In the oddest sort of way, everything changed while remaining totally the same.

  Oh, Mila more or less moving into his quarters was a change for certain, but it only took a few days before it started to feel normal. She'd taken the bottom two drawers in his dresser for herself, and posters for the bands Quasar Green, Mink Floyd, and Flurry! migrated to his walls, but all the disruptions to his space ceased being out of place before long.

  Plus… Trigger does take some pleasure watching her bend over at the dresser to retrieve her outfit each morning.

  Is that okay to enjoy? Is it appropriate to look this early? Mila seems to enjoy the attention either way, or at least he thinks so. She wiggles her hips when she notices him looking.

  …Did she take the bottom drawers for that purpose?

  The crew didn't make a fuss about it. There was no announcement and no fanfare, nothing really to indicate that it was a shock to them. Jodie was the only one to say anything, which was "About time". Inwardly, Trigger suspects that he was the very last one to know about Mila's true feelings for him.

  Despite how much it visibly pains her, though, Mila has held herself to his wish to pace things. When he's well and truly exhausted with being social (which feels like it's happening less and less these days), she'll make herself scarce, and she's yet to push for anything deeper than sleeping snuggled together.

  Ironically, it's Trigger who is having problems here. With free reign to touch and admire the mink of his affections as much as he wants, previously uninteresting urges prod him, trying to goad the parts of him still digesting these changes into acting unwisely.

  Annoying. It's a battle the logical side wins easily, but still.

  It doesn't stop him from partaking in some activities that feel lurid, though.

  Like the apparently vaunted lap pillow.

  This morning, Trigger woke up early, performed his rounds about the ship, had his morning meeting with Farworth and Dobs, Farworth's XO, checked his internal mail, and found himself already done with his obligations. With the rec room empty, he laid down on one of the couches and decided to peruse Nidhogg's plundered database.

  Then Mila walked in and was promptly offended that he wasn't in contact with her, so she weaseled her way between him and the couch.

  Furred thighs are indeed pretty soft, making for some comfortable reading.

  The Multi-Purpose Burst Missile entry hovers above Trigger's wristcomm, schematics rotating lazily as he scrolls through the technical specifications. The MPBM, if he is reading right, is the predecessor of the Arsenal's Bird's less effective, but much safer Helios missile. The warhead's secret lies in its payload: a polynitrogen compound so energy-dense that even small quantities pack a devastating punch. A single MPBM could sink an aircraft carrier and its escort screen.

  'Or blow away a cruiser-sized ship. Synthesizing it would be a problem, though' he muses, flicking to the chemical breakdown. The nitrogen bonds required pressures and temperatures that would make most industrial equipment weep. Strangereal had the infrastructure for it. Out here? He'd need to find a specialist facility willing to take on dangerous work without asking too many questions. 'The sub-zero magnetic containment required for the assembled payload is also a concern. Not a chemist, but this formula looks as sensitive as nitroglycerine. Hmm…'

  Something to table for later, then.

  Above him, Mila's voice drifts down. "You sure it's every skunk?"

  "Every skunk in civilized space," Stella replies from the other couch, her tone carrying a hint of exasperation. "It's been standard practice for generations now."

  Trigger keeps his eyes on the schematics, but his attention splits between the technical data and the conversation overhead. Mila, he's learning, is a master of ferreting out interesting info from people, even if she doesn't know it.

  "But like... how does that even work?" Mila presses, one of her hands absently finding its way into Trigger's hair. Her fingers card through the short strands as she talks. "Isn't that kind of a big surgery?"

  Stella shifts on her couch, and Trigger can hear the slight embarrassment in her voice. "It's not surgery at all. It's a simple outpatient procedure. Two injections of cell-templated enzymes, and you're done."

  "Enzymes?" Mila's fingers pause their ministrations. "That's it? No cutting?"

  "No cutting." A soft sigh escapes the skunk. "The enzymes are designed to deactivate the..." She pauses, and Trigger can practically hear the air quotes forming. "...'stink' glands by preventing the synthesis of thiol, a sulfur-based compound responsible for the odor."

  Mila makes a noise of vague understanding. "Uh-huh."

  Stella continues, slipping into what sounds like a well-rehearsed explanation. "Once the thiol production is interrupted, the glands naturally atrophy over the course of a few weeks, and because the enzymes are DNA-matched to the recipient, they don't trigger an immune response. The body simply allows them to complete their work." She pauses. "In nearly one hundred percent of cases, there are no complications whatsoever."

  A beat of silence follows. Mila's fingers resume their movement through Trigger's hair, slower now, and he can practically hear the creak of the gears turning in her head. He can't see her face, not with her chest in the way, but he can imagine her squinty, thoughtful expression.

