The alarm chimed softly at first, then gathered strength until it filled the rented room with a steady, practical rhythm. Liam groaned and rolled onto his back, staring at the pale ceiling as if willing it to stop. He reached for the battered datapad on the bedside table and thumbed the alarm away.
The silence that followed wasn't empty for long.
[You're late by ninety-two seconds.]
Not through the earpiece resting on the desk, not from the datapad's cheap speakers. The words were clear and cold, pressed straight into the fabric of his mind.
"Iris," Liam muttered, dragging himself upright. His voice was still thick with sleep. "You really going to start my day with math?"
[I start your day with facts. It's not my fault you find numbers insulting.]
Liam smirked despite himself. "You've got a talent for ruining mornings."
[Correction. I've got a talent for keeping you alive. You'd be surprised how often those overlap.]
He stretched and rubbed his face, his dark-blond hair sticking up in uncooperative angles. His deep blue eyes flicked toward the datapad, and there it was: the number that made today different from every other morning.
1,200,000 credits.
The balance glowed against the pad's scratched display. Years of late nights, words tapped out on this same outdated device, contracts negotiated through secondary channels, and stories that had made their way into the hands of readers across the system—all of it had come together in this single line of numbers. He had written himself into existence, and now he could buy his way into the sky.
"I could stare at this all day," he said quietly.
[You have stared at it for the last eleven minutes and forty-two seconds. Perhaps it's time to consider what you intend to do with it.]
Liam grinned, pulling on his jacket and sliding the credit chip into an inner pocket. Beside it sat the owner drive, a sliver of alloy no bigger than his thumb. Once bound, it would be his key—not just to any ship, but to the ship he had chosen.
"Today," he said, "we make it official."
Erevos's capital city was awake now, alive with the pulse of Helion light bouncing off mirrored towers. The streets of Veyra Prime had always felt a little too perfect to Liam, as though scrubbed of anything that didn't gleam. Even the maglev hum below the pavement seemed tuned to a frequency that reassured investors.
Crowds moved with a quiet determination, citizens flowing toward offices, hangars, or marketplaces. The smell of filtered air mixed with the faint ozone tang of shielded vehicles sliding through the sky. For most people, this city was the culmination of ambition. For Liam, it was a launching pad.
[Route confirmed,] Iris said, overlaying a neat path into his thoughts: across two plazas, down Helios Walk, and into Stellar Dynamics' central showroom. [Estimated travel time: seventeen minutes if you refrain from stopping to gawk at street vendors again.]
"I wasn't gawking," Liam muttered, stepping onto the moving walkway that angled toward Helios Walk.
[You spent six minutes comparing spice blends with a vendor who was very obviously trying to upsell you.]
He shook his head. "I like to know what people are selling."
[That's called advertising. And you're very susceptible to it.]
Liam smirked, but said nothing more.
The entrance to Helios Walk rose like a promise: sleek columns of dark glass, blue light tracing the letters of its name, and an arch that framed the avenue beyond. Inside, the street was alive with movement—rows of stores that sold everything a mercenary or explorer could need.
On one side, Locke & Rail displayed polished rifles and magnetic railguns behind glass so clean it seemed not to exist. Drones hovered near the ceiling, adjusting the lighting with precision so each weapon looked like art. On the other, SynTech Solutions had a live demo of drones shifting formations in perfect unison, drawing a small crowd. CryoCore offered gleaming cryogenic pods with brochures promising "centuries of secure preservation." Arclight Systems sent pulses of electric-blue light across a dummy hull, showcasing shield responses.
Liam passed them all, his eyes flicking from stall to stall. These shops represented the future—pieces of a life not yet built. But not today. Today was about the foundation.
[Focus,] Iris said in his head, her voice carrying the faintest edge of amusement. [I know you'd like to bankrupt yourself before noon, but perhaps start with the ship.]
"Don't worry," Liam murmured. "I'll save the shopping spree for later."
