Liam woke to silence. For a brief moment, he didn't know where he was. The bunk above him, the hum of ventilation, the subtle tilt of artificial gravity—all of it felt too new to belong to him. Then his hand brushed the cool alloy of the cabin wall and memory rushed back.
He was no longer a boy in a rented room. He was aboard the Astralis.
[Your first morning as a captain,] Iris's voice slipped into his mind, dry and steady. [Statistically, you're less likely to die today than on most other mornings. Congratulations.]
Liam snorted and swung his legs out of the bunk. "That's a hell of a way to say good morning."
[You told me to limit dark humor to once or twice a day. That was today's allotment. Efficient, isn't it?]
"Efficiently grim," he muttered.
The cabin was small but more than he'd ever owned. A narrow desk folded out of the wall, clean storage compartments lined one side, and a single holo-lamp glowed softly overhead. The deck plating under his feet thrummed faintly—life support and repulsors in idle. For all its simplicity, the space felt alive. His space.
He pulled on his black jacket—too large for his twelve-year-old frame but one he refused to give up—and made for the cockpit. The corridor was narrow, still smelling faintly of sterilized alloy. Panels blinked with soft light as he passed. The cockpit door hissed open to reveal the pilot's chair and the wide canopy beyond. Stars still speckled the void, Helion's blue curve slipping beneath the ship.
"Status?" he asked.
[Power cells at ninety-eight percent. Navigation synced with planetary satellites. Contract Authority is pinging—your first assignment awaits.]
The words sat heavy, almost unreal. He'd spent six years dreaming, writing, saving, building to this moment. And now? His first real job.
"Put it up."
The canopy dimmed slightly, and a contract frame appeared. The display was barebones:
Contract Authority Assignment – Class D
Objective: Conduct atmospheric sampling over Erevos, southern hemisphere, within designated grid.
Payment: 2,000 credits.
Duration: 6 hours maximum.
Notes: Weather instability expected. No combat risk.
Liam frowned. "Two thousand isn't much."
[It isn't meant to be. This is entry-level. It's less about profit and more about establishing a record. Think of it as a signature on your mercenary license.]
He leaned back. "So they want me to fly into storms for pocket change."
[Correct. And you accepted.]
"I didn't yet."
[You were going to. I could feel it.]
Liam smirked. "Register us."
The contract sealed with a soft chime. Authority records now listed Liam A. Crossvale, Captain of Astralis, as the active mercenary for the assignment. His chest tightened. It was official.
[Route plotted,] Iris continued. [Target grid lies three hundred kilometers south of Veyra Prime's equator. Atmospheric interference detected—irregular storm cells, high moisture index. Your job is to fly through, gather samples, and return without turning us into debris.]
"Sounds simple enough."
[That's what people say before their funerals.]
He shook his head. "That was two jokes in one day."
[The second was free. Consider it a bonus.]
The Astralis detached from orbit with a low rumble that carried through the hull. Liam held the yoke steady as the ship slipped down into the thickening blue of Erevos's skies. Clouds spread beneath him like continents in motion.
"Bring up sampling arrays."
Panels on the wings extended with quiet clicks, each lined with glimmering intakes. Status lights went green one by one.
[Arrays online. Atmosphere composition feed ready. Storm cells ahead. Recommend adjusting trajectory two degrees east.]
Liam followed the vector. Winds buffeted the hull, nudging the ship sideways. He corrected quickly, fingers adjusting with more instinct than training.
[Good recovery,] Iris noted. [Try not to make a habit of it. If you fly sloppy, the Authority reviewers will know.]
"You think I care about their opinion?"
[You care about pay. Pay scales with reputation. Reputation depends on performance metrics. In short: yes, you care.]
Lightning forked through the clouds below. Liam guided the Astralis down into the storm's edge. Rain hammered the hull, wind shear tugging the wings. The canopy blurred with droplets before the shields vaporized them into mist.
"Stabilizers holding?"
[For now. This isn't a capital storm, but it's lively.]