  "So..." the mink ventures, "you get some shots in your butt and that's it?"

  Stella sighs again, heavier this time. "Yes, Mila. You described it to a T."

  "Huh." Mila sounds genuinely impressed. "Wow. If every skunk does it, then how come I've never heard of-"

  "Hun, no one likes discussing injections they take to someplace so embarrassing."

  Trigger flicks to the next page of the MPBM entry, which lists out a blueprint for the missile body, though he's barely reading it now.

  "You know a lot about this stuff," Mila observes. "Medical things, I mean. You always this encyclopedic, or...?"

  There's a pause. When Stella speaks again, her voice has softened, touched with something that might be wistfulness.

  "I studied biology and medicine during my specialized schooling." The words come carefully, measured. "The administrators insisted we develop skills outside of psionics. Practical skills, things that would make us useful beyond our... talents."

  Trigger's eyes flick up briefly, catching how the skunk stares at the wall.

  "I found medicine fascinating," Stella continues. "The intricacy of biological systems, the elegance of the Cornerian body, the satisfaction of understanding the chemical balancing act we all perform each day, and how to keep the many plates spinning..." A soft, rueful laugh escapes her. "If circumstances hadn't forced me into... this kind of life, I might have pursued a doctorate."

  Mila hums thoughtfully, her fingers resuming their idle path through Trigger's hair. "You know... Strider doesn't have an on-board doctor yet."

  The suggestion hangs in the air, as subtle as a brick through a window.

  Stella shakes her head, though not unkindly. "I don't have a license to legally practice medicine. And besides..."

  She trails off. Her violet eyes find Trigger's, searching for something.

  Trigger meets her gaze evenly. In the weeks since she came aboard, the skunk has been losing her wariness of him at a surprising pace. The flinches have faded, the careful distance has shrunk, and now she holds eye contact without that hunted tension in her shoulders.

  'Something changed after Mila and I got together,' he realizes. 'Why?'

  Before he can voice the question, his wristcomm chirps with an urgent tone.

  "Trigger! Eli!" Eddy's voice crackles through, pitched higher than usual. "We got unknowns with no IFF a few thousand klicks from the upcoming gate!"

  Trigger is on his feet before the message finishes, Mila's disappointed noise following him as he strides toward the bridge. His hand drops to check his sidearm out of habit.

  Eli falls into step beside him in the corridor, the eagle's feathers bristled and eyes sharp. Neither speaks. Behind them, heavier footfalls announce Lars, and the lighter scramble of Stella and Mila bringing up the rear.

  The bridge doors hiss open to reveal Eddy hunched over the sensor station, scales pale, with Jodie leaning over his shoulder and frowning at the readouts. Both look up as the rest of the crew files in.

  Trigger drops into the captain's chair. Around him, bodies flow to their usual stations: Mila to comms, Lars to the turret controls, Jodie sliding into the pilot's seat. Stella hovers near the back, out of the way but watching intently.

  Eli takes his place at Trigger's right, arms folded. Once everyone is settled, he fixes Eddy with a hard look. "Sitrep. Now."

  Eddy's throat bobs. "R-right, so, I was checking over the sensors, right? Because all my leads on the Griath III social scene went cold, every fixer and fence I pinged either ain't heard nothin' or needs their palms greased and I already hit my budget, so I figured I'd look at the scopes 'til I could talk to Trigger and all, and that's when Niddy flagged something on passive, and I thought maybe it was a glitch but I ran it twice and-"

  Eli makes a sharp, circular gesture with one talon. Get on with it.

  "Ships!" Eddy blurts. "Running dark, low power, about thirty thousand klicks out. No transponders, no IFF, just sitting there like they're waiting for something." He swallows. "I didn't ping 'em with active scans 'cause I didn't wanna spook whoever it is, so I grabbed Jodie to triple-check, then called you and the boss."

  A surprisingly well thought out plan for Eddy, if Trigger is being honest. He nods once. "Good work."

  Eddy blinks, mouth hanging open for a half-second before he catches himself. "I... really?"

  Trigger is already typing out a message to the Haul-o-Rex, fingers moving across the armrest console. A warning to Farworth and Dobs: Unknowns ahead, potential hostiles, advise caution and prepare for evasive action. Strider is assessing now. The message sends with a soft chime.

  "Eddy, begin active scan," Trigger orders, eyes on the main viewport. "Mila, hail them."

  "On it," Mila responds, all business now. Her fingers flip the transmit switch, and she leans forward towards the microphone jutting out of her station. "Unknown vessels, this is MVC Aquila. You are operating without active transponders in a monitored shipping lane. Identify yourselves and state your intentions."

  Static hisses from the speakers.

  Silence.

