In the cold, dark expanse of a distant Outer Rim sector, a stolen Accord Destroyer-class ship floated dead in the void, its engines cold. Inside, in a stark, metal-walled crew quarter, Gale Amanar was trapped in a nightmare. He thrashed in his sleep, his scruffy, bearded face contorted in agony.
"Stop," he muttered, his voice a low, strangled sound. "Please, make it stop... PLEASE!"
The crew quarter door hissed open. The child, the girl who looked so much like Jas, padded silently into the room, her small, bare feet silent on the metal deck. She saw the man thrashing, trapped in the same horror that haunted him every night. She climbed onto the bunk beside him and gently placed her small, frail hand on his forehead.
A subtle, golden glow, soft and warm, emanated from her palm. It was not a blinding Solar light, but something else, something gentle and ancient.
As the light flowed into him, Gale's pained expression softened. The tension in his body released, his breathing evening out, and he sank into a deep, dreamless sleep. The kid watched him for a long moment, her own small face etched with a profound exhaustion. The act had clearly cost her. Her eyelids grew heavy, and she slumped forward, falling asleep curled against his arm.
…
The kid's eyes snapped open. The door to the quarters hissed open, and Gale stood there, holding a small tray. On it were two grey, nutrient-dense breakfast blocks.
"Hello," he said, his voice still rough from sleep. "I know I promised some good food, but we need to make a detour for a bit."
The kid just nodded, took one of the blocks, and began to eat silently. Gale sat on the edge of the opposite bunk, patting her head awkwardly. He then stood to leave. As he reached the door, she spoke for the first time, her voice a small, quiet whisper.
"Am I your daughter now?"
Gale froze, his hand on the door controls. A bright, searing flash of memory: the pacification mission, the village in flames, the bodies of her people, his photon bursts. He closed his eyes, his hand clenching into a fist.
"We will be whoever we have to be," he said, his voice heavy. "The label will be up to us."
He then left, the door hissing closed. Several minutes later, the ship's engines rumbled to life, and it began to move.
They arrived at a nondescript, backwater planet a few hours later, landing in a grimy opening. Gale grabbed a heavy mantle, wrapping it around his old flight suit to hide his identity. "I am going to get us some money," he said to the kid. "Stay here. Do not open the door for anyone."
The kid nodded, her expression serious.
The moment Gale left and the boarding ramp hissed shut, she got up. She was not just a passenger. She was a survivor. She walked to a storage room, her small hands prying open a floor hatch. Inside, she found what she was looking for: the ship's thick, technical manuals. She pulled one out, sat on the floor, and began to meticulously trace the symbols, her mind a sharp, hungry sponge, as she began to learn the Accord's basic language.
…
Gale returned, the boarding ramp opening with a loud hiss. He stepped inside, holding a bag that smelled not of synth-paste, but of real, roasted food.
"I got food," he called out.
The kid emerged from the crew quarters, her eyes landing on the bag.
"Follow me," he said, leading them to the small mess hall.
They ate in their usual silence. When they were done, Gale took a cloth and gently wiped a smear of sauce from the kid's mouth. "We will move again in the next hour," he said, the familiar, restless rhythm of a fugitive's life.
The kid nodded and started to walk back towards her quarters.
"Jess."
She stopped and turned.
Gale looked at her, at this small, displaced child he had stolen from a warzone. He was giving her a new name, a new life, tethering her to his own broken one. "You will be Jess from now on," he said, his voice surprisingly firm. "And you will start following me outside the ship. It is safer that way."
The kid tilted her head, tasting the new name. "Jess," she repeated, her voice soft.
She nodded.
…
Gale ran the pre-flight checks on the stolen Accord destroyer. The engines hummed to life, a low, powerful vibration that filled the cockpit. Jess sat in the co-pilot's seat, which was far too big for her, her small feet dangling inches from the deck. As the console lit up, she looked over at him, her expression serious.
"No song," she said. It was not a question, but a quiet request.
Gale smirked, a rare, genuine expression that softened the hard lines of his face. He tapped around the console's media controls. A familiar, gentle melody began to play. "Your Song," by Percival.
The ship floated silently from its hidden alcove, then the engines roared, and they took off, piercing the atmosphere of the barren moon.
"I hope you don't mind... I hope you don't mind..."
