Fiearius opened his mouth again to protest, but he seemed to think better of it. Instead, he grimaced apologetically. “Well, I’m sorry. I honestly thought you knew,” he admitted. “But for future reference, when it comes to Archeti at least, we’re in bed with Quinida Utara. Pretty much exclusively.”

Cyrus stared at his brother, dumbfounded. “Well,” he began, almost unable to put together words in his annoyance. “That would have been nice to know.” After an awkward pause, he ventured reluctantly, “Wait, in bed — figuratively?”

Fiearius stared back at him, entirely expressionless, as Leta stifled a snort with difficulty. A few beats passed before Fiearius concluded, “So you didn’t get the stuff, then?”

Cyrus winced in disgust, but he shook it off dismissively, and then focused his eyes on the floor in shame. “No. I didn’t  get the stuff.” He drew a deep breath. “But not because he tried to poison me.”

Fiearius readjusted his lean and raised his brows in interest. Cyrus reluctantly explained, “I didn’t get the stuff because it was stolen from the donation channels.”

“Which you knew,” Fiearius pointed out immediately. “We talked about this.”

“It’s wrong,” Cyrus said shortly. “We shouldn’t be encouraging theft from people who need it.”

“We need it,” Fiearius countered.

“Not as much as they do.” Cyrus shook his head and spoke on with all the authority of an actual captain and all the anxiety of someone who knew they weren’t. “It’s wrong and you know it. We’ll just have to find another way to get the med supplies.”

Fiearius’ expression was hardened. Leta thought the explosion was coming — perhaps now would be the moment when he turned into the vicious man she’d seen earlier. But all he said to Cyrus was, curiously, “How’d you get out?”

Looking enormously relieved by Fiearius’ reaction (or lack thereof), Cyrus sighed, “Corra. She took care of the assailant. And Leta.” He glanced up at her, appreciation lighting his eyes. “She saved my life.”

It was then that Fiearius cocked an eyebrow, falling suspiciously silent. For the first time, he looked at Leta with something that wasn’t disdain in his eyes. It wasn’t even dislike. It was actually — no, it couldn’t have been. It couldn’t have been a glimmer of respect.

As quickly as it arrived, the expression shifted and he merely smirked. “Well well. Not so useless after all, eh kiddo? Nice work.”

Useless? Saving his life and his brother’s in the span of a week rendered her useless now? “Yeah, you’re welcome,” she snapped, and then gestured to the door. “And I’ve got a few more tests left to do on your brother so if you could just step on out … ”

Fiearius barked a rough laugh and shook his head. “Of course. Lest we forget whose ship this is…” he muttered under his breath, but he did turn to leave.

“‘Scuse me, cap’n!”

Just as he turned, his elbow nearly knocked into Corra who gracefully ducked beneath him and slipped into the room. Three glasses were clutched in her hands, the drinks sloshing around as she whipped towards Cyrus and Leta.

“Thought we could all use a drink after the day we had,” she explained cheerfully, unperturbed by Leta and Cyrus’ equally blank looks. “A nice cold beer for you, fearless leader. Not poison, I promise.” She handed one glass to Cyrus, who reached for it slowly, looking reluctant. “This one’s for me. And for you, my dear chika.”

A grin lit up Corra’s face as she held up the last drink, which was a violent shade of orange not usually found it nature, let alone in a beverage. She noticed both Cyrus and Fiearius were eyeing the drink wearily.

“The Dionysian Firebomb,” announced Corra proudly, pushing the drink into her hand. “Can’t tell you what’s in it. But it’s tradition. For all new crew members. And it looks like you’ll be sticking around for a little bit at least.” Her eyes twinkled, then she looked up at Fiearius. “Sorry, didn’t know you’d be down here, cap’n, but care to join us anyway?”

Fiearius cast her a blank look, and then laughed loudly. “No thanks. And good luck with that,” he added, looking disdainfully at Leta’s drink, before he turned and drifted into the hallway.

“And good riddance to you…” Corra muttered under her breath, glaring after him, but her smile came back in full force when she turned her attention back to the others. “A toast,” she declared cheerfully. “To a job well–” She paused and smirked at Cyrus playfully. “To a job done.”

Leta started to protest — she wasn’t in the mood for a mystery drink, and really, Cyrus probably shouldn’t have been drinking alcohol immediately after the incident — but just as quickly, she thought, oh, what the hell. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually shared a drink with decent company. Certainly not after Ren had been captured, so months at least. She clinked her glass to theirs.

An hour later, back on the ship, Corra disappeared upstairs while Leta dragged Cyrus to the infirmary. In a heavy silence, he sat on the exam bench as Leta read through the test results on the console screen.

“Blood test came back normal,” she told him, clicking through the data. She didn’t exactly expect him to sound thrilled at this news. In fact, he looked quite miserable, back slumped, his eyes on the floor. “Everything else too. Except for a little dehydration — so finish that water, please — “ she added, nodding toward the glass sitting by him, “you’ll be completely fine.” She turned away from the screen to get a better look at her patient. “Looks like you’ll live to fight another day after all.”

“Yeah,” he muttered dryly. Then he glanced sideways at her. “Thanks, by the way. For saving me, I mean.”

Leta crossed her arms over her chest, watching him closely even as he went back to avoiding her eyes. “You’re welcome. We should probably thank Corra, actually,” she remarked. “She’s the reason we both made it out of there. And to think, she almost didn’t go with us at all … “

Cyrus blanched, and then went on,  “Yeah, and…” He inhaled sharply, as if he’d truly been dreading saying, “You were right. To call it off. It was stupid. The whole idea was stupid. I don’t know why I agreed to do it to begin with.”

Leta found it was rather difficult to be angry with someone who nearly choked to death before her eyes only a few hours ago. And besides that, he looked like he wanted nothing more than to sink into the floor and disappear. Feeling her heart soften in spite of it all, Leta shook her head. “Yeah … I know,” she murmured. “It’s okay.” After a moment , she asked, not unkindly, “Why did you agree to do the job?”

