Chapter 28
After checking the datapad in his hands for the fifth time, the border and customs agent with Trigger in the back of the Aquila looks up as if he's about to say something, only to turn his attention back down again, and Trigger has to withhold a sigh.
After five days of waiting in line, the agents manning the LOSA checkpoint finally got to them, but actually getting past customs has been another all-day exercise in frustration.
Declaration of intent in LOSA space, delivery of cargo manifests, scans, manual searches, another set of scans, interviews with all the vessel captains, random disease tests for the crews, paperwork, then actual paperwork on real paper, it never seems to end.
On their side, needing to shuffle Stella around to avoid the search teams has been smooth… Mostly. To avoid being picked up by any short-range, handheld scanners, she had to turn off the implant managing her migraine medication, and the LOSA agents lingered so long that she's probably nursing a headache by now.
Catrina wanted to file an asylum request on behalf of Stella right away, but Trigger shot that down, not wanting to tip off any unusually connected bounty hunters that don't care that LOSA won't honor the price on their purple-furred cargo's head.
They were already tracked down once through side channels, no need to invite more with official paper trails.
Trying not to let his patience run out, Trigger instead turns his attention elsewhere, looking at the datapad of the (fittingly) border collie man before him.
The datapad in the agent's hands is a sleek, thin rectangle with rounded corners, its surface a matte gray that catches the overhead lights at odd angles. What he can see of the display at this angle is crisp, the icons responsive, the interface intuitive enough that Trigger has seen the agent navigate it with only occasional hesitation.
It's also, by Strangereal standards, a design dead end.
Back home, tablet computers enjoyed a brief heyday before settling into a narrow niche. The form factor is inherently awkward, caught between smartphones that offered comparable specs with superior portability and dedicated desktops that outperformed them in every metric that mattered. Most personal devices eventually converged into three clean categories: phone, tablet, computer. A few outliers existed, sure, but the lines between them were sharp and well-defined.
The Cornerian Milky Way, however, subscribes to no such rigid structure. Datapads, laptops, desk terminals, holo-visors, wearable projectors, neural interfaces... there is no end to the shapes and methods of personal computing here, and the lines between use-case categories blur into irrelevance. Every manufacturer seems to have invented their own philosophy of human (or canine, or avian, or reptilian) and machine interaction, and somehow, impossibly, most of it works together.
Case in point: the watch-like comm unit on his wrist.
It's a phone. It's a laptop, too. It's also a music player, an e-reader, an encryption cracker, a remote control and more. With the hardlight emitter, it becomes a wrench set, a crowbar, a can opener and then some. He's even taken to using it to shave with a hardlight razor.
It's like something out of a children's cartoon, a gadget that can do whatever the plot demands, except it's real and strapped to his arm. Jodie gushes about Belkan innovation when given the chance, but just as many inventions around here are just as fantastical.
Even now, a hardlight earbud sits nestled in his ear canal, feeding him the audio from another conversation happening thousands of kilometers behind the Aquila.
"...and this delay has been entirely unacceptable!" The voice of the ore barge flotilla captain filters through, Callum, Trigger thinks his name is. "Every moment my barges sit idle, I hemorrhage credits! I added a full week to the delivery to account for the shitshow I knew was coming, but you get slower every time! I'm going to need to push my ships at full speed to get this drop-off done on time!"
"Sir, I understand your frustration, but the volume of traffic through this checkpoint has been unprecedented this quarter." The customs supervisor sounds tired, the kind of tired that comes from repeating the same explanation to the hundredth angry captain. "We're processing vessels as quickly as regulations allow."
"Regulations! Regulations do not reimburse me or my clients for late deliveries! Regulations do not pay my crews' overtime. I expect compensation for this total clusterfu..."
Trigger tunes out the rest, like he's sure the other captains in the meeting are. His client will squeeze whatever he can from the bureaucracy, and the supervisor will offer whatever pittance his authority permits, and the dance will continue until both parties are equally dissatisfied. Standard fare. Tapping his comm, he drops out of the meeting and the earbud vanishes.
The software behind all of these devices is probably a nightmare. Conflicting standards, legacy code, patches layered on patches until the original architecture is unrecognizable.
Thankfully, he has other people to worry about that kind of thing for him.
Speaking of which.
The man glances down at his wristcomm, lifting it and tapping out a quick message with the fingers of his other hand.
