The bang was decisive and satisfying — like a stream of controlled, sharp wildfire, before the bullet embedded swiftly into the wall. As she shot, her shoulders were tense — too tense, really, and full of anticipation for the kick-back. Surprisingly, the kick wasn’t nearly as strong as she imagined. It was more of a fluid jerk. Her own reservations had halted her more than the gun. Lowering the weapon back to her side, she narrowed her eyes and scrutinized the wall.

And then, unable to help herself, she grinned.

“Okay,” she admitted, half-laughing. “I guess I can see why you like this.” She turned her wrist and examined the gun, surprised by it all over again. She had anticipated the weapon to feel too heavy in a single hand, or awkward to grasp in her slender fingers. She didn’t expect it to fit naturally like an appendage.

As she looked up at Corra, though, reality kicked in once more. “But I’m still not going to use it,” she said, her grin fading off her face.  “Cyrus told me you’re smugglers. He didn’t tell me why the hell Fiearius would need me on this job. Because I’m not shooting anyone. He knows that right?”

For all of Corra’s cheeriness and apparent pride at her pupil’s first shot, the moment the name Fiearius slipped into the room, all of that joy rushed away. The frown returned to her brow and the tiniest of pouts creased her lips as she looked away from Leta suddenly and grumbled, “Who knows? Probably. But since when does he give a shit about what other people want or don’t want? All he cares about is his damn self.” She let out a sigh and lifted her shoulder in a half shrug. “He probably just wants to cause a stir by taking you instead of, no offense, someone who’s picked up a gun before. To piss people off. Namely, me. As if I wasn’t already pissed enough as it is.” She sneered unpleasantly at the empty doorway.

Leta would have liked to sympathize, but at the moment she was too alarmed at the fact that Corra was angry all over again at Fiearius. Fiearius, whom Leta was supposed to go do some kind of job with? By herself?

“I’m not shooting anyone,” said Leta again, more conviction in her voice now, though her anger was not directed at Corra. She sighed. “And you know I’d gladly trade places with you. Why’d you want to go on this job so badly? What is it?”

Corra broke away from the doorway and met Leta’s eyes more than a little sadly. “It’s not the job,” she explained shortly before wandering over to the wall of guns and absent-mindedly picking a small pistol from its rack. “I don’t care about the job,” she said, her grip tightening as she turned it over in her hand. “It’s who the job’s with.”

“Godorra?” Leta wondered quietly.

A pair of cold eyes gazed at her, filled with pain, sadness and fury. “Yeah,” Corra muttered, her knuckles turning white as her grasp on the gun’s grip continued to tighten and she spat out as though the word disgust her, “Goddora.”

Leta was starting to feel foolish for how little she knew about the people that seemed to infuriate Corra. But her curiosity was powerful — especially if she was about to meet this person. “Who is he?”

“He’s a big time weapons dealer,” Corra said, her voice full of venom. “But weapons aren’t his only specialty.” She sighed, as though to relieve some of the vicious anger in her, though it didn’t seem to do any good. She was just as bitter as she growled, “He’s big in the slave trade too. Buys up all the arrested kroppies.” She said the word as though it tasted foul on her tongue.

“Kroppies,” Leta repeated, almost to herself. She thought she knew what that nasty word meant, but she wanted to be wrong. “Doesn’t that mean … “

“Yeah,” Corra confirmed before she could finish. “The poor, homeless, unwanted people who, what is it? Don’t belong. Aren’t welcome on nice, civilized planets. They dirty up the skylines so they round em up for doing nothin’ but tryin’ to live and sell em off to scum like Goddora. And then he puts em in his complex. Prunes em, sells em for ten times the price and buys some more.” She stared at Leta squarely for a moment, the corners of her eyes creased in distaste before she looked away suddenly.

“I used to be one of his,” she explained, her voice harshly quiet as she gently lifted her hair out of the way to reveal that the top portion of her left ear was missing, clipped off. “Til Captain Sonofabitch bought me,” she added with a growl, glancing up at the ceiling as though Fiearius were standing above her.

“But as much of an asshole as he is, I still got damn lucky,” she added more softly. “Most who get sold off don’t end up free and master of a hefty armory.” She gestured to the wall beside her. “I think it’s my duty as the lucky one to go back and give that bastard what he deserves, don’t you?” She raised the gun in her hand to admire it more closely and feigned aiming it at an unseen target kneeling before her. “A bullet right in the head.”

For a moment, Leta was too stunned to speak. And she wasn’t sure what to say, anyway, as she tried to understand: Corra had been in a slave complex. She’d been enslaved.

Logically, reasonably, Leta knew slave trading was still active in some far reaches of the span. But it was barbaric, ancient; it was supposed to be a dead industry. It wasn’t supposed to actually exist. Staring at Corra now did not make it any more fathomable. “Fiearius — bought you?” she asked quietly, feeling a bit sick.

Almost as though surprised to hear Leta’s voice, Corra dropped her arm and looked over at her, eyes slightly widened. “Yeah,” she answered, tentatively. “Almost three years ago.” She let out a short, sick laugh. “I’m technically a Soliveré too, if only by paperwork.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Lucky me indeed.” She paused momentarily before shrugging. “Although not anymore, I don’t think. I’m not sure what happens when you burn the deed.”

“Well … I’m glad it’s been burned,” Leta muttered, but she wasn’t sure if she was relieved just yet. Her mind was still struggling with what she’d said. Fiearius, at one point, had owned her. And before then, Corra had belonged to Goddorra. She could imagine what happened to enslaved women and she could hardly stomach the thought.

Leta picked her eyes up, suddenly, as it all clicked. “And now Fiearius wants to do business with Goddorra? The man who owned you?”

“Aw, chika, he’s been doing business with Goddora long before and long after he dragged me away from there, kickin’ and screamin’,” she told her a little grimly. Utilizing perhaps the most foolish, wish-washy voice she could conjure, she mocked with a distorted expression, “He’s a good contact, we need his support for the business, he’s the only one who’ll trade for this.” She snorted in distaste and dropped the act. “Same excuses every time. Frankly, I’m getting tired of hearing them.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Leta snapped, her voice cracking like a whip through the room. Suddenly, she felt enough roiling anger to pace the room, though she settled for a snarl of disgust. “I’m not helping him. And I’m definitely not helping him do business with Goddorra.”