  Mila tries again, adjusting frequencies and bumping up the power. "Unknown vessels, this is MVC Aquila. You are operating without active transponders in a monitored shipping lane. Identify yourselves and state your intentions. Respond on any channel."

  The comm panel flickers. Mila straightens, her ears perking up. "Oh, getting something! Audio and video!"

  Trigger's eyes narrow slightly. "Open it."

  The main viewport shimmers as the starfield is replaced by a transmission feed. The face that greets them belongs to a lizard, scales mottled tan and brown, with a jutting underbite and a beard of sharp spines framing his jaw. Scars crisscross his snout, and his eyes carry the dull gleam of someone who's grown too comfortable with violence.

  "Attention, freighter and escort," he growls, yellowed teeth visible as he speaks. "This is your only warning. Jettison your cargo and any valuables, or we crack you open and take it ourselves. Your choice how messy this gets."

  Trigger regards the screen with the same expression he might give a weather report calling for rain. "Who am I speaking to?"

  The lizard's scarred face splits into a smirk. "Name's Jakob Spire. I run the dark lanes around Griath III. You're in my space now, monkey." He leans closer to his camera, scales catching the dim light of whatever he's broadcasting from. "Course, you already knew that. And you know if you don't want to be spacing without suits, you'll do exactly as I say."

  "Scan's coming back," Eddy calls from his station, nerves audible in his voice. "Three corvettes, eight fighters. And boss, these corvettes are rough. I'm talking rustbucket hackjobs that don't match any known designs. Looks like someone glued three different ships together with chewing gum and called it a day."

  On screen, Spire's smirk curdles into a scowl.

  Trigger doesn't even glance at the pirate. "Eddy. Have you heard of a 'Jakob Spire'?"

  The gecko blinks, then shakes his head. "Nah. I know all the guys worth knowin' in this stretch of space, and that don't include anyone named Spire." He scratches at his neck. "If he was really running dark lanes out here, I'd have heard something."

  Spire's scales flush a darker shade. "You think this is a joke? You think I'm-!"

  Trigger taps a button on his armrest, and the viewport flickers back to stars mid-syllable, cutting off whatever threat the lizard was winding up to deliver.

  Silence settles over the bridge for a beat. Then Eddy swallows audibly.

  "Uh, Trigger? They're powering up and moving to intercept…"

  Trigger drums his fingers once against the armrest. "Did your homework include bounties?"

  Eddy hesitates. "I... yeah? I skimmed the boards when I was poking around for intel."

  "Any on our new friends?"

  "Not that I saw. These guys ain't on anybody's radar."

  Trigger rubs his chin, thinking to himself for a moment. "Lars, Eli, Mila. Prep for launch, just in case." He pauses, turning his gaze toward the sensor readout, where eleven hostile signatures drift closer with each passing second. "But, I think this is a good opportunity for a field test."

  He glaces down to the small screen on his armrest. "Nidhogg?"

  "Standing by," the AI is quick to answer.

  Trigger allows himself a breath, reminding himself that this is all for his crew. "Launch the MQ-99s in standalone mode, I want to see how they perform." He turns his head up, eyes fixed on the viewport. "Destroy all hostiles."

  Nidhogg takes a second to answer. It's not a long time at all, not for an organic, at least, but for a machine? A second might as well be a year on its own, an age to process input. When the answer does come, it's spoken oddly, an inflection Trigger can't place on the single word, but if he had to identify it off the cuff…

  "Acknowledged."

  He'd say it sounded gleeful.

  In the belly of the Aquila, four angular shapes drop into the void, then rocket away on plumes of blue ion fire.

  Spire gnashes his teeth, claws gouging furrows into his armrest.

  "Arrogant little shit," he snarls under his breath. Cutting off Jakob Spire? Him? He's taken down six convoys in the past month alone. Three successful raids in Griath's outer lanes, each one fatter than the last, and some nobody merc in a patrol boat thinks he can just hang up on him?

  His fist slams down on the armrest. "Doubletime it to weapons range! I want that corvette's belly split open in the next five minutes!"

  The pilot, a nervous-looking ferret with more grease stains than sense, pushes the throttle forward. The deck vibrates as the engines strain.

  "Picking up fighters launching from the merc boat," the sensor operator calls out, a reedy cat with a skeletal prosthetic on his left hand. A new guy, but good at his job. Shit, Spire might cut him a little extra for a better hand after this. Good help is hard to come by. "Four contacts, moving to intercept. They'll be on us in about forty-five seconds."

  Spire snorts. Four fighters against eight, plus three corvettes? The mercs have to be getting paid well to be this suicidal, and if they're being paid like that, then the freighter must be carrying something good!

