Jodie leans back against the bench, her tail curled beside her as she watches the display screens mounted above VR booth seven. The rec area of the Hayward Mill spaceport admin building bustles with the usual mix of off-duty mercs, traders looking for a quick distraction between runs, and dock workers on break. The air carries the mingled scents of a dozen species, cheap synthetic coffee from the vending machines, and that particular ozone-tinged smell that follows spacers everywhere, even planetside.

  Really, Jodie is surprised she can still smell ozone at this point.

  On the left screen of the VR booth cluster she's watching, twelve fighter icons dance through a simulated debris field. Eleven green triangles pursue one red diamond with increasing desperation, their formation cohesion deteriorating with each failed attack run. The red diamond pulls maneuvers that make Jodie's stomach flip just watching the external view. A modified Immelmann that bleeds into a kulbit, followed by a post-stall maneuver that has no business working in the budget LOSA Arcmand fighter the simulation has assigned to Trigger.

  "He's toying with them," Mila observes from beside her, legs swinging idly as she sits perched on the bench's backrest rather than the seat proper. The mink's eyes track the display with a tiny, satisfied grin. "Look," she says with a pointed finger. "He could have nailed that wolf on the last pass, but he pulled off at the last second."

  Jodie nods, watching as the pursuing squadron attempts another coordinated attack on the right screen, which flips between the frontal cams of the different fighters. They're not amateurs, these mercs, she can tell that much.

  It's too bad they're facing Trigger.

  The red diamond suddenly stops running. In the span of three seconds, it reverses course with a maneuver that shouldn't be possible given the G-forces involved, but the vital readout for Trigger's fighter barely even hiccups. The lead pursuer, a fox if Jodie remembers correctly from who entered the booth, barely has time to register the change before his icon blinks out. The second goes down to a deflection shot that threads between two pieces of simulated debris. The third tries to break off but gets caught by a missile that Trigger must have fired blind, trusting the targeting computer to lock after launch.

  The crowd around them murmurs. A crow to Jodie's left whistles low and appreciative. A pair of cats behind them argue in hushed tones about whether that last shot was luck or skill.

  Nine green triangles remain, and now they're hesitating. Their formation scatters like startled birds, each pilot apparently deciding that coordination isn't worth presenting a grouped target. It's not a wrong choice, per se, but it doesn't help at all.

  One catches a burst to his engine while trying to hide behind an asteroid. Another learns the hard way that the Arcmand's gun convergence at two hundred meters is tighter than most pilots account for. A third attempts a head-on joust, desperation overriding sense, and gets crushed against a small asteroid hidden in Trigger's radar shadow when the Arcmand twists away at the last second.

  The rest follow in short order, turned to space dust.

  "Fifty-seven seconds," someone in the crowd counts as the last icon winks out.

  The camera view on the right screen shows Trigger turning in a lazy circle, looking for more targets, until the simulation catches up and realizes one team is down. A buzzer sounds, and the screens go black.

  The VR booth's door cycles open with a soft hiss, and Trigger steps out without so much as a bead of sweat on his forehead. His expression remains characteristically neutral as other booths across the room open almost simultaneously, disgorging their occupants in various states of frustration and disbelief.

  "That's bullshit!" A terrier in a stained flight suit exclaims, running a hand through his sweaty head fur. "Nobody flies like that! You've got to be using some kind of hack!"

  Trigger pauses, turning to regard the terrier with those dark eyes that always remind Jodie uncomfortably of deep space. "The simulation recorded everything. Feel free to review it," he says, not humoring any more complaints and walking off.

  A few meters away, Jodie catches movement in her peripheral vision and frowns.

  There, Eddy stands with a grin stretched wide as he extends one scaly hand toward a scowling hyena a head taller than him.

  A scowling hyena with two very peeved, very armed friends at his side.

  The hyena's scarred muzzle twists in annoyance, and just as Jodie thinks the scaly clown is going to get clobbered, the hyena reaches into his jacket and pulls out a wad of crumpled frontier notes, slapping them into Eddy's hand and stomping away with his pals in tow.