“Don’t blame ya. Let him stew in his own muck. He wants to deal with that prick, he can deal with him alone,” Corra remarked bitterly as she finally placed the gun in her hand safely back on its rack. She let out one more long sigh, this time more successfully shaking off her tension as she ran a hand through her bangs and actually smirked at Leta, if a tad mischievously. “Tell ya what, though. I know you say you don’t wanna shoot anybody, but if Cy-cy can’t get you outta this, do me a favor and put a good one right here.” She placed two fingers right between her eyes and chuckled lightly. “Seriously. Do it and I’ll give you this whole damn armory.”

“Honestly? I’m tempted,” Leta said, mustering a small, bitter smile.

“Well then,” Corra said proudly, putting her hands on her hips while sizing up Leta. Finally she smiled and gestured towards the bullet-riddled wall again. “Best get practicing.”

–  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –

Spending the rest of the morning in the armory with Corra  — target-practice and talking — was almost enough to make Leta forget her worry and her anger. Almost. It was a few hours of welcome distraction, at least, when they took a break from sending bullets into the wall (Leta thought she was starting to get rather good at aiming — or better, at least), and finally slumped onto the couch.

“It really is a beautiful place,” Leta was saying as she sank back comfortably in her seat. She was trying to explain Vescent; Corra had been curious about where she’d grown up and she was trying to indulge her curiosity as best as she could. These days, it was hard to discuss Vescent without sounding bitter, but she purposely avoided politics. “The planet’s almost completely ocean. And the main city is rather small — but really beautiful. Stone architecture and beaches … ”

“It looked beautiful,” Corra admitted, leaned back on her arms and smiling up at the ceiling wistfully. “From the brief moment I saw it anyway.” She let out a disgruntled sigh and muttered, “If only I were on a ship not run by wanted criminals…”

Leta smiled weakly. “I doubt I’ll be make it back there anytime soon.”

“Well. That makes two of us,” Corra pointed out with a cheerful grin and an invisible toast in Leta’s direction.

Just then, Corra looked past her and noticed a figure that seemed to have been standing in the hallway for the past few moments. Corra frowned, concerned, until she realized who it was and simply smiled. “Cy-cy,” she greeted happily as the engineer awkwardly hovered just outside the threshold to the armory.

“Sorry,” Cyrus muttered. “I didn’t want to interrupt.” Leta wondered how long he had been standing there, waiting for his chance to make his presence known. He did not look all that pleased to be there. His eyes refused to meet theirs for more than a second and his fingers were anxiously drumming the doorframe. Corra apparently noticed as well.

“How’d it go?” she asked, although the tone of her voice gave way that she already knew what he was going to say.

“Not…so well…” Cyrus responded quietly, definitively looking elsewhere now.

“He’s still being a dick?” Corra assumed bluntly, casting him an annoyed glare.

“Something like that,” the young man replied with a stiff shrug. “He says…that he needs a doctor. That it’s non-negotiable. And that the only doctor aboard is…well.” He looked to Leta finally. “You.” Cyrus frowned at her before looking away again. “He wouldn’t explain why. I tried. It must be for his arm though? Don’t you think? It still looks pretty gross. And I can’t think what else it would be.” Half-heartedly, he gave her an apologetic smile. “But at least you’re not meant to be a gunhand?”

“I wasn’t going to be his gunhand regardless,” Leta growled. Now she felt more anger than worry: the captain seemed to think she owed him something, which could not have been further from the truth. “Because I won’t be shooting anybody,” she added forcibly. “And why the hell does he think I’ll just go and help him and that slave-trader — ”

Abruptly, Leta broke off, and fell into an urgent silence. She could feel a pair of curious looks upon her, but she ignored them as her mind started to work. Now, she wasn’t thinking about Fiearius and his ridiculous request. She wasn’t thinking about Goddorra, either, even though she already hated him.

She was thinking about Ren. About getting him back.

When she looked up at Cyrus, her expression was considerably lighter.

“So if I do help Fiearius,” she ventured cautiously, “what’re the chances he’ll help me too?”

Cyrus’ mouth was already open, as though with a response ready, but the question Leta asked didn’t match the answer on his lips. His jaw snapped shut and he regarded her uneasily.

“If there’s one thing my brother is, it’s serious about his debts…” he said knowingly, glancing toward Corra, who only cocked her head quizzically. Cyrus looked back to her and added, “Favors don’t go unnoticed. You want his help, giving yours is your best shot.”

What choice did she have then? Leta could hardly believe her own ears when she glanced toward her gun, now shelved back on the wall, and she muttered in defeat, “Then I guess I’m going with.”

“Sorry, I didn’t–” she muttered awkwardly. “I mean, that wasn’t about you. It was just–” Her frown returned suddenly, directed passionately at the floor before she forced it out, tilted her head to each side and took a deep breath. “Sorry. Look, ya want a lesson, I can give ya a lesson. Specially if he’s serious.” One of her brows raised curiously. “Nice alpha planet doctor like you musta never even laid hands on one of these.” She jabbed her thumb over her shoulder at the armory door. “Wouldn’t want you gettin’ hurt out there on account of that asshole. I’ll teach ya everything I know.”

As Corra forced a kinder smile, Cyrus added helpfully, “She won’t need it. I’m gonna talk to him. I’ll get her out of it.” He grinned in a manner he probably thought was encouraging. The result was a bit creepy. And before anyone could speak, he turned and rushed away.

Corra’s eyes had gone slightly wide at his proclamation. For a long moment, she stared at Cyrus’ retreating back. “Yeah,” she decided at last, looking back to Leta as she turned around, “you’re definitely gonna need lessons. Come on in.”

The armory was a long, rectangular room with burnt brown walls. It was shadowy and dim like the rest of the Dionysian,except one wall, which glinted invitingly even in the low light. As Leta stepped inside, she saw why: it was lined, floor to ceiling, with weaponry of all sizes.

As Leta stepped toward it, the knot of worry in her chest loosened ever so slightly. In spite of it all, in spite of everything, some of her burning questions and unending nervousness was replaced with something else: interest.

