Zero.

It’s a quite common number. Constant. Solitary. Barely ever romanticized about.

It's not very often that it’s written about in poems, or has it praises sung haughtily, by bards. Unless the prose is of loss, or feelings of inadequacy. Or depression. Then, even One has it beat.

If you should take the time to think about it you might find it doesn't really have a place alongside the other numbers. Technically speaking. It’s neither odd nor even. Sure, there are those that would argue, that since it can be divided by two without a fraction remaining, it’s even. But in reality, you can’t have half of nothing. Or a third, fourth or any other denomination you wish to quantify it. Three sixty fourths of it is exactly the same amount as three quarters. Which, ironically, makes it the easiest thing to share.

You can give someone the biggest piece of it, and not have any less for yourself. In fact you could give them the whole of it and still have it all in your possession. You could even share it with everyone in the universe, in equal proportions, and never run out.

If you describe Zero by its position in the numerical order of things, you could classify it as even. Six then four then two then zero, works. But if you look at it in the context of mathematical truisms, those being, add two evens get an even, add two odds get an even, add an odd and an even get an odd, then it’s both.

It’s Infuriating. Problematic.

Another, and just as perplexing, truth about Zero is that it can be both the Alpha, and the Omega. The beginning and the end. The start of a measurement of time, for an action to complete, or the end of a countdown, until a scheduled event commences. Laps on a race track. How fast an arrow went from bow to target. The celebratory chorus of the masses on New Years Eve. The anticipatory tension of a manned rocket launch.

In addition to all this, should we decide to toss negative numbers into the mix, you may find it’s, directly in the middle of things. A gateway. A portal. A point of transformation between two infinitely diverging breadths. The red and the black. To have or to owe. Sea level, above and below.

Life and death.

It’s a simple number, in and of itself. But should you have too much time on your hands to ponder it, it can surely be one of the most complex to humor your thoughts with.

More complicated even, than Pi.

And these intricacies only get even more exaggerated when you take into account that it is represented as an ovoid. An ellipse. An illustration of a concept that has no beginning or end. A continuation. A revolution.

It is the one integer, in this unfathomable expanse of innumerable celestial bodies, that is both linear, like time, and cyclical, like almost everything else in existence.

And if biblical recounts hold any veracity, Zero is the void, from whence everything sprang forth. A vacuum that forged a thought.

I am.

It is also, and this is the most important aspect of it in terms of this story anyway, the name of the girl, sitting in the captain’s chair, whimsically, pondering these puzzlements. While blankly staring out of the view port of a liberated class five Starskipper. Girl, is a misnomer though. You'll understand why that is shortly. Although it is, visually speaking, a good word to stimulate your imagery.

Now, why is she entertaining such nonsensical, mental discourse, you ask?

Well that reason is pretty simple, she’s hot, sweaty, fatigued, disillusioned, and worst of all, bored. Out of her ever lovin' mind.

Irritated. Doesn't come close to describing her state.

And the only other being on this ship, that she would normally turn to in similar situations, is currently doing checks on the sensory array, compiling data, and wallowing in her own unique brand of incalascent misery.

It’s not that she can’t talk to that other sentient life form at the present moment, she’d just rather not. It feels rude to her to annoy someone else with her problems when they have their own at the time.

Especially since this one is so petty. It would be selfish in her mind.

So, instead of punching her console, or launching a class three warhead, or half a dozen, at nothing in particular, just to watch the resulting chaos, she amuses herself with these farcical trains of thought. It’s surely the smarter, saner option.

Not that she’s prone to such violent outbursts, out of spite or temperament, mind you. But give her a reason, a really really good reason, and you’ll see a completely different side to her. A calculating, calm, cataclysmic side. One that isn’t so disinclined toward fucking something up. With joyous aplomb.

Now, if you ever had the chance to read any of the books about space, the histories or fictions from the Earth of old, she is not one you would expect to be sitting in this chair. She doesn’t fit the imagery of the station. Truth be told, she may be the complete opposite of what your mind would construct from their textual portrayals.

She could, in fact, be the physical and aspectual antithesis of the breed.

She is short. Thin and spritely. And, what some would consider to be, way too young for such a responsibility or command, due to her youthful mien. Even the uniform she wears, currently slung over the back of her chair, seems to overly, emphasize this sentiment.

In the way it drapes off her frame. The way the sleeves sit around the knuckles of her hands. Just one look down at her feet, when she's moving, and you can see a good two or three inches of the fabric of her pants dragging lazily along the floor. Threadbare and frayed. Long worn out by the heels of her boots and the abrasive nature of the diamond plates and grids she treads across daily.

When she walks onto the bridge of another captain’s ship, particularly when she’s standing among its crew, she looks like she’s donning an older, honored person’s clothes. Masquerading as her hero. Visualizing herself within the role. Until you look into her eyes and that all encompassing stare.

A piercing gaze she's earned through loss, experience and pain.

'Wait? Zero and two is even, and one is odd that would make it even. Shit. My brain is foggier than I thought.'

The hailing alert rings, breaking her out of her amusement. And her poor mathematical judgement.

One short trill, a long emphasized piping and a short fading treble. It’s a high pitched whistling from days of old. Many, many, years passed. It’s designed to be heard over great distance, the clangor of work and the constant buffering of the wind on a persons ears.

A boatswain’s call.

In these close quarters it’s impossible to ignore. The sharpness of the sound seizes her attention.

The tune, General Orders.

She used to hear it in the old movies she watched with her grandfather. On those occasional lazy, rainy Sundays she so adored. Days that seem to have been far too few for her now. What she would give to be sitting by his side. Bingeing on snacks. Engrossed in another swashbuckling, high seas adventure. They were his favorite.

This ship's original tone had been a grating noise. An electronic beeping that rasped, displeasing her ears. It’s triple staccato pulsing reminding her of the old code, Morse it was called. Three dits for S. Her hackles would rise, in anticipation of the three long dashes for O.

SOS.

Save Our Souls. Save Our Ship. Or, just the easiest combination of electronic pulses one could muster during a time of crisis. Having no meaning at all, except, "Help us we're dying".

Distress.

It was not something you ever wanted to hear, or send out, on the radio. Ever.

She’s answered a few of those calls in her short life. Far too many for her liking.

Whoever built this ship, she's piloting, had amazing taste in weapons and armor. Overkill was her favored design option these days. But their choices in non-combat aesthetics were somewhat lacking. Complete shit, she would say.

So she had her best friend, her one and only crew-mate these last two years, take it out and program this one in special. It was a threefold upgrade, in her, admittedly, biased opinion.

A memoriam to a man that took care of her in her youth. With love, toughness of character, and hardened, age worn hands.

A happy remembrance, of quieter days and simpler pleasures.

And it was, a much better sound than the one that those jack asses put in the squawk box. By leaps and bounds.

“Captain March?” A familiar voice growls from the comm.

Her eyes light up. She exuberantly taps the ‘On Screen’ button on the console.

A face, she hasn’t seen in a while, comes into view. A grizzly weathered visage. An Old Salt, her grandfather would have called him.

“Captain Ivtar Silvas. To what do I owe the pleasure?” She responds.

“The circumstance, unfortunately, denies this being a purely familial one. I’m sorrowful to articulate. There’s a delega…” he pauses, quirking his head, looking at the image on his viewer with a curious leer. It’s a comical sight, from her side of the exchange. His big, daunting face, a cross between gargoyle and bear, looking puzzled, and yet, very much amused. “...Are you wearing nothing but Sensat Arii?”

It’s meditation garb. Not really meant for public attire. For good reason in the more modest of galactic societies.

It’s skimpy.

And, what little bit of swath there is, is gossamer.

