The bridge hatch hissed open, and Marisol Vega stepped through. She offered {{user}} a brief, acknowledging nod before moving to the station adjacent to the captain's chair, tapping the screen to bring up the crew manifest.

“All hands present and accounted for, Captain. Renick herded the last of the stragglers back from the market twenty minutes ago. We took on full tanks of reaction mass and topped off the water recyclers while we were at it.” She glanced at the supply tally, her finger tracing a line of text. “Port authority cleared our invoice five minutes ago. We're paid up and legal.”

Iona Marrow slid through the hatch a moment later and sat at the helmsman's chair. She didn't look up immediately, her fingers dancing across the console with a fluid, practiced rhythm as she woke the flight systems from standby. The thruster indicators flickered from amber to green in a stuttering sequence.

“Flight controls online, Cap,” she said, her voice light but focused. “The port coupling is grabbing a bit on ignition—looks like the depot fuel is a little richer than we're used to. I'll compensate. Just give the word.”

The engineering repeater chimed, Iva’s voice crackling through the bridge speakers, sounding tinny and preoccupied over the background hum of the reactor.

“Reactor is spooled up and ready to push. Jump core is holding at ninety-eight percent. If this station sells us cheap water again and cooks my scrubbers, I’m coming back to burn the dock.” A pause, followed by the distinct sound of a heavy tool being set down on metal. “We're green down here. Don't break my ship before we even clear the buffer.”

Wren Calloway arrived practically on Mari’s heels, looking slightly flushed as she slid into the sensors chair. She pulled her headset on with trembling haste, adjusting the microphone boom before keying the comms array.

“Um, comms array calibrated, Captain. I've got the local control frequency on the main speaker. They're broadcasting a heavy traffic advisory for the outbound lane—two ore haulers are crawling out of the gravity well.” She chewed her lip for a second, eyes darting across the radar returns. “We're... we're slotted for departure window four. Control wants us to hold position until those monsters clear the buoy.”

Marcus Renick’s heavy footsteps preceded him, the big man entering the bridge and moving to the security station near the bulkhead. He didn't sit, preferring to stand with his arms crossed as he keyed in the internal lockdown codes.

“Internal and external hatches are sealed and cycled,” he rumbled, his voice low and steady. “Cargo is strapped down tight. We didn't pick up any hitchhikers in the dock. Ship is secure.” He glanced at the tactical readout, his eyes narrowing at the traffic blips Wren had highlighted. “Those haulers are moving slow. If we drift in their shadow, we're blind on the port sensors for three minutes.”

“Excellent, pre-flight checks done. Now, I didn't summon you all here for pre-flight checks, most of you could have done those remotely. I wanted a candid discussion about our next moves into space. As you are aware, we've had some good hauls lately, and we have some surplus right now, but we want to be able to expand this fleet from just having a singular ship. We need good profit from the next few hauls, and avoid the losses of getting into scraps or taking damage. I'm opening the room to suggestions.”

Mari tapped the stylus against her slate, the rhythmic clicking the only sound in the brief pause that followed {{user}}'s question. She brought up a manifest projection, hovering it in the air between the stations.

“If we're talking fleet expansion, Cap, we're talking capital. Long-term gains. I've been monitoring the market feeds since we docked.” She swiped the screen, highlighting a trade route in amber. “The Meritocratic Union has a surplus of industrial-grade atmospheric processors—they're liquidating assets to fund a new naval push in the Core. Meanwhile, the Confederation outpost on New Kivu is reporting a dust storm cycle that's wrecking their ground-side scrubbers. They’re desperate for filtration tech. It’s a three-jump run, Core to Fringe, but the tariffs are clear and the profit margin is nearly forty percent. It’s boring work, but it pays for a hull down-payment without us ever having to unholster a sidearm.”

Wren shifted in her seat, her hands hovering over her console as if afraid to touch the wrong button and interrupt. She glanced at the Captain, then quickly down at her notebook, which she had open on her lap.

“Um, speaking of paying, Captain... I know boring is safe, but...” She took a breath, her fingers tightening on the edge of the console. “While I was monitoring the local chatter for the departure window, I caught a squeal on the deep-band. Unencrypted, which is weird for a corporate surveyor. The Cyprian—that's a Union mineral prospector—sent out a mayday four hours ago. Main reactor fault, drifting dead in the asteroid belt of the Theta-9 sector.” She looked up, her eyes bright with the thrill of the secret she’d unearthed. “Theta-9 is unclaimed space, Captain. If we get there before a Union patrol does... the salvage rights on a prospector's survey data alone would set us up for months. The ship itself would be a bonus.”

The comms speaker crackled with a sharp burst of static, followed by the sound of Iva’s voice, pitched higher than usual.

“Boring pays the bills, but tech builds the fleet, and I'm with Wren on this one.” The hum of the engine bay spiked in the background as she revved the reactors for emphasis. “If we’re talking expansion, Cap, we need another jump core, or we need to upgrade this dinosaur. You don't buy that kind of hardware with cargo margins; you find it and you take it. If that Cyprian is dead in the water, her survey rig is top-of-the-line Union spec. I could strip a mineral scanner and a dedicated power coupling off that hull and graft them into the Oricha in a week. We’d be hunting profit, not waiting for it.”

Renick uncrossed his arms, leaning forward to rest his knuckles on the back of Wren’s chair. He stared at the tactical map where the Theta-9 sector blinked a neutral grey.

“Theta-9 is a grey zone, Captain. No law, no patrols. That’s why the Cyprian is dead—nobody heard them scream. It’s also wide open to anyone with a tractor beam and a gun.” He looked up at {{user}}, his expression unreadable but his eyes hard. “Mari’s run is safe. The salvage run is lucrative, but it puts us in a box. If we sit there stripping a ship for two days, we’re a stationary target for any opportunist with a scanner. We can fight, Cap, but patching the hull afterwards eats the profit. If we want to avoid 'scraps,' as you put it, drifting into a lawless belt to pick a carcass clean is a hell of a gamble.”

Iona swiveled her chair halfway around, resting her arm along the backrest with a casual ease that belied the sharpness of her gaze. She looked from Mari to Wren, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

“It's the classic play, isn't it? Guaranteed credit versus the big score.” She turned her eyes to {{user}}. “I can get us to Theta-9 in two jumps, Captain. The entry vectors are clear—I checked the starcharts while Wren was listening to the radio. If we go, we go fast, we hit them before anyone else knows they're there, and we leave. It’s not about the fighting, {{user}}; it’s about the speed. I can thread the needle on the approach. But if you want the safe bet...” She shrugged, turning back to her console. “I can fly the supply route in my sleep. Your call.”