Beside her, Corra took a deep breath and placed her hands squarely on her hips. “Alright,” she proclaimed, gesturing to the racks above their heads. They seemed to hold everything from the tiny, concealable sort that could be stuffed within clothing, to monstrous rifles that Leta could hardly imagine being able to carry. “First lesson, I suggest you pick one you can hold.”

Well, there was no reason not to accept the lesson, was there? She wasn’t going to help Fiearius, but equipping herself on a criminal ship didn’t seem like a bad idea. Nodding slightly, Leta stepped closer to the wall, her eyes traveling high and low along the racks.

Pressing her lips together in thought, she regarded a line of long, thin guns she thought must have been assault rifles. Her height may have afforded her the opportunity to hold the larger weapons, but she could not envision herself doing anything but fumbling with something of that size. Then, she quirked a brow at the set of bulky machine guns in the corner. At that, a wry smirked touched her eyes, before her gaze finally lowered to another shelf.

Tilting her head, she stepped closer, filling her eyes with the sight of a row of shining handguns. With careful surgeon hands, she reached to pull it from the rack, closing her fingers around the grip. She turned around again with the gun in hand, examining it. The grated metal weapon relaxed into her grasp — a small but steady fit.

“Like this one?” she said, looking up at Corra.

Despite her foul mood, Leta saw a small, almost indistinguishable smile run across Corra’s lips. “One of my favorites,” she commended as she moved over to another wall herself and began sorting through what appeared to be boxes of ammunition. “When you’re in the range, dare I even call it that, only use the FMJs,” she advised her a little absently as she held up a clip proudly. “Hollow-points have a tendency to split on impact which…well it does interesting things to human bodies, but if you’re firing into a bullet-proof wall? Ricochet. Bad stuff.”

Swiftly, Corra rejoined her in the center of the room and began fussing about with the gun in her hand. “So this is your clip,” she told her diligently as she reached to unapologetically grab for the weapon in Leta’s hand. “Release is here. Pop it out, pop another back in.” The gun clicked as Corra shoved the clip in her hand into it. “Hold it tight, but not too tight, like this, with what ever hand you feel better with.” She meticulously rearranged Leta’s fingers on the grip. “This is your safety,” she pointed out. “On. Off. Only take it off if you know you’re gonna need it off. Never put your finger on the trigger unless you actually aiming to shoot something. When you’re not.” She moved her index finger as well. “Rest it here.”

Satisfied, Corra stepped back and looked her up and down, her brow furrowed. “Shoulders back, feet apart,” she instructed, and Leta did as she was told, feeling somewhat bemused by the instructions, but not enough to interrupt.

“Know where your center of gravity is and keep your balance,” Corra went on. “Even little ones like that have recoil and if you’re not expecting it, you can get yourself hurt. Arm out straight. Don’t try any fancy shooting, not ‘til you’ve had more practice. The key for beginners is staying steady and keeping aim.” She nodded firmly and added, with a frown, “Also, don’t close your eyes. Either of them. People do that. I don’t know why, it’s the stupidest thing,” she muttered, but then she smiled up at Leta encouragingly and stepped out of the way.

“Go on,” she insisted, gesturing the the thick, black wall at the far end of the room, already riddled with caught bullets in its surface. “Give it a try.”

Hesitating slightly, Leta lifted her gun arm aloft as Corra had indicated. For a moment she did not recognize her own hand out in the air, her fingers grasped around the grip of a gun. A gun. She was holding a gun? She was an M.D. for crying out loud. But, before she could think more on it, she squeezed the trigger.

“Why do you deal with him?” Corra demanded angrily as she hurried up to his side. “He’s scum and you know it. There are other dealers. Better dealers. We could go elsewhere, just turn the ship around and take the goods somewhere else. To someone else. There’s no reason that we have to go to Goddora. Are you just doing this to spite me?”

At her last question, the air in the hall seemed to freeze. It was as though everyone in the room took in a breath simultaneously as Fiearius immediately stopped in his tracks and looked down at her with a tilt to his brow that seemed to say, ‘really?”

Even Corra, it seemed, couldn’t argue with that look. “Fine,” she mumbled agreeably, “but this is bull, Fiear.”

Once more, Fiearius rolled his eyes and walked away from her. Once more, the dining hall let out a collective sigh of relief and went back to — or pretended to go back —  to eating and talking.

But Leta did not. In fact, she twisted around in her chair to get a better look at the two of them. Now she was unbearably curious what they were talking about — business, it seemed like. Criminal business? She watched Fiearius as he picked a nearby table at random, sat himself down heavily next to a terrified-looking young man who backed his seat away immediately. He gestured to the chair across from him. “Corra, sit,” he said sharply.

Leta watched in surprise as Corra did as she was told: she ungracefully dropped into the chair, but looked ready to spring up again at any moment.

“I appreciate your interest in the business,” Fiearius went on calmly, entwining his fingers thoughtfully on the table before him.  He did not seem to notice Leta was completely ignoring the coffee mug before her and instead watching his every move from across the cafeteria.

“But you should know,” he went on, “You do know. That this is the way things are. This is the way things will always be.” He looked to Corra with a sort of burning intensity. “Deal with it or go elsewhere. It’s not up for negotiation.”

In response, Corra sat in silence, looking stunned, her elbows slackening where they had stood posed to throw herself forward in anger and the fire in her doused with a bucket of water. It was down. But it wasn’t quite gone. And she seemed unwilling to let this go. “There are other dealers on planets closer to where we are,” she said coldly, almost under her breath.

“Yes, but few have the resources to clean that many marked guns. And those that do don’t pay well enough,” he said frankly, leaning back in his chair and tapping his fingers on the edge of the table as though simply waiting for her to stop.

“So that’s it?” Corra asked, indignant once again. “We’ll do anything just for the money? Whatever happened to ‘know the man behind the hand’, huh? Thought you had some pride. Some dignity.” That fire returning, she finally used her poise to push herself to her feet so that she could leer down at him and allow her voice to fill the entire hall.

“But apparently,” she dared loudly,  “you’ll be the bitch of even dirty scum like Goddora for the right price, eh?”

Abruptly, a loud silence fell in the room. The audience hushed. Leta did not know if the captain was going to yell or jump out of his seat, but she watched, in perfect alarmed clarity, as his hand gave an unpleasant, unnatural twitch on the surface of the table.

