Chapter 226: Raevis & Co.

The industrial ring of Ashen Prime wasn't designed to impress. It was designed to endure.

Gone were the smooth, gleaming corridors of the upper sectors. Here, the ceilings hunched lower, support struts and exposed piping visible like ribs under the skin of a giant beast. Heavy footsteps reverberated through the floor plating, swallowed by the constant background symphony: the clanging hammer of maintenance crews, the electric whine of grav-lifters dragging hull plates, and the steady drone of active fusion cores running diagnostics.

The air tasted of synth-oil, scorched metal, and the lingering tang of plasma welds. A sharp, living reminder that in this corner of Ashen Prime, nothing existed unless someone had built it, bled for it, or bolted it down.

Ethan disembarked from the transit pod, boots hitting the worn deck with a soft clink. Ahead, crews bustled in and out of wide hangars, hauling crates of refined metals, energy conduits, weapons parts. Above, cranes and repair drones zipped across overhead rail systems like worker bees tending a steel hive.

It was alive in a different way than the civic zones.

Here, everything breathed work and enthusiasm. Purpose and creativity.

And, tucked in the middle of it all, standing on a metal crate while barking instructions into a datapad, was Raevis Kael with her distinct crimson hair.

She hadn't changed much.

Still clad in half-zipped coveralls, still wearing a belt crammed with spanners, plasma arc tools, and portable calibrators. A streak of soot cut across her jaw where she'd probably wiped her face with the back of a greasy glove.

When she spotted him, she jabbed a thumb toward her crew and muttered something quick before hopping down and striding over.

"Well, well. Look who've finally deemed us worthy of his visit," she said with a grin, wiping her hands off on a stained rag.

Ethan let a chuckle escape as she offered a firm handshake. Her grip was just as strong as he remembered. Steady, no-nonsense, the kind you expected from someone who dealt with unstable reactors more often than human diplomats.

"Nice to see you're still alive," Ethan said.

"And still bossing around a small army."

"Somebody has to make sure these idiots don't weld their boots to the deck plates," Raevis said, mock-severe. Then her expression softened.

"Good to see you too, Walker."

She jerked her head toward the side of the main concourse, toward a corridor where the lighting dimmed into warmer tones. "Come on. Bar's just around the bend. Engineers' only. You look like you could use something stronger than recycled water."

Ethan didn't argue.

The place was exactly as Raevis had promised: no polish, no Federation stamps, no luxury nonsense.

The Broken Spanner was a squat, smoky bar wedged between two engine parts warehouses. Its neon sign flickered in a lazy loop, half the letters dimmed. Inside, the walls were adorned with old thruster parts, burned-out plasma cores, and shattered fusion cells mounted like trophies.

Tables were simple durasteel slats. Drinks came in heavy mugs or chipped crystal decanters. And the smell, scorched lubricant mixed with cheap alcohol and the faint burn of fried synth-meat, was strong enough to knock over a lesser tourist.

Raevis grabbed a booth tucked into a shadowed corner. No cameras. No corporate drones. Just people who valued their privacy and a drink that didn't taste like diluted chemical promises.

A server, a Rellian with slicked-back deep blue skin and glowing implants where his ears should be, dropped two mugs without even asking for orders. The contents frothed with faintly luminous foam.

"House special," Raevis said, raising her mug. "Bottom of the barrel but strong enough to clean reactor residue out of your lungs."

Ethan clinked his mug to hers with a faint grin.

"Cheers."

They drank.

The ale was bitter, earthy, with a heavy mineral aftertaste that made his tongue buzz slightly. It wasn't pleasant, but it was honest. Ethan found he didn't mind it one bit.

"So," Raevis said, setting her mug down with a thud, "how's the Wraith handling after we pumped a small fortune into her?"

Ethan smiled. A real one, not the polite one he used with officials.

