Chapter 39 · The mynock

The ship waiting for them in Bay Six didn’t belong there.

Everything else in the Steadfast’s hangar gleamed in shades of cobalt and silver—sharp lines, disciplined symmetry, quiet pride in order. Stent’s vessel was the opposite: dull, mismatched panels, a hull streaked with the long, scorched signatures of atmospheric reentry. The kind of ship that didn’t draw attention because no one wanted to look at it twice.

Eli stopped at the base of the ramp, taking it in. “That’s the same ship you brought in with you.”

“Unfortunately,” Stent said. “Command wasn’t eager to lend me a replacement. Apparently, subtlety looks like this.”

“Looks more like neglect.”

“Neglect passes for authenticity in Lesser Space.”

Eli arched a brow. “You’re proud of that?”

“Alive because of it,” Stent countered. “That counts for pride.”

Inside, the ship was smaller than it looked. The corridor opened directly into a narrow compartment that served as everything—galley, navigation room, and dining area all at once. A collapsible table divided the space, bolted into the deck beside two worn acceleration seats. The bunks were recessed into the bulkhead, stacked tight, barely wide enough to roll over.

A short hallway led to a cargo hold so cramped that Eli had to stoop to move through it. Two crates sat strapped against the wall, their seals marked with Chiss merchant codes. When he checked the manifest, he found them listed as agricultural processing units.

Eli glanced back at Stent. “Let me guess—‘agricultural units’ are what spies eat when the budget runs out?”

“They’re what spies carry when they don’t want anyone to ask questions,” Stent said. “The less you lie, the safer you are. Half-truths are a professional habit.”

Eli tapped the manifest pad shut. “So no cargo that screams CEDF.”

“Nothing that screams anything. We’re ghosts without a legit trade license.”

They went through the ship together, running diagnostics by hand. The systems were ancient—half the controls labeled in faded Basic, the other half patched with makeshift Chiss equivalents. The environmental regulator hummed unevenly, and the life-support filter gave off a faint ozone tang.

Eli frowned. “This thing shouldn’t even be flying.”

“Which is exactly why it’ll pass inspection,” Stent said. “Nobody suspects a wreck. Or a pilot stupid enough to fly one.”

Eli ducked into the cockpit—a narrow space barely large enough for two. The viewport glass was clouded at the edges, the panels mismatched from different Imperial-era models, some spanning back to the Republic, Eli guessed. “Do any of these systems still calibrate properly?”

“Most of them,” Stent said. “And the ones that don’t, we’ll pretend they do.”

“That’s comforting.”

“You’ve worked with worse.”

Eli’s mouth twisted. “That’s debatable.”

When the systems finally returned a green diagnostic, they sank into the worn acceleration seats. The padding had long since given up the pretense of comfort.

Eli leaned back, eyeing the dim lights flickering overhead. “You know, I was expecting something a little more… Chiss. Clean. Efficient. This looks like the inside of a smuggler’s lung.”

Stent’s mouth quirked. “Then we’re in character already.”

Eli chuckled under his breath. The sound felt strange in the tiny space—too human, too alive.

He buckled into the copilot’s seat, glancing at the empty registry tag blinking on the display. “You know,” he said, “it’s bad luck to fly without a name.”

Stent didn’t look up from the readings. “I don’t believe in luck. Or superstition.”

“That’s what everyone says until the engines stall in vacuum.” Eli tapped the empty field on the screen. “Come on. Every ship deserves a name. Even this one.”

Stent’s mouth twitched. “Especially this one? It’s barely spaceworthy.”

“Exactly.” Eli leaned back, thinking. “How about the Mynock?”

Stent finally turned toward him. “The what?”

“Mynock,” Eli repeated. “Small, ugly creatures that live off power couplings and starship hulls. They’re parasites — loud, stubborn, impossible to get rid of.”

Stent considered that, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re suggesting we name our ship after an organism that survives by draining energy from better vessels?”

“Seems appropriate,” Eli said, half-smiling. “We’ll be feeding off other people’s systems before long.”

Stent’s expression softened, the faintest hint of humor breaking through. “Ugly, persistent, and difficult to kill.”

“Exactly.”

“Fine,” he said. “The Mynock it is.”

Eli keyed the name into the registry field. The console accepted it with a small, satisfied chirp.

“There,” he said. “Now we have a little luck.”

“I’ll take functionality over luck,” Stent replied, checking the flight controls.

“Luck’s cheaper,” Eli said.

“That depends on what it costs you.”

They went over the mission manifest once more.

No advanced sensors, no encoded transponders, nothing that might betray their origin. The crates in the hold were their disguise—trivial goods with forged trade documentation, just enough to make them look like merchants making a bad living. Their food rations were minimal. No Fleet-standard supplies, no CEDF markings.

Behind one of the rear bulkheads, Stent loosened a single bolt and pulled back a small access panel. Inside, wrapped in heat-damp cloth, sat the ship’s real insurance policy: currency. Not much by galactic standards, but enough to buy cooperation in the wrong place—or silence in the right one.

Thin ingots of valuable alloys gleamed dully in the half-light, stacked beside a sealed pouch of credit chips and a thick packet of stamped univers—the outer trade currency the Chiss used beyond their own space.

Eli whistled softly. “That’s… generous.”

“Practical,” Stent corrected, sealing the panel again. “Out there, credits talk louder than orders.”

“And weapons?” Eli asked.

“Two blasters,” Stent said, opening a narrow locker near the galley. “And one charric. Here they are.”

Eli eyed the weapons, recognizing the familiar Imperial design on the blasters—modified, but still deadly. “So, we’re traders with a light armory and a diplomatic budget.”

“Exactly,” Stent said, latching the locker shut. “Just convincing enough to pass for honest men.”

Eli smirked. “That might be the hardest disguise yet.” He scrolled through the list, frowning. “You packed light.”

“Weight attracts attention,” Stent said. “So does success.”

“Is that your motto?”

“It’s kept me alive this long.”

He leaned against the table while Stent keyed in their departure codes. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

Stent didn’t deny it. “Several times. You’d be surprised how porous the Ascendancy’s borders are if you know where to look.”

Eli tilted his head. “You’ve been part of the intelligence network this whole time.”

Stent gave a dry half-smile. “We don’t call it that. Too organized. Too official.”

“What do you call it, then?”

“Friends who know how to keep inconvenient truths from getting out of hand.”

Eli laughed softly. “That’s the most Chiss answer you could have given.”

“Then I’m adapting well.”

He moved to the small galley and found a pair of mugs already magnetized to the counter. The scent of bitter, burned tea clung to the metal. “This thing has a functional cooker?”

“I haven’t used it much, I’m not too sure it works,” Stent said. “There’s instant broth in the top cabinet. I’ve survived on it for months.”

Eli made a face. “I’m starting to miss Irizi pastries.”

“That’s the first sign of homesickness,” Stent said, deadpan. “It passes.”

When the engines finally powered up, the vibrations ran through the floor like a heartbeat too close to the surface. The sound was wrong for a Chiss ship—rough, irregular, human.

Eli looked around the cabin one last time, taking in the mismatched panels, the smell of oil and heat, the faint hum of overworked systems. Somehow, it felt… honest.

“This is it, then,” he said. “The edge of everything we know.”

Stent nodded, fingers moving across the worn controls. “The map ends here. The rest we draw ourselves.”

Eli smiled faintly. “Then let’s make it worth reading.”

The engines growled, deep and uneven, and the small, ugly ship lifted from the deck like a secret trying to escape.

As the hangar doors opened, the Steadfast’s polished blue hull fell away behind them, replaced by the infinite scatter of stars.