I was in the kitchen, preparing a grandiose meal. My steps were light and I was softly whittling a jaunty tune. Telling my secret to Rosalia felt liberating. And I was overjoyed to have someone to share a meal with. Once more, I was reminded of how lonely I had felt for those past two months.

  Rosalia had been overjoyed to learn the Reizen was docked and she could access her private quarters on it. She went to put on better clothes. It had been obvious the scrubs were not to her liking.

  For now, I had decided to ignore that psionic energy stuff. Rosalia admitted she had no idea what it meant and neither did I. So I put it on the list of things to investigate later, when I reach the Empire.

  After nearly a month of solitary meals, the prospect of dining with another human being felt almost dreamlike. I was determined to make this meal special, a genuine celebration. Rosalia had, after all, narrowly escaped death, and her recovery deserved a proper feast.

  The station's culinary space boasted an impressively sophisticated food preparation system: the ChefPro MP15. It could create almost any food from basic bio components and would put most restaurants back home to shame.

  I began extracting various food cartridges and sealed packets from the storage units, methodically arranging them across the nearest table in the precise sequence demanded by the ChefPro's programming algorithms. Each container bore exotic-sounding labels that had gradually become familiar during my time here: "Venusian base taste substitute," "Aldebaranian protein concentrate," "synthesized Proxima meat," and dozens more.

  When it came to celebrations, of course, it had to be a formal french meal. Aperitif, then cold starters, then hot starters, then a meat main followed by a fish main, leading to a light salad with cheese and ending with dessert. I even found some digestifs, the sweet alcoholic beverages traditionally concluding formal meals at home.

  None of the dishes had names I could recognise, but the pictures and taste description helped me make my selection.

  I completed the programming sequence for the food processor and watched with childlike fascination as it hummed to life, its internal mechanisms whirring and clicking as it transformed the raw ingredients into what I desperately hoped would constitute a respectable meal. I'd never been particularly skilled in the culinary arts back on Earth. My skills were limited to cooking pasta and grilling meat over barbecue when I wanted to save money and not do takeout or pre-made meals. But the ChefPro mercifully rendered such skills unnecessary. My role was simply to select ingredients and cooking styles from its extensive database; the machine handled everything else with mechanical precision.

  I was deeply focused on the ChefPro, eyes glued to the various progress bars, when Rosalia quietly entered the kitchen.

  She had transformed herself entirely and she looked, frankly, breathtaking.

  I stared.

  She wore an exquisite creation featuring a structured bodice that accentuated her figure before gracefully flowing into an elegant skirt with subtle layering. The fabric seemed alive, shimmering with an otherworldly iridescence as she moved, catching and reflecting light in ways that suggested embedded micro-reflectors or perhaps some reactive textile technology I'd never encountered in my world. The bodice displayed intricate horizontal pleating that emphasized her natural silhouette, while dramatic puffed sleeves added a distinctly regal quality to the ensemble. Her hair, previously worn in a practical style, was now arranged in an elaborate upswept design that perfectly framed her features, revealing a delicate necklace I hadn't noticed before.

  But it wasn’t the dress. It was her. She did not look infrared, or afraid. She seemed alive, as if the assassination attempt, the time in the medical pod, none of that had ever happened.

  I couldn't suppress a smile at the sight. "Are you expecting the imperial ballet to perform after dinner?" I asked with a genuine laugh, trying unsuccessfully to mask how genuinely impressed I was by her transformation.

  "It is a proper dress for celebrations and special occasions," she replied with undisguised amusement dancing in her eyes. "Judging by the veritable banquet you are assembling, I assumed we are having some sort of celebration, so I dressed accordingly." She laughed, sending a significant glance at the ChefPro, before adding in a noticeably more subdued tone, "And honestly, it might be the last opportunity I will have to wear this particular gown."

  That last remark carried an unmistakable weight that I deliberately chose not to dwell on. Instead, I maintained our lighthearted exchange.

  "Perhaps I should rummage through my limited wardrobe for something more appropriate too," I joked, gesturing down at my thoroughly utilitarian outfit.

  "Absolutely not," she responded with playful authority. "You have perfected that 'rugged spacefarer with a mysterious past' aesthetic. It is a persona that suits you. You must not ruin the effect with formal attire you would clearly find constricting."

