The silence in my quarters after Taera’s casual declaration—her ship—was a physical thing, thick with the hum of the Crow’s systems and the low, ever-present thrum of my own decaying infrastructure. Her ship. The words echoed, a stone dropped into the still pond of my understanding, rippling out to disturb everything I thought I knew. A Commander, an XO, even one as preternaturally competent as Taera, does not refer to a Fleet-associated vessel that way. It was a slip, probably intentional, a breadcrumb laid out for the bird with its head stuck in a box of its own assumptions. My assumptions.

  So, I dug. My access wasn’t what it used to be in the active Paladin corps, but a Warrant Officer, especially one on a ship like the Crow, has backdoors. System-granted query privileges, Fleet archival tokens that hadn’t yet been revoked, and a Paladin’s innate, if currently corrupted, sense for pulling at loose threads until the whole tapestry unravels.

  The facts I uncovered were less a tapestry and more a patchwork quilt of half-truths, legalistic sleight-of-hand, and history so old it had gathered dust in forgotten databanks.

  Taera wasn’t just old. She was a relic. A living piece of history from the bloody, chaotic end of the Old Empire. Her service record—the public-facing one, at least—placed her as a junior officer on an Imperial Intelligence cutter during the final purges, right when the last Technomancer strongholds were being glassed by the nascent Unified Planets coalition. The official story was a masterpiece of bland bureaucracy: her vessel, the INS Verity, while on a deep-space patrol, encountered an uncharted spatial anomaly and was lost with all hands.

  How utterly fucking convenient.

  The real story, the one buried under layers of redaction and ‘archival misplacement,’ was far more interesting. The Verity hadn’t been lost. It had been running. Desperately. And it hadn’t found an anomaly; it had deliberately, suicidally, plunged into a Steel-tier Hulk-class Greater Rift. A move with a 99.99% fatality rate. But not for them. Their reward for that insane gamble wasn’t just survival. It was the Crow. A Tech 7, Steel-tier rift-forged corvette, a vessel that shouldn’t have existed outside of Imperial core-world shipyards.

  Why? What was so dire that a crew of Imperial spooks chose almost-certain oblivion over whatever was chasing them? The details were scrubbed cleaner than a medbay before an inspection. That kind of clean didn’t happen by accident. It happened because someone very powerful wanted it that way.

  Then came the Timurs. The records showed a neat, tidy line: Captain Arjun Timur, then her daughter, Captain Selena Timur I, then her granddaughter, Captain Selena Timur II. All commanding the UPFFS Crow. All incredibly long-lived, hinting at high-rank cultivation. The perfect, respectable, Fleet-approved face for a privateer vessel.

  But one constant remained through all three generations: Executive Officer Taera.

  The pieces started to click into place, forming a picture of breathtaking audacity. Taers, under the complex web of interstellar law that arose from the Empire’s ashes, were a unique classification: Sovereign Citizens. Neutrality was their currency. They could travel anywhere, trade without the UP’s brutal tariff schemes, and were generally left alone by the major powers. But the trade-off was severe: no direct government employment, no commissioned officer status, no land ownership on UP worlds, and strict limits on vessel size and armament. They were ghosts in the machine, able to observe and move, but never to officially hold power.

  So, how does a Sovereign Citizen keep and command a Tech 7 warship? Simple. You don’t own it. You have a… friend own it. A powerful, Fleet-connected family friend. The Timur family, on paper, legally owned and captained the Crow. But in the eyes of the System, which governed Rift rewards with an impartial, divine logic, the ship was Taera’s. Her property. Her reward.

  Captain Selena Timur II was real, I’d met her during the obligatory new-crew welcome-aboard. A woman with the calm, unshakeable presence of high rank, but also the vague, polished demeanor of someone who’s spent a lifetime being a figurehead. I’d written it off as aristocratic reserve. Now, I reconsidered. Had I actually met the formidable Fleet Admiral’s genuine granddaughter? Or was I looking at a very well-paid, very well-briefed actress, a Timur cousin five times removed whose entire job was to wear the uniform, make vague, inspiring speeches, and let the real master of the vessel run the show from the XO’s chair?