The look Cyrus gave her was practically hopeless. “I don’t know,” he confessed pleadingly. “I just…I wanted to help. With Fiear down and the ship..a mess. I’m supposed to be the first mate, vice captain, if you will. Not that anyone believes I should be. I guess I just wanted to prove them wrong. That I could take care of this ship if something happens to him.” He dove a hand through his messy hair. “But I guess I can’t. He woulda done it. Without a second thought. And we’d be way better off than we are now. But me?” He dropped his hand to his knee, helpless. “Not me. I should just stick to fixing the engine…”

“So I’m guessing the deal didn’t go that well then.”

It was Fiearius. Suddenly, he was leaning in the doorway, his shoulder against the frame, arms crossed. Possibly Leta’s look of disgust was obvious, because he eyed her for a moment before focusing his attention on his brother, who had gone pale.

Here we go, thought Leta darkly, crossing her arms tighter as if bracing for the storm.

“So, what happened?” Fiearius asked, his voice eerily calm.

“Exactly what you said,” Cyrus admitted quietly, every word heavy with guilt. “It didn’t go well.”

Fiearius’ head tilted as he regarded his brother. “You okay?” he asked, a genuine note of concern in his voice.

“Yeah,” Cyrus snapped, suddenly defensive. “I’m fine. It just…didn’t go well.”

Apparently willing to accept that answer, Fiearius took a sharp intake of breath and muttered, “Strange. Never had a problem with her before.”

At this, Cyrus twitched and finally looked up at him. “Her?” he repeated bitterly. “Her.”

Confused, Fiearius glanced at Leta as though she could explain this. “Yeah?” he ventured carefully.

Cyrus groaned and shook his head, exasperated. “You wanna know what really happened?” he asked harshly. “That happened.” When his sibling showed no hint of understanding, he pressed on irritably, “The only direction you gave was ‘you know who to go to’. Apparently I didn’t though because when I went to see him, he tried to kill me.”

Leta didn’t know what she expected from Fiearius — yelling, at the very least — but to her surprise, the man drew his brow together in something like concern. “Shit, Cy, where’d you go?” he asked wonderingly.

“To Grice,” Cyrus replied instantly, faking cheer. “Because I’ve never met ‘her’. Or even heard of ‘her’. Who the hell is ‘her’?”

But Fiearius wasn’t interested in answering his question so much as condemning his choice. “Grice?!” he repeated incredulously, dropping his arms in surprise. “You went to Grice?!” His hand came to his forehead in frustration. “Dov’ha ti’arté, no wonder he tried to kill you.”

“Well, you, actually,” Cyrus corrected sourly. “I don’t think he was planning on me…Do I even want to know why he was trying to poison you?”

Fiearius sighed heavily and shook his head. “Either because our good friends back on Kadolyne are offering a great deal of money for the man — ” he glanced at Leta, “ — and woman who killed Goddora. Or…” He hesitated for a moment before lifting his shoulders in a shrug. “Or because I fucked him over six months back. Or both. Probably both.”

Leta (who had been doing quite well, she thought, keeping a respectful silence), could no longer stand it.

“That’s why this happened?!” she demanded, catching the brothers by surprise. “Cyrus almost died because you forgot to tell him about Grice?!”

Fiearius looked at her, startled by the interruption. “Don’t blame me for this, he said he understood,” he defended, before looking back to Cyrus. “You said that. I remember. I asked if you knew what I meant, and you said yes.”

“Of course I said yes,” Cyrus went on in despair. “I thought I did! Grice was the only option I could think of, I assumed he had to be the right one. How was I supposed to know I was wrong?”

Leta couldn’t help but roll her eyes to the ceiling. “Idiots,” she groaned. “The both of you, complete idiots.”

Cyrus, with a feeling of apprehension, recognized that burning look in Leta’s gaze. It reminded him exactly of his brother when he was fired up. Which usually meant something bad was about to happen.

And their logic was sound. Too sound. If he felt hopeless before, now he was utterly trapped. They were right, both of them. This whole thing was wrong. The place, the man, the goods, all of it was just one mistake after another. And with both Corra and Leta looking at him like they were looking at him right now? There was no way he could go through with this. Gods, why was he even here? How could he have ever agreed to do this?

“Okay,” he sighed at last. “Okay. You’re right. We shouldn’t. We shouldn’t encourage this stuff…”

“Well,” Corra began hesitantly, “I don’t know that we have much of a choice now…” She eyed the gang leader and his posse carefully. “Doubt he’ll be that happy if you change your mind all of a sudden.”

Cyrus glanced toward the glinting rifles in their hands. Could nothing ever be easy? How the hell anyone put up with all these ridiculous criminals and their trigger-happy tendencies, he would never know. What happened to the days when he was able to settle disputes with a few harsh words and then a pointed avoidance around the office for the next few weeks?

“Any ideas?” he mumbled hopefully.

After a strained, heavy pause, Leta suddenly looked up from the floor. “Actually, yes. I’ll do the talking,” she said, which was a phrase Cyrus had never once found comforting.

She turned and walked back to the bar. One of Grice’s men was leaning over to speak in his ear, clearly discussing the situation. They both looked unpleasantly over to Leta.

Leta, however, had focused her attention back on the crate. She opened its lid and looked over the neat rows of vials, bottles and bandages it held curiously.

“Dropbox donation, right?” she asked calmly, to which Grice and his men laughed.

“’Course it is. Docs love to send their charity ‘round here.”

Finally, after another moment of studying the supplies, Leta shut the crate with a snap and looked up. “This isn’t it. This isn’t the medicine we need.”

At once, confusion and anger flashed in Grice’s eyes, and he slammed down his mug. “What do you fucking mean ‘this isn’t — ”

Catching on, Cyrus hurried forward. “You heard her,” he told the man harshly. “It’s not what we need. Are you trying to pull one over on me?” At Grice’s curled lip and furrowed brow, Cyrus instantly regretted the accusation. Quickly, he back-pedaled, “Or was I unclear in my message? Whatever the reason.” He lifted his chin and stood tall as he declared, “This won’t work. The deal’s off.”

“Off? Off?” he repeated gruffly. “You set up the meeting, you wasted our fuckin’ time — ”

“Well we won’t waste any more of it,” said Leta. In the corner of his eye, Cyrus saw her wrist trembling ever so slightly at her side, but her voice was quite steady.