  "Rouda Wing, Goblin Wing," he barks into the fleet channel. "Intercept and destroy. Show these fucks what happens when you pick a fight with Jakob Spire!"

  Acknowledgments crackle back, eager and hungry. His hodgepodge of fighters surge ahead, a motley swarm of repurposed frames and salvaged weapons. They're not pretty, but they've gotten the job done before, and they'll do it again here.

  Spire leans back, satisfaction curling his scarred lips as he watches his pilots race to meet the enemy.

  Then the sensor operator's voice pitches upward.

  The cat's cybernetic whines as his fists tighten. "Ten seconds to contact!"

  "What?" Spire lurches forward. "That's imposs-!"

  Four white blurs scream past the viewport, so close he swears he could count the hull plates. The corvette shudders as impacts hammer the shields, and Spire grips his armrest to keep from being thrown from his seat.

  "What just happened?!" he roars.

  The comms officer, Spire's own cousin, responds quick. "Fuck! Goblin One, Goblin Three, and Rouda Two are gone!"

  Three fighters. Three of his pilots, dead in the span of a heartbeat.

  "Hostiles coming around for another run!" Sensors calls out.

  Spire shoves down the cold worm of unease trying to slither up his spine, letting fury take its place. "All ships, get hands on guns! Every turret firing! Pilots, focus on those fighters. Once they're scrap, we avenge our boys!" He roars.

  The fleet comm erupts with war cries and swears. Laserbolts lance out from his corvettes, filling the void with a storm of light. His remaining fighters wheel and scatter, trying to get guns on the white shapes spiraling through the bolts.

  It doesn't help.

  "They're too fast! I can't get a lock-!" Rouda Four's transmission dissolves into static.

  "Where did it go?! It was right in front of-!" Goblin Two's voice cuts off with a sharp burst of interference.

  Spire watches his tactical display, sees the green dots representing his forces wink out one by one. The white fighters don't move right. They jink and weave with impossible reaction speed, never overshooting, never hesitating, and turning so fast that their pilots should be soup. When one of his pilots manages to line up a shot, the target simply isn't there anymore, and another white shape drops onto the shooter's tail like a hawk on a mouse.

  They can't be drones or something, can they? Spire thinks back to his old days working for Cheyat Corp as a transport pilot. He moved stuff with value, so the drones they used to escort his freighter were some of the best around, second only to Hajiti auto-fighters, and they could never rip like this!

  "Rouda Wing is gone!" the sensor operator shouts, interrupting Spire's thoughts. "Goblin Wing is - Goblin Four just went dark!"

  "Concentrate fire!" Spire bellows, but his voice sounds thin even to his own ears. "Box them in! They can't dodge everything!"

  But they can. They do.

  The Fang, his portside corvette, takes a sustained barrage that walks across its engine block. The ship lurches, trailing fire and debris, its thrust sputtering out as it drifts into a helpless spin. The comms officer of the Fang calls them for help, but the signal dies halfway through as the corvette's power goes offline.

  "Fang is drifting! Her reactor is offline and life support is failing!" Sensors again, the cat's fur standing on end. "They're focusing on the Maw now!"

  Spire watches through the viewport as the Maw desperately tries to bring its guns to bear. The white fighters make another pass, this one slower, more deliberate. Green bolts punch the same spot on the corvette's shields over and over, until the rear emitter dies in a burst of sparks. With no shield, the green bolts carve into the armor, then though blue-white vapor as a hole is bored into the hull. The comm station chirps urgently.

  "Captain, our reactor is hit! We're-!"

  Then the Maw's reactor breaches before the Lieutenant that Spire put in charge can finish, and the ship comes apart in a silent blossom of fire and shrapnel.

  "No," Spire breathes, his insides cold.

  His own ship rocks as another volley slams into them. Lights flicker. Consoles spark. Someone screams from the aft section, the sound swallowed by the groan of tortured metal and blast doors slamming shut with a tooth-rattling bang!

  "Shields down!" the ferret pilot cries. "Guns three and four are slag! Hull breaches on decks two and three!"

  Spire looks at the tactical display again. Eight fighters, gone. Two corvettes, gone. His ship, bleeding air and fire.

  They're alone, and the four white shapes are still out there, circling, eagerly lining up another volley.

  'Did we even hit them?' The thought comes unbidden, and Spire realizes with dawning horror that he doesn't know. He can't remember seeing a single shot connect.

  "Open a channel!" he shouts, shoving himself upright, bravado as dead as most of his gang. "Open a channel to the merc boat! Tell them we surrender! We're done! It's over!"

  The comms officer's claws fly across his console. "I'm trying! The signal's-" He slams a fist against the panel. "I can't get through! No pingback from lasercomm either!"