Status on checkpoint network. Any flagged traffic? Have you been noticed?
The response comes within seconds, text scrolling across the small display.
Surface-level infiltration successful. Checkpoint security systems are operating within standard parameters and show no indication of anomalous activity detection. Communications inbound and outbound contain no particular references to unauthorized network access, Strider Squadron, or associated personnel. Probability of discovery: negligible.
To Trigger's surprise, he couldn't find it in himself to be leery of Nidhogg's offer to monitor the comings and goings of the checkpoint. The AI, as promised, has kept his electronic hands to himself and only perused open, public networks until ordered to dig deeper. When Nidhogg spoke up about wanting to keep an eye out for trouble, Trigger agreed off the cuff and only realized it a second later.
His fingers tap the small screen once more.
Good work.
"All inspections are now complete."
The words pull Trigger's attention back to the border collie, who has finally lowered his datapad. The agent's tone shifts into something rehearsed, the cadence of a speech delivered hundreds of times before.
"Your vessel and crew have been issued a ninety-day freelancer work visa for Division Three of LOSA space. Please be aware that this visa does not extend to Divisions One, Two, or Four without additional permits filed through the appropriate regional offices. Failure to depart LOSA space or renew your visa prior to expiration will result in fines and potential impoundment of your vessel. Additionally, any mercenary work undertaken must be registered with the local Mercenary Guild branch within forty-eight hours of contract acceptance. Unregistered contracts may result in..."
Trigger does his best to listen. He really does.
But the spiel stretches past the one-minute mark, and somewhere around the explanation of tax obligations for foreign contractors operating in resource-extraction zones, his focus begins to drift. The words blur rapidly, punctuated only by the occasional legal term that sounds vaguely threatening.
"...and we thank you for your patience during this process. Welcome to Lylat Outer System Authority space."
The agent tucks his datapad under one arm and offers a curt nod before turning toward the rear airlock. Trigger follows, watching as the border collie steps through the docking tube and into the waiting customs dropship. The hatch seals behind him with a hiss.
Trigger lets out a slow breath, then taps the control panel beside the airlock. The docking tube retracts with a mechanical whine, clamps disengaging one by one until the connection is severed.
'Finally.'
He makes his way back to the bridge, rolling the tension out of his shoulders as he walks. The familiar hum of the Aquila's systems is a welcome contrast to the sterile chatter of customs inspections.
The rest of the crew is sprawled about the bridge and waiting when he arrives, bored and thoroughly done with all the paperwork hell holding them up. Even Eli allows himself to lean on the captain's chair with his organic eye unfocused. The only one who seems to not mind is Catrina, who stands at the viewport, looking out at the stars and wormhole gate glowing away in the distance.
Lars notices him first, his ears perking up. "We done?"
Trigger nods, stepping onto the bridge proper. "Checkpoint agent just left. We should be cleared to move soon."
"Yes!" Mila springs up from where she'd been leaning on the pilot console by Jodie's chair, tail swishing. "I'll go get Stella!" She's out the door before anyone can respond, her footsteps quick and light down the corridor.
Catrina watches her go, then turns her ice-blue gaze to Trigger. "I would have preferred to file Miss Kaliman's asylum request at the border itself, Captain. Smuggling her in first and filing afterward may cause complications down the line."
Trigger meets her stare evenly. "You found the regulation forbidding LOSA government employees from inspecting occupied female restrooms easily enough. We're just putting the official work off until later." He moves toward the captain's chair but doesn't sit. "Besides, there are security concerns. We still don't know how we were tracked last time. Until we do, I'd rather not leave any trails that implicitly say we have her."
"Speaking of which!" Eddy leans forward, scales practically glowing with eagerness. "I've been makin' headway on the Burrowmand thing, Cap. Should know how those stiffs found us real soon." He taps the side of his snout with one finger. "I know a guy who knows a guy, and he's gonna get back to me. Like, next day or two, tops. Its soundin' like this creep is definitely the guy behind it, like ninety-nine percent sure, so my guy is going to narrow down where he operates out of, then we can go there and you can-"
Eddy raises a fist and smacks it into his opposite palm. "-BLAM! Blow up the whole freakin' block he's on before he can do squat! The railgun can do that, right? It's gotta be like a nuke when it hits the ground!"
"The enthusiasm is noted, but for the sake of team optics, we'll be saving the measures that cause collateral damage for last," Is Trigger's dry response.