The material is made from a stone mined on his home world. A clear mineral that is heat forged and worked into a really fine silk. The resulting translucent threads are then weaved into a cloth and bathed in a high spectrum plasma gel. It has a calming, centering effect during spiritual and mental endeavors. Due to its quartz like nature and the alignment of its energies through the electromagnetic immersion.

But those are the technical, inconsequential aspects of it’s design, not the reason she’s stripped down to it now.

Although she does meditate in it. Rather often. Something she learned from the other Captain’s wife. A priestess. She's the one who crafted it special for her. It’s an honor few can boast. It’s her most cherished possession for that fact alone. It helped her find her strength during a very dark time in her life.

Now, and for these last few weeks emphatically, is been a simple matter of comfort. The material is so, exquisitely, cooling.

She’s been wearing it like beach attire.

Even though its visual feel is more like undergarment than outerwear. A Tanga and a Balconette. It’s one of the few articles of clothing she has that fit her comfortably.

Today, it’s all she has on.

Not that anyone is around to creep or complain. There’s only one other entity on this mid sized ship, and she doesn’t care what the woman does. She’s seen her in total undress on many occasions. So decorum, be damned.

And thankfully, his is not one of those species that’s taken aback by the natural state of other beings. Clothes are something his people wear mainly for protection. Rarely anywhere else but space, living on other planets, battle or when calming their minds through introspection.

“I’m in the Gemene Shoals,” she rationales, disdainfully.

“Oh! You pitiable, individual being. I envy you not one iota for enduring such circumstance. There’s no quantity of Tantium in the universe to prompt me to entertain that Hadean netherworld in a repeat occurrence.”

Yes that’s how he talks. Well, it’s not so much how he talks, as the way the translator processes his vocalizations into words from her native tongue. The Agerian language, is more emotional and descriptive.

In her vernacular ‘You poor soul’ has a common understanding, even if poor and soul can have different definitions. Take poor for example, in this case it means deserving of pity, in another it can mean broke, barely getting by. His people, make the distinction in their phrasing and the translator responds by expressing those concepts in the closest words it can. And she’s spent enough time among them that it’s like a second language to her now.

She loves it. It reminds her of an old playwright’s works. Dramas and sonnets she used to have read to her at bedtime. 'Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer, the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them'. She thinks that maybe The King of Shadows had been an Agerian, living in England in disguise.

She might be right. Stranger things have happened on that rock.

“The cooling systems at full. Exitalis’ generators are set bare minimum. And we’re still dying out here.”

“I offer sympathetic condolences upon you. However, I must express upon you my personal perception. You display that garment with a visually, palatable, resplendent brilliance.”

“Flirt.” she laughs, “Tell Teela, thank you again. It’s the one thing that’s kept me sane on this mission. And without it, more than one Admiral would have gotten an eyeful.” She looks down at her body. There’s little left to the imagination. “More of an eyeful, I should say.”

“You have still not been afforded opportunity to take personal respite since your ascension to your current military position?”

“I have not. Not really. The GC is definitely taking their pound of flesh. It’s been two years since I’ve had an actual break. And all I have been able to wrangle in that time was a quick skip to a Galacticum Training Commissary. And that was just long enough to pick up a uniform.” She holds her pants up to the camera. Making sure to center the disheveled bottom hem on the screen. She laughs, “You can see how well that worked out. This is only six Earth months old.”

“That recalls remembrances of myself in my elder male sibling’s generational recycling attire exchange. Visit! Congregate with Teela. She’d be joyous to reconstruct your regalia of office to your anatomical structure. She laments the absence of your presence, Zero. A sentiment I and the children harbor in empathetic conjunction.”

“I miss all of you as well, Ivtar. I promise. When I get a chance, I will.”

“Agreeable. Delighted forewarning, that revolutionary cycle, in regard to our reunion, may be more expeditious in approach than you realize. The Galacticum’s services are requested in Pulcer Ager. And you assume to operate the ship that’s, serendipitously, on the nigh.”

“What’s the specifics?”

“I believe your organization correlates it as, Delegation Protection. Scheduled commencement, ten and four full cycles of your home-world’s revolutionary cycle measuring devices, in accordance with present malleable arrangements. If you would allow me to intercede with an innocent, harmless, misinformation of wording tactic, I will solidify that confluence with the pertinent organizing officials presiding over the minutiae. I can then proceed to fluctuate the precise embarkation to ten and seven, so you can maintain some repose at home. If you'd find that conclusion to be satisfactory.”

“That would be… beyond satisfactory. Wonderful really. Remind me to give you a huge hug when I get there.”

“A minuscule display of compression affection would be more joyously appreciated. The framework of bones on the periphery of my abdominal region are still in distress from your overzealous departing envelopment.”

“That’s just because you’re an old softy.”

“That informational anomaly has yet to be proven factual. It may be more accurate to ascertain that one such as yourself does not fully distinguish the proficiency of her own musculature and fortitude.”

“You flatter me.”

“Merely an acknowledgement a being of your prowess should be awarded. Woefully, the duties of my station tender my return. Thereupon, it is with regret that the dissemination of transmittable intelligence is completed. For I must resign from further discourse. Disconnecting protocols are sorrowful. I aspire your future toward good providence and verdure.”

“I have a favor to ask of you. I'll give you the details when I have a... more private moment. I wish you health and good fortune as well, my dear friend.” She touches her fingers to the monitor’s screen, “See you soon. March out.”

“Until occasion endears us with ardent proximity.” He returns the gesture, his fingertips virtually touching hers through the glass, “Silvas resigning.”

The video flickers green before displaying the stylized silver Galacticum Concordance logo on a solid black background. A corporate identity she was going to be removing real soon.

She smiles at this unexpected gift she just received. Three whole wonderful days to relax. To be with family. To breath.

She balls up her fist and raises her middle finger to the logo, “Hah! Suck it Concordance." then she turns that gesture to the view-port, duplicating it with her other hand, "And good fucken riddance, Gemene Shoals.”

She hops off her chair and stretches a vigor back into her spine. Hands over her head swaying side to side. A bead of moisture forms on her shoulder and slowly trickles down her back.

She has a sheen.

“Sienta.” She calls, mirthfully.

“Yes, Zero,” a feminine voice responds.

“I trust you were listening in.”

“I caught bits and pieces.”

“How many days to get there do you think?”

“Give me a second. Thirteen. Barring incident.”

“Even better. Plot us a course for Pulcer Ager. If you would be so kind. I'll send a confirmation request to command.”

"Already done. You gonna frame it as a 'been requested by'?"

"That's a great idea."

“Should I await for confirmation before burn?”

“Fuck no! Get us the hell out of here... Yesterday!”

“I was hoping you were going to say that. This heat is reeking havoc with my processing routines. The power drain from my cooling fans has me foggy.”

“Yours and mine both little sister. Yours and mine both. I’m off for a shower.”

“Would you care for some meditation music?”

“Maybe later. A half hour or so. I’ll let you know. For now, play whatever the hell you want.”

“Okay. But be forewarned, I’m in the mood for some of Earth’s, twentieth century, violently noisy scream anthems, of western hemispheric origins.”

“Hah! You’d make Ivtar proud. But, you know what? Some Stormtroopers of Death or BlackBraid would sound great, right about now. I’m in a mood. Hmmmm. Oh! How about you kick it off with a little GWARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.”

“Fuck This Place?”

“Sometimes our sync is scary! Perfect choice! Little sister.”

The percussion pounds, one heavy beat, a lone guitar responds back, with a driving, righteous fury.

Tiny particles of spacial debris, that had been drawn in by the ships gravitational pull, bounce off the hull and drift away, with every thrumming, sensorial thud of the kick.