Which was only a small comfort. This was it, he thought, brushing his hand back toward his hip where his gun was holstered. Any second now Grice was going to gesture for his men to slaughter them all and riddle the bar with bullets. Any second he was —

But to Cyrus’ shock, Grice did nothing of the sort. In fact, after regarding Leta for another tense moment, the gang leader looked away, downed the rest of his beer, pushed himself to his feet and spat, “You’re goddamn lucky I’m in a good mood.”

He glared furiously, and, taking care to shove Cyrus’ shoulder on his way out, strode to the door. His gunhands followed after, leaving the three of them — and the silent, watching bartender — alone in the room.

For several seconds, no one spoke. No one moved.

Finally, Corra muttered bitterly, “That was disappointing.” She loosened the grip on her gun, crestfallen. “I was rather looking forward to shooting somebody…”

Cyrus, lacking Corra’s current craving for blood, was less disappointed and far more perplexed. Grice had seemed angry, but there was no retribution? That wasn’t usually how these things worked. ‘A little pissed off’ usually ended up with someone dead. So why was he still standing there, fully intact?

“I don’t understand…” he muttered. Feeling wrong-footed, he slumped back onto the barstool. Leta joined him, lowering to her seat and looking just as perplexed.

“That was — quite terrible,” she muttered, “but at least … ”

“At least we’re not dead?” Cyrus suggested, grimacing. “I dunno, might as well be for how much I’m gonna get slammed when we get back to the ship. Coming back with nothing at all. No better off than we were before.” With that in mind, he reached for the tankard sitting in front of him.

“But you stood up for something,” Corra pointed out. “The cap’n would never do that.”

“Exactly,” Cyrus muttered. “And to hell if he’ll understand why I did…”  If only to give himself something to do, he took a drink from the glass in his hands, rather defeatedly.

The next moment, Cyrus felt it: a burning in his mouth, then a choking fire in his throat and lungs. The tankard thudded out of his hand, spilling a river of liquid across the bar and Leta’s lap.

The last thing he saw was Leta’s look of horror, her voice growing distant in his ears as she yelled, “Cyrus! Your drink — don’t — !” before he slid from the stool and his vision went black.

Was that too much? Over the top? To his relief, Grice moved his eyes back to his face and, after a tense pause, said, “Fine. Sit, then.”

He slid into a bar stool beside Leta. Corra remained standing behind them, threateningly grasping her own rifle. Grice wiped his beard with a dirty napkin, then threw it back to the surface of the bar, one of his hands waving over the bartender.

“Drinks,” he grumbled, and seconds later, the bartender crossed the room, four mugs in hand.

Grice reached for his tankard. Feeling it would be impolite to do otherwise, Cyrus did the same.

“Admit I’m surprised,” Grice grunted, pulling his mug from his mouth and sloshing beer down his front. “Thought your brother was done doin’ business with the Saints eh.”
He swiped his mouth with his sleeve and continued, “But ya need med supplies. And what is it you’ve got for us?”

Cyrus nearly took a drink of his own, but halted in unpleasant surprise. Fiearius wasn’t doing business with the Saints any longer? But Fiearius had told Cyrus to meet with this guy. Or — hadn’t he?

Suddenly, his stomach dropped. No, Fiearius hadn’t said that explicitly, but Cyrus had thought for sure Grice was who he had meant. He was the only gang leader Cyrus had ever had any contact with. Why would he say ‘you know which one’ if he hadn’t meant the only one Cyrus knew? But if they weren’t on business terms anymore…

Well it was too late now. They were here and no one had started waving their guns about just yet. Perhaps he was overthinking this. Everything seemed fine. There was no reason he couldn’t just go on with this deal and everything would remain fine.

Nonetheless, he felt the need to once again clarify, “Like I said. I’m not my brother.” He was not a lying, scheming, dirty space pirate terrible at clear communication, he thought angrily. He, Cyrus, was a goddamned cluster-reknowned ship-building genius. So why the hell was he here talking to some Archetian lowlife on behalf of his elder sibling’s stupid infection?

“Five cases, Ridellian heat, virgin made,” Cyrus repeated diligently. Oh wait, that wasn’t right. “I mean…Ridellian made. Virgin heat.” Whatever that meant.

He clutched his mug of beer and felt Leta glance at him. What, had she been reading up on guns too or something? Fortunately, Grice was not quite as quick and didn’t seem to notice any slips. He was cupping his chin thoughtfully, glancing at the ceiling, apparently considering the deal.

“Huh. You must really need med stock eh. Well take a look.”

He gestured, and one of his men came forward, bringing with him a long, rectangular wooden crate and setting it atop the bar before them. Words and numbers were scrawled across the top of the box — one of them might have said ‘disaster relief,’ but Cyrus couldn’t have been sure. Judging by the unrecognizable language, this med kit had traveled far.

“Got everything ya would need,” Grice growled, grinning proudly, showing yellow teeth. Cyrus did not return the smile, but glanced sideways at Leta. She was the only one that could discern if the med kit was what she needed to fix his stupid reckless brother. Or if they were about to be ripped off in this deal.

Horribly, judging by the look on her face, it was the latter category. She stared at the crate, then looked up at Grice, anger and shock arriving in her face.

“Where’d you get this kit?” she said sharply.

Grice, whose attention had wandered back to his tankard, looked up. “‘Cuse?”

“Where,” she repeated, her voice cold, “did you get this?”

Possibly Grice had never been addressed like this in his life, because he looked between Leta and Cyrus, his jaw hung open in an ugly display of shock. Focusing on Cyrus in particular, he demanded, “Now what the fuck does it matter?”

His gunhands were beginning to stir along the wall. Before Cyrus could stammer a panicked reply (why did it matter? what the hell was she doing?), Leta seized his wrist and muttered, “We need a minute.”

Forcing his expression into a look of calm, as if this interruption was totally planned, Cyrus slid off the stool and joined Leta and Corra in the corner of the room.

“We can’t do it,” said Leta at once, her voice sharp and quiet. “We can’t do the deal.”

“What?” Cyrus whispered harshly. “What do you mean we can’t do it?”