  It was a gloriously brazen scam. And the best part? It was almost open. The records were there if you knew how to look. But who would? Who would question the lineage of a respected Captain or the service history of a seemingly ageless XO? And if Fleet Intelligence did know—and they absolutely had to know—they clearly found the arrangement beneficial. The Crow got results. It brought in rift resources and intelligence no other ship could. Why upset the applecart?

  Which brings it all back to me. And to her. To Gabrielle.

  Fleet and the Church were so intertwined they shared a circulatory system. They knew about my necrosis. They had to know about Gabrielle’s obscene potential, her true Class. Yet here we were, on Taera’s ship, operating with a startling degree of autonomy. Was this all a long game? An op run by Intelligence? An old ‘friend’ calls in a favor, asks me to train a unique recruit. She gets transferred to the perfect, out-of-the-way ship to develop. I follow, a broken Paladin offered a chance at redemption and a cure. It was all too neat. Too convenient.

  My Paladin sense, a skill that felt for the weight of truth and the void of deceit, pinged off Taera like sonar off a deep-sea leviathan. I didn’t sense malice. I sensed… profound honor, bound and gagged by even more profound secrets. She wasn’t lying to me. She was trusting me. Trusting me to be smart enough to follow the clues she’d just dropped. This wasn’t chance. This was design.

  And my role in it was clear, if terrifying. Stabilizer. Trainer. Potential bond. That thought sent a fresh wave of icy dread through my veins, momentarily overshadowing the constant necrotic ache. A full bond with a Copper-rank Maenad, especially one with her affinities, would be like trying to drink from a firehose. It would accelerate the corruption, not halt it. But what about a… trickle? Could she learn to use her Forces affinity remotely? Not to heal me directly, but to empower my own flagging Life magic, to give my white cells a bit of divine artillery to fight with?

  Her new Class was a Force Sage. The possibilities were mind-boggling. Forces was the affinity of pure energy manipulation, the foundation of the universe. Technically, she could probably train herself to manifest almost any trait that could be framed as an energy transfer. Regeneration? That’s just accelerated cellular energy conversion. Reflex boost? Temporal energy manipulation on a personal scale. She couldn’t grow gills or change her skin pigmentation, but the more I thought about it, the more the potential applications unfolded in my mind, a terrifying and beautiful fractal of possibility.

  I needed to tread carefully. I’d left her abruptly, spooked by the intensity of her confession and the implications of the bond she claimed was forming. Not my finest hour. A Paladin should face his fears, not teleport away from them. I composed a quick, delayed trace message. ?Gabrielle. My apologies for my sudden departure. I had an… insight regarding your new capabilities that required immediate contemplation. Well done today. I will see you at tomorrow’s assembly for the delve debrief and we can begin training. —Wasserman.?

  It was sterile. Professional. Hopefully, it would suffice for now. This entire situation required a surgeon’s touch, not a sledgehammer.

  The air in the mess decks was a mix of stale coffee, recycled oxygen, and the electric buzz of post-combat euphoria. About seventy of us were crammed in, a mix of the twenty-five raiders still smelling of cordite and alien ichor, and the support staff who’d kept the ship running and the drones flying. It was an informal gathering, undress blacks, no podium. This was a Crow tradition, I’d learned. The big, fancy awards ceremony would happen planetside, with brass bands and press. This was family business.

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  Taera stood at the front, her presence commanding silence without her ever raising her voice. I watched Gabrielle from my position near the bulkhead. She was trying to be inconspicuous, but she stood out like a diamond in a coal bin. The Kalisti rift had filled her out, the scrawny goblinoid frame now possessing a woman’s curves, her copper-rank vitality making her skin glow and her hair look like spun fire even under the dull mess deck lights. And she was confused. I could see it in the slight furrow of her brow.

  She didn’t get it. Why were we being praised so heavily for a raid that, by her estimation, we’d simply… done? She’d operated on the assumption that all iron was iron, all copper was copper. She hadn’t yet grasped the fundamental law of essence density.

