The Rebirth of Keruan's Legend
Breaking And Entering The Legend
It was one of those nights where sleep just wasn't happening. Too many ghosts rattling around in my head, too many old wounds aching with the change in weather. The rain was coming down hard, drumming against the corrugated roof of my shack behind the junkyard office. Perfect weather for nursing a bottle of Quafe Ultra, trying to forget the old days once more.
The security panel by my bed blinked red. Someone was messing with the fence again.
"Damn thieves," I muttered, taking another swig. This happened almost every week – some local troublemaker thinking they'd find valuable salvage in my yard. They never did. The good stuff was either locked up tight or already sold.
I ignored it at first. Let them get soaked and find nothing but rust and disappointment. But then another silent alarm flashed – motion near the back lot. Near the Marauder.
That got me moving.
I pulled on my boots and grabbed the old neural disruptor I kept by the door. Hadn't used it in decades, but old habits die hard. The cold rain hit me like tiny needles as I trudged through the mud, following the path between hulking wrecks of once-proud vessels.
The Marauder sat where it always did, partially hidden under a camouflage tarp that had seen better days. Most people thought it was just another piece of junk, another rusting hauler. That was exactly how I wanted it. The ship had been my ticket to infamy, my partner in countless runs that still made Concord officers wake up in cold sweats. Now it was my retirement plan – most of its valuable parts stripped of, not even functional enough if I ever needed a quick exit from this backwater planet.
As I approached, I saw wet footprints leading up the boarding ramp. Small ones. A kid, probably. The kind of desperate spaceport rat I used to be before I stole my first ship.
I moved silently, decades of smuggler's instinct taking over. The interior was pitch black, but I knew every inch of this vessel by heart. Could navigate it blindfolded, drunk, or bleeding out – had done all three at various points in my colourful career.
That's when I heard it – a soft moan coming from the centre of the ship. Someone was doing something I had no intention to witness, but it was...
In my capsule.
Something hot and possessive flared in my chest. That was my throne. The place where I'd pulled off so many blockade runs, evaded security fleet from all factions, where I'd made split-second decisions that put my name in the history books of outlaws across New Eden.
I crept forward, disruptor ready. Through the shadows, I could make out a skinny figure squirming, touching the controls, whispering to herself. For a moment, I was genuinely angry. This wasn't just trespassing – it was... defiling. Like finding some stranger rolling around in your bed.
Then she bolted. I heard her scrambling toward the cabin quarters, trying to hide. Amateur move. I followed at my own pace, letting my boots hit the metal floor heavily this time. Let her sweat a little.
When I reached the doorway of the cabin, I found her curled up on one of the bunks, pretending to be asleep. Her overall was soaked through, her frame so thin I could probably count her ribs. Not even twenty yet, with that mixture of street-tough and desperation that marked the truly down-on-their-luck. My anger fell.
"If you were planning to sleep in the junkyard," I said, my voice rough from years of cheap liquor and cheaper cigars, "you could have asked instead of messing with my security system."
She opened her eyes, startled. "I wasn't—" she started, then swallowed hard. "I mean, I was just looking for somewhere dry."
"In my ship. In my capsule." I let the accusation hang there, watching her squirm.
"I didn't know the Marauder was yours," she replied weakly, looking up at me with a mixture of fear and defiance that reminded me of myself at that age.
Then something changed in her expression. Her eyes widened like she'd been shocked by an electrogun, mouth falling open in a perfect 'O' of recognition.
"Holy shit! You're... you're... Fuck me sideways! You're Keruan!"
It had been decades since anyone had called me that way. I'd aged. Changed my appearance and my name. Most people who knew my face were either dead or rich enough to be far from this dustball planet. For a second, I thought about denying it but what was the point, she had already recognized the Marauder.
"I was," I admitted, lowering the disruptor. "Now I'm just Old Hemlock, who runs the junkyard. And you're trespassing."
The girl – couldn't be much more than a teen – was practically vibrating now, looking at me like I was some kind of deity instead of a washed-up smuggler, living out his days surrounded by the skeletons of ships worth less than the ceramic tape holding them together.
"The Marauder," she whispered reverently. "I knew it. I knew it was her when I saw the oversized microwarp and the Gurista cloak generator. I've heard the stories so many times. The Amarr Prime Cathedral heist. The Thirteen Runs of the Providence War. The Seven Minutes of Silence at Jita. All of them."
Despite myself, I felt a flicker of pride. Someone still remembered the glory days... and not the reason I ended it all.
"Those stories are greatly exaggerated," I said, though we both knew they weren't. If anything, the reality had been more impressive than the legend. "What's your name, kid?"
"Kip," she said, still staring at me with those wide, worshipful eyes that made me deeply uncomfortable.
"Well, Kip, you picked the wrong junkyard to break into. But the right ship to admire." I sighed, suddenly feeling every one of too many years weighting on my shoulders. "Come on. You're soaked through and I've got coffee back at the house. Real coffee, not that synth crap they sell in Rust City."
I turned and started walking, not looking back to see if she followed. She would. Kids always did when offered something they needed.
As we trudged through the rain back to my shack, I found myself wondering if this was how it would end – not with Concord finally catching up to me or a rival outlaw putting a laser blast through my skull, but with some skinny kid breaking into my past and dragging it back to life.
But maybe it was time for the old smuggler to have a new story to tell. Hopefully a story with less screaming torpedoes and vanishing shields.
The Last Greasy Straw
I was having a decent morning, for once. The rain had finally stopped, my back wasn't screaming at me like it usually did, and I'd just struck a deal with Grimes over in Rust City for some salvaged Caldari shield boosters at half their market value. The old bastard didn't even realize what he had. Probably thought they were standard civilian models instead of military-grade equipment with the serial numbers filed off.
Whistling an old Minmatar drinking song, I guided my shuttle back toward the junkyard, feeling almost cheerful. It had been a week since I'd caught that skinny kid Kip breaking into the Marauder, and against my better judgment, I'd let her stay. Given her a cot in the storage unit, some actual food, and simple tasks to keep her busy while I figured out what to do with her.
Simple tasks because, as it turned out, Kip was a walking disaster when it came to anything mechanical. The girl had enthusiasm, I'll give her that, but the technical aptitude of a concussed Slaver hound. In just seven days, she'd managed to destroy more equipment than most of my customers did in a year of botched DIY repairs.