  The gecko notices her watching and shoots her a wink before melting back into the crowd, probably to avoid any sore losers who might want their money back through less legitimate means.

  The coyote's frown remains as Trigger calmly walks away from the accusations, compliments, and demands for rematches from the assembled pilots, instead making his way to a vending machine towards the wall. Even here, even in something as inconsequential as a public rec center, he approaches it like a military operation. Maximum efficiency, minimum wasted movement, like he can't fathom any other alternative.

  "That man scares me sometimes…" Jodie mutters to herself.

  It's been two days since they made planetfall, and in that time she's watched Trigger maintain the same operational tempo he might during an active combat deployment. While Farworth hawks his wares and the rest of the crew explores Jonsa II in shifts, their captain keeps himself perpetually ready. For what? Jodie isn't quite sure.

  "Trigger scares you?" Mila asks, seeming genuinely surprised.

  "Sometimes," Jodie admits, watching Trigger feed credits into the vending machine with the same precise movements he uses to field-strip a weapon. The bottle of mineral water that comes out is drained in one pull, and the bottle tossed into the trash in two crisp movements. "Don't you find him a little... intense? Man approaches everything like he's planning a mission. Then there were the dozens he killed on Reese Point with that railgun shot. I knew he wasn't gonna be one to hesitate when guns came out, but that was… A little much, don't you think?"

  Mila considers her words, then shakes her head slowly, blonde hair bouncing. "He's just focused. I did think a little bit about the Reese Point raid, but," she pauses, face taking on a mixed expression, "That's… Kinda just how things are out here on the frontier. Trigger saw a threat, and he did something about it. I knew that I was getting into a job where lives get cut short all the time, and… I was in the same boat as you for a day or two," she admits, looking down. "It is a little scary that he can turn a bunch of guys to paste without even a blink, but… but it's hard to be scared of him. I can't, not when I catch those rare smiles, or the little "good job"s, or…"

  Jodie turns to study the mink, noting the softness that creeps into her expression whenever Trigger comes up in conversation. "Uh-huh. That's why you're not scared. Nothing to do with that crush you're nursing."

  "What?" Mila's voice jumps an octave, her red eyes widening. "I don't have a crush on him! We're just partners and stuff! Professional partners!"

  "Right," Jodie says, her tone flatter than week-old soda. "That's why I can hear you in the women's head at night murmuring his name while you're taking care of yourself."

  Mila's yellow fur does nothing to hide the crimson flush that spreads from her ears down to her neck. Her mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for air. "You... I... That's..."

  "And even if I couldn't hear it," Jodie continues, her expression remaining perfectly deadpan, "girl, your scent afterwards is a dead giveaway. We share a bathroom and a bedroom, you know. Shit, I'm surprised the fur on your fingers isn't bleached by now."

  Mila covers her face with both hands, letting out a mortified squeak as she sinks down, sitting properly on the bench now. "Oh my god, Jodie!"

  "Look, I'm not judging," Jodie says, her tone gentling slightly as she pats Mila's shoulder. "Ship's small, walls are thin, and we're all adults here. Just saying maybe you're not the most objective judge of our captain's character."

  Through her fingers, Mila mumbles something that Jodie can't quite hear.

  "My uncle always said it was good to know when the crew was getting along," Jodie offers with a slight grin. "Though I don't think this is quite what he meant."

  Mila finally lowers her hands, her face still flushed but managing a weak glare. "You're evil."

  "I'm honest," Jodie corrects with a sniff, then she gives Mila the side eye. "And you better quit rolling in Trigger's laundry. I get that he smells nice, but he's gonna catch you eventually."

  "You saw?! Oh my god…"

  Mercifully, Jodie decides to let the subject drop, standing and stretching until her spine pops. "Come on, let's grab some food. Jabbin' you is making me hungry."

  Mila rises on shaky legs, still looking like she wants to crawl under the bench and disappear. "You're never gonna let me live this down, are you?"