  I adopted an exaggeratedly offended posture, pressing one hand against my heart as if mortally wounded by her assessment, then returned my attention to the ChefPro, started extracting the finished culinary creations and arranging them artfully across the dining table.

  "I selected a variety of dishes that resembled favorites from my world," I explained while positioning the last serving platter, "This is supposed to emulate a formal french meal, from my home country of France. It’s the kind of seven or eight course meals I had at every family reunion. I kinda missed it, but never got around to doing that kind of stuff just for me. So I’m taking advantage of your presence to indulge", I said smiling, then added “I hope you like it”

  She smiled back and assured me it looked delicious.

  Lucas would absolutely lose his mind over this spread, I thought, experiencing an unexpected wave of nostalgia for my gaming friends. He was always the culinary adventurer of our group, constantly insisting we try the strangest alien food options in the game, no matter how disgusting the descriptions...

  Rosalia displayed genuine interest in my culinary selections, examining each dish with obvious curiosity before gracefully taking her seat opposite me at the table. We began sampling the various offerings, and I experienced profound relief upon discovering that everything was remarkably delicious. The ChefPro had exceeded my expectations, transforming basic ingredients into a feast worthy of the significant occasion.

  As we dined, Rosalia smiled frequently. Through unspoken mutual agreement, we steered clear of weighty topics or difficult discussions, instead savoring the excellent food. We exchanged observations about the different dishes, shared our preferences, and occasionally laughed at my clumsy attempts to describe Earth foods that had no conceivable equivalent in this universe.

  It was... unexpectedly wonderful. Almost normal. For these precious hours, I could almost forget the impossible circumstances of my existence here

  After we finished our meal, I retrieved a bottle of what I hoped was decent liquor from one of the kitchen cabinets, something labeled "Proxima Amberline Essence" that had a delicate crystalline decanter with an ornate stopper. We migrated to the comfortable seating area near the observation window, settling onto the plush sofas that faced the spectacular view of the asteroid belt surrounding the station. The distant rocks tumbled slowly through the void, occasionally catching the light of the system's star and glinting like scattered diamonds against the black velvet of space.

  I poured us each a generous measure of the pale yellow liquid, which gave off a sweet, intensely citrusy aroma that immediately reminded me of limoncello from Earth, though with subtle floral undertones I couldn't quite place. The sweetness hit my tongue first, followed by a bright, tangy citrus flavor that was refreshing rather than cloying. The warmth spread pleasantly through my chest as I swallowed, and I sank deeper into the cushions, enjoying that particular feeling of contentment that comes after a satisfying meal.

  For a few minutes, we sat in comfortable silence, appreciating our drinks and the cosmic vista before us. I found myself studying Rosalia when she wasn't looking, struck by the realization that she was literally my only human contact since arriving in this universe. In just a short time, she'd become an enormously important part of my world, the only person who knew my secret, the only one I could talk to without pretending to be someone I wasn't. It was strange how quickly someone could become so significant when they were your sole connection to humanity.

  I also couldn't help but replay our fight against the assassins in my mind. Princess or not, she'd been incredibly capable during the battle, quick-thinking, skilled with weapons, and cool under pressure. The kind of person you'd want watching your back in a dangerous situation. I found myself hoping we could continue working together somehow. Maybe I could eventually convince her to join my crew on the Mahkkra? But the thought of asking made my stomach knot with anxiety. Better wait a few days, I decided. Let her recover fully, figure out what she wants to do next. Then maybe I'll bring it up... if she doesn't leave first.

  After a while, Rosalia sighed softly, then turned to face me directly, her posture shifting subtly to something more formal.

  "I think it is time for the more serious conversation we have been avoiding," she said, her refined accent becoming more pronounced.

  I felt awkward. Had she sensed my awkwardness? My feelings of wanting to travel with her?

  “Am I, hmm, broadcasting something?”

  She smiled gently. “Yes you are. But that is not the topic I wish to broach. Although I must inform you that I can offer some assistance in that regard. As an ambassador, I have been trained to keep my thoughts and emotions private. I can teach you. It will not block everything, but it will help.”