Catrina's gaze slides to the gecko, one brow arching. "And what, precisely, are you referring to?"
Trigger glances between them. "Eddy has been working to uncover more details behind the attack on the Aquila. The one you were briefed about." He pauses, considering his next words. "His methods of information gathering are... unconventional, but effective. Since your areas of expertise have some overlap, I'd like the two of you to coordinate when it makes sense to do so."
Eddy's smile becomes brittle. "You want me to hang out with the lawyer?"
The man pauses, thinking for a moment. "And Nidhogg."
In the corner of the bridge, Nidhogg's chosen RK-4 for the day turns its head towards them. "Standing by."
"Ah, and a reminder that all electronic infiltration and monitoring requires approval from myself or Eli," Trigger amends, ignoring the grimace on Eddy and light frown on Catrina. He'll need to sit down with the snow leopard and fill her in on Nidhogg's full capabilities soon. "Dismissed."
Lars stands and stretches his thick arms over his head, and something in his back lets out an impressive POP! "Ay, it's about time," he groans, going to leave.
"Is Outlaws versus Iron Stars on yet?" Eddy hops up to follow Lars, sending another look back at the snow leopard by the viewport. "They were scheduled to kickoff at noon, cornerian."
"More sports betting?" Eli joins in with a frown, standing straight and also making his way to the door. "Didn't you learn last time?"
The gecko grins a grin that looks as if it should have a gold tooth. "Not betting, birdy boy, this time it's fix-" he coughs and glances over his shoulder again, meeting icy-blues across the bridge. "-I mean, I fixed my calculator so I could run the numbers better, yeah."
Catrina is the last to move, padding out. "I suppose I should prepare for the coming racketeering charge," she clicks her tongue.
Then it's just Trigger, Jodie and Nidhogg left alone.
Trigger circles around the pilot's console, stopping beside Jodie's chair. "The upgrade plan for the Aquila and the fighters. You finished it?"
Jodie's ears perk, and a grin spreads across her muzzle. "Sure did." She taps a side-screen on the pilot controls, pulling up a dense schematic that Trigger only half-recognizes. "Gotta say, it feels like something new blows my mind every time I crack open that Strangereal database. You people came up with some wild stuff."
The click of metallic feet announces Nidhogg's approach. The RK-4 stops a few paces away, its red sensor slits angling toward the schematic on Jodie's screen.
"After extensive analysis of tactical options," the bot's chest speaker intones, "the Aquila remains the weakest operational link in Strider Squadron's combat capability. As such, integration of the Arsenal Bird's Active Protection System represents the greatest improvement in overall survivability."
Jodie nods along, spinning her chair to face them both. "We brainstormed it out pretty good. The Aquila ain't no slouch, but she ain't a boat built for fighting either, so it makes more sense to lean defensive."
She pauses, her brow furrowing.
"Well. If the APS can be called a fully defensive thing." Her eyes drift back to the schematic, and she lets out a low whistle. "A shield that makes a five-kilometer 'don't-fly-here-or-die' zone around the ship is a wild thing to wrap my head around. We could flip it on and just cruise into knife-fighting range, then let it zap anything smaller than us into slag." She glances up at Trigger, something between amusement and disbelief in her expression. "Everything really is weapon-focused back on your wild little planet, ain't it?"
Trigger feels the corner of his mouth twitch. "It does seem that way." He lets the moment pass, then returns to business. "You're certain about the APS? And it's actually feasible?" He crosses his arms. "I don't want to modify the Aquila too extensively. She's a stepping stone to something bigger down the line."
Jodie waves a dismissive hand. "I'm sure, Trigger. Me and Niddy ran the numbers six ways from Sunday. APS first, since it covers the most bases. After that, maybe some missile racks and a few other things if we can swing it..." She ticks off the items on her fingers, then drops her hand. "As for feasible, I got a plan. The biggest headache is power storage and delivery. The actual emitter for the shield won't be too bad, though I did have to dig up some old textbooks to refresh my know-how on free-flow electron field dynamics."
'Free-flow what dynamics?'
She swivels her chair toward the RK-4. "Speaking of, Nidhogg, thanks for tracking down copies of those books for me. Saved me a lot of headache."
The bot's head tilts a fraction. "Expressing gratitude for the fulfillment of standard operational functions is unnecessary."