"At least she can't get into too much trouble cleaning," I muttered to myself as I approached the landing pad. I was planning to fix the tractor beam generator I'd salvaged from a derelict Brutix. It was sitting in the workshop,and I'd specifically told Kip not to touch it. The thing was unstable, the kind of equipment that could level half the compound if mishandled. But Kip was just sweeping up today. Nothing to worry about.
As the shuttle settled onto the landing pad with a metallic groan, I noticed something odd through the viewport. The workshop lights were flickering, and... was that smoke, drifting lazily from the ventilation ducts?
"Son of an Amarri whore!"
I didn't even bother with the shutdown sequence. I just killed the engines and was out the shuttle before the cooling cycle could begin. The corridor leading to the workshop already showed signs of... something very wrong. A wrench embedded in the wall. Scorch marks along the ceiling. The distinct smell of fried circuitry and coolant fluid.
My pace quickened, decades of outrunning trouble making my old legs move faster than they had any right to. When I reached the workshop door, it was hanging off its track, as if something had tried to blast it into the next star system.
I pushed it open, and the full extent of the catastrophe revealed itself.
The workshop looked like it had been hit by a targeted bombing run. Tools were embedded in walls like shrapnel. An entire row of power cells had ruptured, spilling their toxic innards across the floor. My workbench—the one I'd salvaged from a Gallente cruiser fifteen years ago—lay on its side, legs twisted like they'd been made of flimsy wire instead of reinforced duranium.
And in the middle of it all stood Kip, looking like she'd just crawled out of an engine fire. Her hair was singed at the ends, face smudged with grease and soot, and her eyes—those eyes were wide with the particular terror of someone who knows she's just crossed a line she can't uncross.
"I said it was unstable," my voice was dangerously low as I surveyed what remained of my livelihood. Decades of carefully acquired tools, parts, and equipment—destroyed in what I could only assume was a single moment of spectacular incompetence.
"I know." Her voice was small, shoulders hunching inward. "I was trying to help. I thought..."
I barely heard her. My eyes were fixed on the smoking remains of what had once been a valuable tractor beam generator. The very one I'd explicitly told her not to touch. The one that could have killed her if the explosion had been just a bit more powerful.
"Incompetent... irresponsible..." I was muttering, not even aware I was speaking aloud as I stepped into the room, mentally calculating the cost of the damage. It would take months to replace everything. Months of scraping by, calling in favors, working with substandard equipment.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, the words barely audible over the hissing of damaged power cells. "I know I've fucked up too many times. I'll just... go."
I stopped, really looking at her for the first time since I'd entered. The girl was trembling, not just with fear but with something else—the resigned desperation of someone who's been thrown away before. Someone who grew to expect being discarded. I knew that look. I'd worn it myself, back when I was her age, before I reinvented myself as someone who couldn't be ignored anymore.
"Go where?" I asked, my voice gruff but quieter now.
She blinked, clearly surprised I was asking instead of just pointing to the door. "I... I don't know. Back to the spaceport, I guess."
I sighed, suddenly feeling too old and too tired to be angry. "To do what? Sleep in cargo containers and pick through garbage for food?"
Her silence was answer enough.
I moved to what remained of a stool, testing it before lowering myself onto it. "Why'd you touch the generator, kid? I told you it was dangerous."
Kip stared at her boots, scuffing one against the floor. "I thought if I could fix it, you might..." She trailed off, embarrassed.
"Might what? Be impressed? Think you're not completely useless?" The words came out harsher than I intended, and I saw her flinch.
"Something like that," she mumbled.
I ran a hand over my face, feeling the rough stubble beneath my palm. This kid was going to be the death of me. Or at least the death of my junkyard. But there was something in her desperate need to prove herself that hit too close to home.
"You know what impresses me?" I said finally. "People who listen when I tell them something's dangerous. People who respect that I might know what I'm talking about after fifty years of not blowing myself up."
She nodded miserably, still not meeting my eyes.
"But you know what?" I continued, surprising myself. "I didn't get to be me by playing it safe all the time. Made plenty of mistakes. Blew up plenty of shit. Difference is, I learned from it."
That got her attention. Her head snapped up, eyes wary but hopeful.
I gestured around at the devastation. "This? This is a learning opportunity. You just learned that when I say something's unstable, I'm not exaggerating for dramatic effect."
"You... you're not kicking me out?"
I should. Any sane person would. The girl was almost always a catastrophe in the making, a liability that could literally bring my roof down. But there was something about her—that raw hunger to be something more than what life had handed her—that I recognized all too well.
"Not today," I said, standing up with a grunt. "But you're going to help me clean this mess up. And then we're going to have a long talk about the difference between initiative and stupidity."
The relief on her face was almost comical, like I'd just commuted a death sentence. "I can do that. I can clean. Cleaning is my specialty now."
I snorted. "Clearly not, or my workshop wouldn't look like a torpedo testing range." I pointed to a cabinet that had somehow survived the blast. "There's industrial absorbent in there. Start with the coolant spill before it eats through the floor."
As she scrambled to obey, I found myself shaking my head. What the hell was I doing? I'd spent years cultivating my reputation as the meanest, most antisocial junkyard owner this side of Jita, and here I was, giving second chances to a kid who'd just destroyed half my repair bay.
But watching her attack the mess with determined enthusiasm, I felt something I hadn't experienced in a long time—a reluctant, rusty kind of hope. Maybe she'd never be a mechanic. Maybe she'd never grasp the finer points of ship repair. But that desperate need to belong somewhere—that I understood.
"And Kip?" I called out as she wrestled with the absorbent canister.
She looked up, wary. "Yeah?"
"Next time you want to impress me, try making a decent cup of coffee instead of rearranging my workshop with a repulsion burst."
The smile that broke across her face was like a sunrise after a long, cold night. Small, hesitant, but genuine.
"I can do that," she answer quickly, before her smile vanished a second later. "I think."
"You think?" I raised an eyebrow.
"Well, I've never actually made coffee before," she admitted. "But it can't be harder than fixing a tractor beam generator, right?"
I groaned, already imagining the disaster that would be Kip's first attempt at coffee.
Grease Monkey's Recipe For Gratitude
The Amarr freighter captain was trying to haggle me down on a set of perfectly functional shield harmonizers, claiming they looked "suspiciously modified." Which they were, but that wasn't the point.
"These aren't just 'modified,' old man," he said, poking at the casing with a manicured finger. "They've got Gallente Navy all over them. I could get my license suspended just for having these in my cargo hold."
I gave him my best unimpressed stare, the one I'd perfected during decades of dealing with self-important spacers who thought they knew everything.