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The color drains from Spire's scales. "What?! Are they jamming us?! They can't do that!"

  Another impact rocks the ship, harder than before. The deck tilts and things float as the grav fails. Atmosphere begins whistling through fresh wounds in the hull, and klaxons wail loud enough to drown everything else.

  Spire turns to the viewport, desperate, as if he might somehow signal with his hands, beg for mercy with his eyes.

  The four white fighters hang in a diamond formation, motionless against the stars. Nowhere on them can Spire see a cockpit.

  Then their guns light up, and everything dissolves into green fire.

  The main viewport zooms in on the final moments of the engagement. Spire's corvette, already listing and venting atmosphere from a dozen wounds, drifts helplessly. The four MQ-99s hold formation at close range, their white hulls pristine against the blackness of space.

  Then green laserbolts fly, and the corvette's bridge bursts open like an over-ripe fruit.

  Debris spirals outward in a silent bloom. The bridge of the Aquila is quiet save for the soft hum of electronics and the occasional beep from Eddy's console.

  "Whew, it's a little spookier watching 'em go in real life," Lars remarks, leaning back in his seat as the drones circle the wrecks once before beginning their return.

  "Lifesigns negative. All hostiles destroyed," Nidhogg reports, its voice back to the flat, emotionless enunciation as usual. "Recalling MQ-99 units."

  Trigger nods slowly, fingers steepled beneath his chin. Eleven hostiles with subpar equipment and skills. Four drones. Less than five minutes from engagement to mission complete, discounting the travel time. Roughly as expected, all things told.

  "Damage report," he orders.

  Nidhogg hesitates. "Drone Two sustained superficial damage to port wing. Drone Three shows minor ventral hull warping from near miss of weapon discharge." A new feed flickers to life on the viewport, showing the Aquila's underbelly camera. "Visual confirmation to follow."

  The MQ-99s glide past in single file, close enough for the camera to pick out detail. Drone Two sports a fist-sized hole punched clean through its wing, the edges still glowing faintly from the heat of impact. Drone Three's belly is subtly discolored, the armor warped just enough to catch the light differently.

  "Performance data has been logged," Nidhogg continues. "Refinement of MQ-99 combat algorithms will begin immediately."

  Jodie lets out a low whistle, a grin spreading across her muzzle. "Look at my babies go." She leans back in the pilot's seat, arms crossed with obvious satisfaction. "I can patch up that damage easy, and have 'em ready to fly again by tomorrow morning."

  "Good." Trigger turns to the sensor station. "Eddy. Full sweep. Make sure we didn't miss anything."

  The gecko's claws clatter across his console. A few tense seconds pass before he shakes his head. "Nada. Ain't nothing out there but scrap and spacedust."

  "Then we're at ease." Trigger pulls up his armrest console and begins composing a message to the Haul-o-Rex. Threat neutralized. Resume planned route.

  Around him, the crew begins to disperse. Jodie stretches and heads for the corridor, already muttering about grabbing her tools. Lars cracks his neck and follows, with Eddy scrambling after them, still looking a bit pale. Eli lingers a moment longer, exchanging a wordless glance with Trigger before taking his leave.

  Mila pauses at the door, throwing Trigger a look that tells him not to work too hard, then she follows.

  That leaves just Trigger and Stella on the bridge.

  Stella approaches the captain's chair, her steps hesitant. Trigger doesn't look up from his typing.

  "Mila has told me a little about your homeworld," the skunk says quietly.

  Trigger's fingers pause. He rolls his eyes, though there's no real heat behind it. Of course his chatterbox mink would prove a double-edged sword.

  Stella's tail curls around her legs, a nervous habit he's noticed before. "She said you fought in a war. That you shot down a great many drones like the ones just deployed."

  Trigger nods and resumes typing, his expression unreadable.

  "How many?"

  The message to Farworth finishes with a soft chime. Trigger sends it, then finally glances up at the skunk.

  "A lot more than four."

  The lack of a queue at the gate to Griath III, or even defences more substantial than a pair of Libret frigates, is telling as to the state of what is to come. Moments after radioing the gate controller, they're given the go-ahead. Once through, the Aquila and Haul-o-Rex need only several hours at subluminal speed to come into the system. Griath III has only one habitable planet, Junith, and the planetary traffic controllers are almost tripping over themselves to give freighters like the Haul-o-Rex preferred treatment… On the condition that the local government gets first pick of incoming goods.

  Smelling blood in the water, Farworth agrees. Some lackey of the planet's governor attempts to get the old badger to agree to fixed pricing, but folds the moment Farworth feigns turning his hauler 180 degrees around.

  Already, it's looking like they're going to have to be more diligent here than on the last two stops, and Trigger is proven right when they land first at their client's behest.