  “Captain Timur sends her apologies,” Taera began, her voice cutting easily through the low murmur. “She approved the field awards, but the sudden influx of resources has her burning the midnight oil establishing mid-copper tier trade links and evaluating future actions. And due to your skillful, and more importantly, safe handling of the Kalisti rift, your raid deserves congratulations for its rapid and efficient actions.”

  There it was. The mention of ‘mid-copper tier resources.’ Gabrielle’s head tilted just a fraction. Bingo. She’d never been taught that the value of a thing isn’t just in its chemical composition, but in the spiritual weight of the world it came from. Iron mined from a Copper-stage rift was infused with a density of metallic essence that made it twice as strong, twice as receptive to enchantment, as the same iron from a Tin-level world. It was why our Tin-rank troopers in their Orichalcum-level gear could wade into a Copper-rank rift and not be instantly turned into paste. Their gear was simply better on a metaphysical level.

  Most tech-affinity types, raised on hard physics, had their brains short-circuit trying to reconcile it. They could accept magic as a new energy source, but the idea that the periodic table had a spiritual variable column drove them nuts. They’d argue about atomic mass and molecular structure while a delver wearing a ring forged in a Silver-tier rift could punch through a tank. The science was sound; it was just that mainstream education, even Fleet basic, didn’t bother with the advanced metaphysics. Why confuse the cannon fodder?

  The void, for all its terrors, was universally Base-tier. Those planet-sized void beasts were terrifying, but they were made of Base-tier stuff. A team of Orichalcum rankers could take one down because they operated on a fundamentally different level of reality. The Crow’s secret wasn’t just its Tech 7 systems; it was that Taera crewed it with people who had the potential to advance. Even the densest trooper here, like Dirk, had a path to Iron, maybe even Steel, if he didn’t get himself killed. We were a ship of high-tier players masquerading as a low-tier privateer.

  And that was another source of Gabrielle’s confusion. Her training simulations used Base-tier metrics. She’d advanced to Tin in training, and her Sargasso drone fleets, while made of Base-tier scrap, were empowered by her Copper-tier will. It was no wonder she broke the Kobayashi Maru scenario. Now, at Copper? She’d shred it without breaking a sweat. We’d need to get her custom Copper-tier sims, something that could actually challenge her. Fortunately, we had the resources for that. I made a mental note to comms the VR bay chief.

  Taera began calling names, delivering commendations with the dry efficiency of a machine gunner. “Private First Class Dirk Steel?”

  A wave of snickers rolled through the crowd. The kid had legally changed his name before enlistment. It sounded like a bad action holo-star, and the fact that he’d have to file a mountain of paperwork to change it now was a source of endless amusement.

  “You are now officially a holder of the Baker’s Dozen Purple Heart award for gaining your thirteenth serious injury in the line of duty,” Taera stated, deadpan. “And you’ve gained your seventh Honorable Action Star. For the third time, you have been officially promoted to Lance Corporal. Please try not to lose it again. If you make Bronze as a Private, it could make the Crow look… inconsistent.”

  The crowd roared with laughter. Dirk just grinned, a picture of proud incomprehension.

  “Corpsman Casparov? Congratulations. Due to your quick thinking and exemplary leadership under fire, you’ve gained your first Honorable Action Star and are frocked to Petty Officer Second Class. Get your testing done. Don’t make me regret it.”

  She moved down the line. Every raider got a star. It was a good ribbon for the kids, a mark of a veteran. I’d stopped wearing mine decades ago; after sixty-odd stars, the damn thing looked like a miniature supernova and just screamed ‘target.’

  Then she got to Gabrielle. The room’s focus sharpened.

  “Third Class Petty Officer Gabrielle Roisin Reynard.” Taera paused, a faint, almost imperceptible smile on her lips. “The Crow is not a sports team, but if it were, you and First Class Petty Officer Dienne-Lar would be sharing the MVP trophy for this raid.”

  A cheer started but was instantly quelled by Taera’s upraised hand.

  “You gain your first Honorable Action Star. And, unlike some people…” She shot a mock glare at Dienne, who gave an elaborate, unrepentant shrug. “…you performed your primary droner duties while personally engaging in close-quarters combat to relieve your fellow raiders across all three raid grounds.”