“We can’t accept that med kit,” she went on, short of breath. “I recognize that kit, I’ve packed them myself — all those supplies? They’re meant for a children’s ward. It’s aid, donated from affluent planets, meant for children in need on Archeti. Grice’s people probably raided a volunteer’s ship on its way to a hospital or something. We can’t take it.”

“Can’t–” Cyrus began incredulously. “I don’t–Look, it may have been meant for the sick at some point, sure, but…” He threw his hand towards the crate. “It’s not ever going to get to who it belongs to. It never does.” He eyed her desperately, but she was shaking her head. “This is just how it works.”

“How it works? How it — ?” Leta repeated, sputtering in her anger. Then she grit her teeth, “I don’t care ‘how it works,’ we’re not taking supplies that belong to dying kids.”

Cyrus stared, riddled with shock. On one hand, he found himself inclined to agree that the morality behind this was rather questionable. On the other hand, those men had guns. “It’s already been taken,” he pleaded with her under his breath, trying to remember Fiearius’ excuse for it. “We’re just taking it from them. If we don’t, someone else will.”

Looking weary, Corra spoke up. “I dunno, Cy-cy,” she muttered, her eyes locked suspiciously on Grice and his gunmen. “Even if it will never get there, aren’t we just supporting the original theft? Perpetuating it?” She looked up at him sadly. “If we trade for it, aren’t we just giving them more reason to keep stealing it to begin with?”

“Exactly,” Leta snapped, throwing a furious and grateful look toward Corra. “Look, Cyrus, we’ll get supplies for your brother’s arm some other way — I rationed what supplies we have on the ship — but I am not trading with someone who steals from volunteers and sick kids –”

Fiearius let out a disgruntled ‘hmph’. “Why do you think we’re here?”

“Vacation?” said Finn brightly, jabbing a thumb back toward the door. Dropping his hand, he shrugged. “Nah, you picked a good spot. Goddora was never that popular on Archeti. Most are glad he’s snuffed it; probably won’t run into anyone who wants violent revenge … ”

“Well, that’s comforting,” said Leta dryly. Quite ready for this conversation to be over, she glanced to Cyrus. “Ready to go?”

Cyrus, who didn’t look remotely ready by the expression on his face, stuck the map in his pocket and nodded. “As I’ll ever be.”

Leta was surprised to see a look of pity flicker on Fiearius’ face.

“Hey,” he called, catching Cyrus’ attention. He used his one good shoulder to push himself from the wall and he stepped to his brother. “Take care of yourself, alright? And don’t worry about the fuel, I’ll find someone dumb enough to hook up to a ship in the middle of town.”

Cyrus frowned, taken aback. “I thought you were on a break…”

Fiearius shrugged one shoulder. “Ain’t no rest for the wicked.”

“I…don’t think that’s what –” Cyrus began.

“You’ll do fine.” Fiearius patted him on the shoulder cheerfully before turning back to Leta. “And you,” he told her bluntly, his eyes drifting toward a glare. “Don’t you dare let him die.” He kept his long, intense stare on her face before breaking into a wide smile. “Have fun, kids!”

Cyrus rolled his eyes and beckoned Leta to the ramp. She started to follow, but not without throwing a distracted look toward Fiearius, her needy patient. “No more window jumping, got it?” she growled, suddenly alarmed by whatever business deal Fiearius was planning himself. “Your arm’s barely — “

Before she could finish her threat, another voice rang out, causing everyone to turn.

“Hang on!”

It was Corra. She was hurrying down the stairs, fully armed with at least three guns strapped to her tiny body. She practically flew across the room, nearly colliding with Cyrus as she skidded to a halt and grabbed his arm. “I just heard,” she panted through heavy breaths, “I can’t believe…you’re gonna go…do this…without me.”

Looking dumbstruck,  Cyrus opened his mouth and finally stammered, “I didn’t want to bother you and I thought–”

“And I can’t believe,” she went on breathlessly, ignoring his stammers and rounding on Fiearius, “You were gonna…let them go…on their own.” She looked at him furiously. “These two! Are you…crazy?!”

Appearing as perplexed as his brother, Fiearius blinked down at her slowly. “Depends who you ask?” he offered unhelpfully.

Corra released a frustrated groan, sucked in one more heavy breath and glared at Cyrus. “I’m coming with you,” she informed him matter-of-factly, her tone practically daring him to challenge her.

Cyrus was apparently up to the task. “Are you sure?” he asked, stupidly. Leta saw an odd, confused hope fill Cyrus’ eyes, like he couldn’t quite believe what was happening, but he wanted to. Actually, in her week aboard, she’d never seen Cyrus look at anyone like that. “I mean, after–”

“I’m coming with you,” she repeated harshly.

Cyrus seemed incapable of putting words together anymore, so Leta wondered, “What made you change your mind?”

Corra’s frown softened, and she gave a sheepish, kind smirk. “I can’t just let you guys go out there alone,” she admitted, sounding breathless but determined. “If something happened? I’d…I’d never forgive myself. If we can’t look out for each other, who will?”

Sincerity blazed in her round brown eyes, and Leta was taken aback. It made sense that she wanted to help Cyrus — they were clearly friends, perhaps more than friends — but Corra grasped her forearm too, like they’d known each other forever.

“I — guess you’re right,” said Leta finally, beginning to smile in spite of herself. At least until Finn interrupted.

“This is really touching,” he said, beaming at them all. “So how come no one’s invited me, eh?”

Still grasping Leta’s arm, Corra turned back to Finn and frowned. “Because I don’t trust you,” she stated simply. “Any ‘friend’ of his,” she gestured to Fiearius, “is bound to be trouble.”

“Well, fair point,” Finn conceded. “Shame you won’t ask my help though. I’m more than just a pretty face, Corra… ”

Indignantly, Fiearius laid a protective hand on Finn’s shoulder. “S’alright, mate. They’re just jealous.”

Rolling her eyes, quite ready to be away from both Fiearius and his obnoxious friend, Leta steered them toward the door and fell into step beside Cyrus.

“Let’s just get this over with,” she muttered, but now she felt slightly more confident in their chances. After all, unlike her last three painful months on Vescent, at least she didn’t have to face this task alone.

“Shh!” Leta hissed, swiping her hand sideways to shut the man up, weary of his voice carrying to the bridge. Whatever he was about to say, Leta was certain it wasn’t the time: after all, she was joining Cyrus on Archeti, against all of her better judgement, and the last thing they needed was a blow to his confidence.