  Once more, the whole crew is in the bridge as the Aquila begins touchdown on the spaceport of Junith's capital and sole large city, Black Point, and the view through the viewport paints the city as being in some dire straits.

  Closer to the city and around the outskirts of the spaceport, a row of burned, blackened buildings stand out in stark contrast to the prefabs around them. The economic downturn being so recent means the standing buildings have yet to show true signs of rot, but that only makes the boarded up windows and graffiti stand out even more harshly.

  Down in the spaceport, the police presence is worryingly thin, but the hired guns most certainly are not. Weapons bared openly are common on the frontier, but the thugs and mercs below hold their guns at low ready with their heads swiveling. Not a single dockworker makes it past the lines of armed men without being scanned, patted down, and having his credentials checked twice.

  As the Aquila's landing struts hiss and extend, Trigger taps a button on his chair to zoom the viewport cams onto a scene in the distance.

  On the screen, a distressed canary with his back to his forklift lifts the ID hanging from his lanyard to a scowling crocodile in soft armor. Behind the croc thug, a corvette roughly resembling a CH-54 Tarhe is offloading crates from its recessed belly to a long line of varied loaders.

  The croc, apparently not satisfied with the canary's credentials, lifts his rifle and brains the bird doc worker in the side of the head with the weapon's stock, sending him to the asphalt, bleeding.

  Just ten paces away, a pair of police officers walking by pretend to see nothing.

  The Aquila rumbles as it touches down, and Trigger dismisses the camera feed, thinking.

  At the pilot station, Jodie simply watches the readout with her arms crossed, nodding happily at the green across the board. "Landing successful. Scratch another one for Niddy."

  The intercom above chirps. "Designation: Nidhogg. Request: use correct designation…"

  Ignoring his amusement at the disgruntled AI, Trigger clears his throat, drawing all eyes on the bridge to him. "Everyone," he begins, "this will be our final stop before the return trip to Tantalus, and will likely be the most hazardous ground portion of our assignment. As before, Farworth will require two of us at minimum keeping an eye on him. Due to the condition of the planet, I strongly recommend against venturing too far away from the ship, but if it is required, you must travel in twos. If trouble finds you, you radio for backup ASAP. If a thief manages to steal something from Farworth during your guard shift…"

  A small frown finds its way to Trigger's face. "Exercise proper discretion in regards to team optics. Attempt a non-lethal takedown if feasible for obvious crimes of desperation. If that isn't possible…" He lets the unspoken order hang. "For armed or aggressive troublemakers, weapons are free."

  From her seat, Mila's ears pin back, and she chews on her bottom lip. "So if we can't stop them, thieves I mean, we just… Shoot them in the back?"

  "Every credit the client loses is less for us, and a blow to our reputation. Letting one get away will embolden others to try their luck not just with us, but elsewhere, too. " Eli turns his head to stare down at the mink. "Really, we're doing them a favor by taking a hard stance. You can bounce back from hunger, you can't bounce back from a bolt to the skull you got because you think you're hot shit. Personally, I'm of the opinion that any thieves should be shot," he says, turning his yellow gaze to Trigger.

  "My orders stand," he shoots back, getting a grunt from Eli, then Trigger looks towards Mila with a slightly more gentle face. "It's an unfortunate reality of the job, Mila. Mercenary life isn't all glamour and adventure."

  Mila nods a bit absently, turning her red eyes down and idly fingering the pistol strapped to her thigh.

  "Any questions before we secure the hauler's landing spot?" Trigger asks as he stands. Getting nothing, he nods. "Ground team, on me. Jodie, Eddy, Stella, remain on alert."

  The armory is a brief stop. Trigger sheds the top part of his flight suit long enough to throw some soft armor on, while Lars fits his XL sized vest over his shirt. Eli, who wears his ammo and grenade laden armor every day, just taps his foot and waits.

  Trigger checks his Havoc 7, then eyeballs the rifles on the wall.

  On Eli's advice, they picked up a rack of ASW-L, or "Advanced Service Weapon - Light" laserbolter rifles for use in ground combat back during their initial supplying on Tantalus. The rifles make use of utilitarian angles and a short barrel, and as advertised in the name, are quite light at just two and a half kilos loaded. With their shape and bullpup configuration, they remind Trigger a bit of the VHS-2 rifle fielded by the nation of Wielvakia back home.

  Expensive for last gen weapons, but being both robust and easy to use demands a premium. Reaching out, Trigger slings one over his chest, then aims through the small red-dot fitted to the top, pointing to a wall. 'In working order. Good.'

  Unlike the flightsuits he brought with him from Strangereal, his current suits have ALICE-like mounting points for gear and pouches, so a pouch with two extra power paks for his rifle join the two pistol reloads he usually carries around.