Readings scrolled across the console: moisture ratios, pressure fluctuations, chemical signatures. He set the system to record and let the intakes draw in streams of atmosphere.
"Feels… good," he said quietly.
[Define good.]
"Like flying's supposed to mean something."
[You sound sentimental.]
"Maybe I am."
A sudden gust rocked the Astralis. Alarms chirped. One of the intakes stuttered, then red-lined.
[Cell four is choking,] Iris said calmly. [Moisture overload. If you don't correct, it will flood and burn out.]
"Options?"
[Manual purge. But you'll need to rotate us hard, open the array to crosswind, and hope the wind doesn't tear the housing apart.]
"Hope?"
[It improves your chances by seventeen percent.]
"That's reassuring."
He gripped the yoke, jaw tight. "On my mark, trigger purge."
[Ready.]
He yanked the Astralis into a banking roll, forcing the intake broadside into the wind. The hull groaned. Warnings flared across the console.
"Now!"
The intake flushed, valves venting in a sharp burst. Water and vapor tore free in a streaming arc. For a second the entire wing shuddered as though about to rip loose—then the pressure dropped, alarms cutting out one by one. The intake lights flickered green again.
Liam exhaled. "That was close."
[Closer than I prefer,] Iris admitted. [But effective. The purge cleared eighty-seven percent saturation. The array is functional.]
"First save of the day."
[Don't get cocky. The storm doesn't care about your milestones.]
He steadied the Astralis, cutting through the storm until the turbulence eased. The sky broke open in streaks of pale sunlight across the sea. His displays filled with completed data logs, sampling results tagged and filed for the Authority.
[Contract parameters met,] Iris confirmed. [Transmit?]
"Send it."
The transmission pulsed out, packet by packet. A moment later, confirmation returned: CONTRACT COMPLETE. Payment: 2,000 credits. Reputation: +1.
Liam stared at the numbers. Two thousand credits—barely enough to cover maintenance if he'd taken damage. But it was his first paycheck as a captain. His first real step.
He leaned back, smiling despite himself. "Feels small. Feels big."
[It is both,] Iris said. [Small enough to seem forgettable. Big enough to shape the rest of your life.]
The Astralis climbed back toward orbit, engines thrumming steady. Below, the ocean gleamed with stormlight, restless and endless. Liam watched it fade into blue haze, then into the curve of Erevos itself.
"What do you think, Iris?"
[About what?]
"About… this. Being mercenaries. The first job."
[You completed a contract, got paid, and survived. By all measurable standards, it was a success.]
"That's not what I meant."
A pause. [It feels like the first page of something. And I intend to read the entire book with you.]
He laughed softly. "That's almost poetic."
[Don't get used to it.]
Liam adjusted their heading, setting the Astralis into a calm orbit above Erevos. His first job was done. The next would come soon. And with it, another step forward.
[You're smiling,] Iris said. [Why?]
"Because," he said, "this is only the beginning."
The Astralis drifted in high orbit above Veyra Prime when the next contract frame lit across the canopy. Liam leaned forward, eyes sharp.
Contract Authority Assignment – Class D
Objective: Transport encrypted datacore from Veyra Prime, Orbital Office, to Relay Station Theta (orbiting Erevos IV).
Payment: 1,500 credits.
Duration: 4 hours maximum.
Notes: Delivery must remain sealed. No deviations from registered route.
"A courier job," Liam murmured.
[Which requires punctuality, not heroics,] Iris said. [Can you manage that?]
He smirked. "You'll keep me on the line."
[Correct. And I'll complain if you drift.]
The Astralis slipped through re-entry protocols until the Authority's orbital dock loomed ahead. Traffic lanes shimmered, each dotted with shuttles and service craft. Liam guided the ship toward Dock Six, following vectors with care. No weaving this time, no improvisation. The Authority hated improvisation.
The docking cradle seized the Astralis with a muted clunk. Liam felt the hull settle. A thin line of light traced along the starboard hatch—dock pressurization.