He certainly had looked nervous at breakfast this morning. She wasn’t feeling particularly good about this plan either, but it was obvious Cyrus hated his new position as captain and all the attention it brought, so she had done her best to smile at him encouragingly. Or she’d hoped it was encouraging. Hopefully the smile had read, we can do this! Or perhaps, you’re an amazing interim captain! And not, please don’t kill us.

Stopping to help the older man to his feet, Leta then edged around him and turned into the bridge entrance, pausing on the threshold.

Fiearius was in the co-pilot’s seat, relaxed as if he’d just finished watching a mildly interesting film. Beside him, Cyrus was frozen, his hands still on the controls, apparently at a loss for words.

“So everyone’s fine,” she told him lightly, not entirely certain this was true (Rhys groaned from the hallway). “So I’ll finish getting ready? And I’ll meet you in the cargo bay, Cyrus.”

In response, Cyrus said, his voice a little shriller than normal, “Yep. Okay. Thanks.”

Exchanging a look of concern with Fiearius, Leta backed out of the room.

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

Ten minutes later, Leta threw her med bag over her shoulder (she’d come more prepared this time), and took the stairs down into the cargo bay. The wide room was crowded and lively, which Leta found interesting, as Archeti wasn’t exactly a fun landing point. The ship’s ramp door was down, providing a view of the landscape; even in her brief glimpse, the city of Genesi looked grim.

The deckhands Nikkolai and Javier were sitting together atop a crate, Cyrus was hanging nearby reviewing a map in his hands, and Rhys was slumped against a wall, swigging from a bottle of whiskey. Corra seemed to be the only one missing from the scene, and Leta felt a pang of guilt that she hadn’t stopped to see how she was doing. After how nice Corra had been, giving her a gun lesson, letting her borrow a set of her clothes …

Leta was distracted somewhat when she realized even Fiearius was present. He was leaning against a beam on the wall, talking with someone Leta didn’t recognize, but must have been from Archeti. The stranger was tall and lean, young thirties perhaps, though the unruly cut of his brown hair and the grin on his face made him look boyishly youthful.

“ — such a brilliant entrance there, mate,” the man was saying, grinning at Fiearius. A cigarette stuck out from the corner of his mouth as he spoke, his voice slightly muffled by it. “One of your best. Few more of those and maybe you’ll realize it’s time to recycle this hunk of junk?”

“Junk?!” Fiearius repeated incredulously. “She ain’t junk. I resent that. And I’m offended you’d think I would land her like that too. I’d do a better job even with this damn thing,” he gestured to the sling holding his arm. Rolling his eyes, he grumbled, “Junk. Better than that Carthian shit you fly any day. Everyone knows Carthians can’t build ships for the life of ‘em.”

“Oho, I can’t wait to show ya just how wrong y — wait, hang on,” he said, spotting Leta and suddenly swiping the cigarette from his mouth. If it were possible, his grin broadened, and his eyebrows lifted in what was, undeniably, appreciation. “Fiearius. Are you cheating on me? I thought what we had was special … why didn’t you tell me there was a new woman in your life?”

“I guess that depends on how you’re defining ‘in my life’,” Fiearius muttered under his breath, eyeing Leta in distaste. Then he let out a sigh and introduced diligently, “Finn, this is some doctor from Vescent that my brother decided to kidnap. Presumably, he did so for the sole purpose of pissing me off.”

“Ah, well in that case, we all owe Cyrus our thanks,” said the man. Without missing a beat, he stepped before her and stated cheerfully, “Finnegan Riley, old friend of Fiear’s, what’s your name?” and stuck out his hand.

Leta only stared. The man simply oozed boyish charm. She regarded him in both disgust and amusement, not taking his hand. “It’s Leta,” she deadpanned. To Fiearius, she rose her eyebrows in surprise. “You have friends?”

“You have a name?” Fiearius quipped back.

At this, Finn barked a laugh. “Oh, you two are adorable,” he said sincerely. Then he looked back to Leta, wagging a finger at her. “You — hang on … You were with Fiear when he killed Goddorra, weren’t ya? The second shooter?”

Leta, who had been looking over her shoulder to find Cyrus, snapped her attention back. “How’d you know about that?”

“Ah, everyone across the span knows by now, darlin’,” said Finn, an Archetian twang of an accent to his voice. Grimacing and grinning at the same time, he mused to Fiearius amicably, “As if the Dionysian needed more people coming after it. So, you paid dearly for that one yet? Goddora’s pals probably have a few words for you two.”

Perhaps she looked as poorly as she felt; when she sat down, a warm voice greeted across the table, “Good morning, Leta. Sleep alright?”

It was Aiden, the so-called ‘human resources’ director that Cyrus had introduced her to her first morning aboard. As far as Leta could tell, he was among the oldest aboard, late thirties perhaps, with flecks of premature gray in his light-brown beard. He also seemed polite and normal, which made Leta wonder what the hell he was doing aboard the Dionysian.

Without asking, he poured her a mug of coffee and slid it over. Leta considered answering his question the polite way, but something in his voice made her falter. “Not particularly,” she admitted after a moment.

“I wouldn’t either, after what happened yesterday.” He did not look surprised. In fact, he looked a little upset, a furrow in his brow. “I wouldn’t blame you if you demanded to be let off at the next port.”

Leta managed a small, wry smile. That same thought had occurred to her in the middle of the night. “Not just yet. First I need the captain’s help with something. Maybe you could put in a good word for me,” she suggested, but only half-heartedly. Her voice was a tired mumble.

“Sure. Fiearius is no stranger to odd favors. And jobs. And he even listens to me sometimes.”

Leta lifted the steaming mug to her lips, and then paused. She couldn’t help but ask, “Do these jobs always involve so much bloodshed?” She thought he might laugh, but instead, he smiled in understanding.

“I wouldn’t be here if they did.”

In the middle of the restless long night, Leta had felt like swearing off the ship forever. But now she was actually feeling a bit curious again. “So why are you here then?” she asked, not unkindly.