But, just as the tension had arrived, it began to dissolve. Fiearius’ cold glare faded toward indifference. He shrugged and muttered carelessly, “I don’t have to justify myself to you.”

Apparently, Corra’s commitment to her statement had lasted only as long as it had taken to spill from her lips. A sigh — a sigh of relief, Leta was sure — passed through her. Quietly, she pressed, “Take me with you.”

“No,” Fiearius replied immediately.

“Why not?” Corra asked, looking incredulous again. “I’m the best gun-hand on this damn ship.”

“You are,” Fiearius admitted, leaning back in his chair casually. “Which is why I want you to teach what’s-her-face over there how not to kill herself with one because I’m taking her instead.”

It was only seconds after he’d spoken so gruffly that Leta realized he was, in fact, gesturing to her. She sat there, stunned to be addressed when she’d been merely an observer. And now she was pulled into — into what? She was going along. On this — business trip?

Corra looked exactly how Leta felt: completely shocked. Corra’s jaw dropped and she did not seem to be capable of putting words together. Finally, her expression fell into despair, she turned from the table and fled from the kitchen in a rush.

In the awkward silence that followed, Fiearius simply watched her back retreating as though it were merely mildly interesting. Then he looked back to Leta and raised his brows expectantly.

“Well?” he asked impatiently. “You heard me. Go on.” He raised his hand and gestured after Corra with it . Then he caught the eye of his unfortunate neighbor and smiled grimly. He reached over, seized the bowl of oatmeal that had been sitting in front of him and said “Thanks,” as he got up from his chair and stalked from the room with it.

He fell into an uncomfortable silence for a long few seconds as he frowned at the coffee mug in his hands. Finally, he perked up and added much more lightly, “Also, Corra would want me to tell you to stay away from Maya because she is, quote unquote, an awful bitch.” He smiled innocently and shrugged. “They don’t get along. She’s the one over by the kitchen door with the curly black hair,” he added, gesturing toward the woman who was in deep conversation with a younger boy beside her.

“Oh and the one she’s talking to?” he went on. “The blonde kid? That’s Nikkolai. You’ll meet him. I can guarantee you will meet him.” Not so subtly, Cyrus rolled his eyes. “He’s alright though. And the other one? Javier, I think. I don’t really know him. But they’re the more long-term of the deckhands. They’ve been here long enough to kind of know what they’re doing so if you need anything, any one of them’s a good bet to ask.”

“The one over by the door,” he continued, a little more flippantly as he gestured toward a short, stocky man, cheerfully drinking from a murky bottle of whiskey, “That’s Rhys. Another one of Fiear’s guns. Nice guy, but medically, you might want to watch for liver problems. The older couple at the table to his right, Palia and Alastair Dmitri. Paying passengers. Across from them, Arlo Harvey. Another passenger. Then over to the left that’s Bartley and Feydran and Tihla and, you know what? You’ll probably meet them all eventually and I don’t expect you to remember all this so never mind.” He turned back to her suddenly and smiled. “Most of this lot are pretty friendly. Unless they’re handing you an orange drink,” he reminded again, the smile dropping off his face rather warningly.

Personally, Leta wasn’t sure whether to laugh or not, though the impulse was there. They were a motley crew, this bunch. Before she could ask more about them, however, they were interrupted.

“Cyrus?” demanded a sudden, too-eager female voice. “Who — who is this?”

The scratchy voice belonged to an older woman, seventy years old at least, who arrived to the table with a mixing bowl in hand and serving spoon in another. She must have been the ship’s cook, Leta thought, judging by the burns and stains in her clothing.

In this moment, she did not seem interested in serving the rest of the oatmeal in her bowl. She was frozen, her widened, round eyes set much too expectantly on Leta. “You’re the doctor then?” she asked, and then her smile faded toward a look of, all things, disappointment. “Just — just the doctor?” Her eyes darted between Leta and Cyrus, as if measuring the amount of sitting distance between them and finding it quite unsatisfactory. And that was when Leta understood.

“I’m afraid so,” she admitted, actually laughing outloud — for the first time in days. “Just the doctor.” Not Cyrus’ girlfriend, she added silently in her head. At her side, Cyrus released a small groan and put his clasped index finger and thumb to his forehead.

“And this,” he muttered, “is Amora. Our professional chef and hobbyist busybody.” He glanced at her, both unamused and affectionate.

“Well, it’s wonderful to have you, dear,” gushed Amora, apparently pleased once more. “With how much trouble this crew gets into —  I can’t imagine how they even — bloody messes all the time — well, I’m sure you’ll have your hands full. Coffee?”

As Leta reached to accept the steaming mug of coffee from the woman (who now seemed to be sizing her up, Leta noticed), she became distracted. Near the door was, suddenly, shouting. An angry voice. And it was growing closer. It was a woman’s voice, and not just any woman — this was someone she knew. It was Corra, she realized, looking toward the door curiously, and she wasn’t alone.

Corra, in all of her fury, was marching into the room and saying, “Don’t you walk away from me when I’m talking to you,” to the back of the captain who seemed to be doing just that.

Fiearius seemed completely oblivious to the small furious girl tailing behind him as he strode confidently into the room and scanned for something, or someone, in particular. Leta watched with interest as the man suddenly smirked widely and, only narrowly escaping Corra’s grasp as she tried to seize his arm, came straight towards the table at which Leta was seated.

But Leta was not who he was aiming for. His attention was on Amora, who ignored him. But the look in his eyes suggested he simply could not help himself.

“Good morning, my sweet,” he murmured flirtatiously as he reached them and immediately slipped an arm around the woman’s large waist. Leta watched, silently amazed, as Amora scoffed a disgusted breath and elbowed him off.

But Fiearius wasn’t done. He swiped the serving spoon from her hand, dug it into oatmeal from the bowl and brought it to his mouth. His eyes squinted thoughtfully. “Needs salt,” he expressed finally with a grimace and then leaned in to plant a quick kiss on her forehead. “Next time,” he suggested as he released her from his grip and spun around to presumably stalk off somewhere else.

By then, his pursuer had caught up with him. Corra halted in front of the captain, arms crossed over her chest as she blocked his path. Leta could not imagine what was unfolding with this scene: Corra, furious; Fiearius, calm and darkly bemused as they eyed each other.

