Ivan

Ivan met Elias on a lone Navy destroyer posted to the outer rim — scout duty, bad coffee, the long honest boredom between stars. He did not care whose mother wore admiral's stars. Elias cared that Ivan could fly. When pirates jumped them after months of shadow, the fight was ugly and the bill was forty percent of the crew. Dead in space, officers gone, pilots gone — Ivan was lower rank and the only qualified stick left. He commanded three weeks while the survivors jury-rigged faith and limped home.

Promotions, medals, forcibly retired early with honors. Elias brought him to Domaine Fenmar anyway. Together they talked Aldith into a loan and bought a junkyard hull with a botany dome at Alpha Centauri — two years making the Verdigris spaceworthy and registered, then the Orion Corridor with brown plants and bounty boards until Talyra made the dome mean something. Ivan has been primary pilot since the day he earned the chair in blood, not rank. He trusts Jarvis's pre-flight checklists more than he trusts half the ports they land in.

A year in Khesret System broke and patching. Dermidine's theme-park month pays port fees, repairs, and fuel if they walk out the exit interview intact. Ivan flies most legs, trusts levers you can feel, and keeps the long gun ready for lanes where magic throttles and Null is an advantage.