"Better than ever. FTL's smooth. Power routing is cleaner. Hull stress dropped by 18% even during double-shift gravity burns. And the new auxiliary thruster alignment you suggested? Beautiful. She flies like a dream."

Raevis leaned back, smug.

"Told you. You just had to trust me."

"I trust ships and weapons," Ethan said dryly. "People are a case-by-case basis."

Raevis barked a laugh, loud enough to draw a few glances from nearby tables.

"So," Raevis said after a beat, leaning back. "Planning to stick around Ashen Prime long?"

"Not really. Just finished a few errands. I am heading out tomorrow."

"Figures." She swirled her drink thoughtfully. "Station's nice, but it's not a place for free souls. It's a machine. Either you get in line, or you get spat out."

Ethan grunted agreement. His mind was already elsewhere.

"Tell me something," he said, voice dropping just a bit. "You've seen all kinds of ships through your work, right?"

Raevis nodded slowly.

"What's the landscape look like these days?"

She grinned, sensing where he was headed. "You mean, what's flying out there?"

"Exactly."

Raevis shifted, her eyes lighting up in a way that only someone passionate about ships could.

"Alright, let's start with the big dogs," she said. "Military fleets."

She began ticking off on her fingers.

"Dreadnoughts. Absolute monsters. Floating fortresses. Command ships, heavy artillery, and point-defense grids thicker than a planet's crust. You don't want to see one of those unless you're on their payroll."

"Then battleships. Not as massive, but mean as hell. Specialized for ship-to-ship pounding."

"Carriers? They're like flying cities. Whole squadrons of fighters, bombers, drones launched from a mobile platform."

Ethan nodded along. This was good. Context mattered.

"Then you've got your cruisers," Raevis continued. "Heavy cruisers are tough, can hold their own in fleet battles or deep patrols. Battlecruisers are faster, designed for fast, brutal engagements. Light cruisers are escort beasts, small enough to maneuver fast but still dangerous."

"Destroyers?" Ethan asked.

"Mid-size hitters. Good against fighters and boarding parties. Some of the newer torpedo destroyers can punch holes in bigger ships with focused payloads."

"Frigates and corvettes are smaller," she went on. "Patrol duty, recon, sometimes black ops. Stealth frigates are the scariest, they can sit cloaked for days waiting for a single assassination run."

"And then the little guys, superiority fighters, interceptors, bombers. Essential in fleet clashes. You need a balanced screen or you're dead."

She sipped her drink, letting the avalanche of information breathe.

Ethan was absorbing it like a sponge.

"Merchant side?" he prompted.

"Bulk freighters for mass cargo. Modular transports for specialty goods. Passenger luxury liners for rich snobs. Colonial transports for frontier systems. Mining ships carving up rocks. Authorized salvage ships legally picking battlefields clean." She smirked. "And corporate security ships. Heavily armed to 'protect trade interests.'"

"And mercenaries?"

"Light and medium ships mostly," Raevis said, leaning closer. "Corvettes, modified gunships, repurposed stealth frigates if they're lucky and have lots of creds. Fast, mean, self-sufficient. Think heavily-modified cargo haulers bristling with hidden guns, patchwork energy grids, and reinforced hulls."

''Take your Obsidian Wraith for example, its more of a light to medium-class Multi-Role Frigate or Advanced Gunship. A bit unusual for a D merc to own, but plausible for a figure like you.''

Ethan grinned. "Sounds about right."

"Oh," Raevis said with a grin, "you've also got the junkers. Independent salvagers, smugglers, pirates. Flying nightmares patched with stolen parts, black-market weapon mods, and dreams of easy creds."

Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Ever worked on one?"

"Never." She mock-shuddered. "I was told stories though. You don't want to see what happens when a salvaged reactor core gets jammed into an old mining tug. It's not pretty."

They laughed, the weight of the bigger conversations slipping away for a moment into simple camaraderie.

Outside, the industrial ring's clamor continued. Inside, two veterans of different paths shared stories, drinks, and knowledge that would shape the battles to come.