The Stellar Dynamics showroom dominated the plaza ahead, a vast dome of glass and alloy that shimmered under the morning sun. Wide walkways guided customers through arcs of transparent flooring that let them look down into hangars below. Cradles suspended ships like works of art, each lit by carefully tuned beams.
The showroom smelled faintly of polished metal and recirculated air, the scent of industry scrubbed until it was almost sterile. Attendants in sleek uniforms moved between potential buyers, their smiles polite but never eager. This was Stellar Dynamics—confidence without need for salesmanship.
Liam slowed as the first ship came into view. The Veyran Pioneer stood sturdy and square, its hull built for longevity rather than beauty. Holo-screens projected data: low maintenance, durable frame, popular among independent traders.
[Efficient. Reliable. Predictable,] Iris noted. [You could fly it for decades with minimal upkeep.]
"And die of boredom long before it breaks down," Liam countered, moving on.
Next came the Corthan Lancer, sleek and sharp, the very image of speed. Its angular hull gleamed like a predator ready to strike.
[Fast. Agile. Fragile. Pilots who buy this model tend to overestimate their skill. Most of them end up as wreckage statistics within five years.]
Liam chuckled. "So you're saying it would be perfect for showing off."
[Yes. For a very short time.]
The Marel Haven occupied the next cradle, projecting soft lighting and simulated interiors filled with comfort. Reclining bunks, wide halls, polished panels.
[Safe. Comfortable. Suitable for a family,] Iris said.
Liam arched a brow. "Do I look like I'm buying a family van?"
[No. But statistically, many at your age are thinking ahead to one.]
He ignored her, but the grin tugged at his lips anyway.
And then—at the far end, half-shadowed as though it didn't care to compete with the others—stood the Astralis.
It wasn't flashy. Its lines were clean but understated, its hull painted in a dark sheen that absorbed more light than it reflected. No holographic show surrounded it, no projected interiors. The ship simply was.
Liam stopped walking. His chest tightened as if the sight of it had pulled a string taut inside him.
[This is the one you shouldn't pick,] Iris said softly. [Too expensive for its size. Overbuilt where it doesn't need to be. Every analyst says it's impractical.]
"Not impractical," Liam whispered. "Perfect."
There was a pause, then Iris said: [It fits you.]
The attendant's badge read MAREN. She approached with Stellar Dynamics' particular brand of calm, a presence that promised competence without pressure.
"Are you here for a viewing?" she asked.
"Astralis," Liam said.
"Of course." She gestured him toward a low dais beside the cradle. "We'll start with a filtered simulation to let you feel the handling. After that, we can proceed to purchase options."
[Stay measured,] Iris said. [The vendor sim will smooth roughness. Note response delay relative to your home rig.]
"I know," he murmured.
The harness settled across his shoulders with a click. Glass folded in around him, and the showroom dimmed to a muted haze beyond the sim canopy. A wireframe bay bloomed, then resolved into a clean, bright dock. Vectors pulsed in soft gold; lane beacons winked like polite stars.
He eased power forward. The Astralis lifted in the sim with a suggestion of mass rather than a shove; the grav-collar fell away as he slid into the inbound lane. Traffic streamed like fish through currents. He threaded between them, kept the throttle steady, and took the first translation buoy with a gentle yaw that felt like stepping sideways through a doorway.
[Throttle discipline good. Watch lateral drift on second buoy.]
"Copy."
He corrected with two quick taps and felt the ship answer like an agreement, not a lecture. Docking markers flared at the end of the run. He took them on a shallow line, eased down, and let the collar kiss and seal.
"Clean," Maren's voice came through the canopy. "Again?"
"One more."
He backed out, looped, and ran the sequence tighter, shaving the approach time without letting the sim bark at him for showmanship. When he set the ship down, he unclasped the harness and stepped out into the showroom's light.
"You match her," Maren said, tone professional, statement not compliment.