“Corra, we talked about this,” Fiearius said to her with a sigh. His shoulders dropped the defensive stance and he sighed again. “We had a deal.”

“The deal was that I can’t stop you,” Corra snapped back instantly, nullifying his effect of speaking quietly with her own impassioned gusto. “The deal was not that I can’t give you shit about it.”

By now, Leta wasn’t the only person paying attention to this scene. The din of conversation was fading as crew members threw awkward, too-casual glances toward the captain. Sensing the mounting tension, Leta looked over to Cyrus for immediate explanation. “Cy, wh–”

Cyrus, however, took one look at his brother and then quickly turned his attention downward. He seemed to be watching the surface of his coffee instead.

Meanwhile, Fiearius rolled his eyes and grumbled, “Maybe we should change the terms then,” before he turned from her, reverting back to his previous tactic of simply walking away as he headed for the kitchen. It hadn’t worked the first time, though. And it didn’t work the second time, either.

“He worked with them most of his life. Happily, I think. I don’t know, we didn’t speak for some ten years there in the middle. Apparently, everything was fine though. He lived in the entertainment district and he was good at his job and made a decent amount and he had no problems with the grand old Society for Intergalactic Unification. They treated him well. Until about three, four years ago now.” Again, Cyrus’ voice trailed off and his eyes moved not just on the ground away from her, but now to the wall in the opposite direction. “Something…happened…” he muttered at last, reluctantly. “Something bad,” he went on, turning his head back around to meet her gaze firmly at last. “And we got this ship and we fled. Just….picked up everything we could and left Satieri forever. Never once looked back.”

“But,” he added suddenly, raising a brow at her. “You said it yourself. You got lucky. You had connections that allowed you to disassociate yourself cleanly? Yeah, we didn’t have that.” A bitter smile touched his lips. “We ran, but it took all of six hours before they were on our tail. And three, four years later?” The bitterness faded into simple disappointment. “They’re still just one step behind. Always chasing. And we’re always running.” The sad tonality culminated in a heavy sigh before he shrugged it off and continued thoughtfully, “So that’s why we couldn’t land anywhere in Exymeron to get treatment. And that’s why even Vescent was a bad idea. And that’s why I couldn’t bring him to the clinic and why I lied about where you were from and why we had to leave so quickly and why he hates the Society.”

“And sorry about that, again,” he added hurriedly. “About all of that. But, hey.” He smiled hopefully, though not without a distinct hint of nervousness. “At least you’re not with them anymore.” He gestured vaguely to the mark on her arm and the smile disintegrated into a grim realization. “I don’t like to imagine what we would have done to you if you still were…”

“Me either,” said Leta quickly, determined not to be put off by something as slight a threat on her life. Not now. Not when she had all of this to digest. Not when she had found an actual ally here. Unable to stifle the eagerness in her voice, she said, “I guess I ended up on the right ship then. Because — I doubt I need to tell you now what I want to do,” she continued, a little bemusedly so, though her eyes were cold. “I want to get Ren out of there. Wherever he is. But I’m getting nowhere alone.”

“Ah,” Cyrus responded at once with a swift nod of his head. “Right. Of course. Naturally.” He hesitated, but the wheels in his head were visibly turning as his fingers tapped on the edge of the bed. “I can’t promise anything. If it’s not already obvious, I don’t call the shots on this ship. But, hey, you helped us out. It doesn’t seem unreasonable we could help you back. And hey, Fiear’s always game for taking cheap shots at his old buddies. It’s not impossible.” He paused. “Also, the message you said you received. Do you have the data? It should be possible to dig up its source. It might be buried, but in my experience with Society data encryption, it probably won’t be buried that deep,” he remarked. His voice was almost boastful as he offered, “I could take a look at it if you’d like.”

“Y — really?” said Leta, suddenly startled. She thought nothing could surprise her anymore, really. But the look of thoughtful curiosity on Cyrus’ face, his eager tone of voice, that stunned her breathless. Someone willing to help? After three months of screaming at bureaucrats? Unthinkingly, words tumbled out of her. “That’d be — well, I’ve tried that, but it’s never really — and it’s been a really long while si…”

Before she could think to do otherwise, Leta slid down from the bench, her feet came to the floor, and her arms found the man’s shoulders in an embrace that startled them both. Cyrus especially so. When she felt him stoop awkwardly and his hand pat her back, twice, decisively, she couldn’t help but smirk. Still, nothing could keep her from grasping his shoulder warmly as she pulled back and smiled at him out of pure relief.

“Yeah,” was what he said after, not meeting her eyes and apparently attempting not to act as bewildered as he was. “I mean, yeah really, it’s not that big of a deal. I can at least give it a shot. I’m…” He frowned briefly before smiling at her in false humility, “kinda good at that kinda stuff. Shouldn’t be a problem. But hey, in the meantime, since you’re stuck here.” Again, he looked away shamefully and muttered once more, “Sorry. I can find you some empty quarters to stay in. I’m sure you’re probably tired. Long day of being abducted and all.” A wide smile came across his face in hopeful cheeriness as he stood up from the bed and made for the door, perhaps a little hurriedly, Leta noted. “Better luck tomorrow maybe?” he added over his shoulder.

“Well, I guess we’ll see,” said Leta, flashing a hesitant smile at his back as she followed after him. For a moment, she could not help but linger in the doorway that led to the rest of the ship, a pause of inward bewilderment. If everything Cyrus said was actually true, she’d be aboard longer than she’d thought.

“But he wrote you,” said Cyrus. “From…wherever he’s being held? How do you know for sure it’s really from him though?” he added, sounding hesitant it seemed to even speak the words.

Leta was not offended. But, for the first time, she did falter. Here we go, she thought uneasily. But what did she have to lose at this point? For seconds longer, she kept her eyes on Cyrus before, finally, reaching to the side and grasping the long sleeve of her blouse. She pulled back on the fabric, pulling the tattoo on her forearm into view.

Immediately, Cyrus’ eyes widened as he took it in, that all-too-familiar sight of the black angles of the Society Librera. The same mark his brother wore.