Jodie shakes her head, smiling. "You're a sweetheart, Niddy. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
Somewhere in the bridge, Trigger hears a cooling fan spool up.
Jodie returns her attention to Trigger, her ears flicking back as she shifts gears. "I've got a few deals lined up for what parts I can source pre-made, but there's still some stuff I gotta figure out." She taps the schematic, zooming in on a dense cluster of components. "Getting my paws on the kind of hardware the APS needs without breaking the bank or giving the obviously alien designs away is the big one. The nanostructured electrodes and the tolerances needed for the capacitor array alone..." She shakes her head. "Running the APS even with both reactors on full blast would brownout the ship, so dedicated power storage ain't something we can do without."
She swipes to another section of the schematic, this one showing thermal distribution overlays. "Then there's cooling. The Arsenal Bird used air-cooled heatsinks that spanned its whole darn superstructure to keep its internals from cooking, but we ain't got that luxury on the Aquila." Her brow furrows. "Gonna need to get creative there."
Trigger nods. "I have faith in you."
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
Jodie's smile comes back, though it wavers at the edges. "Yeah, well..." She hesitates, her fingers drumming against her armrest. "There's also the matter of cost. At minimum, this whole refit is going to run about..." She winces. "Six hundred fifty thousand credits. Maybe more."
She holds up a hand before Trigger can respond.
"Now, that is factoring in some work done to all the fighters too, so it ain't as bad as it sounds on its own. And if I can find a few more salvage deals, maybe I could shave off some of the-"
Trigger lifts his wristcomm.
Jodie stops mid-sentence, watching as he opens the crew account interface with a few taps. His thumb moves across the display, inputting figures, and a moment later he lowers his arm. "Sent. Ask if you need more."
Jodie's wristcomm chirps. She lifts it slowly, staring down at the notification on the screen. Her jaw goes slack. "Just... just like that?"
Trigger raises an eyebrow. "Of course. It's a small price to pay for keeping the team and ship safe." He uncrosses his arms, letting them fall to his sides. "Now. Anything else?"
Jodie shakes her head, her smile back to full power. "Nah. I'll let you know when I've got more to report."
It's astounding how quickly they delivered Callum and his ore barges to their destination once the border nonsense was behind them.
Even after being stopped and searched twice by random LOSA patrols, which resulted in yet more Stella shuffling and tense minutes waiting for the all-clear, the convoy made excellent time. The wormhole gate network in this region is dense and well-maintained, the transit lanes clearly marked and actively monitored, and the infrastructure hums with the quiet efficiency of a system that actually works.
Trigger had heard that LOSA was hamstrung by lackluster funding and an overburdened navy stretched too thin across too much space. The reports painted a picture of a territory barely holding itself together, patrol routes measured in weeks rather than days, pirates and smugglers running rampant through the gaps.
It doesn't feel like that at all.
'Maybe the outer regions are worse,' he muses. 'Or maybe the reports were exaggerated. Or maybe LOSA just puts on a good show near its borders.'
Whatever the case, first impressions suggest a polity more competent than its reputation implies. Something to keep in mind.
The industrial world below fills the viewport with bands of brown and gray, its atmosphere thick with the haze of a thousand foundries. Orbital platforms dot the space around it like steel moons, each one bristling with docking arms and cargo cranes.
Trigger closes out the call with Callum, the gruff ore barge captain's parting words still echoing in his ears. Something about "not bad for a bunch of freelance pups" that was probably meant as a compliment.
He transfers the crew's shares with a few taps on his console, watches the confirmations roll in, then stands and stretches. His spine pops twice, and he rolls his neck until a third joins them, breaking the quiet of the empty bridge.
'With Nidhogg, will our next ship even need a bridge?'
He smacks the thought down almost as quickly as it forms. Of course it will. Some things shouldn't be left entirely to machines, no matter how capable.
Trigger makes his way to the rec room, following the faint sound of dramatic music bleeding through the door.
Inside, Lars occupies one end of the main couch, his massive frame hunched forward with his elbows on his knees. The rottweiler's eyes are fixed on the holoscreen, where some kind of period drama plays out in lavish colors, and his teeth are working at the dull claw of his thumb into an even duller nub.
On the other couch, Mila is bent backwards over the headrest in a pose that would have a chiropractor rubbing his hands greedily. Her head hangs upside down, scalp toward the cushions and her blonde hair pooling beneath her, while over the other side, her legs dangle, idly kicking. She's scrolling through a datapad held above her face, tail swishing lazily against the rear of the couch.