  I nodded, grateful for the offer.

  She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. "First, I would like to explain some things about myself."

  I nodded, setting my glass down on the small table between us. Here we go, the real story behind the princess.

  "I am the youngest daughter of the former king of the Kingdom of the Blue Suns," she began, her voice measured and precise. "I was not particularly close to my family. Only my mother, the king's second wife.”

  She said second wife with a particular emphasis that suggested complicated feelings.

  “I have an older brother, and many older siblings. Half-sisters and half-brothers. I was really low on the succession list, and it was always implied I would never access the throne." She grimaced slightly and paused for a few seconds, her gaze turning distant as if seeing something far beyond the asteroid field outside our window.

  “Let me guess. They shipped you off to be a diplomat”, I added.

  “Exactly.” she smiled bitterly. “They sent me to an imperial boarding school when I was twelve. It was a good school. Not Shin Saimdang, but still a good one," she continued, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her glass. "It was supposed to be an honor and an opportunity. A chance to learn alongside the Empire’s elite. In reality?”

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  She took a long sip of her drink.

  “I was the unimportant daughter of a backwater vassal kingdom. I was relegated to the lowest tier of the social ladder. And then the rumors started.”

  I raised my hand to stop her. “You mentioned Shin Saimdang. That is a name I know. It can wait, but I will need to ask you questions about it later”

  She looked at me quizzically. Trying to decide what to say after that.

  “Sorry for the interruption. Please continue.”, I said encouragingly. Bad move Nico, you should have waited. But, Shin Saimdang! That was Claire’s foundation in the game. What does it mean that it exists here too?

  Rosalia was still silent, lost in her thoughts. I leaned forward slightly. "What rumors?" I asked carefully, trying to restart her tale.

  "About my family." She finally said, her fingers tightening on her glass. "One of my intellectually challenged half brothers decided to dabble in slavery, and my half sister diverted sufficient funds from the governmental treasury to precipitate widespread civil unrest. The resulting riots were severe enough that my father deployed military forces, culminating in what can only be described as a civilian massacre."

  I winced. "Shit."

  "I became a pariah almost immediately." She laughed, sharp and humorless. "But I couldn't denounce them publicly. I was obligated to support my father in all official capacities. Even though I agreed with the protesters."

  "That must've been hell," I said quietly.

  "It was... complicated." She looked away. "I resented my family. Deeply. But I couldn't act on it. Couldn't say anything. I just... existed. I felt trapped."

  "You think it was a genuine revolution?" I asked, scratching my chin thoughtfully. "You mentioned something about neighbors being involved earlier."

  "Oh, I am absolutely certain the Gion Federation had a significant role in the affair," she replied, straightening her posture. "We have been engaged in various conflicts for generations. But I am equally convinced they merely had to publicize the corruption and truly despicable activities my family had become entangled in."

  She fell silent again, her eyes unfocused as she seemed to retreat into her memories. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, fidgeting with my glass, unsure of what I should say to break the increasingly awkward silence. Just as I was about to attempt some probably inadequate words of sympathy, she squared her shoulders and looked up with renewed determination.

  "To summarize a rather complex situation," she continued, her voice stronger now, "I harbored considerable resentment toward my entire family and was not particularly eager to return upon completing my education. And barely a month after receiving my diplomatic credentials, the coup occurred. The leaders were all members of branch families, so I doubt much will fundamentally change for the average citizen. I had anticipated such an eventuality, to be honest, and had prepared contingency measures. That is how I managed to depart with the Reisen, although I certainly did not expect more than half my crew to be sympathizers with the new regime..."

  "And what's your plan now?" I inquired, genuinely curious about where she intended to go from here. A deposed princess with a luxury yacht and no kingdom to return to had limited options, as far as I could see.

  "Well, this is precisely the matter I wished to discuss," she said, fidgeting slightly on the sofa, her composure slipping just a bit to reveal what looked like nervous anticipation. "Even before returning to the kingdom, I had always harbored dreams of liberation from royal obligations. I aspired to pursue a more adventurous existence, perhaps join the Corsair Alliance and experience genuine freedom. So when I escaped, my original intention was to sell the Reisen, acquire a vessel more suitable for mercenary or exploratory endeavors, then attempt to assemble a crew and relocate as far from this cluster as possible."