  This time, she let the cheer happen. A short, sharp burst of approval from the raiders who’d been there. Gabrielle’s cheeks flushed a brilliant scarlet that clashed wonderfully with her hair. She looked like she wanted the deck to swallow her whole.

  “Your rapid, innovative use of local resources to preserve team health,” Taera continued, her voice losing its bantering tone and gaining a layer of genuine respect, “and your willingness to back up your corpsman at great personal risk, exemplifies the exact brand of courage, responsibility, and skill this ship is known for.”

  “As a result, the Captain has seen fit to frock you to Second Class Petty Officer. And, as you have somehow already completed your rating’s prerequisites, Fleet has approved the promotion and waived time-in-rate. Congratulations on that, and on your personal advancement to Copper One. Good job, sailor.”

  The applause was warmer this time, from everyone. A promotion that fast was rare, and it spoke volumes.

  “In addition,” Taera’s voice cut through the applause, bringing back a sudden, attentive silence. “The Crow awards you the Valor Third Rank, one of the highest awards the Captain and the Valkyries can bestow without Fleet review. The Valor Second Rank has been submitted for Fleet’s approval. And your personal award share from the Kalisti rift has been set at a full raider’s share.”

  The reaction was instant and bifurcated. The raiders, her teammates, grinned and clapped her on the shoulders, happy for her. But from the back of the mess, from the support staff—the engineers, the logistics clerks, the sanitation techs—came a low, ugly mutter. Their shares were smaller because of this. They saw a pretty new girl getting rewarded for what they, in their ignorance, perceived as luck.

  Before I could even draw breath to quell it, Dirk Steel of all people beat me to it.

  “Hey! Dumbasses!” he bellowed.

  The entire mess deck went dead silent. All eyes, including Taera’s and my own, swiveled to him. He was puffing out his chest, a Tin-rank rooster facing down the world.

  “Look! I get it!” he yelled, his voice echoing in the sudden quiet. “She looks like a holostar pinup and is probably in half the crew’s spank bank by now!”

  A choked cough came from somewhere in the crowd. Someone else failed to suppress a giggle. Gabrielle looked like she was contemplating murder-suicide via airlock.

  Dirk plowed on, magnificently oblivious. “But look! She’s a total drone geek! Might as well be a dwarf!”

  From the back, a female dwarf engineer snorted into her beer. “She’s in my spank bank now, anyway!” she shouted back, to a fresh round of laughter.

  Dirk coughed, thrown off his rhythm for a second. “Yeah, anyway! You know what a drone geek’s gonna do with a full share? She’s gonna have a good meal, maybe buy a pretty dress, and then blow the rest on droner toys that’ll make the next raid safer and make us all even more money! So if you got a problem with her gettin’ a full share, you can take it up with ME on the training decks! We can straighten a few things out!”

  He curled his meaty fists, looking for a fight. It was the most insightful, leadership-quality moment of his entire career. He was absolutely right.

  I cleared my throat, the sound like gravel grinding in the silence. All eyes turned to me. “For those of you who might complain,” I said, my voice low but carrying to every corner of the room, “Lance Corporal Steel’s unexpected outburst is not being logged as insubordination. Though in the future, he might wish to restrict his use of the term ‘dumbasses’ during public address.”

  I let that hang for a second. “To put a finer point on his… unique oratory, I concur with his assessment. And for anyone who feels they can successfully challenge his judgment on this matter, I would be happy to discuss it in more depth. In the Grav Gym. At two and a half gees. I am certain we can come to an agreement without needing to involve the chain of command further.”

  The muttering died a quick and final death. I saw Dirk’s… friend, Lindsay, slap him hard on the back. “Good job, Manboobs,” she muttered, laughing.

  I allowed myself a small, internal sigh. Crisis averted, morale… somehow boosted? By Dirk, of all people. The universe had a truly bizarre sense of humor.

  My eyes scanned the crowd, looking for Gabrielle to give her a slight, reassuring nod.

  She was gone. Vanished. Not a trace of coppery hair or nervous energy anywhere in the mess.

  Damn it.