  Beside him, Lars opts for his heavy pistol and a bandolier of spare power paks for the energy-hungry handcannon. Eli's preferred "Anti-Venom" is already in hand, and Mila tries to settle for her usual compact blaster, but…

  "Mila," Trigger frowns at her. "At least take some armor."

  The mink groans. "But Trigger… It's so tight! I can barely breathe in one of those vests!"

  "We'll get a few sets with…" Trigger allows himself only a half-second glance at her chest. "...Extra space in mind next time. Just deal with it for now. It's for your safety, so I'm not willing to compromise."

  Mila grumbles the entire time, but squeezes herself into a vest with a grimace.

  Now geared, they exit through the Aquila's main ramp, boots hitting tarmac still warm from the ship's landing thrusters.

  The spaceport is busier than Trigger expected, given the state of the city. Civilians mill about in loose clusters, some hauling carts of goods, others simply loitering with the hollow-eyed look of people with nowhere else to be. The moment the four armed mercenaries step into view, the crowd near their landing spot parts like water around stones. Eyes track them, wary, but no one is stupid enough to get in their way.

  Trigger leads them to the adjacent landing pad, a wide circle of scorched tarmac marked with faded guidance lines. The team spreads out without needing to be told, forming a loose perimeter around the space. Lars takes the far end, his bulk alone enough to discourage approach. Eli posts up near a stack of cargo containers, his rifle cradled with deceptive casualness. Mila hovers closer to Trigger, her ears swiveling at every sound.

  A handful of police officers push through the crowd, taking up positions between the civilians and the landing zone. Their uniforms are rumpled, their expressions tired, but they form a line nonetheless.

  'Probably got a call from the governor's office,' Trigger muses. 'VIP cargo incoming, keep the rabble back.'

  The police presence has an unintended effect. The crowd, previously content to watch from a distance, surges closer. Word spreads in murmurs and shouts, and suddenly there are dozens of faces pressing against the line of officers.

  "What's coming in?!"

  "Are they selling to regular people? Not just corps? My shop hasn't been able to resupply in days!"

  "Please, my daughter needs medicine! Just tell me if there's medicine! I'll pay whatever you ask!"

  Voice upon voice overlaps, rapidly turning into a dull, incomprehensible roar.

  Trigger keeps his expression neutral, his eyes scanning the crowd without settling on any one face. Desperation has a smell to it, sharp and sour, and this crowd reeks of it.

  He keys his comm. "Trigger to Haul-o-Rex, landing site is secure. Strider ground team standing by."

  "Acknowledged, Captain," the rough voice of Farworth's XO sounds. "Beginning descent now."

  Minutes pass. The crowd grows restless, the shouts more frequent. Then a shadow falls over the spaceport as the Haul-o-Rex descends from the pale sky, its massive bulk blotting out Juneith's blue sun for many.

  The reaction to the cargo containers strapped to the ship's flanks is immediate.

  The crowd erupts. Voices blend into a cacophony of demands, pleas, and protests. People shove against the police line, arms outstretched, faces twisted with need. A woman screams something about her children. A man tries to duck under an officer's arm and gets shoved back hard enough to stumble into the people behind him.

  Government-marked cargo transports begin inching through the throng, their horns blaring uselessly against the tide of bodies. Progress is measured in centimeters.

  "Disperse!" one of the officers bellows into the radio attached to his breast, the sound carrying through a number of speakers around the landing pad and interrupting some jarringly cheerful pop song. "Clear the area or we deploy gas! This is your only warning!"

  The threat ripples through the crowd. Some retreat, covering their faces preemptively. Others hold their ground, glaring defiance. But slowly, grudgingly, the mass of bodies parts just enough for the transports to squeeze through.

  The Haul-o-Rex settles onto the pad with a thunderous hiss of landing thrusters, and the unloading begins almost immediately. Cargo ramps descend, and crates begin their journey from ship to transport under the watchful eyes of Farworth's crew. As soon as the engines spool down, a wheeled gantry across the way whines and begins its crawl to unload the external pods on the hauler.

  Trigger's comm crackles. "Captain Trigger, this is Dobs. Our security team will be joining you on the ground shortly. Appreciate your people holding the fort."

  "Acknowledged," Trigger raises his wrist and replies, his eyes still on the crowd. "Be advised, the spaceport is thick with agitated civilians. Keep your people sharp."

  A scoff comes through the channel. "Vultures, the lot of them. Resellers who buy from the port, mark everything up triple, then squeeze desperate fools in the city for every credit they're worth. Seen it a thousand times on a hundred different rocks."