Gale glanced over. Jess had her eyes closed, her small head swinging gently from side to side, lost in the simple, heartfelt song. As they broke into the blackness of space, Gale steered them towards the hyperlane coordinates.
"Ready for the hyperdrive?" he asked.
The kid nodded, her eyes wide. He could see she was unable to hide her enthusiasm. They had been on the run for so long, living in fear, but she still got excited by the simple, magical things, like a jump to lightspeed.
"Ready," Gale said, his own voice lighter than it had been in years. He pushed the lever forward.
A flash. A stream of swirling, ethereal colors.
Jess giggled, a bright, happy sound that seemed impossibly loud in the cockpit.
Gale could not help but smile. He was a wanted fugitive from the Accord, flying a stolen warship with a refugee child, but strangely, he was happier than he had ever been.
…
[Border of the Inner Rim]
The sleek, private transport Ratik had chartered rose silently from the landing pad, its engines barely a whisper, and flew back the way it came. Dorian looked up as it took off, leaving him and Ratik alone on the bustling platform.
"He'll be back if I don't buy a ship today, right?" Dorian asked, a little nervously.
"You'll want to buy the whole collection once we go inside," Ratik replied, her voice calm and confident as she started walking.
Dorian hurried to catch up, his eyes wide. This planet was a major trade hub, and he saw more alien races in five minutes than he had seen in his entire life on Nexus Prime. "I've never seen some of them," he muttered, trying not to stare. "I... I just realized how big the universe is."
Ratik chuckled, a small, dry sound. "You are remarkably oblivious for someone so bright."
"Are you calling your employer an idiot now?" Dorian shot back, a little stung.
"The interpretation is on the ear of the listener," Ratik said smoothly. "For a composer, you should know that."
Dorian was about to retort when he saw the building in front of them, and the words died in his throat. "Is this... a stadium?" The structure was a colossal, gleaming dome that seemed to stretch for a kilometer in every direction.
"This is a standard dealership, Dorian," Ratik said, not breaking her stride. "Come on. We do not have all day."
She led him inside. The interior was a vast, open landscape, almost like a park. There were no ships. Instead, there were dozens of rows of rotating holographic panels, each one showcasing a different ship model, from small freighters to large corvettes.
Dorian let out a low, visible whistle of awe. He realized the warehouse must be underground, and the panels on the floor were massive elevators, designed to bring the physical ship up to the customer on demand.
A sleek, chrome Compadre glided over to them, its voice a smooth, synthesized baritone. "Welcome to Locust Armada. The one-way lane to the ship in your lane. What can I help you with today?"
"Can you show us the Cruiser-class catalog?" Ratik asked, all business.
"Of course," the Compadre replied. "Follow me. Are you interested in new or second-hand models?"
"Honestly," Dorian interjected, "any of those are okay with me."
The Compadre's optical sensor flickered. "Noted."
It led them to a private holographic table, and the Compadre began tweaking the display, bringing up sleek, 3D models of cruisers. As the first few options swirled in the air, Dorian leaned in and whispered anxiously to Ratik.
"Do I... actually have enough money for a cruiser?"
Ratik, who had been analyzing the spec sheets, turned her head slowly. "Why," she whispered back, "are you asking me that now?"
"It just occurred to me just now," he hissed, a new wave of panic rising in his chest.
Ratik chuckled, a small, dry sound of amusement. "Don't worry," she said, her voice a reassuring murmur as the Compadre brought up the first set of options. "I handle your finances. If you couldn't afford it, I wouldn't have brought you here."
Dorian let out a sigh of relief. He turned his attention to the holographic table, where sleek, predatory military vessels and bulky, modular freighters swirled in 3D. He browsed for a minute, but nothing really captured his interest.
Then he saw it.
It was not sleek. It was not pretty. It was a flat, saucer-shaped vessel with a heavy mandibles at the front and an off-center, cylindrical cockpit on the right side. It looked less like a precision instrument and more like a high-speed, armored brick. Millennium Falcon. He felt an immediate, irrational jolt of connection. He tapped the model, and it expanded to fill the table.
"An excellent, if vintage, choice," the Compadre's smooth voice intoned. "This is a second-hand model, a Corvus-class Light Siege Cruiser. The brand-new types are heavily restricted military assets, but since this is an older, decommissioned model, it's now classified as a standard heavy freighter."
It was perfect.