  "We'll see," Jodie replies cheerfully, checking the sleek black device on her wrist with a smile.

  The Sentinel MKIII wristcomm gleams under the admin center's lights, its holographic display crisp and oh-so responsive to her touch. Trigger had insisted on getting them for her, Mila, Eddy, and Lars, negotiating with Farworth for a discount that probably still cost more than Jodie wanted to know.

  "Good communications equipment is worth its weight in gold," he'd said, with the tone of someone who'd learned that lesson the hard way. Strangely, he looked up at the sky when he said that. Something to do with the Lighthouse War? "When things go wrong, a failed comm system is the last thing you want."

  Whatever his reasons, a techhead like herself isn't about to complain about quality hardware given out for free. The Sentinel's processing power alone makes her old datapad look like some Cheyat-made e-waste.

  She pulls up the team's casual chat channel, scanning the recent messages. Lars posted a photo of himself lounging in the Aquila's common area with his feet up, captioned simply: "Guard duty." Eli responded instantly telling him to get his paws off the table. A few seconds later, Trigger's message appears: "Secured E before he wandered off alone. Returning to Aquila."

  Jodie can practically hear Eddy's complaints from here.

  "Looks like we've got the afternoon to ourselves," she tells Mila, who's managed to reduce her blush to merely pink rather than crimson. "Farworth offloaded enough cargo yesterday to get off the ground for tomorrow's departure, and the boys are all accounted for."

  They step out of the admin building into Jonsa II's afternoon sun, which hangs heavy and orange-red in the cloudless sky. The spaceport sprawls before them, a maze of landing pads, cargo containers, and the ever-present flow of commerce. Food stalls have sprouted like mushrooms after a rainstorm around the port's edges, wherever there's enough space for a cooktop and a few stools. The smell of grilling meat mixes with alien spices and the acrid tang of thruster wash.

  "Fried skewers?" Mila suggests, pointing to a cart where a elderly goose tends to sizzling meat and veggies over an open flame. Her eyes turn to another cart, where a droopy-faced hound is kneading dough. "Or there's that place doing those stuffed bread things."

  "Skewers sound good to me," Jodie agrees, her stomach rumbling. They make their way over, weaving between dock workers and avoiding a hoverlift that takes a corner too fast.

  The goose grins at them, his movements practiced as he assembles their order. "Fresh meat, just came in this morning," he assures them, and Jodie suspects fresh food is the only thing the agricultural colony still has in abundance these days.

  They find a relatively clean spot by the port fence to sit and eat, watching the controlled chaos of the port. A tram station sits just visible beyond the security fence, its magnetic rails gleaming dully in the afternoon light.

  "Want to see what the city's like?" Mila asks around a mouthful of spiced beef and crunchy purpepper, apparently recovered enough from her earlier mortification to regain her appetite. "We've been stuck on guard rotation since we got here. Might be our only chance before we leave."

  Jodie considers, then nods. The Aquila's as secure as it's going to get with Lars and Eli watching it, and Trigger's got Eddy handled. "Why not? Just remember what Trigger said about staying armed and aware," she says, finishing her last bite and looking at Mila's civvie outfit questioningly.

  Mila grins and pats a concealed blaster under her skirt. "Never leave home without it."

  The city center of Jonsa II's capital stretches out before them as they exit the tram station, a sprawling mix of prefab colonial architecture and newer, sometimes half-finished construction that speaks to better times. The main thoroughfare would be impressive if not for the signs of decay nibbling at the edges.

  Jodie notices them as they walk, little things that add up to a bigger picture. A prime corner shop with soaped-over windows and a "For Lease" sign that's been there long enough to fade in the sun. A traffic light at a major intersection is stuck on yellow, forcing ground vehicles to negotiate passage with honks and hand gestures while police hover-cruisers ignore it entirely. A family of raccoons huddled under an overpass, their belongings in plastic totes, with the smallest kit clutching a toy that's seen better days.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  "It's not as bad as I expected," Mila says, stepping around a broken piece of sidewalk that has definitely tripped someone before. "From the news feeds, I thought we'd be walking into a war zone."