[Acceptable baseline,] Iris added. [Your hands already assume her inertia. Good.]
Liam looked up at the hull beyond the glass. The Astralis didn't seem to care about the attention; it waited the way good tools waited.
"Next steps?" he asked.
"Purchase desk," Maren said. "Then we'll walk you to your delivery cradle in Hangar Six."
She led him along a polished path that took them past other dais stations—buyers strapped into sims, attendants speaking in low voices, sales data floating in translucent strips. The path widened into a mezzanine ring, glass at their feet revealing the hangar decks below: rows of cradles, maintenance booms folded like sleeping insects, technicians in orange trim moving with practiced efficiency.
[Follow the lit strip,] Iris said. [See how it brightens? That's the buyer route. They separate demo traffic from delivery for a reason—no step feels like an accident.]
"I noticed," he said under his breath.
At the purchase desk, the air felt even cleaner. Maren keyed in his file; a contract slab slid up from the counter with the restrained theatricality of a well-made drawer. Terms blossomed—short, legible, no hidden velocity in the language.
"Full purchase," he said, and set the matte-black credit chip on the pad. He placed the owner drive beside it, the tiny slate-gray thing looking insignificant until the reader haloed it in soft white.
"Registry package and owner-key bind," Maren confirmed. "Any adjunct AI to declare?"
"Iris," he said. "Soul-bound adjunct." He held Maren's eye as he said it. The words would mean very little to a showroom system; they meant everything to him.
Maren only nodded, unfazed. "Adjunct designation recorded."
[Handshakes incoming,] Iris said. [I'm watching the chain. Private ledger mirrors accepted. No third-party flags.]
The slab asked him for signatures where signatures belonged. He signed, and the chip's faint ember stuttered once, then steadied as the transfer cleared. The owner drive pulsed—a slow inhale, a brighter exhale—as the showroom's root accepted its certificate.
"Transfer complete," Maren said. "Owner key bound to hull. Captain Crossvale, congratulations."
He didn't say thank you. He took a breath and felt the moment burn a small, precise line inside him.
[Owner lattice is live,] Iris said. [I'm seeded as adjunct under your key. My bond to you predates this, but now the ship recognizes it too. No seizure, no rewrite, no reassignment without your explicit consent. They could take the hull apart piece by piece and I'd still resolve to you.]
"Good," he said. "Stay."
[Always.]
Maren guided him away from the desk. The buyer route brightened—thin lines of light chasing each other along the floor toward a wide corridor. The showroom gave way to a glass gallery that curved above the hangar levels, a view down into rows of cradles where other ships sat in various stages of delivery. Below, a Pioneer rolled onto a freight lift; farther along, a team tested a Haven's pressure seals, blue flares rippling across its joints like quiet lightning.
"This way," Maren said. "Hangar Six."
They took a lift that moved sideways first, then down in a slow, dignified descent. The doors parted onto a corridor with sound-damped walls and directional strips glowing soft white. The air smelled less like polish here and more like work: faint coolant, warm metal, the ghost of lubricants the cleaners couldn't quite erase.
Hangar Six opened like a held breath. A single cradle waited under focused light, the Astralis resting in it with her landing legs locked and her underside showing honest lines. Two technicians stood by a maintenance console; when Maren entered, they glanced up, read the file on her wrist, and withdrew without need for ceremony.
"Delivery cradle," Maren said. "She's yours."
He didn't move for a moment. There were a thousand things he could have said—about how long he'd looked at diagrams, about how many nights he'd flown this hull in a sim—none of them useful now. He stepped forward when his body decided the moment needed to become an action.
A hatch sensor read his approach and lit the ridge along the port side. He put his palm to it. The ship recognized the owner key the showroom had bound just minutes ago. The ramp unsealed with a quiet sigh and folded down, laying a clean stripe of alloy to the deck.