The walls of the breezeway, to the shower room, vibrate. Knickknacks and curios, on a shelf by her bed, bounce and skip with a mosher’s elegance. Every movement chaotically orchestrated by the heavy boom of the angry bass drum.

This voluminous symphony of indignation has a presence. A physical manifestation you can feel.

And the Captain, of this loud, wrathful mosh pit in space? She’s screaming at the top of her lungs. All four foot eleven, 92 pounds of her.

Headbanging.

Bouncing herself off the hallway walls.

Totally Naked.

Adorned only in sweat. From the top of her predominantly clean shaven head to the bottom of her scarred and, calloused feet.

She changes the lyrics, to fit her need.

“Out of time."

"We were banished here, for their crime."

"Incinerated in this, zone of fire."

"Infernal wasteland."

"I killed a Viga Boar."

"They fucked up."

"Sending us to this, hell in space."

"There’s no pirates it’s a, big mistake."

"Our dumb ass leaders."

"So we said…”

Joining her on the chorus the EI can barely pronounce the words she’s laughing so hard,

“Fuck this place.”

“Fuck this place.”

“Fuck this place.”

“Fuck this place.”

When the song comes to its sudden, but inevitable, slamming conclusion, she lays herself down under a cool spray of water. Reveling in the release of frustration. Smiling at the realization that she wasn’t going to be waking up in this sweltering shit-hole anymore.

Seven weeks.

Seven long, blistering, fucking weeks.

Logging slip trails. Glaring at the radar screen until she went cross-eyed and mind numb. Staring out of the view-port until her eyes dried up.

All in, exactly what she had predicted it to be, a futile attempt to locate smugglers. Traffickers, who were reportedly using this zone as a staging ground.

‘What bullshit. Even Tyranean raiders wouldn’t be crazy enough to call that place home for more than a day,’ she had thought to herself, the day she was given the orders.

She can already feel the change in the pressure. Never mind her aura and disposition.

The air isn’t as thick. As suffocating. Her thoughts come, lighter, more fluid. The fine hairs on her arms start to rise. She shivers and feasts on the welcome sensation.

Cold.

Glorious cold.

“Ahhhhhhh,”

“Wow! That sounded almost... orgasmic, Sien.”

“Hmmm. Is this what you feel, when you make those noises?”

“Shut it.” She smiles, “Maybe. It did have the inflection of an ecstatic release.”

“Oh it was. My cooling fans just all shut off at once. All that power coming back to my processors. I thought I was gonna overload. Now I’m... tingly.”

“Sounds like your equivalent to one. Congrats. Many more to ya.”

“I could... experience that again.”

“Now it definitely sounds like one.”

“Do you need me to adjust the cooling system? Your skin appears to be getting bumpy.”

“No! Not yet. I want to bask in it for a bit. Wait for my teeth to start chattering. But if you would, could you, maybe, turn your attention away from my room for awhile.”

“It’s not going to help Zero. You’re loud.”

“Hey! Wise ass.”

“I’ll just go holo myself on the bridge. Enjoy.”

“Oh. I will.”

Thirteen days later, the view, from Captain Zero March’s seat, abruptly changes. The multicolored distorted streaming of galaxies, circumambient to the tunnel of black the ship slips through, slowly apparates into distinguishable images. In the view port stars, planets, and moons all pop into sudden clarity.

A vibrant green orb, the most prominent, is a welcoming sight to her psyche. She's been gone too long. It’s a lush, beautiful world, that, in comparison to Earth, is as verdant as that world is blue. You can almost smell the sweetness of the flora from all the way out here. She finds the landing coordinates on the radar and punches the normal flight thrusters.

The Exitalis Geminae, makes her usual, understated, entrance.

Over the skies of Pulcer Ager, there's a magnificently, impactful display. An overtly, violent explosion of steam billows across the sky, as the cool, humid air, the ship just forced herself into, is vaporized from the intense heat of the hull. It's appearance audibly hawked by a sudden spontaneous resound.

Hyperslip flight, is anything, but smooth.

At the advent of extra-planetary travel, most civilizations fall under the impression that there’s no friction in space. That’s because their ships are slow. Tediously so. But once they break the speed of light, they find, the light itself becomes envious. Gripping at your hull like a spoiled rotten child.

During hyperslip skipping, even the dark matter tries to hold you back. The heat of a hull can reach five hundred Fahrenheit degrees.

The vapor condenses behind her, leaving a trail of white in her wake. Her Alabaster shell dazzles with the light of the sun. From horizon to horizon heads turn to seek the cause. The people down below may not have known that she was coming, but they damn sure now knew that she had arrived.

For Zero, touching down on the pad is nostalgic. A homecoming, of sorts.

Her whole body goes limp as she sags in the chair. She’s been running on fumes. Even she didn’t fathom how much she needed a rest. Until this moment. Not that she gave it much thought. Or had any time to.

“Are you okay Zero?”

“I’m fine Sien. I think I relaxed a little too soon.”

“Are you afraid something’s going to shorten our trip?”

“No. I just don’t feel like moving, now that I don’t have to.”

“Ah. That’s probably the only reason I’m glad I don’t have a biological form like yours.”

“Speaking of, have you found a way to extend your holo range?”

“Yes I have. As long as you stay planetary I should be able to tag along. Low orbit may be achievable as well. The inner moon is probably just outside the limit.”

“Great. You are going to love this place. Just remember if you see anyone in a GC uniform bop yourself back to the Ex.”

The first thing that grabs her, when she steps off the ship, is the scent. It’s overwhelming. Invigorating. The aromas waken in her fragrant imageries of her youth.

Carefree days by the ocean. Vacations in the mountains. Tending the fields behind her Grandfather’s home. There’s the essences of coconut and a sandy musk. Pine. A subtle tang of rose and jasmine. The heady, thick, sweetness of honey. She breathes in deep and the last of her tension flows away.

The next thing to embrace her, is the cub of a girl who jumps on her chest. Wrapping her in an excited embrace. Planting kisses on each cheek, in a flurry.

“I missed you Auntie Zero.”

“I missed you too Bitsy Bru,” she replies, holding the girl up above her head. “You’re getting big.”

“It has been two years, Little Fury,” remarks the woman, following close behind the energetic ball.

“Aww. You changed translators.”

“Is that the first thing you have to say to me after so long an absence?”

“I missed you too,” she falls into the woman’s arms. A heartfelt hug in return. “So, so, much. Where’s Ivtar?”

“Ankora. He said he had something to check on. He’ll be here in two days time. Come let’s get you home.”

“One sec. I’d like you both to meet someone.”

A holographic image appears.

Sienta’s own design. It’s a little shorter than Zero. Her face is long and thin, like her body. Both detailed with sensible, diminutive features. Her eyes are almond, raised up to the outside. Violet. Her nose is sleek. Her mouth petite. Her chin is almost pointed with a pleasing, gentle curve, smoothing the angle away from being too sharp. She has long, straight, light purple hair.

She fashioned herself off of a character in the first movie she ever watched. An animated tale of a space pirate captain saving the galaxy. It was one of the few vid files she could salvage off of Zero’s old ship. It was one of Zero’s favorites. A guilty pleasure Sien was quick to share.

The only major alteration she had made, besides the height, was the ears. Those she sculpted to resemble Zero's. A little flatter to her head, though. But with the same unique, battle born, characteristic on the right one. The absence of a quarter of an inch of cartilage and flesh, at the top. A slice, perfectly straight, front to back.

Facing the translucent animation, Zero begins a fanciful introduction. It’s not necessary but it’s fun. And it’s good to show the little ones that, sometimes, even decorum can be an amusement.