The silence dragged on and on, quite painfully so, until he muttered, “Oh,” blankly. “Well.” His face compressed into a concerned frown and he nodded ever so slowly. “You should probably just…keep that to yourself.” He passed her a sheepish and apologetic smile. “Whether you’re with them still or not, it doesn’t make too much of a difference, really. Best to just not let that out around here. We’ve yet to run into anyone with that mark that my brother left breathing.” He grimaced at his own words. “He has…trust issues. What is he always says? If he were still working for them, he’d be lying about it too.”

“I’m not with them,” she said quickly, tugging down on her sleeve once more and attempting to absorb what Cyrus had said invisibly and quickly. “I worked in a medical research division for a year, then I met Ren. But I don’t anymore. Obviously. I’m not anymore. I got lucky. Because of my dad,” she admitted, uneasy once more. “He’s one of their latchkeys. He’s a speech writer. He’s worked for the Society my whole life. Political advising, mostly. Never important enough to make a difference, but he knows enough. He’s the one who told me.  I guess the guilt got to him, because a few weeks after the funeral, he told me what I already knew. That he was alive.”

Because these were words Leta had spoken before, because it was a story that she knew every detail of, it was easy to swallow the lump in her throat. It was easy to keep her gaze evenly on Cyrus, even when he looked surprised.

“But now it’s your turn,” she said quietly. This was the part Leta was eager for. She sat up straighter.  “Your brother. Your brother hates the Society too. Why?”

Instantly, Cyrus’ expression of intent listening blanched with discomfort. The crease in his forehead and the nervous tapping of his fingers against the edge of his seat said it all. It was a question he did not want to answer. Or perhaps, she thought, he just didn’t know how. He’d warned her that Fiearius would go so far as to kill her if she mentioned the Society. Did the same rule apply to his own brother? Or was Cyrus not hesitating out of mistrust of his sibling, but rather mistrust of her?

“It’s a long story,” he began lamely, finishing the statement with a tired sigh and casting her another apologetic smirk. “Not really my story to tell, either. There’s a lot of reasons for him to hate them. Well, you’ve seen the mark.” He tapped his own upper arm knowingly. “And you saw the nice welcome we got back there,” he added grimly, jabbing his thumb back over his shoulder as though towards Vescent.” His shoulders lifted in a shrug and his voice faded off again so that she thought he was just going to leave it at that. The same, vague answer the captain himself had given her. The non-answer. Cyrus, however, wasn’t done.

“My brother joined the Society back on Satieri when he was young. Fourteen, fifteen, I don’t know,” he explained dutifully, still frowning seriously at the ground. “I don’t know what kind of work you do for them when you’re that age. Delivering messages or making coffee runs, no clue. What I do know is that he eventually ended up with Internal Affairs.” His voice softened considerably as he added, “I do know what they do. I just don’t like to think about it.”

Internal Affairs. Internal Affairs? The name stirred something in Leta’s mind — something vaguely uneasy — but nothing immediate came to her. Before she could add that to her dozens of burning questions, Cyrus continued.

For moments longer, as she concentrated on preparing the syringe, Leta was quiet. As far as kidnappings went, this was about as tame as she could imagine. Fiearius didn’t care if she stepped off the ship in two days. And now, with what he’d said about the Society, she wasn’t sure if she would.

It had been a long time since she’d had an ally.

Once the shot snapped in place, Leta merely looked up, murmured, “I guess we’ll see then, huh?” and stuck the needle sharply into his arm. Perhaps a bit sharper than necessary.

At once, Fiearius flinched and grumbled some unintelligible curse at her, though she withdrew the needle without a word. In the corner of her eye, then, she noticed movement near the door.

The figure of Cyrus tentatively sidled up where it waited in the shadow of the hallway, hands clasped nervously behind his back. Once Fiearius had recovered from his antibiotics, he followed Leta’s line of vision and looked over at the door frame expectantly.

It was apparently all the cue Cyrus needed.

“We’re on course,” he said. His eyes were on his brother. “I did some rigging that should scatter our signal. We’ll be way out of range by the time they manage to sort through even half of it,” he explained, his voice cold and professional as he stepped deeper into the room. “I’m still gonna push her through the night just in case though. We should be in orbit morning after next. Little ahead of schedule.”

“That’s fine,” Fiearius replied briskly, an answer that made Cyrus visibly twitch with frustration. Leta, meanwhile, chose to say nothing as she carefully disassembled the syringe in her hands. Unapologetically curious, she glanced back and forth between the pair.

Looking uneasy, Cyrus glanced at her, then to his brother’s arm and finally asked, “So, how’s…” His finger indiscriminately waved towards them. “That?”

“Fine,” Fiearius said again, watching the referenced arm curiously as he shrugged. It must not have felt quite as fine as he claimed, however, as the action caused him to wince ever so slightly. “It’ll be fine,” he amended, casting a pointed look at Leta. “By the time we land. It’ll be fine.”

“Good,” Cyrus said, knotting his hands even tighter and making strict eye contact with the floor. “That’s…good…”

Another silence unfolded, interrupted only by the clank of metal as Leta dropped the syringe back into the cart, and kept unfolding.

“Well, if you’re done,” said Fiearius abruptly “I’ve things to do. Places to be. People to harass.” He grinned maniacally before adding, “Sleep to catch up on…” Rolling his eyes tiredly, he pushed himself from the edge of the bed and made his way towards the door. On the very threshold, however, Cyrus stopped him.

“Fiear,” he interjected suddenly, catching both his brother and Leta by surprise. She looked up just in time to see the elder sibling pause and the two of them stand there in the doorway, staring at one another, neither speaking a word.

Leta wondered if this was finally about to escalate into shouting. But they said nothing, and she had to wonder what possibly could have been passing between them. Finally, Cyrus said, quietly,  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know where else to land.”

To Leta’s immeasurable surprise, the captain did not snap. He did not retort. He smiled more kindly than seemed possible for him and said softly, “It’s okay, little brother.” He rested a hand on his sibling’s shoulder before sauntering past him out the door and disappearing into the shadowy depths of the ship.

As the footsteps on the metal grating died away, Leta stood there a moment longer, nearly forgetting Cyrus’ presence until he heaved a sigh. Gradually, he brought his eyes back to Leta and, here, his brow creased.

