I take a deep breath and step away from the holoscreen, boots echoing against the metal deck. The scent of ionized airand star coolant clings to me. My mind spins through strategy, honor, retribution, responsibility — all the threads tangled together in this moment.
“Kallus,” Ayla says, following me, voice gentle — but urgent. “We don’t go in blind. Frederick’s not the man we remember. He’s allied with tech barons who deal in weapons so advanced they make old plasma rifles look like sticks.”
“I know,” I say, turning to face her. My breath hitches — not from doubt, but resolve. “Thatmakeshim dangerous.”
She nods, eyes steady.
“Diplomacy doesn’t mean we’re soft,” she says. “It means we build strengthwithallies. If Frederick wants war, he’ll face every system we’ve touched. Every human, hybrid, and Reaper who believes in peace.”
I let her words settle over me like fire tempered by wind.
“Then we do this right,” I say.
My voice is a promise.
A vow.
A storm breaking.
Ayla smiles — the flicker of dawn in her eyes.
“Then let’s draft the response,” she says. “With counsel. With clarity. And with certainty.”
I nod, heart pounding like a battle drum.
“First,” I say, “we go after him.”
And I can feel the truth of it like cold steel in my veins.
We make our preparations. My refurbished cruiser is upgraded with even more plasma weaponry. I don’t think anything of Ayla wanting to come along, because I assume she will stay with the ship.
She joins me on the bridge. The corridors hum underfoot — a low, liquid vibration that feels like the heartbeat of theGhost Talonitself. This ship was born from steel ambitions and midnight whispers, a sleek shadow forged in secret after thebroadcast storm settled. Its hull isn’t bone-forged like Tyrannus craft, but layered with dark alloys that drink light and reflect nothing back. I like it for that.
Yet even here, in a ship built for silence and speed, my mind is noisy.
Ayla stands beside me at the nav console, eyes sharp and steady. She’s folded her arms, one brow arched — not angry, not impatient, just unshakably certain. There’s a glow about her, the kind that means she’s thought her way into truth and refuses to back down.
“We need to go together,” she says — again. Her tone is calm, controlled, but unyielding, like a blade forged at too-hot fire and tempered in ice.
I rub my thumb over her knuckles, trying to ease the edge of tension that keeps snaking through my ribs. “Ayla — this isn’t a diplomatic envoy. This is a strike. A recon. A hit if need be.”
She doesn’t flinch. “And Iama strategist,” she replies, eyes fixed on the route plotted through the Ghost Talon’s holomap. Black Dagger asteroid ring — cold rock and lethal belts where outlaw arms dealers trade without license or conscience. “You’ll need more than muscle. You’ll need perspective, angles — and I can offer that.”
“I’ll need ferocity,” I counter with a half grin, trying to lighten the weight of it all. “And caution. And not logic turning into poetry at the wrong moment.”
Her smile is slow, teasing, but she doesn’t back down. “Ferocityandlogic. Not mutually exclusive.”
I look away, out toward the viewport where stars stretch into infinity — little white sparks smeared across the velvet black. And for a moment I’m lost there.
That’s when I hear her.
“Momma’s brains.”
Chelsea stands just inside the cockpit archway, arms crossed over her chest, booted feet wide — the stance of someone born to confidence, not trained into it.
I blink.
Ayla blinks.