"Then don't buy them," I said flatly. "Door's right behind you. I've got three other buyers lined up who don't ask stupid questions."
That was a lie, of course. Nobody else had been interested in shield harmonizers this month, modified or otherwise. But the captain didn't need to hear that, and I could see the calculation happening behind his eyes. He needed these parts, we both knew it.
"Fine," he grumbled, reaching for his credit chip. "But I'm logging them as 'salvage components' in my manifest."
I shrugged. "Log them as Amarri sex toys for all I care."
As I watched him load the harmonizers into his shuttle, I felt the familiar weight of exhaustion settling over me. Another day, another hustle. Thirty years ago, I'd have been outrunning Concord patrols with contraband worth millions. Now I was haggling over modified parts with pompous freighter captains just to keep my junkyard running.
And to feed an extra mouth, I reminded myself. The skinny kid who'd broken into my ship a month ago and somehow hadn't been thrown away yet.
The human tornado.
In just four weeks, she'd managed to cause more damage than a pirate strike. The rainbow leak from the inertia stabilizer had been impressive, even by my standards—I'd never seen hydraulic fluid make those colors before. And the compression coil... well, "a dying space whale having sex with a garbage compactor" was the kindest way to describe the sound it made after her attempt at 'fixing' it.
I should have kicked her out after the first week. Would have, if I were smart. But there was something about her desperate need to be worth something that kept me from showing her the door. That, and the fact that she reminded me too much of a my younger self—hungry, reckless, and completely out of options.
I fired up the shuttle, the engines protesting with a whine that told me they needed maintenance I couldn't afford. As it closed in on the junkyard, I caught sight of the Marauder sitting in its usual spot, partially hidden under camouflage tarps. My old partner. Once my ticket to glory and infamy. Now just another piece of junk in a yard full of forgotten dreams.
The sun was setting as I approached the compound, casting long shadows across the metal graveyard I called home. I'd been gone longer than planned, the Amarr captain's haggling eating up precious daylight hours. All I wanted now was a shot of that Gallentean whiskey I'd been saving and maybe a protein bar before collapsing into bed.
I wasn't expecting what hit my nostrils as I entered the compound. Something... cooking? Not the usual stench of burning circuitry or melting polymer that typically accompanied Kip's "help," but the smell of actual food.
I paused at the outer door, suddenly wary. In my experience, unexpected changes were rarely good news. Especially when they involved Kip trying something new.
As I moved down the hallway toward the living quarters, the smell grew stronger. Not unpleasant, exactly, but strange. Unfamiliar. With something else—a mix of chemical and smoke I couldn't quite place.
I hesitated at the door, half-expecting to find another disaster waiting for me. Maybe she'd set fire to the kitchenette this time. Or flooded the place trying to fix the temperamental sink.
Instead, when the door slid open, I was greeted by a scene so unexpected it took my brain a moment to process it.
Candles. The kid had made candles—lumpy, misshapen things that were definitely not store-bought, probably fashioned from whatever flammable substances she'd found lying around. They flickered precariously, casting dancing shadows across walls that were... clean? She'd actually cleaned!
The usual clutter of parts and tools had been cleared from my dented metal table, replaced by some of these purple plants that grew behind the junkyard, arranged neatly in an old coolant container. And there was Kip herself, standing by the hotplate, wielding what appeared to be a repurposed engine cover containing something that bubbled and sizzled.
She had a greasy smear across one cheek, and her hair looked like she'd tried to smooth them down with an hydrospanner. But what caught me off guard was the expression on her face—a mixture of pride, anxiety, and something else I wasn't sure I wanted to recognize.
"Dinner," she announced, her voice wavering slightly between casual and defensive. "I made dinner. A proper one. Not nutrition paste."
I took a tentative step into the room, eyeing the candles with particular suspicion. Those things were definitely a fire hazard. Probably made from axle wax now that I though about it, a substance about three molecular bonds away from being explosive.
"Yeah, candles," she continued, words tumbling out faster now. "I read about it. They're for... atmosphere."
I gestured at the purple stems, raising an eyebrow in question. They looked nice but were vaguely toxic, with a smell that reminded me of engine lubricant.
"Flowers. Well, not flowers exactly. But Sally-the-cook-helper said a dinner should have flowers, so..." She trailed off, her face flushing red as she seemed to realize how the setup might appear. "It's not—I mean, this isn't—"
"A romantic dinner?" I finished for her, unable to keep the surprise from my voice. The thought was so absurd it almost made me laugh. Me, the washed-up smuggler with more scars than credits, and this scrawny kid who'd probably never had a proper meal in her life.
"No!" she exclaimed so forcefully that she sloshed some of whatever she was cooking over the side of her makeshift wok. "Fuck! I mean, no, obviously not. You're old - I mean, not that old. I mean... I just wanted to make something nice because I keep breaking shit and I thought maybe I could do this without fucking it up and you'd see I could be useful for something."
The words rushed out of her in a torrent, leaving her looking down at her bubbling concoction, clearly mortified. I stood there, momentarily speechless, which wasn't like me at all. I always had something cutting to say, some gruff remark to keep people at arm's length.
But this... this was unexpected. No one had cooked me a meal in... hell, I couldn't even remember the last time. Decades, probably. Not since I'd retired my old ship and left behind whatever passed for a smuggler's life.
I moved further into the room, noticing now that she'd actually swept the floor too—not just once, but thoroughly enough that I could see the metal beneath the usual layer of grime and grease. And was that... booze? Two bottles of cheap grain alcohol sat on the edge of the table, clearly "procured" rather than purchased.
The kid had gone to a lot of trouble. For me. The cranky old junkyard owner who'd done nothing but criticize her since she arrived.
"What is it?" I asked finally, nodding toward the bubbling pan.
She glanced up, relief flashing across her face at the break in silence. "Caldarian stir-fry. Well, sort of. I couldn't... hum, 'find' all the right ingredients, so I improvised a bit."
Improvised. From Kip, that word usually preceded disaster. But the smell wasn't bad and I was hungry after a day of deliveries and negotiations.
"Where'd you get the recipe?" I moved to examine the concoction more closely.
"Data pad I found. Well, not found exactly. More like borrowed without asking, from someone who didn't need it anyway."
I snorted. "So, stolen."
She shrugged, a hint of defiance creeping back into her posture. "Tactically procured. Like you said about that tractor beam."
"The one you turned into a tornado in my repair bay?"
"Yeah, that one." She had the grace to look sheepish.