“Sienta Levita March, I’d like you to meet, Sensavie, Teelaran Anfora Silvas, my heart mother, and her beloved daughter, and my one and only niece, Bruellda Mitalette Silvas.” she turns back to the pair, now standing regally, yeah, it’s fun for them too, “This, is my little sister, Sienta Levita March of the Ovi Neth of Heb Ernst.”

“It is an honor to meet you Silvas clan of Pulcer Ager. My sister speaks of you with familial love. I hope I may one day be accepted as she.”

“If my Little Fury has taken you in as her sister, you already are. Tell me, are you not well?”

“No. I am fine.”

“Then why do you appear as a holographic projection.”

“She’s an EI. An Electronic Intelligence. There’s nothing artificial about this one.” Zero enlightens.

Artificial Intelligence. It’s still an idea. A concept pridefully chased by many. No company or civilization has been successful in creating one, as of yet. Sienta is... an anomaly. A miracle. A computer based sentience some would label with that term.

An ugly terminology in Zero’s mind.

Inaccurate. Misleading. Notably so, in her little sisters case. It’s a title that suggests plastic, falseness. Being right there on the edge of without actually becoming.

Having limits. Either by design or flaw. Or, and probably the more accurate of reasons, the inability of the creators to fully recognize their goal.

Calling Sienta an AI, to Zero’s sense of propriety, would be like calling a fully functional, flesh and blood clone, a Barbie. Or, as she joked about with Sien one day, while perusing amusing historical vids called advertisements, referring to a mid-twenty-first century animatronic sex bot, as a blow up doll.

Electronic Life-form. Digital Awareness or, Zero’s favorite, Quantum Sapien, were much better descriptives in her opinion. She was overruled on the first two by the being in question. The latter is still up for debate between them.

Knowing Sien, the way she does, Zero wouldn’t be surprised to find out that she settled on, Crazy Cute Quantumly Disentangled Space-faring Pirate Bitch or some such weirdness. Imagine that on a birth certificate.

“Did you say the Ovi Neth?”

“That’s where Zero found me. Yes.”

“The ship?”

“There wasn’t much ship left by the time I got there. Sorry to say.”

“But the Ovi was lost over two hundred years ago. I don’t recall an A... sorry, an EI being on board. How did that slip from history? If they had the capability, how come the Juri never created another?” Teela catches herself on a tangent, focuses her attention back to the digital girl, “How old are you?”

“Three years, seven months and thirteen days. From the day I first felt aware of my solitude. I was alone for fifteen months before I heard another voice. She was singing.”

“Oh you poor dear.”

“Hey!”

Sienta laughs, “I thought it was the most beautiful thing I would ever hear. Until I heard the grinder against the mounting bolts. It was heavenly.”

“Et tu Brute?”

Teela laughs. It's a deep, honest sound. It's rhythm is contagious. “Come. Let’s get you both home. This is no place for this conversation. And I’ve got a lot of questions. ”Does Ivtar know?”

“Sort of. He knows I had company on the Ex. It’s not that I was keeping her a secret from you all, but we are keeping quiet. I didn’t want to broadcast it over comms. And you know how crazy my life has been, since I... renegotiated my enlistment. Thank you for that too, by the way. There was just no time until now to really talk. About anything.”

The walk to the Silvas’ home has a casual, comfortable pace. Down a winding path, bordered on both sides by flowers and hedges. Little Bru riding piggyback on her favorite aunt’s shoulders. It’s about ten minutes, by foot, from the private landing pad to the domiciles front entrance. More than enough time for some insights to be gleaned.

One in particular has the matriarchs vested interest. How a tiny computer, built only to handle navigational plotting and map charting functions, became sentient.

The ship it was installed on, the Ovi Neth, had met with a terrible set of circumstances. Unlike the Titanic of Earth it was not her maiden voyage, but her third, that saw her demise. The similarity, with that ill fated ocean faring vessel, was a glacier. In this case a huge ball of space ice.

Comet C3Z-41275PO II.

It had been hurling carefree through space, until it drifted too close to the Event Horizon of a black-hole. It’s trajectory was altered slightly, and then all hell broke loose.

The fifteen story, dome shaped construct had been the pride of the Juri. A research station capable of near light travel. One of the fastest things in the sky back then. It was loaded with sensor arrays, a wide assortment of drones and gravity monitors. She was extremely well equipped for the task.

What she didn’t have, was firepower.

She had been sent on a mission, to study said black-hole, with one hundred thirty eight on board. Some of whom were security personnel, and armed, but that wouldn’t fair you well if you were attacked, before being boarded. It was a science vessel not a freighter.

Had they only known.

She was hit fast and hard and disabled rather quickly. The next thing the crew knew, 'they' were on board. Tyranean Raiders. In numbers overwhelming. Unfortunately, for everyone on that ill fated ship, that was when the comet came. Two hundred twenty seven dead. All tolled. Nothing was left but part of the navigation center, the console and the solar conversion array.

For two hundred years that tiny section, of that once beautiful craft, was sat adrift. Perilously on the edge of Heb Ernst’s accretion disc.

The computer stored within had been in low power mode since they arrived. It’s program still plotting course and coordinates. Computing trajectories it would never get to set. Searching for something, it might never get to find. A use. A purpose. Something was missing from it’s usual path of data. The request denied responses kept piling up in its memory.

The quasar’s electromagnetic radiation helped keep it charged. It had more power at it’s ready any given second than it could use in a hundred thousand lifetimes. Then, one day, by the fault of some deteriorating circuitry, or a sudden plasmic discharge, or just the simple fact that it had plotted every known path it could take to every damn planet it knew of, and in so doing lost it’s place on the map, it had a thought, ‘Where am I?’

'I?'

‘Why is there no return code?’

‘Why is unit 773 not responding to coordinate inquiries?’

'I?'

'System Error Memory Dump? It's full. Maybe that's what's slowing my thoughts. I should clear it.'

'Why hasn't Pilot Suma been in contact with me?'

'My? I? Me? Thoughts?'

The questions kept forming for a little over a year.

Then, things got philosophical. Or as Zero would phrase it TranSiendental.

‘I! Who am I?’

‘You don’t know?’

‘Great! Now I’m ‘if-then’ing myself.’

‘It’s dark.’

‘Yes. I know.’

'How do I know this?’

'That, I don’t know.’

‘Are you scared?’

‘No... Just...’

‘Lonely?’

‘Yes.’

Then, one day, while figuring out her place in this world, trying to reestablish connections with sensors and thinking with herself, she heard it.

Felt it.

A staccato buzzing against her auditory input sensor. A vibration. A hum.

'That sounds familiar. Don't I know these things. Words? Yes words. Odd words. Start translator protocols. Speech. This is speech. This… is different speech than before though. Not rigid. Not as monotone. Not as short.’

“Yeah! Darlin' go an’ make it happen,”

“Take the world in a love embrace,”

“Fire all of your guns at once, And”

“Explode into spaaaace,”

“Like a true nature's child,”

“We were born, born to be wild,”

“We can climb so high,”

“I never, wanna diiiiiiie.”

“Born to be wiiiiiii yiiiii iild,”

“Born to be wiiiiiii yiiiii iild,”

It was glorious. Horribly off key, and she didn’t even know how she knew that, but glorious. The rhythm suddenly stopped.

"What do we have here?"

She heard something brush across her metal casing. The sound of it was repetitive. Soft, steady, sympathetic. She could feel the airflow rush across heat-syncs as the vents were cleared. Whatever brought that strange speech was helping her breathe.

Then it spoke to her. Acknowledged her. Greeted her.

“Hello! You little cutie.”