Trigger approaches from behind, noting immediately that the datapad in her hands isn't hers. Mila's is plastered with stickers, everything from cartoon characters to band logos to a particularly garish "BADDIE OF STRIDER SQUAD" decal she managed to nab from one of Jodie's printers.
This one is plain besides a few scratches on the back.
He stops behind the couch and pokes her exposed belly button with one finger. "Is that comfortable?"
Mila doesn't flinch, just tilts her head back further to look at him upside-down. "Not any less than any other pose." She grins, fangs glinting. "Mink spine!"
"Whose datapad is that?"
"Dunno." She shrugs, an impressive feat given her current configuration. "It was sitting on the couch unlocked, so I figured I'd see what was on it."
Before he can tell her that's hardly appropriate, steps sound from the hallway leading to the bunks.
"Has anyone seen my datapad? I could have sworn I left it on the..."
Stella freezes mid-step, her purple eyes locking onto Mila. Then onto the device in Mila's hands.
Mila meets her gaze. A grin spreads across the mink's face, slow and wicked.
"Didn't take you for the fanfiction type, Stella." Her tail swishes faster. "Because wow, there is a lot of it on here. Do you upload this stuff anywhere? It's pretty goo-!"
Stella's face goes red, the color bleeding straight through her purple fur until her cheeks look almost maroon. The veins at her temple bulge, and she thrusts out one hand, palm open.
Trigger tenses, his weight shifting to the balls of his feet.
Then the datapad rips itself out of Mila's grip and rockets across the room, slapping into Stella's waiting palm with a sharp crack.
'Ah. Right.'
Stella is a telekinetic on top of the telepathy and… What was it called? Mentalism? She simply hasn't displayed it until now.
"You saw nothing." Stella clutches the datapad to her chest like a shield, her ears pinned flat. She sniffles, then reaches up to wipe a tiny bead of red from one nostril. "There is nothing low-brow or depraved on my datapad!"
Mila blinks, still hanging upside-down. "That's... not what I said."
"I don't know what you think you read, but I assure you it was all purely academic exercises in creative writing!"
"I said it was good!"
"Don't give me that!"
"Stella, I literally just said-"
"There is context you are missing!"
Lars watches the exchange like a tennis match, his head swiveling between the two women with each retort. The drama on the holoscreen goes ignored, its climactic moment playing out to an audience of none.
Trigger watches too, but his mind drifts elsewhere.
'How little do I actually know about psychics?'
Stella's telekinetic display was minor, and from the nosebleed, not free, but it was fast. Reflexive, even. If she'd wanted to do something more dangerous than take a datapad...
Now that he thinks about it, he has been meaning to talk to her before they figure out a drop-off point for her. All the self-researching on the topic of psionics and the like is probably missing caveats that only a real practitioner can answer. That in mind, Trigger clears his throat. "Stella?"
The skunk cuts off mid-sentence, her mouth still open around whatever defense she'd been constructing.
"Do you have time for a meeting?"
Dread washes over Stella's face. "There is no need for anyone to inspect my pad! There is nothing untoward-!"
"It's not about that." Trigger keeps his voice slow, even. "I have some questions about psychics. Things a firsthand source might answer better than a database."
From the corner of his eye, Trigger spies Lars suddenly lose interest in the conversation and go back to watching the holo, almost snapping his head away, though one ear remains cocked towards them.
Stella deflates, the tension draining out of her shoulders. "Oh." She clutches the datapad a little tighter. "I... yes. I'd be glad to talk… If we leave right now, that is."
The man gestures for her to lead, and the skunk darts towards the infirmary like she's fleeing a monster hot on her tail.
Before he follows, Trigger pokes Mila's belly button once more, prompting her to twist and flip to her feet. "Don't be mean to fellow crewmates," he says, starting towards Stella's workspace.
"I said it was good, though!" Mila cries piteously towards his back.
Rolling his eyes, Trigger lets himself into the infirmary and closes the door.
The space has certainly been transformed under Stella's hand. The single ratty bed is gone, replaced with three, wheeled hospital beds furnished with crisp white sh…
With clean sheets, holo vital monitors, and IV hooks. Moving on…
In the corner by some visitor chairs, a counter with a sink and a number of cabinets sits, refreshed and cleaned. Part of the counter taken up with a chemical synthesizer, the round carousel inside already filled with capped syringes waiting to be filled. All in all, the space looks like a proper medical center and not a place to merely bleed out in like it used to.