"It's a good long-range ship," the Compadre continued. "Streamlined, reinforced plating, fully automatic hydraulic systems, and a freshwater distiller, which can take ice asteroids from space to replenish its own water supply. The main hold is fully customizable, and there are several more holds that can be converted into personalized rooms. This model has also been refitted with a new-generation sublight engine."
"I'll see this one. Please," Dorian said, his voice quiet but intense.
Ratik looked at him, her eyebrow raised. "You won't even look at the others?"
"No," Dorian said, a twinkle of pure, unadulterated want in his eyes. "I love this one."
"Alright," Ratik sighed. She leaned in and whispered, her voice sharp. "From now on, handle your expression. Let me get you the deal. Control your face."
"Got it," Dorian said, immediately schooling his features into a mask of polite boredom.
A moment later, the Compadre returned, this time with a human dealer, a man with a slicked-back hair and a smile that was all teeth. "Welcome, welcome!" the dealer said. "An excellent choice, the Corvus! A real connoisseur's ship. Let me guide you to Panel 34."
He led them to a massive, circular lift panel. They arrived and stood waiting. A moment later, a deafening sound of clanking, grinding, and hissing machinery echoed up from below. Dorian felt the panel beneath his feet vibrate, and then it began to rise.
He saw the ship. It was lifted up from the cavernous warehouse below. It was not a perfect replica, but it was the ship. It was battered. The paint was scorched and peeling in places, and there was a long, ugly blaster scar across the port-side mandible, but it was real. It was the ship of his dreams.
"She's a beaut, isn't she?" the dealer said, spreading his arms. "Let's go inside."
They walked up the boarding ramp and into the main hold. It was huge, smelling faintly of old oil and ozone, but the potential was obvious.
"She's a classic, isn't she?" the dealer began his pitch. "A Corvus-class. They don't make them with this kind of solid-state hull integrity anymore. Barely used. We had to replace the sublight engine, of course a top-of-the-line install. For a ship this rare, the starting price is a steal at forty-five million credits."
Dorian, who had just seen his entire bank account flash before his eyes, fought to keep his "stoic face" from collapsing into pure panic.
"Barely used?" Ratik's cold voice cut through the dealer's oily charm. She was walking the perimeter of the hold, running a small, handheld scanner over the bulkheads. "My scans indicate atmospheric scorching on the ventral plating and micro-fractures on the primary landing strut. This wasn't a 'guild merchant's' ship. This was a blockade runner."
The dealer's slick smile faltered. "Ma'am, the report clearly states..."
"The report is a sales document," Ratik cut him off, not even looking up from her scanner. "I'm looking at the ship. The hydraulics are sluggish, and the water distiller's filter system is two generations out of date. And that 'new' sublight engine is a standard military surplus model, not a top-of-the-line civilian upgrade."
"It's a Siege Cruiser!" the dealer tried, recovering. "The armor plating alone is worth the price! You won't find another one like this in the sector!"
"You're right," Ratik said, finally turning to face him, her expression like ice. "It's an old, decommissioned military vessel that's difficult to get parts for and will be a nightmare to register for civilian use. We are doing you a favor by taking it off your hands." She named a new price, one that was barely half of what he had quoted. "That is our offer. We pay for the ship and the registration fast-track, today. Take it, or we'll go look at the Kestrel-class freighter on Panel 12."
The dealer looked like he had been slapped. He sweated. He looked at Dorian, who was trying his absolute best to look bored and unimpressed, as if he were currently inspecting a rusty old ground-car. He looked back at Ratik's cold, unblinking, professional gaze. He deflated.
"Let me... check with my manager," he stammered, tapping furiously on his datapad. He was silent for a long, painful minute. "...Alright. We can... we can make that deal."
"Let us ready the ship for transfer," the dealer said, his smile now a weak, forced grimace. "It will take about an hour to finalize the paperwork and fuel it."
"We will explore the area for a while," Ratik said curtly.
"Thank you... for your patronage," the dealer said, bowing weakly as they walked back down the ramp.
Dorian followed Ratik out of the massive dealership dome and back into the planet's open air, his face still a perfect mask of bored indifference. He held it for one second, two, three...
"You can let go of your stoic face now, Dorian," Ratik said, a hint of amusement in her voice.