I pulled out a chair and sat down, suddenly aware of how tired I was. Not just physically, but worn down in a way that went deeper. When had I become this bitter old man, suspicious of even a simple kindness?
"Well," I said, gesturing to the pan, "let's see if your cooking is any better than your mechanical skills."
She ladled the stir-fry into two mismatched bowls—one an actual bowl, the other a repurposed lubricant canister.
Stolen Guts And Galactic Dreams
A few months later, I was hunched over the accounts terminal, squinting at numbers that refused to add up favorably no matter how I glared at them, when my office door was burst open with all the delicacy of a plasma grenade.
"What the—" I started, hand automatically reaching for the neural disruptor I kept strapped under my desk—old habits and all that.
It was just Kip, her face flushed with a manic energy that usually led to something exploding. Six months she'd been here now, and I'd learned to recognize the signs: widened eyes, barely contained smile, that slight bounce on her toes. Whatever this was, it was going to cost me either credits or sanity. Probably both.
"Come!" she demanded, grabbing my hand with surprising strength for someone who looked like she'd blow away in a stiff breeze. "Right now!"
"I'm in the middle of—"
"It's important," she insisted, already yanking me toward the door with all the patience of a reactor core in meltdown.
I could have resisted. Should have, probably. The quarterly taxes for the junkyard weren't going to file themselves, and I was already two weeks late. But something in her expression—that desperate eagerness—made me sigh and let her drag me out into the scorching midday heat.
"This better not be another 'emergency' like last week," I grumbled as we trudged through the sand. Last week's 'emergency' had been a nest of what she thought were exotic lizards but turned out to be common sand skinks that had taken up residence in an old coolant tank. "Or like the time you found that 'ancient artifact' that was just a broken toilet from a Gallente luxury liner."
She didn't respond, just kept pulling me forward, her grip tightening as we weaved between towers of scrap metal that threw razor-sharp shadows across the dirt. The kid was practically vibrating with nervous energy and I found myself wondering what fresh hell awaited me at the end of this forced march.
We were heading toward the back lot—the place where I kept the real junk, the stuff too broken or obsolete to be worth salvaging. It was also where the Marauder sat, partially hidden under tarps and strategically placed scrap to disguise its true nature from prying eyes.
As we rounded the corner of a stack of crushed cargo containers, I saw it.
My old friend. My old life.
Except it didn't look like the rusting hulk I'd abandoned to the elements decades ago. The tarps were gone. Several missing hull panels had been replaced—not with the original Minmatar designs, but with what looked like salvaged pieces from at least three different ship types. The boarding ramp was down, and I could hear a familiar noise—the sound of a power core idling, but different from what I remembered somehow.
The old pile of junk. Somehow dragged back to life.
I stopped dead in my tracks, my hand going slack in Kip's grip. She dropped it and stepped back, watching my face with an intensity that made me uncomfortable.
"Birthday surprise!" she said, her voice cracking slightly.
I stared at the Marauder, unable to form words. The ship was still a mess by any objective standard—it would never pass any pressurization test without atmospheric shields, and the hull looked like it had been patched together by a blind man with ceramic tape and unwarranted optimism. But it was... humming. Somehow, this disaster-prone kid had made my dead ship hum again.
"I called her Marauder II," Kip announced, her enthusiasm faltering as she studied my expression.
I couldn't move. Couldn't speak. All I could do was stare at the ghost of my past, brought back to life by someone who hadn't even been born when I'd made my infamous runs through Concord blockades.
How had she done this? When? I'd seen her tinkering around the yard, disappearing for hours at a time, but I'd assumed she was just avoiding real work. Not rebuilding a legend from scraps. Was that why I could never find the repair manuals and wiring blueprints where I left them? She'd been... studying all these nights?
Kip disappeared up the ramp, and I heard the familiar clicks and whirs of pre-flight checks being run. After a few minutes, she emerged, her face flushed with a mixture of pride and anxiety.
I still hadn't moved. My mind was racing through memories I'd thought long buried—the exhilaration of outrunning Amarr patrols, the cold precision required to navigate asteroid fields at speeds that would turn most pilots into smears on a drifting rock, the endless black of space stretching before me, promising freedom and danger in equal measure.
I'd left that life behind. Had to, after that last job went sideways. Too many people looking for me, too many bridges burned and one memory I'd spent decades trying to forget. The sight that still burned sometimes in uneasy dreams was the reason I'd faked my death, changed my name, and settled in this dustball of a planet to live out my days selling scrap to idiots who couldn't tell a warp drive from a waste disposal unit.
And now this kid had dragged it all back into the light, and I couldn't say I was happy about it.
I realized I'd been silent for too long when I saw Kip's face crumple. She collapsed onto the ramp, burying her face in her hands, shoulders shaking with what I realized were sobs.
"I'm sorry, okay," she mumbled through her fingers. "I thought... I thought you'd like to fly her again."
The words hit me like a physical blow. I couldn't remember a time when anyone had done something for me without expecting something in return? A time when someone had cared what I might like?
I moved closer to the ship, running my hand along the hull. It was warm to the touch, vibrating slightly with the energy of systems coming online. I could feel the years falling away, memories flooding back—not just of the heists and the narrow escapes, but also of the quiet moments between star systems, the perfect solitude of deep space, the feeling that the universe was mine to explore. It didn't erase the painful memory but it wasn't all bad.
Kip looked up at me, her face streaked with grease and tears, eyes red but somehow defiant.
"She can do warp 8.7 now," she announced, chin jutting forward. Then, with a characteristic honesty that always caught me off guard: "Well, I think she can."
Warp 8.7? That was impossible for a ship this old, this cobbled-together. The original Marauder had topped out at 7.5, and that was with modifications that had nearly gotten me killed on more than one occasion.
I peered past her into the ship's interior. The control panels were lit up with a mixture of amber and green indicators—more amber than I would have liked, but nothing flashing red, which was something of a miracle given Kip's track record with repairs.
"Can we..." Her voice had gone small, reminding me of just how young she really was. "Can we take her for a spin? Just a short one. And maybe... maybe shoot an asteroid or something."
I found myself moving up the ramp before I'd consciously decided to do so. The interior smelled of burnt circuitry and something else—hope, maybe. Desperate, foolish hope.
The capsule was just as I remembered, though the interior had been reupholstered with what looked suspiciously like material from my old couch. The neural interface was newer than it should have been—stolen, undoubtedly, though I couldn't bring myself to care at the moment.