Stella sits in one of the side chairs against the wall, her posture stiff and her datapad clutched to her chest. Her ears remain pinned flat, and the look on her face hovers somewhere between sulky and mortified.
Trigger takes the other chair, pulling it back a few feet so he can face her properly. "Don't mind Mila's snooping. She'll forget about it soon enough when something new captures her interest."
Stella's muzzle scrunches. "Easy for you to say," she grumbles, but some of the tension bleeds from her shoulders. She leans over to set the datapad on the counter beside her, making a point of locking the screen before her fingers leave it. "What did you wish to know about psionics, Captain?"
Trigger considers the question. He has a list, mental bullet points accumulated over weeks of secondhand research and firsthand observation, but dumping them all at once seems counterproductive.
"I have a number of questions," he admits. "But maybe it's best to start with you putting it in your own words. The basics, as you understand them."
Stella's brow furrows. She's quiet for a moment, her gaze drifting to some middle distance as she organizes her thoughts.
"It would be best to start with the most common thread," she says eventually. "The noosphere."
She shifts in her chair, crossing one leg over the other.
"The noosphere is... an energy field, for lack of a better term. It permeates all places, all matter, yet it remains uncategorized by conventional science. The poetic or fanciful call it 'the place where dreams and reality meet', but for obvious reasons, that can't be proven." Her hands fold in her lap. "The reason for this is simple: it can only be perceived by living brain tissue. Every attempt to build machines capable of scanning or interfacing with the noosphere has ended in failure. Because of this, the science behind psychic phenomena is..." She waves a hand vaguely. "Blurry, at the best of times."
Trigger nods slowly, filing the information away. 'Matches what I've already read.'
"Psychic sensitivity itself is controlled by a very specific sequence of genetic markers," Stella continues, settling into the pace of a comfortable, practiced lecturer. "Anyone who carries these markers, as I do, possesses the potential to interface with the noosphere." She tilts her head. "Though it's impossible to predict which abilities a latent psychic will manifest until they either train deliberately or suffer a spontaneous awakening."
She pauses, her expression growing more serious.
"Make no mistake, Captain. The powers of a psychic are not truly their own. We do not generate these effects from within ourselves. Rather, we bend the noosphere to accomplish our will. We are... conduits. Focal points, if you will. The effects come from the outside, not within."
Trigger's brow creases. "How can you tell that's the case?"
Stella's lips curve into a thin smile, the expression of a teacher pleased by a good question.
"We know because sections of the noosphere can be isolated." She holds up one hand, fingers spread. "There exists a material called xanion. You may have heard of it in the context of its space-bending properties, used in wormhole gate construction and certain exotic drives."
Trigger nods. He's seen the name in shipping manifests and engineering documents.
"Xanion repels the noosphere," Stella says severely. "It creates dead zones, for lack of a better term. Areas where the field simply cannot reach." She lowers her hand. "For example, if I wished to lift an object telekinetically, and that object were wrapped in xanion mesh, it would be impossible. The noosphere around the object cannot be accessed, and lifting the mesh itself is equally out of the question. The material is utterly inert to psionic influence."
'So these powers aren't without weaknesses,' Trigger realizes, but the relief makes way for a barely suppressed grimace soon after. 'But the material they can't interact with is over five hundred credits per gram. Wonderful…'
"The only psychics who can truly work around that restriction are psychosomatics," Stella continues. "Their abilities bolster their own physicality rather than producing external effects, so xanion has less purchase against them. That said, xanion bindings will still hamper their capabilities. A psychosomatic bound in xanion will find themselves weak while so constrained."
She falls quiet for a moment, her fingers lacing together in her lap.
"As for the noosphere itself..." She hesitates, her brow furrowing. "It's difficult to put into words how the actual mechanics of its use work. Nearly all psychics develop synesthesia. Are you familiar with the term?"
Trigger shakes his head.
"Synesthesia is when stimulation of one sensory pathway causes involuntary experiences in another," she explains. "Hearing colors. Tasting sounds. That sort of thing. It's theorized this is the brain's way of coping with the out-of-context feedback caused by psionic exertion. The mind receives information it has no framework for, so it improvises."
