They stood in formation behind him, bruised and exhausted from our fight but standing tall. These people I'd hunted in the darkness, who'd tried their best to take me down—they wanted to follow me into hell.
"Rodriguez," I called. The ex-mercenary stepped forward, surprise flickering across his usually stoic features. "You're my second. I need someone who thinks tactically."
"Sir." One word, but weighted with promise.
"Zek, Chen, Vega—you're squad leaders." Each name brought another face forward. "Distribute the others based on specialty. I want a balanced unit."
I picked six more, memory supplying their strengths from training. Davies, the sniper who never missed. Torres, who could hotwire anything with a circuit. Patel, whose medical knowledge had saved three recruits from training accidents. Kim, Park, and Okonkwo—each chosen for skills that complemented the whole.
"What do we call ourselves?" Chen asked eagerly, that idealistic shine still bright despite everything.
I thought about it. In the game, military units had grandiose names—Stellar Legion, Void Hunters, Emperor's Wrath. But this was real. These were real people who might die under my command.
"Shadow Squadron," I decided. "Because we're going where the Empire's light doesn't reach."
"Shadow Squadron!" they echoed, and Christ, the pride in their voices almost broke me. They had no idea what they were signing up for.
"Commander Meus will handle flight training," I continued, finding her eyes in the crowd. "Zek assists with technical operations. I want everyone combat-certified for variable gravity, toxic atmospheres, and ship-to-ship boarding. You have forty-eight hours."
"Where are you going?" Meus asked quietly, but everyone heard it.
"The Grokkies. If we're heading to the Outer Rim, we need their navigation data. They know routes the Empire doesn't."
"Let me—"
"No." I cut her off, hating the flash of hurt in her eyes. "I need you to prepare them. This isn't a training exercise anymore. This is real, and I need my best instructor making sure they're ready."
Her jaw tightened, but she nodded. Professional to the end, even when I was clearly shutting her out.
"Rodriguez, get them equipped. Real gear, not training equipment. Requisition whatever you need under my authority."
"Sir." He was already making lists in his head, I could tell.
"Dismissed."
They scattered with purpose, and suddenly I was alone in a sea of movement. Well, not quite alone.
"That was well done," Krueger said quietly. "You gave them purpose. Pride. Something to fight for besides pay."
"They're going to need it."
"Yes." He paused. "Your mother would have been proud. She had the same gift for seeing people's potential."
Before I could ask what he knew about my mother, he was gone, barking orders at a group of passing recruits.
An hour later, I stood in my new quarters—captain's quarters, with actual space and a bed that didn't actively hate my spine. The training materials my father mentioned sat on my desk: three data slates, each one sealed with biometric locks that glowed softly in the dim light.
Later. First, I needed information Marcus couldn't send through official channels.
I gathered essentials—weapons, credits, emergency supplies. The kind of gear that suggested I expected trouble, because I absolutely did. If Victor Kronos was involved, trouble was the best-case scenario.
The Nightshade waited in my private bay, sleek and predatory under the overhead lights. I ran through pre-flight checks, muscle memory from the original Raven guiding my hands. Everything showed green.
"Going somewhere without your bodyguard?"
I didn't turn. I'd heard her approach—Meus had a particular rhythm to her walk, especially when she was upset.
"She has other duties now," I said, continuing the checks.
"She's also sleeping with you, which makes this personal." She moved closer, and I could smell that mix of gun oil and flowers that was uniquely hers. "Whatever's really going on—"
"Is classified beyond your clearance." The words tasted like ash. "Trust me. Please."
She grabbed my shoulder, spinning me to face her. "Classified? We're past that, Raven. Way past that."
"Which is why I need you here." I caught her hands. "Someone has to keep them alive while I'm gone. Someone I trust. That's you. Only you."
She searched my face for lies and found none. Because it was true—I did trust her. Which made leaving her behind hurt worse.
She kissed me, fierce and desperate, like she was trying to memorize the taste. "Come back alive."
"Always do."
"You better." She stepped back, mask sliding into place. "I'll have Shadow Squadron ready for whatever insanity you're planning."
Twenty minutes later, the Nightshade slipped free of the station, running silent toward Grokkies space. The cockpit wrapped around me like an old friend, displays showing clear space in all directions. I set the autopilot and leaned back, finally allowing myself to process everything.
Victor Kronos. Two years early and impossibly alive. Uncle Marcus compromised. Powers manifesting—my dead mother's technological gifts apparently hereditary. Three weeks to save everything.
No pressure at all.
"You know," a familiar voice said from behind me, "following you is becoming a dangerous habit."
I didn't turn, didn't even tense. Part of me had expected this. "The cargo hold was locked, Princess."
"I'm very flexible." She moved into view, sliding into the co-pilot's seat with feline grace. Still wearing tactical gear, though she'd added a jacket that probably cost more than most people's ships. "Also, 'Princess' is so formal. Call me Lyra."
Finally. A name to go with the face that had been haunting my thoughts.
"Does my father know you're here, Lyra?"
"Does yours know what you're really after?" She smiled, sharp and knowing. "I thought not. So perhaps we can help each other."
"Or you could tell me who Victor Kronos really is."
Her smile faltered, just for a second. "How do you—" She caught herself, reassessing. "Interesting. You recognized him. Despite him being dead for five years."
Dead? That wasn't in the game files.
"Lucky guess," I offered.
"No such thing." She leaned back, making herself comfortable in my ship like she belonged there. "Very well. Let's trade secrets, Captain Raven. Starting with why someone who's been dead for five years just threatened your uncle."
"You first."
"Fair." She pulled up a tactical display, fingers dancing across the interface. "Victor Kronos was—is—was a theoretical physicist who specialized in consciousness transfer and temporal mechanics. Brilliant, driven, and completely amoral. He died during an experiment that killed half a research station."
"But?"
"But death is a flexible concept when you're playing with consciousness transfer." She glanced at me. "Rather like how people can... evolve. Change. Become more than they were."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I've watched you since the Grokkies incident. You're different. More focused, more strategic, less wastefully cruel." She tilted her head. "The old Raven would have killed those recruits for sport. You turned them into assets. Evolution or something else?"
"Maybe I just grew up."
"Maybe." She didn't sound convinced. "Or maybe these new abilities changed more than just your connection to technology."
Before I could respond, she added casually, "Also, we're being followed. Three ships, Imperial signatures but wrong configurations."
I checked the sensors. She was right. Three contacts, maintaining perfect formation at the edge of sensor range.
"Friends of yours?" I asked, already knowing the answer.
"I don't have friends." She was pulling up tactical displays, analyzing patterns. "But I'd guess someone doesn't want us reaching the Grokkies."
"Or doesn't want us coming back." I began charging weapons, feeling the Nightshade respond eagerly. "How good are you in a fight?"
"Better than you'd expect." Her smile was sharp, dangerous. "Want to find out?"
The contacts were accelerating, dropping stealth in favor of speed. The Nightshade's sensors screamed warnings as targeting locks painted us.
Three weeks just became much shorter.
"Hold on," I warned, dropping us out of hyperspace early. Real space snapped back into focus—empty void between systems, perfect for a fight no one would ever report.
"Interesting tactic," Lyra commented, already working the defensive systems.
"Just remember," I said as the first missiles launched, "you stowed away. This is your fault."
"Everything's my fault, darling. I thought you'd figured that out by now."
The Nightshade rolled hard left, and the dance began.
Time to see if my gaming skills translated to real space combat.
Spoiler alert: they absolutely did.