And there, where the weapons systems should be, were twin autocannons that definitely didn't belong in a Minmatar blockade runner. They looked Jovian, which was impossible. Jovian tech didn't end up in junkyards on backwater planets.
"Where did you get these?" I asked, my voice rough with emotions I refused to name.
Kip had followed me into the passageway, hovering nervously at my elbow. "Found them," she said vaguely. "In that weird wreck behind the east lot. The one with the symbols nobody recognizes."
I knew the wreck she meant. Had always assumed it was some experimental craft that had crashed during testing. Hadn't given it much thought beyond noting it was too alien to be worth salvaging.
"You realize these will probably drain the capacitors in seconds," I said, examining the weapons systems more closely.
"Thirteen seconds," she corrected, a hint of pride creeping back into her voice. "But they look like they could punch a hole through a small moon before that happens."
I ran my fingers over the controls, muscle memory taking over as I checked subsystems, tested responses. Everything was jury-rigged, improvised, held together mostly by hope but also a sort of technical ingenuity that bordered on madness. It shouldn't work. By all rights, this ship should be a death trap.
But it was alive. My old partner, breathing again.
"You did all this," I said, not a question but a statement of disbelief. "For a birthday."
She froze, eyes widening. "I... I found your old license in your office while I was looking for a repair manual," she muttered, her lips twisting in a smile trying to hide guilt. She knew she wasn't supposed to go in my office but I couldn't find the strength to reprimand her.
I settled into the capsule, feeling it conform to my body like an old sofa welcoming me home. The neural interface was blinking, ready to connect ship and pilot into a single entity—a sensation I hadn't experienced in decades. My hands hovered over the controls, hesitant, as if touching them might burn.
"You don't have to," Kip said quietly from behind me, "if you really don't want to."
I glanced back at her. She was trying to look nonchalant, but the disappointment was written all over her face. Five months of work, probably every waking hour she wasn't sweeping or breaking something else in my yard, poured into this resurrection.
"Strap in," I said gruffly. "Passenger quarters. And if we explode, I'm going to be very annoyed with you in whatever afterlife we end up in."
A smile broke across her face as her eyes shined like a neutron star. She scrambled into the cabin, fumbling with the harness in her excitement.
"I've never actually been in space before," she admitted as I began the launch sequence. "Not conscious, anyway. I was smuggled onto Malpara B in a cargo container when I was six."
That explained a lot. I'd wondered how a kid with her smart had ended up in this backwater hellhole.
"Space is mostly boring," I told her, though we both knew it was a lie. "Vast stretches of nothing punctuated by moments of sheer terror."
Flying Monkey's Dream
The engines roared beneath us, a deeper, more powerful sound than I remembered. Whatever she'd done to the propulsion system, it wasn't standard. The ship shuddered, dust and sand cascading off the hull as it broke free from the ground for the first time in over twenty years.
"Holy shit," Kip whispered, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of her seat. "She's flying. She's actually flying!"
I couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corner of my mouth. Her excitement was infectious, reminding me of my first launch—that mixture of fear and exhilaration that never quite leaves you.
The Marauder II rose smoothly, far more smoothly than it had any right to given its cobbled-together state. Kip had done good work. Better than good. The kind of work that spoke of natural talent and obsessive dedication.
"Atmospheric shields holding," I noted, checking the readings. "Life support stable. Navigation systems online." I glanced at her. "Not bad for a kid who couldn't fix a compression coil without making it sound like a dying space whale."
She grinned, not even bothering to look offended. "I learn fast when I care about something."
The implication hung in the silence between us—that she cared about this. Not just about the ship, but about giving me back a piece of my past.
We broke through the cloud cover, the blue-gray skies of Malpara B giving way to the infinite black of space. Stars spread out before us, countless pinpricks of light in the darkness. I felt something in my chest loosen, a tightness I hadn't even realized was there until it began to ease.
"It's beautiful," Kip breathed, her face bathed in the soft glow of the cabin lights. "I never knew it would be like this."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Beautiful, yes, but also familiar. Like returning to a home I'd forgotten I missed.
"So, 8.7, huh?" I asked after a moment, my hands already adjusting the power distribution.
Kip's eyes widened. "We're going into warpspace?"
"Let's find out if your claim holds water."
I plotted a short jump—just to the outer edge of the system and back. Nothing too ambitious for a maiden voyage in a ship held together by improvisation and stubborn will.
"Hold onto something," I advised, though there was no need with the inertial dampeners functioning. It was just what pilots always said in the holovids.
I engaged the warp drive.
The stars disappeared behind the clouds of subspace, the universe compressing around us as we tore through the Bleak Lands void. The ship groaned, protesting the strain, but held together. The readout climbed: 6.0... 7.2... 8.1...
"Come on, old girl," I murmured, patting the capsule instinctively. "Show me what you've got."
8.5... 8.6... 8.7...
"Ha!" Kip shouted triumphantly. "Told you!"
The ship was still accelerating, hurtling through space at speeds that would have made my younger self weep with joy. It was impossible. A miracle, or a testament to what determination and improvisation could accomplish even with limited resources.
We dropped out of warp at the system's edge, among the Malpara Outer Clouds. A field of asteroids loomed ahead, silent sentinels drifting through the void. It had been only 37 seconds. That wasn't 8.7 - that was over 8.9! The kid had somehow pushed this old piece of junk beyond Navy Issue, possibly even beyond Concord specs.
Through the external cameras, I could see Kip in the passenger seat, her face lit up like a reactor at full power. Pride radiated from her in almost palpable waves. For a moment, I felt an unfamiliar warmth in my chest. Had I ever made someone look that happy? Someone who wasn't me?
"I suppose you want to give a shot at your weird autocannons?" I said into the comms, knowing the answer before I asked.
Through the cameras, I watched Kip freeze, her expression shifting from shock to disbelief to pure, unbridled joy. I'd forgotten what that looked like—joy without reservation, without the cynicism that comes from living too long in a universe that takes far more than it gives.
I hadn't told her that I knew about the manual controls she'd rigged up outside the capsule. I'd found them during my pre-flight check but said nothing. The kid had worked too hard for me to deny her the satisfaction of firing her precious Jovian X-Specs, even if the wiring was about as elegant as a drunk Amarr trying to dance a Gallente tanganie.
I guided the ship deeper into the asteroid field, weaving between rocks the size of small buildings. The Marauder responded to my neural commands with a fluidity I'd never experienced before, its enhanced engines allowing maneuvers that would have been suicide before.