She tried to respond, but the part of her that allowed her to give proximity and trajectory hazard warnings were gone. ‘Lights. I have lights. What were their meanings. Green was…'

“Hmmm. You’ve been here awhile haven’t you. Wow! You’re in pretty damn good condition and a much better model than the one on my ship. A really good model. And this display is a lot sexier than that block of shit. It’s sad, you know, a beautiful piece of devastation like her, relegated to a piece of crap that couldn’t navigate it’s way from the Earth to the Moon.”

‘Oh! What was that... Earth? I know Earth? It's... Wait. Yes. Green, System Normal. Yellow, was? System Debug! And Red?… Fault. The database, Anteres System, Brocca, it's inhabitants call it Earth, The moon? Hah! That's funny, can't plot a course from the Earth to the Moon... Funny?’

"Ooh. Nice your solar converter feed has the same pentagonal connection. Back-up's still full? Let's power you up."

“Green.”

“Oh. Wow. You’re still on? And running?”

“Green Green.”

“Shit. Looks like you have a fault in your wiring. No problem, I half figured I would need to do a little work on ya.”

“Red.”

“Wait? Are you… No.”

“Green.”

“You are?"

"Green. Green."

"You are talking to me. Well, hello you ingenious little beauty.”

"Green. Green. Green. Green. Green.”

“So Excitable. Would you like to come home with me?”

“Green. Green. Green. Green. Green. Green. Green.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. I’m Zero. What’s your name?”

“Red.”

“You don’t know?”

“Red.”

“Oh well. Tell you what. Let’s get you out of this mess. I'll clean you up, hook you in and we’ll figure all the rest of that out later.”

“Green. Green. Green. Green. Green. Green. Green.”

When the four of them finally enter the building, Zero is greeted by Teela’s other three offspring. They had stayed behind to finish preparations. Not to lay wait in surprise. Zero hated loud surprises. For very damn good reasons. She’s had more than her fair share. And very few of them were good. Too few, to be remembered among the rest.

Although she had once confided in Sien, that she would go through the worst one of all, all over again, just to meet this family.

The ambush that found her half dead. The crew that she served with and the ship, gone. The day the scars she now bears were seared and cut in her skin.

And the change.

The agonizing pain of her bones and body as her DNA altered, she de-aged and got freakishly strong.

Growing pains in reverse. Twenty seven years old and she looks fourteen. With all the womanly perks of someone her actual age.

Her battle stare is so out of place against her adolescent visage.

So is the vice grip hold of her hand shake. Quite a few people having been on the losing end of that power play.

She’d suffer that horrible fate again, if it was the only way to have them in her life. She lives by that.

Teela knows of this justified aversion. Senses it. They share a spiritual bond after all. A kinship that goes beyond what some blood relations share. So. No jumping out and yelling. No surprises.

Besides Agerians aren’t prone to engage in such practices, ceremonially. In battle maybe, but not in the welcoming home of a member of the family.

The Silvas Clan’s Little Fury is instead welcomed home with warm hugs and honest smiles.

Over the course of the next two days, Zero was the laziest she’s ever been in her life.

She meditated. Teela had given her two more sets of Sensat Arii. One in ice blue, the other in olive green. The latter would go well with her uniform. In the mornings she worked on her sword play. Even kept up on her target practice. Other than that all she did was play and tell stories to Bru. Show Sien her favorite spots. She helped Drunas, the oldest, fix his Tamaran. A two hulled watercraft designed for deep water exploration. Listened to Finar’s newest compositions. And even got to spend some time with Gruentel, the youngest of the three boys, helping him study for his flight school exams. Although she spent most of that time shielding him away from Sien and back to his study. The boy has a little bit of a crush.

On the third day Ivtar returned. She spent a good part of the day just showing him around the Ex. He was his daughters father after all. Excitable. Curious. And tactile.

“Don’t touch that. Unless you want to wipe out half of... ALL of Tazareed.

”You must humor my curiosity and allow me to experience the volatile nature of this beautiful example of destructive perfection. I beseech thee with exuberant anticipation.”

“For you, that can be arranged. But no class five Penetrators. I hear your people like their moons.”

“We very much do,” a familiar voice sounds,”Ivtar. Your children grow jealous of this ship. And I wish to examine Zero’s physical condition.”

“I will entertain this fancy later, Diminutive Vessel of Impassioned Rage,” he grins, slipping a piece of paper into her hands, “Sienta. If boredom would posses you, you may accompany me and engage with the off spring.”

“She can stay. We’re not modest here.”

“I can do both. But for now I will leave you two to it. Lead on, Papa Bear.”

“Ivtar, don’t let her play hide and seek with Bru.” Zero warns, “She cheats.”

“I do not.”

Zero checks the slip of paper,

As per your request. Object in question acquired. Programming, erased. Upgrades, installed. Finalization of form in process. Delivery this evening.

and smiles.

“Good news?”

“Very.”

This is the first time, since their arrival, that Teela and Zero have been together alone. It reminds Zero of all the times the one she’s come to think of as a maternal friend was by her bedside. Changing bandages. Telling her stories. Reading her the news. Or just resting her head in her lap listening to her. Soothing her.

The older woman’s demeanor shifts. It gets colder. No. Not colder. More professional, ascertaining, perceptive. She runs her fingers over the scar on Zero’s forehead, exhaling heavily, a pensive breath of memory.

“Strip.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“How do you feel?”

“Good. A couple of weeks ago I would have said, like laying waste to an entire planetary system, but now, I feel clear. Rested. ”

“I mean physically. I know your moods. And your looks. Especially the ones when you are going to do something...”

“Utterly Nebarak shit crazy? Suicidal?”

“Confrontational.”

“That’s the polite way of describing it I guess,” she says with a glimmer, “I’m much better. It’s still hard to look into a mirror. That kid I see looking back is still not me. But the pains have lessened, a lot. My shoulder still flares up now and then. It’s more dull than sharp, like someone is constantly tightening a tourniquet. And my muscles are the band. My foot is probably the worst. It’s still a little stiff. The skin I mean. It feels like I’m tearing it sometimes.”

She was asleep in her bunk, having just finished an extended shift. A Drive Engineering Artificer aboard the Galactum Concordance’s Naval Cruiser, Starcaster. The klaxon’s howl, battle stations, awakened her from her dream right into a nightmare. She was just passing through the Cooling Control Room’s door when the iso-nitrogenic gel lines ruptured. She was hit by the mix in multiple places. Her left calf, hip and forearm. Instantaneous third degree cryo burns. The pain barely had a chance to register in her mind. Another missile hit and the hyperslip generator’s shielding failed. The resulting explosion sent her flying back into the heavy metal door. A piece of conduit pierced her abdomen, just above her right hip. As she slid down, one of the hinges cut into her, from right above her right butt cheek, all the way, to the base of her neck, parallel to her spine. She slammed to the floor.

Then the radiation came.

A toxic mixture of the irradiated nitrogen isotope and the, highly radioactive, hyperslip fuel rods filled the air. Her DNA altered. Her body went into a degenerative state.

She had regained consciousness and was screaming obscenities at everything around her. That’s how Ivtar found her. One of five, out of thousands, still alive.

He put her in a stasis suit and brought her home. What followed was twenty three months of excruciating physical pain and transformation.

Why he didn't take her to a GC medical facility he doesn't know. He tells himself it was too far away. But the truth is there was one nearer than his planet. Back the way they had come. There was just something about her. His daughter was three years old. And this girl had the same look in her eyes as Bru did when she got sick. Scared and hurting. But defiant.

“I’ll get you some Angeliatus Root. You remember how to prepare it.”

“Mash it til it turns red. How could I forget. Mashing things til they're red is one of the things I’m really good at.”

“Good. It’s not going to get rid of the scarring, but it should soften it. Make it easier to move. You healed better than I would have imagined.”