Dorian's face exploded into a grin of pure, unadulterated, overjoyed happiness. "YES! DID YOU SEE IT? IT'S PERFECT!"
"We're not done," Ratik said, already walking towards another massive dealership dome across the plaza. "Your ship needs fuel. And so does your new house."
"Oh, yeah. Hehe," Dorian said, still giddy as he followed her.
They entered a store named 'AETHER-FLUX CONVERTERS'. "We need a standard digger-type converter," Ratik said to the nearest sales-bot. "One that can be set up on the property. Something reliable."
As the bot began listing models, Dorian's eyes drifted to a machine in the corner, covered in a thin layer of dust, a bright red 'CLEARANCE' tag on it. "Wait," he said, walking over to it. "What's this?"
Ratik followed him, her gaze falling on the description plaque. She read it and scoffed. "Ah. That's a failed Accord invention. A relic from their last 'clean energy' initiative."
"Why failed?" Dorian asked, running a hand over the cold metal.
"It's a high-energy ion converter," she explained. "It's theoretically hyper-efficient, but it only runs on one fuel source: high-energy, raw minerals. It's basically useless. You'd spend a billion credits in minerals to save a thousand on power. Let's go."
Dorian's hand froze on the machine. He looked at the ridiculously low price, then back at Ratik, a slow, dangerous grin spreading across his face. "Get this one."
"What? No," Ratik said, looking at him as if he were crazy. "Dorian, this is a useless, expensive paperweight. You cannot get the high-energy minerals to fuel this machine."
"It's even better, then," Dorian countered, his grin widening. "You can get it for a cheap price."
"Dorian," she said, her patience clearly wearing thin, "this is not a joke. It's impractical."
"Just do it," he said, his voice firm, his eyes locked on the machine. "I have something to use it for. Trust me."
Ratik stared at him, at the absolute, irrational confidence in his eyes. She let out a long, weary sigh. "Fine."
…
They spent the next hour shopping, Ratik efficiently procuring all the necessary supplies for a long-range, off-grid vessel, while Dorian just followed, his mind buzzing with the possibilities of his new purchases. By the time they were done, the heavy ion converter was scheduled for freight delivery to Friton the next day.
They got back to the Locust Armada dealership. Their ship was on the panel, fueled, prepped, and gleaming under the showroom lights, looking glorious and ready to take off.
"Lastly, ma'am," the dealer said, holding out a datapad to Ratik. "The name of the ship? For the registration."
Ratik nodded and gestured to Dorian. "Go on."
Dorian stepped forward, his grin returning, and said the name he had been dreaming of since he was a kid. "Millennium Falcon."
The dealer tapped it into the datapad, then turned the screen to Dorian to make sure there were no typos. Dorian nodded his approval. The dealer left to finalize the papers, then returned a second later, handing the digital ownership chit to Dorian.
"Thank you for your patronage!" he said with a deep, respectful bow. From all around the vast pit, the ship dockers, the assistants, and the other sales staff all stopped what they were doing and echoed the phrase: "Thank you for your patronage!"
Dorian walked up the ramp, his hand brushing against the cool metal of the bulkhead. It felt like a dream. He finally had his own ship.
"Alright," Ratik said, settling into the co-pilot's seat. "You're co-piloting."
"Hey, not fair!" Dorian protested, sliding into the pilot's seat, which felt like it was molded just for him. "I worked hard to get my license, you know."
He strapped himself in, his hands flying over the console, his fingers moving with an instinctive familiarity, running the pre-flight checks. He started the engines. A deep, powerful rumble vibrated through the deck plates. A shimmering mirage from the heat wash appeared under the ship. He eased off the landing gear, and the ship rose, smooth and steady.
As they cleared the dome's massive hangar doors, the planet's atmosphere-lock sealed behind them.
"Alright, pilot," Ratik said, testing him. "Coordinate quiz. Friton. No public hyperlane. Go."
Dorian answered flawlessly, his hands already inputting the complex, multi-jump coordinates manually. "Good," Ratik said, impressed. "There is no hyperlane to Friton, so you know what that means."
Dorian smiled, his eyes fixed on the starfield in front of him. "Free-use hyperdrive."
He gripped the throttle lever, his heart pounding in his chest. He pushed it forward.
The stars in the viewport stretched, elongated, and with a brilliant, blinding flash, they shot into hyperspace.
**A/N**
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**A/N**