“I owe you an apology too,” he began. “A few, actually. And some gratitude.” He glanced hesitantly over his shoulder in the direction Fiearius had gone. “I’m sure he’s not the easiest patient to put up with. But thank you. I wish there was some way I could repay you, but…” His face twisted into a grimace. “We’re about as broke as we’ve ever been. And I don’t think we’ll ever be going back to Vescent in my lifetime, so I can’t exactly offer to take you home.” The grimace faded into a weak, sheepish smile. “I’m afraid you’re a bit stuck here for now. But I promise, I’ll try and make this up to you. Probably not today. And probably not tomorrow. But somehow. Somehow, I’ll fix this.”

Did he expect her, Leta wondered, to scream and cry? As any true kidnapped victim would? Truthfully, that had seemed like a strong possibility before. But it was no longer. Now, as she regarded the young man across the room — he looked strikingly earnest — she was feeling something quite foreign and different; it took her a moment to place the feeling.

Hope. That’s what it was.

“WeIl, I think I might believe you,” said Leta finally. She backed up a step, and edged herself onto the patient’s bed. “And since I’m going to be here a little longer than I thought — I should explain a few things.”

“I didn’t kidnap you,” Fiearius corrected her instantly, now finding more interest in the wall than in her again. “You just happened to be on my ship when I decided it was leaving. Not my fault you weren’t paying enough attention to get off before that happened.” He turned his head slightly to face her, his eyes narrowed. “And yet you think you’re entitled? That’s cute. How ‘bout we scratch that and you just go ahead and tell me what kind of doctor my brother dragged onto my ship? Off a merchant vessel, he said? What were you doing on Vescent?”

“Research,” replied Leta at once. Technically, it was not a lie. She’d just also been living on Vescent while she’d done this research.

Trying to ignore just how tense she was feeling, she gathered a cloth in her hand and poured salve solution into it. It was a basic easy routine, but inwardly, her mind was racing. This was a game, she realized. She had to be careful.

“I’m not sad to leave,” she continued, relieved to hear her voice was more relaxed. “The feds are a bit — uptight there.” As she leaned in to swab the wound, her eyes flashed toward his tattoo, the primary symbol of those feds. “No offense.”

Fiearius’ eyes followed her own to the marking on his arm where they rested in thought. “None taken. Your little ship must not get around much though,” he commented briskly. “That ain’t exclusive to Vescent.”

“I know.” Carefully, she placed the cloth back in the cart at her side. “Vescent. Acendia. The Society’s spreading through Ellegy.” Her voice might have been wistful, were it not for the bitter smile at her lips. She stared down at the rusty tools in the tray, ready and waiting to be picked up and used.

But first, she could stand it no longer. Casting her eyes to him, she held his gaze. “But you have the mark. Are you with them or not?”

Fiearius’ eyes narrowed even more and settled upon her face as though reading it for something hidden. “They just sent six fighter birds after me and more to come, isn’t it obvious?” he pointed out, raising an eyebrow brow at her.“No. Not anymore.”

Leta blinked her eyes slowly, now a perfectly captive audience. “Why?” she asked at length, a tug of desperation in her voice. “What’d you do?”

There was a long passage of silence as Fiearius just glared at her curiously. A passage so long, it seemed he might never answer at all. Even when he did, in fact, he did not. “You here to fix my arm or interrogate me, kiddo?” he asked harshly, deepening his glare, which Leta ignored.

“The Society’s no friend of mine either,” she continued, trying and failing to contain the lift in her voice. She knew it was important to not be too eager, but it was no easy feat. “To say the least. And people don’t just ‘quit’, or leave. Those people end up in bodybags. Not captaining spaceships.”

“Well,” the captain replied cheerfully, despite the look of apathy engraved in his features, “Maybe I’m just special.”

Leta was not deterred by his lack of enthusiasm. “Special enough to evade them. Some people — ” she hesitated then, choosing her words carefully as her expression tinged with sadness, “aren’t quite as lucky. So how?”

“Do I have to say it again?” he growled, jabbing his finger towards the still unattended wound. “I need this thing to stop being a problem by the time we land in two days. I’ve got a job to do. People to feed. Ship to run. So let’s hurry it up, shall we?”

This time, silence fell between them, sharper now. He’d given her more questions than answers. Her curiosity was burning.

But, with an intake of breath, she told herself to wait. For now. She’d waited three months for answers, she could wait a bit longer. After a long, stiff pause, she reached toward the cart and slowly withdrew another vial and, this time, a syringe.

“Well it’s not doable in two days,” she told him flatly. “Try weeks. You need antibiotics. Long-term treatment.”

“I don’t have weeks,” Fiearius replied grimly. “I don’t care what you have to do to make it work. Give me all the antibiotics you want, cut me open, slice me up, whatever, I just can’t show up with my arm falling off. Two days.” He glared at the purple and green infected mess of his shoulder. “Figure it out.”

“I am. This is preliminary work,” she deadpanned, adjusting the needle carefully before half-glancing back at him. “Unless you’re planning to drop me at this next stop.”

A small chuckle rippled out of his throat. “I don’t think you’re gonna wanna be at this next stop,” he remarked, visibly amused at his unexplained joke. “I ain’t gonna keep ya if you’re so damn desperate to leave though.” He glanced back at her, knowingly. “I ain’t gonna stop ya from stayin’ either. Do what ever ya damn please. I leave it to your wise doctorly discretion.”

From her far corner of the cabin, Leta glimpsed the side of Fiearius’ face and the broad smirk that arrived on it. “That’s what I thought,” he said, satisfied. “Route all the power we can spare out of the engine and into shields.”

“Fiearius, don’t–”

“Just fucking do it, Cyrus,” he snapped, and with a growl in his throat, he pulled the gear into the sharpest swerve yet. Now, the view of the bay window shifted in a flash as the Dionysian was spun directly around 180 degrees. Now the ship faced the blurry blue-green mass of a planet and, in the foreground, the six fighter ships.

Directly.

Before she knew what the captain was going to do, Leta knew what the captain was going to do. “He’s not — “ she started, though it was in that moment that the ship surged forward into the assailants and the metal rattling within the cabin drowned out any other noise.