"See those three smaller asteroids," I instructed, slowing the ship to give her a steady platform. "You've got three shots before the capacitors drain. Make them count."
I watched through the external cameras as Kip positioned herself at the jury-rigged weapons console, her face a mask of concentration. Twin beams of energy erupted from the ship, blindingly bright against the darkness of space. They struck the asteroid dead center and, for a moment, nothing happened. Then the rock simply... disintegrated. Not exploded, not shattered—just turned to dust before our eyes, the particles dispersing in a glittering cloud.
"Holy shit," I breathed, genuinely impressed. "What the hell are these things?"
Kip was staring open-mouthed at the destruction. "I don't know. The markings on them weren't in any language I recognized. I just thought they looked cool."
I checked the capacitor levels. As predicted, they'd drained dramatically—we were down by 28%. But the effect had been worth it. Whatever these weapons were, they weren't standard issue for any faction I knew of.
She didn't miss. Not once. Each target disintegrated under the devastating power of those mysterious weapons. I made a mental note to investigate that strange wreck she'd salvaged them from when we got back.
"Fun's over. Time to go home," I said after the third shot, trying to keep my voice neutral despite the surprise I felt. The kid had good aim and steady nerves—qualities that had served me well in my former life.
But the truth was, I wasn't ready for attention. Wasn't ready for the galaxy to know that the Marauder was back in business. That part of my life was over, no matter how good it felt to be among the stars again.
The navigation console pinged, alerting me to another ship's presence. Shit. Definitely not what I needed. I focused the sensors, scanning the asteroid field ahead. There, hiding behind a particularly oddly-shaped rock, was an Angel Cartel stealth bomber slowly decloaking, probably expecting to ambush unsuspecting miners or traders.
In my younger days, I'd have been calculating attack vectors, preparing for a dogfight that would end with another notch on the Marauder's metaphorical belt. But I wasn't that man anymore. Hadn't been for years. And this wasn't a fully armed and operational blockade runner—it was a resurrected shell held together by hope and technical improvisation.
Still, old habits die hard. I opened a comm channel.
"Unidentified vessel," I transmitted, my voice slow and low, dangerously calm, the way I used to when I wanted to make an impression. "This is the Marauder. Yes, that Marauder. You're in my space and I suggest you reconsider your options. I'm having a good day, showing my apprentice the ropes, and I wouldn't want to ruin it by turning your stealth bomber into an expensive debris field."
There was a pause, then a response crackled through the comms. "The Marauder was destroyed twenty-three years ago. When Keruan died."
I chuckled, the sound echoing ominously through the channel. "Reports of my death were... convenient."
Another pause, longer this time. I could almost feel the panic on the other end of the transmission. The Marauder's reputation had apparently outlived its active service.
"No quarrel with you," the Angel capsuleer finally responded, his voice noticeably higher. "Just passing through."
The stealth bomber decloaked fully, its engines flaring as it aligned away from us. Seconds later, it had jumped to warp, disappearing toward a wormhole.
I allowed myself a small smile. Sometimes, reputation was more powerful than actual firepower.
As we re-entered Malpara B's atmosphere, the ship glowing red-hot around us, I glanced at Kip. She was quiet now, lost in thought, her face illuminated by the fire of re-entry.
"Thank you," I said finally, the words feeling rusty and inadequate. "For this."
She looked at me, surprised. "You're not mad? You... you like what I did?"
"Mad?" I shook my head. "Kid, you rebuilt a legend from scraps. With no formal training, no proper tools, and while living with a cranky old bastard who's been nothing but hard on you. Mad is the last thing I am."
Her smile was small, still hesitant. "So... can we do this again sometime?"
I pretended to consider it, though I already knew the answer. The stars had reclaimed a piece of me today, a piece I hadn't realized was missing that much. But there was that old memory still burning inside me, holding back the answer Kip wanted.
"Maybe," I compromised, guiding the ship toward the junkyard. "If you can keep her from falling apart. And if you promise not to fire those turrets anywhere near civilized space. Whatever they are, they're definitely not toys."
"Deal," she said quickly, before I could change my mind.
As the Marauder II settled back onto the dusty ground of the junkyard, I felt something I hadn't experienced in years—a sense of possibility. Not just the thrill of spaceflight or the rush of wielding destructive power, but something more fundamental. The possibility that life might still hold surprises. That an old smuggler and a stray kid might have a future worth living.
"Happy birthday, Keruan," Kip said softly as we powered down the systems.
I grunted, not trusting my voice. But as we walked down the ramp together, back into the harsh sunlight of Malpara B, I allowed myself to rest a hand briefly on her shoulder—a gesture of gratitude more eloquent than any words I could muster.
The Marauder II stood behind us, no longer a ghost but a promise. And for the first time in longer than I cared to remember, I found myself looking forward to tomorrow.
I shouldn't have.
Spaceport Rat vs Space Melons
The rumors started the morning after our little joyride in the resurrected Marauder. In a remote system like Malpara, the infamous blockade runner tearing through the sky again was like a dead man walking into a bar and ordering his usual. People noticed. People talked. I should have known better.
I was elbow-deep in a Caldari shield generator when the first opportunist showed up at my door. A 'spice' merchant with shifty eyes and breath that could strip paint off a hull.
"Heard you're back in business," he said, leaning in conspiratorially. "Got some premium product needs moving past Concord checkpoints. Split seventy-thirty."
"Not interested," I grunted, not bothering to look up from my work. "Door's behind you."
He didn't take the hint. "Sixty-forty then. And I throw in a sample of the merchandise. Jita nobility pay through the nose for this stuff."
I finally looked up, fixing him with the stare that used to make pirates reconsider their career choices. "I fix ships. I sell parts. That's it."
"But the Marauder—"
"Is retired. Like me." I turned back to the generator. "Now get out before I turn you into a gallon of lubricant."
He left, but he was just the first. Over the next two weeks, every two-bit smuggler, black market dealer, and would-be criminal mastermind in the system found their way to my door. Each time, I sent them packing. Each time, I caught Kip watching from the shadows, her expression shifting between amusement and something more complicated when I turned down yet another offer of illicit riches.
I hadn't seen her that morning. Probably tinkering with the Marauder again, adding some new improvised upgrade that would either make it faster or blow us all to kingdom come. The kid had talent, I'd give her that, but her approach to engineering was like watching someone juggle plasma grenades while blindfolded.