  I stared at her, completely speechless. Of all the things I had expected her to say, this wasn't even on the list. A princess who wanted to be a space mercenary? It sounded like the plot of one of those cheesy space operas Lucas used to make us watch during guild movie nights.

  "So now that I find myself here, and after considering what you've shared about your situation… Would you consider forming a partnership with me?" She looked at me with wide, hopeful eyes.

  I opened my mouth to agree. Then stopped.

  Wait. Think about this, Nico.

  A partnership sounded great in theory. But Rosalia was royalty. Trained in diplomacy, politics, probably military strategy. And I was... what? An IT guy who'd stumbled into a spaceship and barely survived his first real fight.

  "I… " I hesitated. "Look, I'm flattered. Really. But I'm not sure I'm... qualified. You've been trained for this kind of life. I'm just a guy who got lucky a few times."

  "Lucky?" She leaned forward, her voice taking on a sharper edge. "You neutralized five pirate vessels, single-handedly. You boarded my vessel, alone, with the full understanding that hostiles might be present. You preserved my life, transported my ship across star systems, and reconstructed a cheatlight drive without any formal instruction."

  "The cheatlight drive is not finished yet."

  "But you are close to finishing. Without prior engineering knowledge." She smiled. "Nicolas, you are more capable than you credit yourself for. And to be candid," her expression softened, "I require a partner whom I can trust implicitly. Someone who does not see me as a political asset or a stepping stone. You saved my life because it was the right thing to do. This is rare."

  I stared at her.

  She's serious. She actually wants to partner with me.

  "How can I say no?" I said, my voice cracking slightly.

  Rosalia's face lit up with a genuine laugh, filled with apparent relief as her entire demeanor shifted to a more relaxed position. Her shoulders dropped, and she leaned back into the sofa cushions as if a great weight had been lifted from her.

  I smiled in response and raised my glass in toast. "To our partnership! May we fly the sky forever!"

  "This is a rather peculiar toast," she said with an amused smile, her formal speech patterns returning, "but I find the sentiment entirely agreeable." She raised her glass as well, and we clinked them together, sealing our impromptu alliance.

  As I took a celebratory sip, I couldn't help but marvel at the bizarre turn my life had taken. A month ago, I'd been an ordinary guy playing a space simulation game in my apartment. Now I was forming a partnership with an actual space princess to become... what? Mercenaries? Explorers? Whatever we ended up doing, it had to be better than hiding in this station forever.

  Lucas and Claire would never believe this, I thought, a bittersweet pang of homesickness washing over me. If they could see me now...

  After that, we hashed out the terms of our new venture. For me, this was the exciting part. I immediately started explaining my vision, based on the only successful model I'd ever known for this kind of work.

  "Okay, so here's how my guild, 'The Origin of Life,' handled it," I began, leaning forward excitedly. "First, everything is a full partnership. All loot, all mission rewards, split right down the middle, fifty-fifty. That's the baseline. It keeps everyone invested."

  Rosalia blinked, her refined posture stiffening slightly in surprise. "Fifty-fifty? Nicolas, that is... extraordinarily generous. And not at all standard. You own the ship, the Mahkkra. Standard mercenary charters would designate you as Captain and sole proprietor. I would be a specialist crewmember on retainer with a fixed salary and, perhaps, a small percentage of net profits."

  I waved her objection away. "No, no, that's a corporate model. It breeds resentment. We're not employee and employer; we're founders. A guild. Now, for the cool part," I continued, getting into the details. "For exceptional contributions, like, say, taking down a tough enemy, finding a rare resource, or negotiating a massive bonus, we use a point system. In my game, we called them DKPs: 'Dragon Kill Points'."

  A small, amused smile played on her lips. "Dragon... Kill... Points?" she repeated slowly, as if tasting the strange words. “Are you certain you are not inventing this terminology?”

  "No no. I assure you that’s how we called it. It sounds silly, but the logic is sound. Every time one of us does something extra, a special contribution beyond the norm, we award ourselves points. Then, when we find a unique, non-divisible reward, like, for example, a rare weapon, a special piece of ship tech, that kind of thing, then we auction it for points. It's a fair, transparent way to reward merit and extra effort without messing with the core fifty-fifty split of our actual income."

