave a simple but resolute nod. Emerald smiled faintly, then punched the button. The bay doors opened and the ramp lowered. Federation soldiers stepped forward to clear a path.

  A well-dressed tortoise emerged from the crowd, flanked by guards. His skin had the worn texture of leather, his shell polished but weathered. Weeks ago she might have thought him tall, but standing near Evan only emphasized that the human was taller still. The tortoise’s escorts secured a space at the ramp’s base as the Gamma Hounds descended.

  The crowd stirred with recognition. “It’s the Gamma Hounds!” a beagle child cried, tugging on his mother’s skirt. Excitement rippled outward.

  “That’s V.V.!” a teenage mink gasped, pointing at Emerald before fumbling for her comm-pad to record.

  “Vee Vee?” Evan asked over the private channel.

  “Shorthand for my moniker—Violent Vulpus,” Emerald explained.

  “Ahh.” His voice carried the weight of something left unsaid, but he held it back.

  “Oh my god, look at that fennec! He must be new, he’s so cute!” an auburn fox girl squealed, pointing at Ratchet.

  The engineer nearly stumbled at the attention. Nearby felanids puffed their chests toward Nia, who acknowledged them with a sharp nod that made them beam proudly.

  Then heavy footfalls struck the ramp. Evan’s towering figure descended slowly, his metal boots resounding like a drumbeat.

  “Who is that?” someone murmured.

  “IT’S SHADOW!” the beagle from earlier screamed, voice piercing the hangar.

  The reaction fractured the crowd—older faces wary, younger boys wild with excitement. Emerald snickered.

  “Looks like you’ve got fans,” she teased.

  “How? It hasn’t even been a month since I got monikered,” he muttered back, baffled.

  “You should keep track of your views. Last I checked, you were at a couple hundred million.”

  Evan slowed a fraction but showed no outward sign. “That’s… a lot. Would’ve been astronomical where I’m from.”

  Emerald caught the slip but kept it tucked away.

  “Of course, with a moniker like Black Shadow, I’m not surprised,” he added, a rare thread of humor in his tone.

  The team reached the tortoise. He extended a hand. “Gamma Hounds. Captain Kennard said you’d be arriving along with Harriet’s Harriers. I’m Governor Jenner, and on behalf of the station, we are grateful for your aid.”

  Emerald stepped forward, shaking his leathery grip. “We came as soon as the Captain called.”

  Jenner’s gaze lingered on Evan. “I know the Hounds’ reputations, but you, Mr. Shadow, carry one of your own.”

  Evan’s voice emerged flat and distorted through the speakers. “So I’m finding out.”

  “I wasn’t aware you’d joined Gamma Hounds, but I’m glad to have another pilot with… a reputation,” Jenner said, though unease tugged at his expression.

  Evan only nodded.

  “Well, if you’ll follow me, we can provide a more thorough briefing than you received at Horizon’s Retreat.”

  The squad fell in step, all except Evan, who hesitated a moment, staring.

  Ratchet noticed. “What’s up?” he whispered over comms.

  “Why is his shell rounded on both sides?” Evan asked bluntly.

  Ratchet nearly tripped, barking a laugh, while Emerald smothered her own with a paw. Nia only shook her head.

  Jenner glanced back. “Is something the matter?”

  Emerald cleared her throat smoothly. “No. Shadow’s just very… talkative on the private line.”

  Jenner gave the human one last look before continuing ahead.

  “He’s just fat, dude,” Ratchet whispered, nearly breaking the squad’s composure a second time.