The warp core stabiliser I had worked on since the sun rose finally surrendered its secrets, revealing a burnt-out modulator that would cost the owner more to replace than the whole unit was worth. I was debating whether to deliver the bad news now or after lunch when I heard it—a knock at the repair bay door.
Not the usual pounding of impatient customers or the hesitant tap of someone bringing in junk they hoped was valuable. This sounded deliberately measured and almost... aristocratic.
I wiped my hands on a rag that was probably making them even dirtier and moved to the door. When it slid open, I found myself staring at a woman who looked like she'd taken a wrong turn on her way to a Gallente high society gathering.
She was tall, with curves that reminded a man he was still breathing. Her clothing was refined but understated, the kind of wealth that whispered rather than shouted. But it was her eyes that caught me—sharp, intelligent, and carrying a weight I recognized all too well. Eyes that had seen things. Lost people.
"Mr. Hemlock?" Her voice matched the rest of her—cultured, with just enough edge to suggest she wasn't as delicate as she appeared.
"Depends who's asking," I replied, not moving from the doorway.
A smile flickered across her face. "Someone who needs help only the Marauder can provide."
I should have shut the door right then. Should have told her she was mistaken, that the Marauder was just a junked ship and I was just a parts dealer. But something in those eyes made me step aside instead.
"Come in," I said gruffly. "But I'm not promising anything."
She glided past me, bringing with her the faint scent of something expensive and unfamiliar. I gestured toward my office—a glorified closet with a desk and two chairs that had seen better days.
"Valentiana," she said as she settled into one of the chairs with a grace that made the battered furniture seem almost dignified. "Valentiana Korr."
I nodded, taking the seat across from her. "What kind of help does someone like you need from someone like me?"
She met my gaze directly. "The kind that involves retrieving something precious, or at least precious to me. From a place where most people wouldn't dare go."
"I'm not most people," I said too quickly, before regretting my words. "But I'm also not for hire."
"My brother," she continued as if I hadn't spoken, "was a capsuleer. Not a very good one, I'm afraid. Too impulsive, too convinced of his own invincibility." Her voice remained steady, but her hands betrayed her, fingers twisting together in her lap. "Three days ago, his ship was destroyed in the battle for a Syndicate system. His clone activation failed."
I leaned back, crossing my arms. "I'm sorry for your loss, but I don't see what this has to do with me."
"His body is still out there." Her eyes never left mine. "Floating in the wreckage of his ship. I want to bring him home for a proper burial."
I barked out a laugh before I could stop myself. "You want me to fly into Imporium-controlled space, find a specific piece of wreckage among hundreds, to retrieve a corpse? All while dodging Syndicate patrols and whatever opportunistic raiders happen to be in the area?"
"Yes." No hesitation, no plea. Just a simple affirmation.
My eyes turned a shade darker as I was picturing her brother floating in deep space, his capsule breached open.
When I was still in my early thirties, during one of these daring escape I was known for, a volley of misguided torpedoes had hit a small hauler waiting at the jump gate. The ship exploded instantly, spreading his cargo around. Except it wasn't the usual spare parts or titanium ore. Kids. Kids on their way to a high-sec system where they could grow-up without the constant threat of pirates or worse. Now small frozen silhouette drifting in the cold nothingness like human popsicles. No amount of credits was worth that sight.
Concord had long mastered the art of making stories disappear, especially when it was about embarrassing collateral damage. Nobody talked about it, it never became part of the legend. I had faced the Concord fleet head-on, released a smart bomb right beside the Marauder, dropping into subspace milliseconds before the explosion, pretending the Concord fleet had finally put on end to the legend of Keruan. A fleet of pirate ship stood silently around Jita for seven minutes when the news spread but, a few hours later, I had landed on a forgotten planet in the Malpara system, hidden the Marauder among broken ships in Old Hemlock's Parts and Repair. The owner let me stay as his assistant. I took his name, Hemlock Jr. at the time, pretending to be a distant cousin. Less than a decade later, Old Hemlock passed away and Keruan disappeared for good, becoming the new Old Hemlock, my previous career buried in the shadows of a past I'd rather forget.
The perspective of starring at more human popsicles wasn't exactly smiling at me, even if it was to give a proper burial to at least one them this time.
"Why not hire a recovery service? There are professionals who do this sort of thing."
"I tried. They refused. Said the risk wasn't worth any price." She leaned forward slightly. "But you... you're different. The Marauder was legendary for getting in and out of impossible situations."
"Was," I emphasized. "Past tense. The Marauder is retired. So am I."
"Are you?" Her gaze flickered toward the window, where the edge of the Marauder II was just visible in the yard. "That's not what I've heard. Whispers on the vine say a young apprentice also brought the old Keruan back to life."
She was smart. Too smart. Bringing Kip into an equation I wasn't ready to solve. I was about to tell her exactly where she could stick her whispers when movement in my peripheral vision caught my attention. Kip was hovering in the doorway, her expression a storm cloud of emotions I couldn't quite decipher. How long had she been standing there? How much had she heard?
"It's a suicide mission," I said, turning back to Valentiana. "Even if the Marauder could make the trip—which it can't—Syndicate space is crawling with Goonswarm and Imporium ships who'd love nothing more than to add my head to their collection."
"I can pay," Valentiana said simply. "Whatever you ask."
"It's not about money."
"Then what is it about, Mr. Keruan? Fear? Have the legends of your courage been greatly exaggerated?"
I felt my jaw tighten. It had been a long time since anyone dared questioning my nerve, and longer still since I'd cared what anyone thought of me. But something about the challenge in her eyes, combined with the knowledge that Kip was watching, pricked at my pride in a way I didn't want to examine too closely.
"The ship isn't ready for that kind of journey," I said, which wasn't exactly a no. "It's held together with improvisation and luck."
"I've seen what passes for fast ships in New Eden," Valentiana replied. "The Marauder, even in its current state, is far superior to most."
She wasn't wrong. Kip had done wonders with that old hulk, pushing its capabilities beyond what should have been possible with an obsolete blockade runner. But a run into Syndicate space? That was asking for trouble on a scale we hadn't tested yet.
I was about to refuse again when Kip stepped fully into the doorway, her presence impossible to ignore now. There was a fierce determination in her eyes that I recognized—the same look she'd had when she'd shown me the resurrected Marauder for the first time.
I found myself considering the mission despite my better judgment. It had been years since I'd done anything more dangerous than haggle over parts prices. Decades since I'd felt the rush of outrunning danger, of pulling off the impossible. The sensible part of my brain was screaming that I was too old, too rusty, too settled into my junkyard existence to risk everything on a fool's errand.