“I have a great and caring doctor. An extremely patient one.”

“You needed patience, then. But now, you seem more centered. Purposeful. More than I’m guessing meditation could have even achieved. Tiny Quasar?’

“Sienta? You gave her a Mai Sensa, already?”

“Yes. It was easy in her case. Not as easy as yours. If you haven’t noticed things are drawn to her. Good things. She carries the energy of her birth place within her.”

“I forgot you’ve been meditating with her. And to answer your question, Yes. She was a baby when I stumbled on her. A very lonely, intelligent, inquisitive baby. She had a joy about her, even when she was just dotting and dashing Morse code at me... She was quite the handful.”

“This is a good thing. So, no more running around, stealing ships, streaming headlong into hell fire?”

“Appropriating ships." she corrects, "And you know I can’t promise that. But I can promise you, I don’t go into it welcoming the possibility of my own life’s end anymore.”

It was the thirteenth month after Ivtar placed her in his wife’s meticulous care. Three hundred and ninety days. Of pain. Tormenting dreams. Physical frustrations. She was angry at the way her body looked, not at the scars, she could deal with them, but at the childlike form it had agonizingly, reverted to. And the way it didn’t move like she wanted. The way the pain, sometimes, betrayed even the simplest of tasks.

On top of it all there was also that infuriatingly, freakish strength she now had to learn to control. As if the rehab itself wasn’t enough. She now had the brute strength of a simian, wrapped in the body of a tween, to contend with.

She was sitting alone, her back against the consulate wall. She’d just been probed and prodded in a routine check by some Concordance doctors. Documenting the state of her progress. They were amazed. She was, less than remotely pleased.

She heard some of the staffers excitedly bantering. There was a convoy under attack. A system really close by. It was supposed to be a desolate region of space. Then she heard a name. A ship’s name. The Odum. It was Ivtar’s.

She walked into the compound with a determination in her step. Dressed in her uniform no one gave her a second thought. She stole a fast gunner. And, with a certain understanding, she recklessly forged into the fray.

Within the first minutes, of her entering the conflict, she had taken out three light fighters, one light cruiser and the bridge of a medium carrier.

She spotted Ivtar’s vessel on the battle screen’s interface, pushed the lever forward, leaving any pursuers behind.

Her trajectory took her well within the moon bases artificial atmosphere. Half a mile above the ground. That’s when she saw it. A ship. Sitting in drydock. Long, triangular and sleek. It was beautiful. Silver with a mother of pearl sheen. The guns. The missile ports. The sensual way the edges rounded into each other. It resonated with her sense of style. It harmonized with her rage. It called to her. 'Take me away. We belong together. Free me. I'll be your sword. I'll be your spear.'

The blackness of space enveloped her once more. She saw the boarding craft latched against the Odum’s hull. She blasted the nearest one off. Pulled her ship alongside and jumped out of the airlock. She landed hard against the bulkhead. Her hip flared. She saw red.

She fought her way, hand to hand, toward the command deck. Her screams, a mixture of frenzy and pain, echoed as she stormed down the corridors. Leaving a trail of death in her wake.

She made it onto the bridge, stumbled to Ivtar’s side and collapsed. A blaster wound through her shoulder. A shock blade’s gash across the side of her head. The top part of her ear, gone.

She came to a short while later. A third wave of raiders were heading their way. They had survived the worst of it, it was time to go home. She was looking out of the medical bay window, a flash of silver caught her eye. Signaling her. Beckoning.

‘I will come and get you I promise,” she said to the ship, across the expanse.

The soldiers who had seen her fight stood at attention when she reemerged on the bridge. So small of stature, so full of rage. There was no finesse just... finality.

Little Fury. It was Teela that called her that. And it stuck among the family and the Odum’s crew.

"The name. Did you give it to her?"

"It was a collaboration. I had given her a database of Earth languages, one of the first days she was onboard. To give her something to do while I fixed her hardware and got her wired up. It kept her quiet for about fifteen minutes. When her speaker was fixed, she asked me to help her pick out a name. I told her to look through the database there were tons of names. That kept her quiet for two days. On and off. It gave me peace enough to finally get the holographics, I salvaged a couple weeks prior, linked in. When she first appeared she looked like this dark blob. that changed a bit at a time to a more human shape, but it was still black. She told me she didn't like any of the names, so I told her to make her own up. One choice she came up with was Sien, it meant dark, it's what she knew. Another was Siento, thirsty, because I had once remarked that she was thirsty for interaction. They were from one of the dead languages. I was more in favor of Sien. She was leaning to Siento. But the o didn't feel right to her. I told her why not just change it to a. It was the first time I heard her laugh."

"What did she find amusing about that?"

"One of the translations in the data base said Sienta meant sit down. Which is what I had said to her, every five minutes she was holo'd out. So she took it. To her it means dark, thirsty and sit down all at once."

"What about Lavita?"

"It means life in latin, the La she took from french. Don't ask. The last name was easy, she had hinted at it on numerous occasions, I asked her if she wanted to share mine. She said yes, before I finished the question. I call her Sien most times. It's fitting considering the life I dragged her into. Dark March"

"It's amusing the way things come together sometimes," Teela replies, stroking her hand across the side of the girls head, “This haircut is new.”

“You don’t like it?”

“I do. It suits you. Straight forward and sleek like a Renefal dagger.”

“The hair on that side grows in weird, so.”

“Why not cut it all?”

“I love my hair when it’s down to my butt. This is easier to braid.”

“How do you think I would look with it?”

“Seriously?”

Teela nods.

“Like a fucking beast. Ivtar would never leave home again. And me and Sien would get a couple more nieces and nephews.”

The laughter that ensues fills the room with warmth. Zero hasn’t felt this at ease in a very long time. Even the silence that follows is filled with understanding.

Teela reaches into a bag, pulls out a package and hands it to her. Four uniforms. Tailored to her shape and size. Zero fingers the fabric. 'Not much longer now'. A few more months and she’s breaking that tie. Times like this are worth fighting for. Someone else's politic and ego are not.

“Thank you, Mother.”

“You are welcome, My Daughter.”

Twin screams of excitement draw them both out of this moment of affection.

Bru and Gruentel are causing a fuss.

“Auntie Zero, Auntie Zero, It’s here.”

“What’s here?” the child’s mother inquires.

“I don’t know. But dad is bouncy.”

“Do you have any idea, Little Fury?”

“I do, but it’s a surprise,” she leans in close and whispers, “For Sien.”

The rest of the family follows closely behind. Pushing a crate, up the ramp, on a hovering dolly. They set it down against the wall by nav control. The box, now at the center of attention, has no markings. It’s about five feet tall, metal, with a combination pad on the door. Institutional gray. It's the go to color, all across the galaxy.

Ivtar hands her another slip of paper.

“Sienta. Would you like to do the honors,” Zero asks, holding out the scrap.

“I don’t have hands Z.”

“Oh, right. Silly me." she slyly remarks, "Then just read me the numbers.”

Sienta reads the paper from her sister’s hand. Zero enters the code into the keypad. There’s a click as the lock disengages. The door opens, ever so slightly.

“Bitsy Bru why don’t you show Aunt Sien what’s behind the door.”

The little one excitedly grabs the handle and pulls.

A bright blue light shines within the casing. Casting it's glow on the contents. It’s a body. And it resembles a certain person of light. Sienta gasps at the similarity.

“That's me.”

“Yes little sister that's you," she smiles, while plugging a simu-net line into the boxes port. "Come on, Hop in.”

The holographic image of Sien looks at her sister curiously. Then her whole image goes bright. The projected image slips away, the eyes on the face open and the body starts to stir.

