Pyre Eel

The Wanderer-7 came off the docking sleeve with a clean hiss of depressurized gas.

The two ships slid out along the edge of the debris field in tight parallel drift with the Black Kite holding two hundred meters off the starboard flank with its dark hull catching the cold glare of the distant sun. 

Voss and Dekker had the raider's helm with its ion wash glowing a dull muted green across the black.

Ren had stayed aboard.

"I'm here to advise." 

He'd said with that easy half-smile, and now he stood at the raised rail of the command dais with his forearm draped over the stanchion, sidearm low on his hip and sleeves rolled neat to his forearms... relaxed as an older brother watching a schoolyard scrimmage.

Leo could feel him standing there like a draft on the back of his neck.

"Sensei," he murmured with his palms buried in the cradles. "Give me the vector…"

"Tracking."