Trigger leans back slightly. Talking about the subject directly was definitely the right call, as none of the research he's done has gone into such accounts. "How is it for you?"
Stella stiffens, and something flickers behind her eyes. Discomfort, maybe. Or something closer to shame.
"You don't have to answer if you'd rather not," he adds.
She waves him off, though her gaze drifts to the far wall. "It's no great concern."
For a moment, she's quiet, leaning back in her chair and her tail curling around to settle in her lap. When she speaks again, her voice has grown distant, almost dreamy.
"To me, it's like playing an instrument that requires a million fingers. And hearing the noosphere play back." Her hands unfold, one rising to mime the playing of a piano in the air. "All the 'notes' I play for telekinesis and telepathy are... clumsy. My fingers are never quite in the right spot, always a hair off from where they should be."
She glances at him. "Do you know that mind reading isn't like it is in comics and movies? I don't simply hear and see thoughts as words and images. I hear the notes. Fragments that have to be pieced together to form an idea of what the subject is thinking." She shrugs. "Sometimes thoughts are loud enough that I can pick them up without trying, but assembling them into something coherent is another story entirely."
Her expression shifts. The distance fades, replaced by something sharper and more intense.
"Mentalism, however..." Her voice drops, and a strange light enters her eyes. "The art of manipulation through sensory mediums. Those notes are so much clearer. The return of the duet is so much more pleasing to the ears." Her fingers curl against her palms. "It's a siren song, Captain. It tempts me to twist people just to hear it play. And what's more, it's something I have talent in."
She leans forward, her words coming faster now.
"No more sour sounds. No more fingers always off the mark. It comes to me like magic, like breathing, like speaking. I had to have more. I needed it."
Then, as quickly as the intensity came, it drains away.
"...Then I found myself at the Hajiti Collective's famed psychic academia, Mortnorna." Her voice flattens. "And my mentalist talent was measured as a mere degree two. No further potential detected."
She stares at the floor. "A single step above abject failure."
Her shoulders curl inward, and she clutches her tail to her chest. "A mere two..."
Trigger watches her shrink into herself, the confident lecturer of moments ago replaced by something smaller and so much more fragile.
He's not good at this. Comforting people, finding the right words, knowing what gesture will help rather than make things worse. It's never been a skill he's had cause to develop, at the same time, doing nothing feels wrong.
He reaches out and places an awkward hand on her shoulder. "Perhaps we should continue at a later time? Further planning on a complex subject such as this would help."
The skunk licks her lips and looks up, but doesn't quite meet his eyes. "Yes… That's probably for the best," she begins, letting her tail go with the insides of her ears flushing pink. "I apologize for that unsightly display, Captain. That was inappropriate of me."
"I prompted it by inquiring into personal matters," Trigger says, narrowing his eyes and stopping her when she opens her mouth to protest. "We'll continue later, then, before we find a suitable drop-off point for you."
The corners of Stella's eyes crinkle, then widen as if struck by an unpleasant realization, and the corners of her muzzle twitch as if they want to pull downward. Despite all that, she bows her head. "Understood, Captain…"
With a nod, Trigger stands briskly and makes for the door. "We'll be moving out shortly. I imagine a traffic officer is already on the way to order us to clear orbit. Think hard about a destination, as once your asylum request is filed, it's not easily changed."
The door slides open, and as the man steps out and allows it to shut behind him, he catches what sounds like parting words.
"...that horrid scream I heard… Did I judge too fast?"
Several hours later, and the bridge has descended into a debate club.
"I'm just saying, we should head further north," Mila insists from her perch on the sensor console, legs swinging. "My home planet isn't too far from the main shipping lanes, and we could all use some real shore leave. Actual dirt under our feet, fresh air, maybe some home cooking..."
The mink looks wistfully in the distance, and Trigger can swear he hears her stomach growl despite dinner being served just an hour ago.
Eli's arms cross over his chest. "And I'm saying we should stay near the border and go off the beaten path. All this lane security is the most flimsy fuckin' front I've ever seen. LOSA definitely doesn't have a grip on things out there, which means easy contracts and easy money."
"We just got paid," Mila points out. "We're not hurting for credits."
"We're always hurting for credits. I saw over half a million get transferred to Coyote's discretionary account," Eli shoots back, giving Trigger a sidelong look.