  Trigger's gaze drifts to the edge of the spaceport, near the chainlink fence around the perimeter. A cluster of figures huddles there, separate from the main crowd. Their clothes hang loose on thin frames, patched and repatched until the original fabric is barely visible. A child clings to one woman's leg, face buried in faded cloth.

  They aren't shouting, they aren't pushing, they're just watching, with the quiet resignation of people who already know they won't be getting anything today.

  "Hm," Trigger replies, and leaves it at that.

  An hour passes without major incident. The unloading proceeds at a steady clip, crates disappearing into government transports one after another, and the gantry crane unloading the larger cargo pods to hand off to container trucks. The crowd settles into a sullen simmer, still watching, still desperate, but no longer pressing against the police line. Trigger allows himself a fraction of relaxation, though his hand never strays far from his rifle.

  Then his wristcomm crackles with an urgent chirp.

  "Alert: Aquila perimeter breach in prog-"

  Nidhogg's warning is cut off by a voice pitched high with panic.

  "TRIGGER!" Eddy's scream tears through the channel. "People are trying to force their way into the ship! They got some kind of breaching charge or someth-!"

  An explosion splits the air.

  The sound rolls across the spaceport like thunder, close enough that Trigger feels the pressure wave against his chest. A heartbeat later, laserbolter fire erupts, the sharp zat-zat-zat of rapid discharge echoing off of ship hulls.

  The crowd detonates into chaos. People scatter in every direction, screaming, shoving, trampling anyone too slow to move. The police line dissolves as officers scramble for cover or sprint toward the source of the blast.

  "Move!" Trigger barks, already running. "On me, now!"

  They push through the stampede, shouldering past fleeing civilians and dodging overturned carts. Lars clears a path with his bulk, sending a panicked goat stumbling aside with one sweep of his arm. Eli moves with dour-faced focus, his rifle up and scanning. Mila keeps pace at Trigger's flank, her earlier hesitation burned away by adrenaline.

  The laserbolts keep snapping through the air, and with them is the muted echo of their discharges within metal walls. The run to the Aquila is a mere hundred meters, but the rolling anxiety and the crowd seemingly determined to get in their way stretches the run into something far too long.

  They round a stack of cargo containers, and Trigger's blood turns to ice.

  Six figures in mismatched armor charge up the Aquila's forward ramp, and the reinforced door that should seal the interior from the outside world has been blown open. The intruders pour through the breach, weapons up. As they fire up into the ship, one or two panicked bolts of return fire fly over their heads.

  "Contact front!" Trigger snaps, rifle already rising. "Open fire!"

  Two of the intruders spin at the shout while the rest book it to cover. One manages to bring his weapon around before a burst from Trigger's ASW-L punches through his chest, dropping him in a heap. The other backpedals, squeezing off wild shots as he tries to retreat deeper into the ship. A bolt sizzles past Mila's ear.

  KER-ZAT!

  Eli's rifle cracks once. The fleeing merc's head snaps back, the left side of his cranium missing, and he crumples mid-stride.

  Four left, already inside.

  Trigger throws up a fist, halting the team at the base of the ramp. His wristcomm is at his lips before his boots stop moving.

  "Nidhogg. Internal feeds. Now."

  The small screen on his wrist flickers to life, splitting into three camera views.

  The first shows the stairs leading from the entry ramp up to the main hangar level. Two of the intruders have taken position there, weapons trained on the approach, using the stairwell's corners as cover. At their feet, the Aquila's two labor bots lie in sparking ruin, chassis shredded by concentrated fire.

  The second feed makes something cold and vicious uncurl in Trigger's chest.

  The rec room. The remaining two intruders crouch behind overturned furniture, pouring fire down the corridor that leads to the crew bunks.

  The final camera shows Eddy pressed against the doorframe of the women's quarters, his compact pistol shaking in his grip as he takes blind potshots around the corner. His scales are bone-white.

  Behind him, on the floor, lies Jodie, gasping and wide-eyed. A dark stain seeps past blackened edges across her side, the fur both charred and wet. Stella kneels over her, both hands pressed against the wound, her violet fur spattered with red and mouth reciting a silent mantra. The feeds have no sound, but no one needs to hear a thing to know Stella is begging Jodie not to die.

  Trigger's jaw tightens until his teeth creak.

  Who dares?

  Who dares?!

  "Two hostiles holding the stairs," he says, his voice nearly going unheard to himself. It's a miracle he can hear anything over the furious, animalistic shriek in his ears, making his skull pound. "Ambush position. Two more in the rec room, pinning our people." He looks up from the screen, meeting each of their eyes in turn. "Jodie's hit. Take them down hard."

  Mila bears her teeth.

  Lars' gun creaks in his grip.

  Eli palms a flashbang.

  Trigger charges up the ramp, and his team follows.