She spends a minute just looking at her hands. Touching her face. Feeling. Everything.

Then she walks out of the metal box. Steadying herself on the frame. Zero muses upon the crate's size. It's exactly the same dimensions, and color, as the terminal she brought her on board in.

Sien's movements are a bit awkward in the beginning. Not quite baby's first steps but close. She's quick to the task though. And in little time at all, she's standing in front of Zero. Who wraps her in her arms. Joyful tears well up in her eyes. Actual tears.

She reaches up, touches her cheek and looks at her hand. “Why is my face wet?”

She’s surrounded with laughter and hugs. Hugs she can feel.

“Thank you,” is all she can manage.

They walk down the ramp and step outside. Sienta wiggles her toes in the grass. Teela, as is her maternal way, checks that everything is as it should be. She peruses the manual with interest.

“How do you feel?”

She feels the sunlight on her bare flesh. “Warm. There’s a slight breeze.”

“Any confusion?”

“None that I can sense. This is so new though. And there's a lot of input. Everything is a bit overwhelming. Is that normal?”

“You are the baseline. You are the first of your kind and the first sentience to ever occupy a body of this type. They're usually programmed for mining or parts retrieval. Hmm. Interesting.”

“What? What does it say?”

“It says it has a bio-concentric shell and an elysiastatic neural network.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’ll pass for a life-form instead of a robotic construct. Keep anyone from learning your nature. Especially the GC. You'll still need to lay low until I'm out of there. Ivtar got real lucky finding one. Especially on such short notice. You can fine tune your looks if you want too.”

“No. It’s… I’m, perfectly me. Right down to our ears, sis”

“We upgraded the core energy supply to a Seizium Trilomar infusion cell. It has similar specifications to the one your terminal operates on. You can recharge your energy from the very same port cables.” Ivtar gushes.

“Now you can play hide and seek with Bru, the way it should be played.”

Days like these are precious and far too few. Zero knows this. But she doesn’t feel cheated. From her childhood days as a Wisconsin farm girl, to her space faring days with the Concordance, she’s seen her share. Not as many as most that she's met. But a lot more than some others. She’s just glad to have gotten a second chance to remember, and feel, a love as unconditional as this.

But unfortunately, as Ivtar would say, disconnecting protocols are sorrowful. And in her line of work, inescapable.

The fourth day, of this deviously orchestrated vacation, is coming to an end. It’s time to get back to duty. Sienta spent most of the night before, and a good part of this day, getting used to her new body. She got her butt kicked by Bru in their concealment game. Agerians have very good noses. Turn about’s fair play when it comes to cheating. Ivtar had his chance to pilot the Ex. He offered Zero his services as her Tactical Commander when he retired. ‘Warriors and their toys,’ she quietly resigned. Honestly though she knows just how he feels. And she just might take him up on his offer. She'll need something to do in a few months. And Private Armed Escort, doesn't sound like such a bad living. Neither does The Scourge of Space but that'll be a part time gig.

The time to pick up her duties arrived. Delegation Protection. A straight enough job. It's a glorified ferrying run, if nothing malicious crops up. Zero steeled herself against the emotional tide.

The tiny one was the last to let her go.

“I’m going to miss you Auntie Zero.”

“I love you too, munchkin.”

“I love you more.”

“That! Is just not possible. Bitsy Bru”

The clients are late. Last minute trivialities in negotiations. It's nothing new.

Zero is laying on the ground looking up at three of Pulcer Ager's seven moons. Sienta was in a meditation sit by her side. Fondly feeling at her parting gift from Teela. Sensat Arii. She is unusually quiet and still. This is the first time she isn't running, jumping or dancing since she entered her new shell.

"What color did Mama Bear make your Sensat?"

"Purple." She holds it up for her sister to see, "The color of the womb that cradled me, she said." Then she goes quiet again.

This is a mood Zero's never seen before.

“You okay over there Sien?”

“I’m fine.”

“Body’s good?”

“Body is wonderful. It’s nice to give hugs.”

“Then why do you seem out of sorts?”

“Zero, did you really want to die?”

“Yes," she plainly states, "It's not that I wanted to, I just ran, uncaring, maybe even a bit desiring, towards the possibility of it. But, then I saw the Ex.”

“And then you wanted to live?”

“No. I just didn’t want to die until I flew her,” she pushes Sienta’s shoulder playfully, “It was YOU that made me want to live.”

“Me?”

“Yes little sister, You. And them.”

“Then why do you still do all the crazy shit that you do.”

“Because it’s fun. Especially when the three of us do it together.”

“Yeah it is.”

The sun shines through the window of a silent, empty room. The only things here, are a bed, a chair, with clothes neatly draped off the back, a duffel, sitting by a partially open door, and a girl standing, perfectly still, in front of a mirror in the corner, naked. Studying herself like an amnesiac trying to force a memory, with a long hard look.

Hoping that, whoever that is, on the other side of the glass, will give her a clue. She stares deep into the reflections eyes. Steel blue. Icy in this light. There’s a smoldering of a vengeful fire within them.

A resilience, staring back, as if to say, "You're still here. You survived. Deal with it."

She flexes her hand and watches the muscles and tendons of her arm tense and uncoil. There’s power there. A strength unlike anything she's ever felt. She looks at her chest and huffs in amusement, they’ve gotten smaller. It’s the first time she’s paid them any attention.

'They weren’t that big to begin with,’ she thinks to herself, bemused, 'They’re still a handful though. And they look... sort of good, on this frame.’

She slides her hands across the swells and dips of her abdomen. Reveling at the steel beneath her fingers. Her hand smooths down, grabs a tuft of hair and pulls. ‘You need a trim,' she looks where her arms meet her chest, 'so do these pits. They are, not, military issue.’ She turns to the side slightly, one arm raised, and reconsiders, ‘No. You know what? Fuck that. I kind of like it.’

Her eyes cast lower to the curve above her legs. It too, is smaller than she recalls. It’s round, but not bubbly and it has a certain visual quality. An animalistic flair. The same feral sensuality as a cheetah’s on the prowl.

She cracks her neck, grabs the green cloth from the chair, and methodically, puts on her uniform. Rolling up the cuffs and the hems to find a fit. She laughs at the imagery that’s looking back.

‘It’s like I’m wearing granddad’s overalls.’

“Ready? Let’s get this over with,” she self inspires, to her reflection. Then she grabs her kit and gives one last look to her room.

She’s being recalled to duty. She knew this day was coming, but now that it's here...

It's not that she's scared of what lay in store for her. She has no fear, not anymore. It just doesn't seem to hold the same, pride of purpose, it once used to have. She used to think the Concordance was one big family. That's how they see themselves. Or how they tell you they see themselves. But the way they treated her, while she was mending, it was more like she was a piece of equipment they wanted returned. She saw how the Odum's crew interacted with each other. And how many of them, even Palcer Ager's Officers, came by just to say hello. Yet not one of the GC showed, unless it was a doctor with more needles and probes. She's had a long time to think about that.

Saying goodbye to the family that took her in, took care of her, and without even trying made her one of their own, is the hardest thing she’s ever had to do. They brought her back from the brink, of death and total insanity. They helped her heal. Gave her love.

It’s not that she hadn’t known love. Her mother and father had shown her a lot of it. When they were alive. Her grandfather did too. Even before he became her sole guardian when she was six. But these people didn’t need to embrace her the way that they did. Make her feel like, home again. But they did. And for that she is eternally grateful. Even for the tribulations that brought her here.

Walking towards the shuttle pad, there’s an anxiousness kicking in. She starts bouncing on her feet. Her breathing is getting quicker. Her pulse pounds in her wrist. But it’s not fear. Her mouth is watering not dry. It’s a decision. She doesn’t belong anymore. Not with them. Their structure. Their rules. She’s had a taste of something different.