He frowned in thought. “It’s funny, really,” he mused, leaning back in his chair. “Everyone’s got a different reason for being aboard. Like Niki — “ He nodded toward the younger blonde boy about twenty years old, sitting nearby, chatting animatedly over breakfast. “He came aboard to sidestep some gang trouble on his home planet. And Javier, sitting next to him — he just wanted a job on a ship; this is his first time away from home.”

“And Corra,” Leta interrupted, unable to help herself. She couldn’t help the surge of protectiveness she already felt of the other woman aboard. “She’s here because Fiearius bought her.”

Aiden looked briefly surprised, but not unpleasantly so. “Yes, that’s right,” he said. “Corra was once an ally. Now she is no longer enslaved, in any sense of the word. That was three years ago now.”

“Three years,” Leta repeated quietly, and then she remembered more of what Cyrus had told her the first night aboard. “Is that when Fiearius fled Satieri then? Why did he have to flee, anyway?”

For the first time in the conversation, she saw Aiden hesitate. A subtle pause passed between them in which the lines framing his eyes wrinkled slightly. Possibly he had not expected her to be so sharp.

Sounding genuinely apologetic, he said, “Well, I don’t know that whole tale, I’m afraid,” which meant Leta was getting the runaround even from him.

“Uh huh,” she agreed sarcastically, but with some amusement.

Aiden looked briefly amused at her candor. “And the reason I came aboard — unemployment, mostly,” he laughed. “I ran into Fiearius accidentally and needed a lift out. I was a professor on Acendia before I was let go.”

In spite of herself, Leta felt a touch of interest. “You were a professor? My mom was as well. She taught science courses for years.”

“Is that right? I taught mostly philosophy, some general psychology. Which — let me tell you, has really come in handy with this crew,” he said and grinned, an effect that made him fleetingly years younger.

Out of the corner of her eye, Leta caught a glimpse of a familiar mess of black hair in the entryway. Cyrus. He was glancing over the room urgently, and it quickly became clear what he was looking for: her. As soon as their eyes met, his stance relaxed, albeit forcefully, and he strode towards the table where she and Aiden sat.

“Morning,” Cyrus greeted. Dark circles hung under his eyes and his smile was strained to the point that it almost seemed to be a grimace. Clearly, Leta was not the only one who hadn’t slept last night. “How are you two doing?” he asked. “Hope I’m not interrupting…”

“Of course not, Cyrus, have a seat,” said Aiden, pouring him a mug of coffee, which Cyrus accepted as he lowered into a seat rather hesitantly, as if he wasn’t so sure breakfast was a good idea after all. “How fares our fearless leader?”

Distractedly, Cyrus said, “Oh yeah, he’s eh, he’s alright. I think. Just resting.”

Leta wanted to ask him if he’d talked to him at all about Ren, but something in Cyrus’ face — exhaustion and stress — told her it wasn’t the time. “His arm can begin to heal properly now, he’ll be fine in a few week’s time,” she assured him. “Especially once we re-stock on med supplies.”

“Right,” Cyrus agreed, all too quickly. His hands suddenly jumped around his mug as though he were about to say something, but had to brace himself first. After an uncomfortable pause in which Aiden and Leta glanced at one another, Cyrus blurted out, “About that. We think we have a plan. We’re heading to Genisi.”

Leta blinked. She was surprised (although maybe she should not have been), by Cyrus’ sudden plan and even more so by his choice of destination. Archeti’s capital city was gang-ridden and filthy. “So, another job?” She stared at him. “There?”

Cyrus nodded. “We can trade there. Our guns for their medical supplies. Fuel too. If this goes well, we’ll finally be back on our feet again,” he explained, though there was a distinct note of skepticism in his voice. “I’ve already reached out to one of our trading partners in the city. Fingers crossed he gets back to me by the time we land…”

Leta found herself nodding, though she wasn’t feeling particularly enthused by this plan. But at least she wouldn’t have to go with him this time. She had no intention of repeating yesterday.

Across the table, Aiden noted curiously, “Sounds like you’re our fearless leader at the moment then, Cy. You taking the lead on this?”

Cyrus met Aiden’s eyes with a distinct pang of despair. “Afraid so,” he muttered. “I don’t think Fiear’s in any shape to…you know…be Fiear. So I’ll handle it. But…” His voice trailed off and he looked down at his fingers tapping on the table. “I need some help.”

There was a pause in which Leta looked between Cyrus, who pointedly avoided her eyes, and Aiden, who looked politely curious. Suddenly feeling alarmed, Leta almost laughed aloud. “Wait. Like, to go with you?”

Suddenly seeming just as alarmed as her, Cyrus looked up and defended, “Well I can’t very well go alone. Even Fiearius doesn’t walk into these places solo. If it’s me? It’s suicide. And…well…” Again, he averted her stare. “I would take Corra, but she’s not really in any mood right now after yesterday. And Rhys doesn’t listen to me. Most of the deckhands have never held a gun in their lives. I wouldn’t trust Ludo to make the situation any less dangerous than it already could be.” He turned to Aiden. “Don’t suppose you’d do it?”

“Afraid not, Cyrus,” said Aiden. He smiled apologetically, but his voice was firm. “You know I’ve quietly retired from off-ship jobs.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” Cyrus grumbled before swooping his pleading eyes back to Leta. “You’re my only option here. And more importantly, what I need to trade for is medical supplies. Medical supplies I know nothing about. I need some expertise at my side.” He let out a hopeless sigh. “I know it’s not ideal. I know yesterday was terrible, but it won’t be like that. This should just be a simple in and out business. If you really don’t want to, I understand. I’m not gonna force you into anything.” The begging in his widened eyes grew intense. “But I’d really feel better if you were there…”

Already, Leta was shaking her head no, ignoring the desperation written all over his face. But, horribly, he wasn’t totally wrong about needing her: for Fiearius to really heal (and thus, to really help Ren), that infirmary of theirs needed an overhaul. And it was a bit unrealistic to ask Cyrus to learn pharmaceutical knowledge in a day’s time …

Angrily, she said, “And you swear it’ll be nothing like yesterday?”

Instantly hopeful, Cyrus declared, “I swear. Nothing like yesterday. That was just…stupidity. There’s no way this can go wrong. We just go in and trade the stuff and get out. Simple.”

