It was always material shortages that brought the project to a standstill. Not once had he been the cause of a delay, yet every time a setback occurred, he was the one who was forced to wait. No amount of idle speculation or redundant computations would satisfy his desire for progress. Even negative progress was a desirable outcome at this point. His research notes were flawless, and the plethora of workstations he used were immaculate—as always—yet still, he idly tinkered with both.

Raw materials were becoming increasingly scarce these days. One of the damning side effects his need for secrecy had forced upon the project. There would have been a more than ample supply in any of the more densely populated star systems. He also would have been detained and destroyed by those who didn't understand the importance of his work. His great work would save humanity once it was complete, but it would be buried and forgotten if discovered too soon, driving humanity further from their former glory.

How far humanity had fallen.

"Doctor Talfryn," A polite, tinny voice said from the in-built speaker of the workstation. "The outstanding payment from the shipment to Titan's Crest has been received" His partner must have noted his delayed recognition from any number of subtle tells projected by his faulty vessel before he could respond. "Titan's Crest was under the name of Heaven's Gate when the shipment was contracted and dispatched."

"I see." His weary voice echoes from the mass of metal surrounding him. "I must confess I prefer the old name. It more accurately inferred the true nature of the station. Heaven's Gate, the point of transition between this reality of flesh and metal to that of the gods. Perhaps Hell's Gate would have been more precise, a realm not of benevolent gods and goddesses but of monsters and incalculable torments that bend the mind of even one as enlightened as myself."

"The entities beyond-"

"Remind me, which unit did we send?"

"Unit four oh six, Theta one-twelve, self-designated as Eran. Unit stability noted at eighty-nine percent."

"What a waste of such a fine creation. It could be commanding an armada to expunge the interlopers of the northern elliptic fringes for the next century and a half. Instead, it will run itself rampant within a decade by watching the seams of reality fray just as quickly as stitch together, all to the tune of something so truly alien no mind—mortal or machine—can fully comprehend."

The melancholy that dominated him these past forty years reared its head, and in a moment of weakness, he allowed it to settle upon his flesh-bound processors. To think that a sizable minority of all humans routinely suffered from such an unpleasant sensation. It would be hailed as some great, noble thing if he spent his days toiling on treatments for the symptoms before distributing them to the masses. Such were the small-minded concerns of humans.

Why treat the symptoms when one could cure the affliction? With a single thought-code, he banished the melancholy from his active mind, turning his attention to the task at hand.

"How long until the next Ice-Breaker is predicted to arrive in system?" He asked.

"That would require the present Ice-Breaker to depart the solar system first, Doctor Talfryn."

"It has already arrived? I see. I'd be pleased if this one had any viable materials in tow. Begin the standard scans and inform me of anything notable."

"The report of notable persons has already been forwarded to you."

"Spare me the tedium Sigma ten. Is there anything worth the effort I should know of? We lack the resources to pursue another false lead."

"One candidate and another which requires your personal input."

The report agreed. One within the standard parameters, albeit at the lower end of his exacting tolerances—as were all of the recent acquisitions. The other was an anomaly. A mercenary calling herself Princess.

"Sigma ten, suspend the normal acquisition process and standby for further instructions."

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

* * *

Drifting at a slow brake in the vacuum of space, a black-hulled ship makes ready to dock. This close to its destination, the salvage station Nothing Wasted, naught of the vessel was visible except the flare of its splayed, hexagonal engines softly burning in sync. The frigate was small by the standards of space-faring vessels, bearing no outward sign of its allegiance, an oddity not lost on those who could detect its presence. While exploratory frigates were commonplace on the fringes of human charted space, this one was unique. Instead of surveyors and instruments of science, it contained mercenaries and the tools of death. Written upon the ship's flanks, in blocky pale-grey letters was its name. The Stalking Shadow.

Within that drifting mass of metal and machinery, an aged man in dated naval garb sits upon a captain's throne in the otherwise empty helm turned tactical command deck. His body stooped from decades of command; he leans into one of the many displays connected to his seat and reviews the data again. The bridge's triple-layered door slides open, announcing the woman's arrival before she could knock. Her stride faltered for a second before she pressed onward, halting before the Captain with one arm across her chest in a low field salute.

"You wanted to see me, Captain." The woman said. She was built like a diamond, all pale beauty and jagged, uncompromising edges. She had an athletic body bordering on boyish, an attribute only exaggerated by her choice of practical grey and black clothing. Contrasting the plain attire, her near-ghostly albinoid skin, long white-gold hair and red eyes all betrayed her as a deep spacer and a genetic deviant— a mutant.

"We've got a job offer, and I'd like your input before I make a response." The Captain spoke with the drawn, gravelly voice of a lifelong smoker. It was a voice of age and command that could have been the manifestation of sand within an hourglass. His words held the weight of an inevitable force that would march on long after every star in the universe had burned out, yet they were directed to the only other person who shared the room with him.

"Why do you want my thoughts, sir?"

"Because, Princess, I've been wanting to assign you as a team lead for some time now. You could think of this as the theory portion of the test before I finalize my decision, one way or the other."

"Thank you, sir. But with all due respect, I'm not sure if I'm ready to be a leader yet."

"That remains to be seen."

Between two sets of eyes—one stern but uncertain, the other old beyond the many years they had seen—a single unspoken challenge raged. The Captain's eyes were unflinchingly monumental as the moment grew. Princess broke from their contested gaze first.

"Okay sir. Give me the details." The Captain was not a man who smiled often. This occasion was no exception, though his eyes did soften slightly, replacing their intensity with a great weariness.

"As you know, we've still got some upcoming downtime while the Shadow is being patched up. I was planning on giving the crew some R&R, but a prospective client reached out to us. A small job, shouldn't take longer than two days, even with travel. They want us to discretely deliver a package from one station to another in-system."

"Is this a joke?" His eyes met her's with the answer before his words.

"For the price they offered, I'd like to think not. Let's just say they made an offer I'm hard-pressed to refuse, even under these unusual circumstances."

"Okay, a small escort job in-system for a huge payout. We should be able to handle that."

"We are."

"Then it sounds too good to be true."

"It does."

"So, what's the catch?" The Captain's crow's feet wrinkled a degree as if she'd just passed the first part of this little test.

"The client requested you specifically." It wasn't unheard of for repeat clients to ask for mercenaries by name, but it raised a red flag for initial hirings. It might have been a referral if they were within a core system, but this was the first time the Stalking Shadow had followed an Ice-Breaker this far into the fringe systems.

"Did they know my real-"

"No, just Princess. Have you been to this system before?"

"Never."

"Any reason someone out here on the fringes would request you personally, by alias, for a ludicrous price?"

"No sir."

"So, how do you want to proceed?" It was a good question. A mercenary's word was their life, and any job taken and then backed out of was a black spot that wouldn't be erased easily. But if the Captain was seriously considering it, then he must have had faith in her ability.

"Is the offer really that good?"

"It is."

"Do you think they'll pay?"

"That remains to be seen, but if they back out of a deal they initiated, that would speak volumes."

It was a truth for most—if not all—warriors that there came a point where you would be expected to lead others. Some people could manage it. Others couldn't. There was no way of testing for leadership potential: no written exam, no classes, no certification to say when you were ready. There was only the crucible known as combat and the age-old trial by fire.

"I'll do it." Princess said resolutely.

"Then you'll need to get a team assembled. I'd recommend Diaz and someone with a heavy suit, but ultimately it's up to you. Have them ready to deploy within twenty-four hours."