Seven days.
Seven more days of filth, of ignored jobs, of heavy mining—brutal efficiency applied to the most menial tasks. On the eighth day, her personal terminal displayed the number.
[Balance: 31,450 CR.]
It wasn't a fortune. It was the price of freedom. The freedom of a single planet.
She stepped into a ship dealership on the commercial ring of Port Kepler. The air was cold, sterile. Massive holograms of ships rotated slowly overhead, perfect and untouchable, like gods forged of chrome. Before her, a luxury model, the Stargazer 8800, floated with silent arrogance.
Price: 1,200,000 CR.
Ishtar stopped for a moment, watching it. It was a mockery made of metal and glass. Her last ship, the Unbowed, hadn't been so beautiful. It had been a weapon. A specter built for rapid escapes, with an armored hull scarred by won battles, the finest shields money and influence could buy, and weapons capable of breaking the spine of ships five times its size. The *Unbowed* wasn't worth a million credits. It was priceless. It was an extension of herself.
She looked away from the Stargazer. The memory was a physical pain.
Her fingers danced across the control panel, flicking through holograms. A litany of ships she could never have. Sleek fighters, rugged haulers, long-range explorers. Names and prices blurred into a smear of desire and impossibility.
After what felt like an eternity, she found the beginner section. And there it was. A tiny ship with a bulbous hull and two small wings that gave it the look of a metal ladybug. The Star-Mite 200. A joke.
Value: 52,000 CR.
She tapped a button in the corner of the display, a filter most players ignored out of pride:
[Show Used Models]
The ladybug's hologram flickered. The price changed.
[Star-Mite 200 (Used). Previous Owner: N/A. Condition: 78%. Price: 29,000 CR.]
She bought it. Without hesitation. The system deducted the credits from her account with an impersonal beep. The registration key to the worst ship in the game transferred to her profile. It wasn't a victory. It was a transaction. But with it, Ishtar could finally leave the ground. Not the solar system—the Star-Mite had no hyperdrive, only maneuvering thrusters and a basic sublight engine—but the planet. She could reach the moons, the asteroid belts. Far from the newbies, where mining was faster, more dangerous, and more profitable.
With the remaining credits, she entered a weapons shop. The place was the opposite of the dealership: loud, reeking of cleaning oil and ozone. Weapons of every kind were displayed in glass cases, like relics in a museum of violence.
Her eyes skimmed over rows of laser rifles and pistols. Weapons that fired perfect beams of light—no recoil, easy to aim. The choice of ninety-nine percent of players. They were fast, but the damage was shallow, like an especially vicious sunburn. Ishtar saw them as crutches.
She went to the back of the shop, to the section most considered obsolete. Solid-projectile weapons.
There, on a dusty shelf, sat a heavy, brutally ugly pistol—clearly a used model. A Burke & Wills .45. She picked it up. The weight in her hand was real, comforting. Weapons like this had savage kick, a will of their own. They demanded skill. Most players missed their shots or hit center mass out of panic.
But Ishtar knew better. A precise .45 round to a shooter's wrist was enough to ruin their aim for precious seconds. A shot to the ankle of a charging enemy shattered their advance and left them exposed. It wasn't a weapon for killing. It was a weapon for control.
She bought the pistol and two magazines of ammunition.
As she left the shop, the twilight of Port Kepler washed everything in deep orange. In her inventory, she carried a ship that looked like an insect and a pistol most would consider trash. They were the most pathetic things she had ever owned.
They were also the promise of a war.
The exiled queen was now armed.