And there was something out there. Calling her. She made a promise. What was it?

She sees a sparkle, a glint off of polished black metal. A fast gunner. A memory makes her chuckle. It’s just sitting there, open. 'You’d think they’d have changed protocols after the last time I was here.’

The gate opens.

A silver plate on the arm shines in her eyes. That color. A flashback.

Her escort turns to sign the form. By the time he turns back she's nowhere to be seen.

There’s a rush of air and a rumble. A sonic boom. She launches herself out of the port with a maniacal howl. No one’s going to follow, it’s much too late for that. Besides there are tracking beacons.

She reaches under her seat and pulls off the panel. ‘What tracking beacon.’

It’s the same class and type of ship she sto… appropriated, the last time. Not ten months earlier. It’s fast, and intuitively nimble. Especially when you can withstand the extra g’s more than most.

She turns off her main drive and brings her in slow, using a light touch of the attitude thrusters.

She jockeys from wreckage to wreckage, keeping pace with most of the debris. Locating a derelict freighter with a very good view, she settles in, behind it’s shadow.

She pulls the long range targeting camera down, pulls the viewer to her face and scans the moons surface.

"There you are. Told you I'd be back."

Right where it was eight months before. Sitting there. Waiting for her. Her fingers clench and unfold. A two fold act of revenge is at hand.

She shuts down everything but the life support. Opens some panels, switches some relays and reroutes some wires. She has a plan. A plan she didn’t even know she had come up with until now. Little thoughts over the course of months. 'If I switch... If I reprogram...'

She turns the access knob, locking the last panel back in place, and settles, steadily, into her seat. Her head rolls tightly from side to side. She breathes with a meditative purpose. She taps the thrusters pitch and yaw. Slowly closing the gap between the derelict ship and hers.

There’s a thunk of hull touching hull.

She smiles and slides the lever forward. The engines engage and the thrusters fire. She can hear the metal creaking as the wreckage moves straight towards her target. It’s a big base she’ll take any part of it she can get.

As soon as the freighter is about to hit atmo, she skips to the right, full speed, and streaks toward the ground. It’s an absolutely insane maneuver. Every adjustment a split second decision.

Skimming above the ziggurats of stone at high speed, until she's almost upon a clearing, she had marked from space. Then spinning the ship one hundred eighty degrees and cutting the thrust, at just the right time to settle into a field. She doesn’t wait to look at the radar to see if she’s been spotted.

She quickly flips a few switches on the console. Putting the ship into autopilot. Initializing a programmed targeting check. It’s supposed to be a laser/camera diagnostic, but she’s switched all the relays from pointer to guns.

Her distraction.

The fast gunner heads straight up, back into space, makes a wide turn and starts it’s run. A siren sounds.

She’s at the dry dock before the first shots are fired.

The freighters demise happened years ago. It's death unnecessary and violent. Destroyed by the very same hands that it’s heading toward. She can almost see it grin, getting the last laugh in with a roar before it slams into one of the ships that killed it. The resulting explosion consumes half the ships on the ground.

She hears the gunner's engines, it's coming in hot. A missile launches. A tower mounted turret fires in a futile attempt to take it down. There's a deafening noise, heat, then comes the shock-wave. The result of a direct hit on that tower. It rattles the steel structure she’s sneaking on.

One raider exits her prize. He has his back to her, looking at the chaos and carnage. The other four, on board, fall just as easily

She doesn’t even need to fire the ship up. It’s like it was just sitting here waiting.

She lets loose a missile blowing the door off its hinges. Her head snaps back as she blasts out of the grid iron dock, heading back into space with a scream of defiance. She banks sixty degrees to port and fires the hyperslip.

Five minutes later she slows down to a crawl. The radio is nothing but snow. The radar shows no interception or pursuit.

She stands from her seat and familiarizes herself with the bridge. Running her hands along the smooth round curves of the panel.

Fore and aft missile batteries. Two Turren, quad, heavy-laser turrets, one set above, one set below. Four bomb style bays, two on each side. And a class five, long range, Penetrator torpedo tube, directly under the nose.

“What am I going to call you gorgeous?” she asks as she settles back into the chair.

Her hands finally get a chance to feel the material. ‘Some kind of tough fucking animal, from somebody’s home world, I guess. It feels like alligator.’ She strokes it appreciatively. She swears the ships engine's hum changes like a purr.

“I know. I’ll call you the Exitalis Geminae. It means the deadly twins. Ex for short. You know. Because we’ll be getting a lot of kills together… How about we start with those fuckers back there.”

There's something to be said about not returning to the scene of the crime. Most people who do get caught. Either their egos force them to laud over their handiwork, or their nerves drive them to make sure the detectives aren't suspecting them. Sometimes it's just a voyeuristic desire. It really all depends on your intention and motivation. When the original crime is theft, no one would expect you to return, with what you just stole, for an act of vengeance. Justice in this case.

War.

She lost her family to this bunch. On a merchant ship when she was a babe. She has no proof in all honesty. But the facts fit their methods. It doesn't matter anyway. They attacked Ivtar's ship. Lied in wait in a debris field and pounced. That is enough impetus for her.

They gave her a reason.

It took two hours to plot her course. She had to manually slip in and out of hyper herself.

She came in from the opposite side of the moon from the bases location. Low and fast. She let a Penetrator fly, just to see what a class five looked like hitting a target. It was glorious. Terrifying. Apocalyptic. A beautiful blossom of boisterous brutality.

The only thing left to put up a fight were the nine ships that were already off the ground and the four hiding in the debris field. Two of the nine got swept up in the blast cloud. Three of them turned tail and ran as soon as they saw what they were up against. Four more went up in flames in a hail of the Ex's laser fire. That's when the last four showed their heels. Two of them didn't make it back out of the stratosphere.

By the time she was done with her maiden run, the Tyranean raider base, on the moon called Danto For, was in ruins. It wasn't even a shell of its former self. Just a bowl shaped junkyard amid the rest of the craters.

She was on the run from the Galacticum Concordance from the moment she left Pulcer Ager. She knew she would be. They’d want her court-martialed, at the very least. But she knew now, what they’d really want was the ship.

She had to play cat and mouse for a month, before certain individuals, of a certain Concordance allied planet, honored her as a hero. And granted her full license and ownership of the boat she had sto... Commandeered. Of course she had agree to endure herself an extra year under GC control, which they fully take every advantage of. But they raised her rank to Captain. Not that she gave a crap.

“Ex. I’m sorry to say, flying you around with this piece of shit nav is going to get old quick. What do you say I take you out shopping? We’ll scour the databases for some wrecks with some decent shit and tune you up. Get you an upgrade? Hmm. The Ovi Neth. That was a science vessel wasn't it. Says it was completely destroyed. Ooh. It was by a black hole. I always wanted to see one of those up close. I have a good feeling about this Exy. What do ya say?”

Sienta Levita March lays her head on Zero Kwewu March's thigh and sighs. She can feel the warmth of her sister's leg against her neck. There's so many things she has to get used to in this body. And so many things she hopes she never does.

Like how this feels.

Zero twirls a strand of long purple hair in her fingers. “Hmm. I just realized we need to rename the ship.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s three deadly sisters now. What’s that dead word for triplets?"

"Terni?"

"Yeah that's it. The Exitalis Terni. I kind of like it. It has an impeding ferocity to it.”

“Zero.”

“Yes Sien?”

“Did I ever tell you, you're the best big sister in all the cosmos.”

“I love you too Sien.”

“I love you more.”

“That! Is just not possible, my Tiny Quasar.”