But another part—a part I thought had died long ago—was stirring to life. The part that had made the Marauder a legend in the first place.
"I'll need to check the ship," I said finally. "See what we're working with. No promises."
A small smile illuminated Valentiana's lips like sun breaking through clouds. "That's all I ask."
"If—and that's a big if—we do this, I have conditions." I held up a hand to forestall her thanks. "I go in fast, get out faster. No heroics, no detours. And you stay here."
Her smile faltered, her eyes sharpening. "I have to be there. He's my brother."
"And this is my ship," I countered. "I don't need passengers to worry about in null-sec territory."
"I can handle myself," she insisted. "I've spent time in null-sec. I'm not some sheltered aristocrat who's never seen danger."
I studied her for a moment. There was something in her posture, in the way she held herself, that suggested training beyond what most civilians received. Still, bringing her along would complicate an already risky mission.
Before I could respond, I felt a tug on my arm. Kip had moved from the doorway to my side, her fingers gripping my sleeve with surprising strength. Her face was flushed, eyes wide with an emotion I couldn't quite place. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again, apparently unable to find the words.
"Someone needs to stay and mind the yard," I said, not unkindly. "Tell customers we'll be back in business soon."
Kip's grip on my sleeve tightened, her knuckles turning white. The look on her face was so nakedly desperate it made something in my chest twist uncomfortably.
I looked from Kip to Valentiana and back again, suddenly understanding the undercurrent in the room. The kid was jealous. Or worried. Or both. The realization made me wobble like a poorly calibrated inertial dampener—Kip saw this as her adventure, her chance to fly with the legendary smuggler she'd spent months rebuilding a ship for. But it was also more than that. Although I kept calling her a kid - it was simpler that way, - she wasn't really one.
And now here was this elegant stranger, threatening to take her place.
"The yard can wait," Valentiana said, misunderstanding the source of my hesitation. "This can't. The longer we delay, the more likely someone else finds the wreckage first."
I gently disengaged Kip's fingers from my sleeve. "Give us a minute," I told Valentiana, nodding toward the door.
Once she'd stepped outside, I turned to Kip. "Spit it out, kid. What's eating you?"
She crossed her arms, her expression shifting between defiance and vulnerability. "I rebuilt that ship," she said, her voice low and intense. "Me. Not her. I'm the one who made it fly again. I should be there."
"It's not a pleasure cruise," I reminded her. "Syndicate space is dangerous. Full of people who'd shoot me just for the fun of it."
"I know that!" Her voice rose slightly before she caught herself. "I'm not stupid. I know what we'd be flying into."
"Then you know why I'm hesitating to bring along anyone who isn't absolutely necessary."
"I am necessary," she insisted. "Who's going to handle those Jovian autocannons if we run into trouble? You can't fire them from the capsule. I rigged them that way, remember?"
She had a point. It was a design flaw I'd meant to address but hadn't gotten around to yet.
"And what about maintenance?" she continued, pressing her advantage. "If something breaks mid-flight—which, let's face it, is pretty likely with the Marauder II—who's going to fix it? You can't leave the capsule once we're in space."
Another valid point. The neural interface that allowed me to control the ship directly also confined me to the capsule for the duration of the flight. If something went wrong, an autorepair bot would never be able to deal with Kip's improvised approach to engineering, I'd need someone who understood the ship's new systems.
"She stays here," Kip said firmly, jerking her head toward the door where Valentiana waited. "I go with you. That's the deal."
I raised an eyebrow at her tone. "She's a paying customer. And also, since when do you dictate terms on my ship?"
"Since I'm the only one who knows how half the systems actually work," she shot back. "Or do you want to explain to Miss Perfect out there that you two are stranded in Imporium space because you couldn't figure out which wire goes where?"
I almost smiled despite myself. The kid had guts, I'd give her that. And she wasn't wrong about the ship. The Marauder II was as much her creation as it was my legacy.
"Fine," I said after a moment. "You're in. But our client too. And you follow orders without question. No improvising unless I specifically tell you to. Clear?"
She frowned for a second at the idea of Valentiana coming too, before accepting the compromise. Then the smile that broke across her face spread like a star going nova. "Crystal," she agreed quickly, before I could change my mind.
I called Valentiana back in and laid out the new arrangement. "Kip comes with us. She knows the ship. And Kip is not only my gunner and mechanic but also my second in command. Whatever she says, you do."
Valentiana looked at Kip puffing her flat chest like she wanted to argue but thought better of it. "As long as you bring my brother back," she said finally.
"If he's there to be found, we'll find him," I promised, though I knew better than to guarantee success on a mission like this. "We leave tomorrow at first light. I need coordinates, any identifying markers for the wreckage, and half your payment up front."
She nodded, reaching into her bag to produce a data chip. "Everything you need to know is on here. Including payment details."
I took the chip, wondering once again what I was getting myself into. A recovery mission to Imporium space, in a ship held together by improvisation and stubbornness, all to retrieve a corpse that might not even be there anymore. It was exactly the kind of job I would have jumped at in my younger days—dangerous, challenging, with an indecent payday at the end.
But I wasn't young anymore. And I had responsibilities now, including the skinny kid who was practically vibrating with excitement beside me.
After Valentiana left, I turned to Kip. "Start the pre-flight checks. I want to know exactly what we're working with before we commit to this insanity."
She nodded eagerly, already heading for the door. "I'll run a full diagnostic on the warp drive and check the shields. Oh, and I'll work on the cloak generator too, an idea for an upgrade that might—"
"No new modifications," I cut her off. "Not before a mission this critical. We go with what we know works."
She looked disappointed but nodded. "Fine. Boring but safe. Got it."
As she disappeared toward the yard, I sat back in my chair, suddenly feeling the weight of too many decades pressing down on me. What was I thinking, agreeing to this? I'd spent the last twenty years or so carefully constructing a life of anonymity, of quiet survival far from the dangers of my former profession. And now, because of a pretty face and a sad story—or, if I was honest, mostly because of the hopeful look in a kid's eyes—I was throwing it all away.
"You're getting soft in your old age," I muttered to myself, pocketing Valentiana's data chip. "Letting a couple of women talk you into suicide missions."
But as I headed out to help with the preparations, I couldn't deny the familiar thrill building in my chest. The Marauder was going hunting again. And despite everything, despite all the reasons this was a terrible idea, I couldn't wait to see the stars rushing past once more.