  'Give it time, Mila,' Jodie thinks, watching a security drone painted police blue sweep past overhead. 'It'll get worse the deeper we get into the system.'

  Still, the city maintains a stubborn vitality. Most shops remain open, their windows displaying goods even if the shelves behind them are a little sparser than they should be. Street vendors hawk everything from bootleg entertainment chips to "authentic Lylat cuisine" that definitely isn't. Life continues, even if there is some fraying at the seams.

  Their first stop is a clothing boutique that caught Mila's eye, its holographic mannequins twirling in the latest frontier fashion of leather and air-tight cloth. Jodie finds herself pulled along inside.

  "Do you have blaster-proof thigh-highs?" Mila asks the bemused clerk, a young deer who clearly wasn't prepared for that question.

  "I... what?" The deer's ears twitch in confusion. "That's not... that's not really a thing?"

  "But it should be," Mila insists, lifting a pair of regular thigh-highs she pulled from a shelf and looking them over with a critical eye. "I mean, if you're gonna armor anything, shouldn't it be the important parts?" she asks with a smirk, striking a pose that shows off a lot of yellow-furred leg, making the clerk blush.

  Jodie leaves her to fluster the poor deer further, browsing through a rack of utility vests that actually don't look half bad. Practical pockets, reinforced stitching, and they come in a brown that won't show engine grease. The price is a little higher than she'd like, though, so maybe another time.

  Mila tries to drag her deeper into the store, but Jodie shrugs her off. Her overalls are fine, thanks.

  Their next stop has Jodie pressing her nose against the window of a vehicle dealership that's definitely seen better days. Most of the lot is empty, but what few cars there are tickle her. There in the corner of the showroom, however, sits a beauty that steals the show - a classic Veridian Motors hoverbike, all sleek curves and chrome. The kind her uncle used to talk about with reverence.

  "Oh, she's gorgeous," Jodie breathes, already mentally calculating how much work it would take to get it running perfectly. The price tag makes her wince, but not as much as it might have weeks ago.

  "You should get it," Mila encourages, lifting her wristcomm and snapping a photo of Jodie practically drooling over the bike. "You never know if we're ever coming back here."

  "Yeah, maybe," Jodie says, though she knows she wouldn't. Too impractical, too indulgent. But damn if it isn't tempting. She forces herself to step back. "We ain't got anywhere to put it though. The hangar is full as is."

  'Maybe if we parked the fighters all staggered…' She thinks, biting her lip.

  "You could… I dunno, strap it to the outside of the ship?" Mila shrugs.

  Jodie turns and gives Mila such a scandalized glare that the taller woman jumps and lets out an "Eep!"

  "Abusing a classic like that? Don't talk heresy to me," the coyote clicks her tongue.

  The third stop to draw the eye is a hobby shop, its windows cluttered with model kits, gaming displays, and what looks like an entire battalion of tiny painted soldiers locked in combat.

  "Perfect!" Mila exclaims, pulling Jodie through the door with surprising strength. A bell chimes overhead, and the musty smell of plastic and cardboard washes over them. "Trigger and I finished that Javelin model. Well, mostly Trigger, but I helped! We need something new!"

  The shop owner, a elderly owl whose feathers have gone gray with age, peers at them over thick glasses. "Can I help you young ladies?"

  "Model kits!" Mila announces with a wide smile. "Preferably something that'll take more than one evening to build."

  "Right down thataway, miss," The shopkeep smiles back, pointing a finger to the far aisle.

  Jodie follows as Mila skips that way, amused by the enthusiasm. The mink sorts through boxes intently, occasionally making dismissive sounds at options she deems too simple or too similar to what they've already built.

  "Ooh, look at this one!" Mila holds up a box featuring an ornate battleship, an old LOSA-made Returner, most of which have been mothballed, if Jodie recalls. "Limited run! He'll love this!"

  "That'll keep you two busy for a while," Jodie agrees, then pauses. "Is this your idea of date night? Building models?"