Leta anticipated every excruciating second of the impact. She squeezed her eyes shut and, below, her chair went from humming, to vibrating, to positively shaking in protest beneath her grip. Through the slits of her eyes she saw the silhouette of Fiearius, and beyond him, the peak of the Dionysian break through the fleet, a half-dozen silent explosions in the darkening sky as the walls roared and roared around them.

Dimly, Leta thought she could see, now, how this might be satisfying, in a terrible, destructive, awful sort of way. Even with the grimace masking on her face, she glimpsed one the metal sheets imprinted with the Society symbol blast apart as easily as beach-glass. It flew past the window of the ship and was lost, lost into the black of space.

The moment of peace was short-lived.

Easing her eyes open fully, Leta realized three things just as the cabin swam into view. First, the walls had slowed their shaking. Second, Fiearius was laughing like somebody had just told him a particularly off-color joke.

And the last thing she noticed was her stomach. It was lodged somewhere in her throat.

Hands shaking, body trembling, Leta fumbled to pull the seatbelt off her waist and pushed herself to unsteady feet. Her legs wobbled as she crossed to the door and staggered out of the cabin into the hallway. Behind her, dimly, she heard raucous yelling echoing from one end of the ship. It must have been the crew. Celebration, perhaps? Or perhaps, pain from that impact.

She picked the other direction.

The grated metal floor was rocking up and down like a boat on water and the air was as thick and heavy as she staggered forward. The pit in her stomach was not shrinking, but growing and growing, and before she could think to do otherwise, she stopped short, she grabbed the nearest railing and her mouth filled.

It was too much.

Leta could not truly remember the last time she’d gotten sick. She certainly couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten sick in public. Coughing, eyes watering, she bent over the railing for several agonizing seconds longer until, finally, cool, steady air began to inch into her lungs.

Behind her, as her senses returned, she heard the approach of forceful, pounding footsteps. Cyrus, she realized, as she glanced with streaming eyes over her shoulder and the young man stalked past her in a furious rush toward the bridge.

Seconds later, just as Leta was shakily wiping her mouth with her wrist, the hallway near the bridge erupted in shouting. It was undeniably Cyrus’ voice that yelled, probably at his brother, “What the fuck was that?!”

Leta straightened herself up and watched as the party of three — Fiearius, Cyrus and Corra — exited the bridge. Something of a swagger was in Fiearius’ walk while Cyrus followed, muttering darkly behind him, “You are damn lucky our shields held. They’re meant for minor debris or stray rocks. Not for high-class fighter ships moving forward at full sp– “

“But it did work,” Fiearius replied, smiling.

“Do you know what it means to have a hole in your ship at a hundred twenty thousand feet?!” Cyrus yelled, tossing his hands in the air. “‘Cause I promise you won’t like –”

“Relax, little brother,” sighed Fiearius, putting his hands on his brother’s shoulders as they walked. “It’s fine. Everything’s fine–”

Merely a stunned observer, Leta was frozen against the railing as she watched the three of them approach down the hallway without sparing her a look. It occurred to her as their conversation continued (“I don’t know, Cy-cy, we are still alive,“ Corra was saying now), that they were going to stride right past her lest she wave her arms and yell.

The realization caused a sort of sudden anger in her chest. Anger she did not she even possessed. Gritting her teeth, she pushed herself away from the railing and forced herself in front of them. The trio awkwardly stumbled to a stop before her like dominos as she glared at each of them, most especially at Fiearius.

“You need treatment,” she growled. She ignored their stunned looks. “And I need off this ship.”

A nervous sort of laugh bubbled out of Leta’s lips, though it faded off awkwardly. Arms master? Meanwhile she continued to shake Corra’s hand for an unnecessarily long stretch of time. Finally realizing, she dropped her hand, blinked and said, “I’m Leta. And I don’t know how long I’ll be aboard. Actually. But your captain does need treatment and … “

“Fraid you ain’t gonna be treatin’ anything til we’re airborne,” Corra told her briskly. “And if we’re gonna make it airborne, better get strapped in. I was gonna head up to the bridge. Some seats up there to hold on to. ‘Sides. If the cap’n was right and we’re gettin’ tailed, should be a mighty fine show and no denyin’ they’re the best seats in the house.”

Turning around, the girl gestured merrily for Leta to follow along as if they were headed out the door for a picnic. Without much else to do, Leta irked an eyebrow, stared, and then started after. Beneath her feet, the floor was beginning to lightly tremble, humming to life. Trying to ignore the unpleasant swoop in her stomach, she carefully followed on Corra’s heels through the narrow hallway and up a short staircase toward the bridge.

Leta had never been in a ship’s bridge before. She would have imagined it quite a bit larger, but then again, the only ships she’d ever been on were commercial travel vessels. This cabin had only two chairs, a half-moon dashboard of controls, and it would’ve fit a handful of people. Presently it held just one, the infected captain, at the controls. Once Leta and Corra halted in the doorway, he turned around in his chair and said bluntly, “Can I help you?”

“The passenger seats are broken,” Corra informed him, folding down one of the cockpit chairs hidden in the back wall. He just stared back at her blankly. “Needed a place to strap in so you don’t kill us.” His expression shifted toward a glare. Corra smirked in return. “How’s the fever?”

“It’s fine,” he snapped, and then spun back round in his chair, away from them.

“Not gonna go all crazy again, right?” Corra continued to tease, though the smirk in her lips was a little cruel. Fiearius didn’t even bother to look around or respond so she just went on. “But if you do, it’s all right, I brought the doctor along.” She looked back at Leta and gestured for her to have a seat next to her in the other chair. “Strap yourself in, chika, gonna be a bumpy ride. You been on a ship like this before? Let me rephrase that, you felt like you’re gonna die before? Basically the same thing.”

Apparently determined to ignore the both of them, Fiearius picked up the intercom and spoke into it, “You ready for this, little brother? I’m counting on you.”

There was a long pause before Cyrus’ muffled voice filled the room, rather bitterly. “Ready when you are, captain.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Fiearius said brightly, putting the intercom back in its place and adding, “Hold onto your seatbelts, ladies,” while he seized the main controls.  On the console screen above his head, six red dots appeared on the radar. Even from the door of the bridge, Leta could feel the power of his smirk as he said, “And the fun begins.”