John happened to have the slipstream coordinates to the planet. Which was a reminder of the gap in experience. In knowledge. In reach. He’d already likely had a full galaxy map and experience. While I was still learning how to walk in my own skin, he was playing galactic chess with both eyes closed.

  But it saved us time. And Telks.

  So I didn’t complain.

  John jumped first. We followed.

  The transition through slipstream was smoother than silk. No turbulence, no hard shifts. The benefits of the new engine are showing. I didn’t care if they were alien in nature if it worked.

  We emerged into chaos.

  The system was a hive of movement, a traffic jam of desperation and politics. Thousands of ships swirled through orbital lanes like schools of fish, each broadcasting its allegiance with the subtlety of a fireworks display. Xtze, Keltar, Coztee, even smaller species I hadn’t seen in the records. Relief barges, patched and re-patched, jostled for access. Freelancers in tricked-out rigs hovered like carrion birds. I even spotted a few pirate-haulers, clumsily rebranded as "aid transports." The hypocrisy practically radiated off them.

  Laia brought up the corporate overlay the bright glyphs, color-coded tags, glowing identifiers rippling across our virtual viewport. Flags. Allegiances. Permissions. Warnings. It was a living map of bureaucratic madness. The galaxy’s red tape had wrapped this system like a tourniquet.

  We turned on our own broadcast, identifying ourselves through the Freelancer Network as a Terran-aligned relief ship, flagged for humanitarian operations. No big guns, just good intentions. Hopefully, that would buy us enough time to not get atomized by mistake.

  Everyone on the crew had already fallen into motion.

  T’lish was perched in the observation alcove, her claws tapping through layered sensor feeds. Her eyes filtered across the data like a hawk watching the ground. Battle trajectories. Ship telemetry. Power fluctuations in distant defence grids. She had a quiet intensity about her. She was focused, fascinated. Her Kall-e upbringing showing.

  Kel was calm and efficient on the comms. I could hear snippets of his voice as he negotiated with system control, threading us through temporary clearances, emergency lanes, and orbital corridors. No frustration in his tone, just confidence. He sounded like he had done it a million times, but the slight creases on his face showed it was taking its strain.

  Lynn had a harder job. She was locked in negotiation hell with other freelance and civilian ships trying to coordinate landings and supplies. She was already half-shouting, trying to secure access to a mid-orbit drop bay while also bartering for access to the surface to drop off some supplies.

  “Tell your captain,” she snapped into the comm, “that if he cuts our queue again, I will personally route your ship to a penal moon.”

  The other end cut out. She smiled.

  Below, in the fabrication lab, Mira and Stewie were a blur of movement. The place had transformed into a miniature relief factory. Nanite printers worked in tandem with modular assembly stations, turning raw stock into everything from collapsible cots to thermal bags. Mira moved like she was dancing, weaving between units, calling out updates, and adjusting batch settings. Stewie was all practicality, feeding resources, rerouting power, occasionally cursing when something jammed.

  It was beautiful. My crew in action. They knew nothing of this conflict. Who was right, who was wrong. They all had assigned themselves roles and were willing to get in and help.

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  But none of it would matter if we couldn’t even get close to the surface.

  The traffic spiral around the planet was tight with dozens of ships stacked in holding patterns, all waiting for clearance. We were small. Unarmed. Unremarkable. There was a good chance we’d be waiting for hours or maybe days before getting anywhere near a landing zone.

  Laia, of course, had a solution.

  She directed us quietly behind John’s ship, aligning us with his course.

  “If we stick to his wake,” she said, voice steady, “we’ll pass on his access signature. No one will question it.”

  I hesitated. “Are you sure?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I wasn’t sure if that was a promise or a threat.

  As we slipped into formation behind John, the tone of the system changed.

  The attackers made their move. They had poisoned the planet beyond its limits and were darn sure going to keep the citizens on it. They were going after the aid. Humanitarian ships lit up in flames, caught in precision strikes that tore through shields and hulls alike. It was systematic. Brutal. They weren’t trying to win a battle. They were trying to make rescue impossible.

  But they made a mistake.

  They targeted John.

  I heard a cry from T’lish. “You Xflaa, why would you do that? Can’t you see it’s a human warship…”

  It seems my translator matrix had no equivalent to that curse, but I couldn’t help but agree with her sentiment.

  The response was instant.

  There was no warning. No powering-up sequence. No threat broadcast. Just the sudden, violent correction of the battlefield.

  A single bolt ripped through the enemy vessel that had locked onto him. One moment it was there. The next, just shrapnel.

  The weapon resembled a railgun except It was faster. Meaner. I didn’t even see the barrel move. It just... struck.

  More fire followed. Each flash was surgical. Measured. Final.

  Enemy vessels lit up like fireworks. Shields folded. Hulls ruptured. Some tried to flee but the damage was done. John’s ship didn’t miss. Ever.

  And then the fighters launched.

  Dozens of them burst from the underside of his hull in coordinated squadrons, silent, deadly. Not drones. Not AI-controlled. Piloted. You could tell in the way they flew it was calculated improvisation. Sharp, aggressive moves executed with mechanical grace.

  They didn’t swarm. They hunted.

  Wherever John’s ship moved, space opened around it. Vessels that had been closing in scattered. Hostile forces either retreated or ceased to exist. Aid ships fell into formation behind him like ducklings behind a mother hen.

  We followed.

  And I?

  I watched it all in silence.

  Then, unable to help myself, I muttered, “Where are my fighters?”

  Laia didn’t answer.

  She didn’t need to.

  We didn’t have any.

  And I had never felt more underdressed for a rescue mission. I wanted some fighters. I was already coming up with some designs.

  But John wasn’t finished.

  Drop ships detached from his hull they were matte-black wedges designed for speed and shock. They cut through the atmosphere like blades, descending toward the surface in coordinated vectors. Through the shared network feed, we watched them land.

  The doors opened.

  And the Immortal Army walked out.

  Full power armor. Heavy loadouts. Clean lines. Not a wasted step. They didn’t stop to assess. Didn’t regroup. They moved. They pushed through the ash and the smoke, cleared ground barricades, disarmed heavy artillery positions, and established footholds like it was routine. In minutes, anti-air turrets were up. Ground-to-orbit comms cleared. Civilians corralled into secure zones.

  It was war as performance art. Cold. Ruthless. Efficient.

  And horrifyingly perfect.

  Could I become like this? Do I want to be like this? I couldn't help but wonder how much John and his Todd had given up.

  Before I could answer myself, John’s wearing his Picard avatar appeared on our virtual bridge.

  No grandeur. No announcement. Just his usual neutral presence—cool, calm, precise.

  “Beachhead established,” he said. “What’s your plan?”

  Laia stepped forward like they’d rehearsed it.

  “Protocol Babel.”

  I blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  John gave the faintest smile. “Space elevator.”

  I turned to Laia, confused. “You’re building a what?”

  “A temporary modular elevator,” she explained, her tone entirely unbothered. “Surface to orbit. Rapid deployment. We’ll need it to extract large numbers without cycling through shuttle queues. Time is the constraint. Not effort.”

  John nodded. “It’ll work. But you will need more nanites.”

  Laia’s expression darkened slightly. “We don’t have enough reserves. The harvesters are collecting now, but it’s slow going. We will have to reroute our factory to create them.

  “I’ll send mine,” John said, already turning. “Full deployment.”

  He didn’t even wait for a thank you.

  Laia glanced at me, her expression unreadable.

  Then she smirked. “Still want low-risk jobs?”

  I sighed.

  “I miss seafood delivery already.”