Leta could hardly believe she was going on another one of these; really, she was becoming exactly the kind of stupidly reckless person her father had always feared. Though if she were being honest with herself, she knew why she agreed: these days, it wasn’t like she had much else left to lose.

Fiearius’ skeptical glare met him quickly. “Do you think I even can do it? If I’m right, if he’s on a Society prison ship?” He scoffed lightly. “I’m appreciative of her help and all. And..I guess having a doctor around isn’t the worst idea ever. But what she wants in return is…it’s impossible. Even for me.”

Cyrus could probably count the occasions on which Fiearius leveled with him honestly on one hand. Even as his brother, he was mostly submitted to the dramatic bravado and cocky overconfidence that everyone else saw. Those rare moments when he actually broke that down and gave him the straight truth were few and far between, but that only made him more conscious of it. If Fiearius was actually honest about a thing? It meant something. And it worried Cyrus.

“Did you tell her that?” he asked quietly.

Fiearius groaned. “Not exactly. I said I’d think about it.” He noticed Cyrus’ disapproving frown and hurried on, “What? I will think about it. Send me those coordinates whenever you get them. But dov’ha i’reata…couldn’t she just wanna get paid like normal people? Why’d you have to pick up the one with the goddamn tragedy for me to fix?”

Cyrus shrugged his shoulders innocently. “I don’t think she’d still be here without it. When has the Dionysian ever picked up someone normal? Haven’t you noticed, we’re a magnet for weirdos.”

“And tragedy,” Fiearius admitted with a sigh.

“And desperation,” Cyrus added.

“And trouble.”

“That one’s your fault,” said Cyrus bluntly. Fiearius glared, but it dissolved into a proud smirk. “While you’re up, by the way,” Cyrus went on, “The engine’s back in working order for the time being. We can start heading forward. Wherever forward is.”

“I leave that to you, captain,” Fiearius sighed as he waved off the concern with his hand. “I am officially on leave.” He shot him a look that dared him to challenge the statement. “I can probably get my doctor to write me a note if you’ve got a problem with that.”

Inherently, Cyrus wanted to argue the point. The ship was in a crisis. They needed income and they needed it now, but hell if Cyrus knew where to get it from. He was an engineer, not a damn criminal like his elder sibling. Taking charge now? A horrible idea.

But alternatively, he was in agreement that Fiearius needed to rest. One more stab at that injury and they’d probably have to amputate. The more he rested now, the better off he’d be in the long run. The better off they’d all be. So as much as he dreaded the idea of this ship being under his command any longer, he couldn’t really argue.

“Fine,” Cyrus grumbled. “I won’t ask you to strain yourself or anything…” The bitterness, however, he couldn’t hold back. “But a little advice would be helpful. We’re out of money, we’re nearly out of fuel, Leta says you’ve basically used up all our medical supplies in the last day, and all we have to our name are those stupid marked weapons no one’s going to want. News about Goddora’s probably already spread. Everyone will probably be too wary to trade with us. On leave or not, you can’t tell me you don’t have any ideas. Next steps. A hint would be nice.”

Fiearius smirked up at him, clearly quite pleased with himself. It was all Cyrus could do to not reach down and jab at his injury again to wipe that look off his face. “You’re a smart kid, little brother,” he told him. “Hell, a genius, ain’t ya? It’s simple enough. Use your head. Where can we go that has plenty of fuel for ships they don’t own? And plenty of medical supplies they’re not using? And a mighty big need for weaponry, marked or no? A place that doesn’t give a shit about Goddora or the standard market?” Fiearius’ smirk widened as he watched his brother think it through. “A place even more desperate than us?”

Cyrus frowned as he considered the inquiry. “Archeti?” he realized suddenly. As Fiearius mimicked a congratulatory game show bell, Cyrus racked his brain for everything he knew about the place. The first colony, once such a grand title, now a pit of poverty where gangs ruled the streets and fought wars amongst one another as the people struggled to climb out. In short, it was a hell hole.

Fiearius was right though. Archeti was always in a state of desperation, even more desperate than the Dionysian, so they traded there frequently. They did have fuel. And they did have medical supplies. Ellegy and Exymeron were constantly shipping them onto the planet as a half-assed ‘charity’ effort. Neither donator ever seemed to care that those supplies always ended up in the hands of the gangs as leverage rather than the people who actually needed them.

“To Genisi, then?” Cyrus asked, naming the capital city of the Archetian wasteland. “Trade our shitty guns for their med supplies? And the fuel…”

“We can fill this whole ship for a month with one crate of those,” Fiearius told him.

“It seems kind of wrong though, doesn’t it?” Cyrus pointed out hesitantly. “One thing to trade guns for credits, but taking advantage of their resources like that? And giving more weaponry to the gangs…”

Fiearius sighed and shrugged his non-injured shoulder. “They’re gonna get ‘em from somewhere if they don’t get ‘em from us. It’s a dog-eat-dog world, little brother. We don’t have the luxury of morality right now. Gotta do what ya gotta do to survive. If that means trading with shitty Genisian gangs…” Cyrus sighed as well and nodded slowly. “Besides, some aren’t all that bad. You know which one to go to.”

Did he? Cyrus wasn’t so sure. He’d gone with Fiearius on one of the Archetian trades before and they’d met with one of the gang leaders. That was ages ago, back when Fiearius didn’t have much of an alternative option when it came to gunhands. But that must have been who he meant.

“Yeah,” he muttered, still skeptical. “Yeah, I know,” he said again, more confidently, though it was a false mask of it. “We’ll head to Genisi. Sort everything out.” He nodded slowly again, disbelieving all of his own words, and glanced down the hallway into the open door of the bridge. He could see the endless black of space beyond the window.

“In the morning,” he decided at last, feeling his exhaustion set in and a pit of discontent in his gut growing. He glanced back down at his brother, still slumped against the wall. “Eh…you sure you’re alright there? I can help you back to the chair in the bridge…”

“Nah, I’m alright,” Fiearius told him in a manner that made Cyrus question if he actually meant it or not. Though, he realized moments later, he didn’t really care. He grasped a rung of the ladder and started the climb upward into his quarters.

“Sleep well, little brother,” Fiearius called after him. “I leave the ship in your competent hands.”