  She was quiet for a long moment, studying me with a look that was part amusement, part clinical curiosity. "Your 'game' had a remarkably sophisticated economic system for what sounds like a recreational simulation."

  "It was the best part!" I said enthusiastically. "It made sure everyone felt valued. Plus, it wasn’t just a game. As I explained, the game was just the background. The rest, the friendship, the shared experience, that was real."

  "I see the appeal of the theory," she conceded, setting her glass down with a delicate click. "However, the premise is flawed. The Mahkkra is the sole reason we are able to have this conversation. It is your capital, your primary asset, and the source of the overwhelming majority of the risk. A fifty-percent stake for me is untenable. I cannot accept it."

  "But your skills are just as important!" I argued. "Your knowledge of the Empire, your diplomatic training... that's an asset, too! The ship is just a tool; the crew is what matters. How long do you think I would survive without you and your knowledge to guide me?"

  "A tool without which the crew would be stranded here," she countered smoothly, her logic unassailable. "I propose a sixty-forty split in your favor. It acknowledges your ownership of the primary asset while still reflecting a partnership. That is more than fair. It is, by the standards I am familiar with, still incredibly generous on your part."

  "But the DKP system..."

  "Your 'point system' is an elegant solution for distributing non-monetary assets, I will grant you," she interrupted gently. "But it does not change the fundamental imbalance of the initial investment. This is non-negotiable, Nicolas. Sixty-forty."

  I opened my mouth to argue again, but she held up a hand, a new, almost sly look in her eye.

  "Furthermore," she added, her tone softening, "let us be pragmatic. When we sell the Reisen, I am about to come into a significant amount of capital myself. That money will be mine alone, a severance from my old life. My primary interest is in the work itself, and in securing my freedom. Taking half of your income feels... improper."

  I closed my mouth. She had me completely cornered. Her logic was sound, her reasoning was fair, and her final point was a checkmate. I was trying to create a system for two scrappy adventurers starting from zero, while she was approaching it as a deposed royal with a massive golden parachute about to be deployed.

  "Fine," I finally relented, letting out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. "Sixty-forty. But we're absolutely using the partnership point system for cool salvage."

  Her face broke into a genuinely warm smile. "An excellent compromise."

  We shook hands. “We will need to put that in writing,” she said with a soft laugh. “And now that we have agreed on our mode of operation. We should start planning”

  "Okay." I grabbed a datapad. "Let's do this. What do we need to do before we leave?"

  "Fix the Reizen," Rosalia said immediately. "If we are to sell it, it needs to be in perfect condition. That means finishing the cheatlight drive, replacing the medical pod, repairing the furniture."

  "Cleaning up the blood," I added.

  She grimaced. "Yes. That too."

  I noted it down. "What else?"

  "We need a plan for reaching an imperial outpost without being intercepted." She drummed her fingers on the table. "Whoever sent that assassin will be watching for the Reizen. We cannot just fly straight there."

  "Could we sell it somewhere neutral first?" I suggested. "Avoid imperial space until we've already ditched the yacht?"

  "Possible." She considered. "But we would get a better price at an imperial station. The Reizen is a royal vessel. That is a selling point in the Empire."

  "Higher risk, higher reward," I muttered, jotting notes.

  "And you need a cover story," Rosalia added, giving me a pointed look.

  I looked up. "A what?"

  "You cannot just show up in imperial space claiming you are from an 'uncharted world' with no records, no history, no citizenship." She leaned back. "They will arrest you as a spy."

  "Fantastic."

  "We will need to construct a plausible identity. Forged documents, maybe." She brightened. "There may be another avenue. With the coup, a lot of records have been lost. I could try and insert you in the cracks. I need to think about it more."

  "They can't verify it because the records are gone. That's... actually pretty smart. We should explore that." I approved.

  "I am trained in diplomacy," she said primly. Then smiled. "This is going to work, Nico."

  I looked at the list on my datapad. Fix the Reizen. Plan the approach. Forge an identity.

  "Yeah," I said. "I think it will."