Ship details

The ship dealer tilted his head and squinted. He wore a ten-gallon hat like he stepped out of some old holo movie, and talked with a twang that felt older than the stars. "Son, that one ain’t fit for what you’re after," he said, leaning against the railing with a grin that was all teeth. He gestured toward an Asp Scout parked a few berths down. "Now that one, she’s built for what you’re thinkin’. Reliable, sturdy. Won’t quit on ya."

I didn’t budge. My eyes stayed fixed on the Phantom. "Yeah? And what about that one?" I pointed.

The dealer’s grin faltered. "She’s seen better days. Ain’t exactly factory fresh. Fuel scooper’s scratched up, and her hull’s got more than a few stories. You’d be better off with something... safer."

"I don’t need safe," I said, stepping closer. "I need something that’s been out there and come back." I ran my hand along the Phantom’s hull, felt the faint grooves and heat scoring etched into her surface. She had stories, alright. That’s why I wanted her.

The dealer watched me like he was trying to figure out whether to humor me or write me off. "Suit yourself," he finally said, tipping his hat. "But don’t say I didn’t warn ya."

I couldn’t explain it, but standing next to her felt right. Like maybe this was where things started again—or maybe where they ended, if I wasn’t careful. Either way, the Phantom felt like the kind of ship that could handle whatever came next.

Climbing into the cockpit the first time was harder than I expected. My hands trembled when they brushed over the controls, memories of fire and shrapnel rushing back like ghosts. That Sidewinder was supposed to be my fresh start—until it exploded out from under me and left me floating. The Phantom wasn’t just a ship to me. She was proof I could still do this, still be out here without burning up.

The Phantom sat in storage longer than I’d care to admit. Every time I walked past her, she felt like a reminder—of what I lost and what I was too scared to reclaim. She wasn’t just a ship. She was a challenge. A demand to try again when I wasn’t sure I could.

I spent five years on Oort convincing myself I wasn’t ready. After the Sidewinder explosion, after waking up with more scars than answers, I told myself it was safer to keep both feet on metal and let someone else fly the stars. I poured drinks, ran cards, and fixed problems for people with deeper pockets than morals. It paid enough to keep me breathing, but it wasn’t living.

I’d find excuses to visit the docks, circling her like a predator sizing up prey. My fingers would brush her hull, tracing the lines and scars from fuel scooping too close to a star. She’d seen heat and pressure and come out intact—something I wasn’t sure I could say for myself.

One night, after another round of drinks I couldn’t afford, I sat in the storage bay. Just me and her. I’d been talking to her more lately—not that I’d admit it—but that night I asked her what the hell I was waiting for. I didn’t expect an answer, but it came anyway. Not words. Just the hum of systems as I powered her on. The sound filled the hangar, deep and steady. It rattled through my bones, and for the first time in years, I felt grounded.

I didn’t name her Nighthawk that night. She was just the Phantom—unknown, untested. But once I finally got her out of port and put her systems through their paces, it hit me. She felt sharp, quick, built to move through the dark without a sound. Like those birds back on Earth—silent hunters that never let the night slow them down. That’s when the name stuck.

The Nighthawk.

It took a long time to fire her up and longer to get her out of the dock. But when I did, I knew there was no turning back.