"Oh, don't look at him that way," Jodie jumps to defend him from where she's leaning on the pilot console. She adjusts the omnipresent goggles on her head and points a clawed finger up at the XO. "Don't you want new toys for everyone? 'Cause that's what that is for."
The eagle frowns. "Then why are the notes for your last few expenditures just labeled 'for belkan bugzapper'? That means nothing to no one!"
"Thats just an internal note! Look at the actual report, Lieutenant Pissy! It's all there down to the last cred!" The mechanic stands, affronted at the implication that her documentation isn't up to par.
Lars shifts in his seat and speaks before Eli and Jodie can get into it. "Mila, you sure it's a good idea to bring us to your hometown?" His tone is gentle, but there's something careful in it. "Most normal families aren't too keen on having spacers around, let alone guns for hire."
Mila waves a dismissive hand. "It'll be fine! Yeah, sure, my family wasn't exactly thrilled when I ran off to be a spacer, but I haven't seen them in over a year! I've told mom and everyone about you guys, so it should be fine! We can land the Aquila out in the field behind the house, and if you really don't wanna enjoy Hjagard hospitality, then you can just stay inside."
Lars leans back, his gaze drifting somewhere past her shoulder. "Just a year, huh?" he murmurs.
The words are quiet enough that Mila doesn't seem to catch them, already launching into a description of her mother's famed fish bake, but Trigger does.
Off to the side, Catrina watches without comment, sitting primly at one of the auxiliary stations with one leg crossed over the other. She lets her eyes drift to whoever is speaking, but doesn't join in herself, her face betraying nothing.
Likewise, Nidhogg stands within one of the RK-4s in the corner, seemingly uninterested in joining the conversation.
"Maybe," Jodie interjects dryly, "the captain should decide?"
Eight sets of eyes turn to him.
Trigger doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he looks to Eddy, who has been uncharacteristically quiet near the auxiliary station. "I know I asked just a few hours ago, but any updates on your investigation?"
Eddy opens his mouth, one finger rising. "Nah, nothin' yet, boss. My guy said he'd get back to me when he-"
His wristcomm beeps, cutting him off. The notification sound is a three-second clip of some sugary pop song, all synthesizers and breathy vocals.
Eddy glances down at his wrist, blinks, then grins wide enough to show teeth. "Well, whaddya know! Speak of the devil!" He taps the display, scanning the message. "My guy says Burrowmand just packed up and moved to a new hideout. Somewhere in Crook's Triad." He scrolls further. "He's digging for an exact location now, but no timeframe on when he'll have it."
Trigger raises an eyebrow. "Crook's Triad?"
"Oh, right." Eddy waves a padded finger in a triangular shape. "It's the place where Sov, Libret, and LOSA borders all rub together. Like a three-way corner, yeah? None of 'em want to provoke the other two at once, so the whole region is basically a big DMZ." He makes a face, like he's trying to withhold a wide grin. "A big DMZ shithole. Tons of moolah to be made if you don't care where it comes from. Perfect place for a guy who don't want to be found."
'Fitting.' Trigger scoffs. "Our current objective is to find a suitable place to deliver Stella so she can resume her life."
From the corner of his eye, he catches the skunk's reaction. She stands down near Jodie, having been talking about something or other before the topic turned to where to go next. Her expression flickers, something complicated passing behind her eyes, and the corners of her muzzle twitch downward before she schools her features into neutrality.
He continues without comment. "After that, we're headed for Crook's Triad to find Burrowmand and learn what he knows about the attack on our ship. That in mind, we'll head further north toward the core first." He ignores Mila's happy little dance and glances at Jodie. "Both for the drop-off and to handle refits on the Aquila and our fighters."
Jodie nods, turning in her chair as Nidhogg wordlessly pulls up star maps and calculates routes.
"Though, if we're waiting on more information anyway," Trigger adds, his gaze shifting between Mila and Eli, "we'll see about offering our services to LOSA along the way. Fund the equipment upgrades as we go."
Mila's radiant face dims a little at hearing that it won't be a straight shot, but Eli's scowl softens into something closer to grudging acceptance.
Trigger is getting better at estimating the extended travel timetables of space, and this leg north is looking like several weeks at minimum. Time enough to take a few jobs, time enough for Jodie to source parts, time enough for Eddy's contact to narrow down Burrowmand's location.
The possibility of meeting Mila's family, though...
'It's already feeling like too short a time to prepare.'