  Mila's face flushes again. "It's not a date! It's... team bonding. Professional team bonding."

  "Sure it is," Jodie says dryly.

  The mink girl tries to fire back something, stops, then tries again. "Y-Yeah, well, don't think I haven't noticed how you look at Lars! Wanna keep throwing stones from that glass house?" Mila asks, her blush fading in favor of a smug grin.

  "Thats just window shoppin'," Jodie waves off the deflection. "Now, would I mind if he bent me over my workbench and left me walking funny? Nope, but I ain't rubbing my coochie on his bed to tempt him, either."

  Mila makes a choked sound and covers her face, which is once again nuclear red, with the hand not holding the boxed model. "Jeez, Jodie…"

  The coyote chuckles and slings an arm around Mila's shoulders. "You're such a citygirl, Mila. I saw you giggling when you were showing some leg to that cherry-red clerk in the clothes store. Don't tell me you can't take as good as you give?"

  Mila's retort is grumbled and punctuated by a weak, red-colored glare from under her bangs.

  "Don't wait around too much playing the long game with Trigger, because a frontier girl who knows she's gotta live fast and live full might make a move on him," Jodie finishes, patting her shoulder and letting her go.

  Mila takes a few deep breaths, fanning her still-flushed face with one hand while clutching the model box protectively with the other.

  With the little gift for Trigger paid for and in a plastic bag, they make their way back through Hayward Mill's streets at an unhurried pace, letting the hours melt together. The early afternoon shifts toward evening, painting the colony in warm tones.

  They window shop at a few more stores, Mila dragging Jodie to look at a display of imported snacks from the core worlds that cost three times what they should, while Jodie points out an electronics repair shop that's somehow still managing to stock decent parts despite the shortages.

  "How do you think they're getting those?" Mila asks, peering at a display of monitors playing a boys' cartoon. On the screen, buff men with spiky hair exchange punches faster than the eye can see, compressed power metal playing to the rhythm of the fight.

  "Same way everyone else in frontier space gets things they shouldn't have," Jodie replies. "Creative shipping manifests and friends in low places."

  By the time they reach the tram station, the sun is hanging low and orange in the sky, and both their stomachs are growling again.

  "We should grab dinner for everyone," Mila suggests, spotting a takeout place on the street corner, with a hand-written sign advertising 'HOT-N-FRESH IN 20 MIN OR LESS!' "My treat… if you don't rat me out to Trigger about the whole... laundry thing."

  "Deal," Jodie agrees immediately. "But I'm picking what we get. Your taste in food is almost as questionable as your taste in men."

  "Hey!"

  Twenty minutes later, as the restaurant promised, they're balancing containers of what the takeout place generously called "frontier fusion cuisine" - essentially whatever protein was available thrown together with local vegetables, egg rice, and enough savory sauce to hide any lower quality cuts to make it into the dish. It smells good, and more importantly, it's hot and there's plenty of it.

  The ride on the tram back to the spaceport is calm, and they're just approaching the Aquila's berth when they hear the shouting.

  "- absolute waste of my goddamn time!" Eli's voice carries across the landing pad with fury-fueled volume.

  A shepherd dog in a rumpled flight suit comes tearing down the Aquila's ramp, ears flat against his head and tail tucked between his legs. His eyes are red-rimmed and wet with tears as he sprints past Jodie and Mila without even seeing them.

  Eli appears at the top of the ramp, his white head feathers bristling with rage. "Spineless fucking flea-magnet!" he screams after the fleeing canine. "Who the fuck applies as a pilot to a merc outfit then says 'sorry, I'm a pussy and don't trust myself with a gun!?' If you come back here, you'll have to consciously object to my foot in your ass!"

  The eagle stands there for a moment, chest heaving, before his yellow eye catches sight of Jodie and Mila standing at the bottom of the ramp with their dinner containers.

  Jodie and Mila share a look.

  "So," Mila says dryly, "the search for a mothership pilot doesn't seem to be going well."