As Cyrus reached the top of the ladder, he paused. He’d never gone out on one of  these things without his brother at his side. And his brother in the lead…For him to do this on his own? He was probably going to get himself killed. He cringed as he finished the climb and crawled up onto the floor of his room.

“Competent hands,” he repeated. “Right.” He looked down through the hatch at his brother who was now frowning at him with concern. Worried, Cyrus noted. “Well. Goodnight,” he muttered hurriedly and slammed the hatch shut before he could develop any worse feelings about what the next few days held.

Oh gods, how was he ever going to sleep now? Trading with Genesian gang leaders? He couldn’t do this. He was an engineer, not a space pirate. He fixed engines, he didn’t negotiate with street thugs. He couldn’t do this. He just couldn’t.

At least not alone.

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

Leta was bewildered to find that breakfast was another noisy affair the next morning. Had everyone somehow forgotten yesterday already? A few crew members were indeed bandaged and bruised, but the mood seemed relatively light as she slipped into the crowded mess hall. As she entered, a cheerful round of ‘morning, doc’ greeted her. Perhaps not everyone aboard detested doctors quite as much as their captain did.

Nonetheless, Leta could not say she shared their good cheer as she found a table in the corner. A headache pounded through her skull after a night of little sleep, and she felt strangely jumpy and on-guard after another round of nightmares.

“Helped you out today?” she repeated at last, and though she hadn’t intended for it, her voice was rising. “I — ‘helped’ you? I didn’t sweep your fucking floors. I shot someone for you, if you remember — ”

“Yes, you shot someone for me,” Fiearius admitted, his tone biting, impatient. “But I’m pretty sure shooting one person, wow, well done, congratulations, doesn’t exactly deserve me taking my whole ship into a goddamn death trap for your lost love. Do you know anything about Society prisons? They’re ships. Huge, impenetrable ships. And you didn’t exactly paint yourself as this stupid, but apparently it needs to be pointed out to you that this thing on my arm?” He jabbed a finger to the Society librera inked on his shoulder. “Means that if I go anywhere near one of those, there won’t be any of our ship left to even land on their ship.”

Society prisons were only on ships? Leta blinked her eyes at this news. Well, he was already helpful, though it was completely unintentional. And while he was the one who was slumped immobile in the chair, even though he’d ripped his arm open after jumping out a window, he stared at her like she was an idiot.

“But let’s just say we can,” he went nastily, as if humoring a child. Leta’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Somehow. By method of…well, miracle I guess. We land on this ship. Then what? The guards are gonna just let us waltz on in and find this guy? Hell, they’ll even give us directions. I’m sure that’ll work out.”

Almost at once, Leta recovered her wit. “We had a deal,” she muttered. “I help you, you help me, and I did what you asked. And I never said it’d be an easy job — are you a criminal or not?”

“Oh that’s real nice,” he snapped. “I’m a criminal so surely I’ll just jump at the chance to do something violent and dangerous. You know me. Anything for the opportunity to get shot in the head. But oh, of course, before I die, I’ll shoot someone for you too. Just to make sure it’s even.”

Now he was simply taunting her. Just like she’d been taunted on Vescent. Anger burned straight to her fingertips. Somehow, it was  even horrible to hear it from him — didn’t he subscribe to the impossible? He was a fucking pirate.

But this was pointless, this wouldn’t bring Ren back. Cyrus had been wrong. Or he’d lied to her. Fiearius didn’t take risks against the Society: he feared and ran from them like everyone else.

“Look,” she said angrily, “I know it seems impossible — ”

“Then why expect me to do it?” he barked. “I don’t even know you. Why should I put my life and my ship on the line for you? Why would you even think you can ask for that?”

“Because I have to try everything!” she yelled, surprising even herself. Her hands were shaking; she dug them into her armrests. “I have to try. Everything. I won’t leave him there. He did nothing wrong — you really think I wouldn’t do whatever it took to free him? To keep him from dying in prison?”

The room went silent. Fiearius didn’t answer. He merely stared at her unblinkingly, frowning, but apparently devoid of a response.

She wasn’t going to amuse this bastard a second longer: she’d just have to find some other way. Shakily she pushed herself up to her feet and tried to steel her trembling legs to make it the door (he could suffer here without painkillers for all she cared), but just when she made it to the door, he spoke again.

“Hang on.”

There was something odd in his voice: he’d gone strangely quiet. The anger was gone. Leta halted on the threshold.

“Come back.” He nodded to her chair. “Sit down.”

Leta didn’t move. At least not until he rolled his eyes to the window, and then admitted with a sigh, “I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you.”

At that, shock passed through her. He didn’t — what? She felt her legs step back into the cabin and drop onto the edge of her chair across from him.

Was he fucking with her? Sarcastically, he said, “Look, I know that I’m amazing, and that whole thing back on Kadolyne just exploded your confidence in me and I’m glad you can recognize greatness when you see it, but…” Just as Leta rolled her eyes and considered marching out once more, he went more seriously, a line forming in his brow. “What you’re asking? It’s not a small thing. Y’know, we’ve got problems of our own. We’re out of cash, nearly outta fuel, we just imploded the infrastructure of our biggest market. I can’t just go around making huge promises to people who helped me once or twice. But…” He raised a brow at her. “I’ll think about it.”

Leta searched his face for signs of deceit. He met her gaze resolutely, but she sure as hell did not want to put her faith and trust in this person. Or in any person. If it were somehow possible, she’d break Ren out single-handedly. But the painful truth of it was, she needed to do something she’d never been good at in her entire life: ask for help.

Quietly, she asked, “So what’s that mean, exactly?”

“What does it mean?” he repeated, sounding more like his irritated self. “It means I’ll think about it, that’s what it means. And maybe if a number of things align, we can work something out.” His mouth twitched in irritation. “But no guarantees. Takin’ down a prison ship is one thing, but I ain’t lookin’ to get killed over your boyfriend.”

“Fiance.”

“Whatever.” He glanced toward the window, then back to her sharply.  “Now I’m so glad we had this wonderful little talk about your blissful romance with whoever the hell he is. Real fascinating stuff, honestly.” He smiled humorlessly. “But how ‘bout you give me those pain meds and leave me alone?”