He climbed. His boots rang once on the hinge, then softened to a steady rhythm on the ramp. Inside, the berth waited with its built-in bunk and fold-down desk, the workshop wall with rails that wanted tools, the narrow corridor leading to the cockpit like a thought that had already been formed.
He paused at the forward console. A small port glowed with the owner-symbol; he took the drive from his jacket and held it between finger and thumb.
[Ready,] Iris said. [I'll bind tight to ship systems. I remain yours either way. But this makes me present everywhere you need me.]
"Do it," he said.
He slid the owner drive into the slot. The console pulsed; a measured cascade of acknowledgments climbed the HUD from lower left to upper right:
OWNER-KEY VERIFIED
CAPTAIN PROFILE: LIAM A. CROSSVALE
AI-ADJUNCT: IRIS — REGISTERED (SOUL-BOUND)
ACCESS LATTICE: ONLINE
AUX PARTITIONS: MIRRORED
The pilot's chair accepted his weight and adjusted without fuss. Harness arms curved in, settling with the certainty of a thing designed to be dependable.
[Primary buses green,] Iris said. [Fuel cells at ninety-eight percent. Life support nominal. I've synced our private memory partition to the owner lattice. No external hooks present. This hull is quiet.]
"Let's keep it that way."
He ran his hand along the yoke. It wasn't a ceremonial gesture; it was a check. Edges smooth. Switches crisp. The kind of feel that told you whether someone had cut a corner.
The hangar's tower sent a polite ping. Traffic control acknowledged the registry update and assigned a departure lane. The bay doors' status went from amber to ready.
"Captain Crossvale," Maren's voice came over the cradle channel, professional even in congratulations, "you are cleared to depart when ready. The route lights to the exit are set for you."
"Thank you," he said.
[We'll take lane C-12,] Iris added. [Beneath the showroom gallery, out past the east spire. I've already filed the vector.]
He took a breath, then another. The kind you take when you're about to step into something that won't let you be the same afterward.
"Engaging repulsors."
The ship rose with an intent that felt like restraint rather than bravado. Landing legs tucked, struts pulled flush, and the cradle lowered out of their way like a stagehand making good choreography. The route lights along the deck spilled ahead in a quiet river—white, then blue, then white again—leading them across the hangar floor to the yawning rectangle of the bay doors.
They glided under the showroom gallery. For a moment Liam saw silhouettes beyond the glass: buyers, attendants, watchers who would never know this was the precise second his life changed shape. The bay doors unscrolled, bright bars crossing his vision and then giving way to Helion's clean daylight.
Veyra Prime flattened beneath them: plazas shrinking into pale patches, skybridges drawn as silver threads, maglev spines tracing avenues in faint iron lines. The air thinned to violet; the violet ceded to true black that swallowed the city's noise and left only systems hum and the soft tick of thermal expansion in the panels.
[Contract Authority listings incoming,] Iris said. [Two low-complexity courier routes; one atmospheric sampling sweep over mid-latitude ocean bands; one escort flagged with inconsistent data. I recommend we avoid the escort until after we calibrate.]
"Agreed," he said. "Take the sampling sweep."
[Plotting. Weather model shows scattered microcells. Good test for intakes and sensor packages. Estimated duration: three hours. I'll log baseline performance for our maintenance plan.]
He let the ship run a little, feeling where she liked to sit, how she let him correct, what she forgave and what she refused. The Astralis wasn't a teacher and it wasn't a judge; it was an instrument that made sense when you respected it.
[Lane C-12 cleared,] Iris said. [We're free.]
He eased the throttle. The Astralis answered without drama, cutting a line through space that felt clean enough to sign his name with. The city, the showroom, the gallery, the walkway lights all fell behind them in a coherent trail—no jumps, no missing steps, the path from a rented room to a captain's chair laid out like a proof.
[You did it,] Iris said, quiet in his head. [This is the first line. We will draw the rest.]
"We will," he said, and angled them toward the blue of the ocean far below.