  Eli's glare could melt steel into glowing slag, but he just makes a disgusted noise and storms back into the ship, boots stomping heavily.

  "The yelling wasn't needed," Trigger chides mildly as Eli walks back into the rec-room with clenched fists.

  "Don't give me that," Eli snaps, his cybernetic eye flashing red for a moment as he focuses on the man. "That stupid asshole walks up in here, asks for a premium salary, then has the gall to say 'I want to be part of a merc crew but I don't wanna fight'? Get the fuck outta here."

  "I never said your complaints weren't valid," Trigger raises his palms in mock surrender. "Just the volume at which they were voiced was excessive."

  From his place leaning over the back of the couch where Trigger sits, Eddy gives Eli a smirk. "Yeah, birdbrain. The boss says pipe down. You're ringing my ears over here."

  "I'll wring something else if you don't shut your mouth," The eagle growls.

  "Eddy…" Trigger sends a frown over his shoulder, and the gecko, thankfully, quiets down.

  'It's like wrangling toddlers,' The man thinks to himself with an inward sigh. 'Was my old squadron ever like this? Just Count when he let his mouth get away from him, I think.'

  Eli huffs and sits heavily on the other couch beside Lars, who is scrolling through a list on his wristcomm with a frown on his square muzzle.

  "Five takers, all duds," Lars crosses the latest name off the list with a finger, editing the text on the floating screen with a strikethrough. "Looks like all the worthwhile talent is off the planet already."

  "Or they're already locked into contracts," Eli adds, some of the heat leaving his voice as he settles into shop talk. "Everyone worth a damn has already been snagged up."

  Trigger leans back, considering their options.

  The Aquila needs a dedicated pilot if they're going to operate efficiently. Jodie is just one woman, a woman with other duties already. She's been playing pilot, mechanic, and until they got the labor bots, cook and housekeeper, too. Letting her run herself into the ground is asking for trouble, as one sleepy-eyed mistake with her hands in the guts of a fighter could lead to disaster later.

  She'd never live such a thing down, either, and Trigger would hate himself if he put such a thing on her.

  His thoughts drift to the alternative that's been nagging at him for days now.

  Nidhogg.

  The AI has been… Damn it, it's been nothing but helpful since their agreement. It follows orders, provides tactical support, and hasn't once tried to exceed the boundaries he set. He's waited for that other shoe to drop for weeks now, for some sign of Belkan treachery or machine rebellion, and it simply hasn't come.

  'At what point does caution become paranoia?' he wonders, absently rubbing his thumb across the rugged plastic of his wristcomm. 'And when does paranoia become a liability?'

  The AI could pilot the Aquila better than any organic pilot they're likely to find in Griath. No salary requirements, no personality conflicts, no risk of them freezing up in combat or running off when things get dangerous. Just cold, efficient performance.

  Moving Nidhogg's core from the Wyvern would be complicated, but not impossible. Jodie could probably manage it with the right tools and time. Or perhaps the AI could partition itself, run simultaneous instances on both ships.

  He glances down at his wristcomm's screen, where a small red dot blinks slowly in the corner. Nidhogg's passive indicator, letting him know the AI is monitoring but not actively engaged.

  Always watching, always ready, but never acting until called.

  'Maybe it's time to-'

  "We brought dinner!" Mila's cheerful voice cuts through his contemplation as she and Jodie walk in, arms laden with styrofoam containers in plastic bags. The savory smell of something akin to teriyaki fills the rec room immediately.

  "Oh yeah!" Lars grins, already standing. He's quick to relieve both girls of their burdens and carry them over to the dinner table. "I was about to start gnawing on the couch."

  Eli mutters something under his breath that Trigger can't hear, though his expression softens slightly at the prospect of a hot meal.

  As everyone converges on the table and containers are passed around, Trigger makes a silent decision.

  If they can't find a decent pilot in a timely manner, he'll talk to Jodie about giving Nidhogg some expanded responsibilities.

  'Few weeks,' he tells himself, accepting a box from Mila and sitting himself down next to her. 'Then we'll see.'