A uniformed clerk stepped aboard, crisp in gray. She carried a sealed case no larger than a book.
"Datacore package, Captain Crossvale," she said flatly, as though his name was just another field on her pad. "Confirming registry signature."
Liam pressed his owner drive to the reader. The console chimed. The case glowed faint blue, its seal locking to his captain's key.
"Delivery deadline: four hours," she said. "Deviation or tampering voids contract and incurs penalty."
"I understand."
[You'd better,] Iris muttered.
The clerk left. The hatch sealed. The cradle disengaged. Liam guided the Astralis free of the dock with steady hands.
[Route filed,] Iris said. [Trajectory is clean. Expect a thirty-eight minute cruise to Relay Theta. No obstacles.]
"Feels easy," Liam said.
[That's because it is. But easy jobs build reputations just as well as difficult ones. Provided you don't screw up.]
The Astralis glided through the Erevos system, engines humming soft against the black. Liam sat back, feeling the weight of the sealed datacore behind him. It was absurd, really—just a package. Yet the Authority trusted him with it. That trust mattered.
Thirty-eight minutes later, the Relay Station came into view, a wheel of alloy turning lazily against the void. Traffic lanes curved toward it like threads woven into a loom.
"Bring up docking protocol."
[Already filed. Lane two-eight. Maintain speed.]
He matched the vector, adjusting thrusters with care. The Astralis slid into the approach corridor, lights blinking green as the station recognized his signature. The docking clamps closed, smooth as breath.
The hatch opened again. This time, two clerks waited with a reader. Liam presented the sealed case, untouched. The reader glowed, confirmed his key, and released the Authority's lock.
"Delivery received," one clerk said. "Payment confirmed."
On his console, Liam watched the credits pulse into his account: +1,500.
[Contract complete,] Iris said. [Your reputation incremented.]
"That's it?"
[That's it. Reliable. Clean. Professional. Boring.]
"Boring," he echoed. Then he smiled faintly. "But still real."
The next two months passed in rhythm.
Courier jobs, cargo hauls, survey flights—small assignments stacking into days, days into weeks. Liam learned the grind of mercenary work: filing routes with Authority terminals, double-checking seals, logging cargo manifests, recalibrating sensors after each survey.
The Astralis carried crates of alloy to Erevos III's orbital foundries. It ferried sealed containers of medical supplies to mining stations near the asteroid belt. It dipped into low orbit to map cloud banks for agricultural planners. Each job was small, each payout modest, but each one was clean.
Inside, the ship began to change. The once-sterile bunk now carried the scuff marks of his boots. The fold-down desk bore neat stacks of datapads filled with Authority records and his personal notes. Tools hung on the workshop wall, some bought new, others already worn from use. The cockpit smelled faintly of recycled air and lubricant—a mercenary's scent.
Liam himself began to change. At twelve, he was still young, but two months of constant flight lent him a steadier posture. His hands on the yoke no longer hesitated. His voice to Authority traffic control carried more confidence.
Iris remained the same—cold, precise, unbending.
[You are developing a pattern,] she said one evening after their twentieth completed job. [Wake. File contract. Fly. Deliver. Repeat. Statistically, this is optimal. But it is also monotonous.]
"You think I'm bored?"
[You are not. Yet. But boredom corrodes faster than failure. Keep that in mind.]
He looked at the canopy where Erevos turned beneath them, its oceans glittering under sunlight. "I don't mind. Every job, even the boring ones, reminds me I'm really doing it. I'm not dreaming anymore."
[Correct. You are not dreaming. You are surviving. Survival is the minimum requirement for ambition.]
He laughed softly. "Cold as ever."
[As requested.]
Two months in, Liam Crossvale was no longer just a boy with a new ship. He was a registered mercenary with a growing record of clean jobs, a modest but steady account of credits, and the first traces of a reputation.
It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't dramatic. But it was the foundation.
And Liam knew foundations mattered more than anything else.