He felt himself come to an unsteady halt. How much did Addy know about the Dionysian’s clandestine dealings? Did she know he was first mate on a dirty criminal pirate ship? He knew that she was no fan of the Society herself, but that didn’t mean she would approve of this ridiculous mission …

Choosing his words carefully, he began, “Well, they only use the ships now for low priority work, and my brother’s planning a–we’re going to–board–some 800’s and well–”

Naturally, Addy was sharper than that.

“You’re stealing some Satieran ships?” she demanded in disbelief, no longer looking amused. For a moment, Cyrus froze, but then a sly grin began to bloom on her face. “I’m in.”

– – – – — – – – — – – – — – – – — – – – — – – – –

Quin’s warehouse was crowded, buzzing with anticipation. In thirty minutes, her people and Fiearius’ would be in place, ready to break into the unsuspecting supply drop ships and claim them for their own. In thirty minutes, they would make their first small strike against the Society.

Fiearius occupied the far corner of the open room, using the dim light from the windows to clean the dismantled pieces of his favorite pistol. Quin strode over, brisk and important.

“The C teams are nearly all in position,” she informed him. “Ready to swarm those ships like ants on a picnic soon as I say the word.”

Fiearius smiled at her, slipping the pieces of his gun back together with a click. “Good. What time is it?”

“Twenty-five minutes ‘til they land.” Her lips pursed, and she tilted her head at him in that thoughtful, knowing way she often did. A smile cracked over her face. “You excited?”

At that, he couldn’t help but laugh. He felt more nervous than excited, quite unable to forget what would happen if this operation went the slightest bit south. He had been actively avoiding the Society ever since he was exiled from Satieri. Never had he actually sought them out. Never had he taken the offensive against them.

He smirked grimly. “Not the word I’d use.”

“Hey-yo,” came the boyish greeting from across the warehouse. Both pairs of eyes swung towards Finn. Behind him was Corra, and then Cyrus and Addy walked together a few feet behind and Leta brought up the rear, chatting with two of Quin’s engineer girls.

Fiearius straightened his shoulders with confidence. “Ah, my lovely B teams,” he called cheerfully, spreading his arm and smiling at them all. “All done with your briefing?”

“Best we could for now,” Cyrus replied, though he looked more relaxed and confident than usual. He even looked a little nicer too — had he fixed his hair or something?

“We gave the other teams all the basics,” said Addy brightly. “They’ll go in and shut down the security systems so the A teams can advance. And me and Cy’ll update them on anything funky via COMM if anything comes up.” She tapped the headset in her ear.

“Works for me,” said Fiearius. “So you all get the plan then? The Society supply ships land. The C teams move in and create a ground distraction on the street. B teams, that’s you — “ He nodded towards the groups before him. “ — head aboard your designated ship and go straight for the security control. Follow Cy and Addy’s instructions and shut it down. Then hit the communications. We don’t want them calling for backup.”

“And if we can’t reach the COMM room in time, if they manage to send out the SOS before we can block it, we’ll scramble their coordinates,” Cyrus added. “That backup won’t know where to look.”

“Once those two things are done, just head back out and support the C teams if they need it. Meanwhile, the three A teams, lead by me, Quin and Aeneas, board and seize control of the bridges. All teams round up any excess Society agents and figure it out from there. We need to pull this whole operation off as quickly as possible. Timing is everything. The longer this takes, the lower our success rate so move. And move fast. Understood?”

“Y’know, what I don’t understand,” put in Finn suddenly, “is why I’m on a B team at all. I oughta be slinging guns with you. Thought we had something special, mate.”

Corra snorted. “You’re on a B team because he needs you to protect his lady friend,” he said, elbowing Leta’s side.

Though he’d been trying not to, Fiearius briefly caught Leta’s eye as she shook her head, a shade of pink in her cheeks. Of course she’d told Corra about their last few days together; they shared everything, no matter how personal. He smirked at her, then looked back at Finn.

“You’re on a B team because you know ships. You’re on a B team with the doc because her sense balances out your need to show off, so the two of you might pull out of this alive together.” He raised a brow at Finn, daring him to contest it, but Finn lifted his hands in surrender. “Any other complaints?”

“Yeah,” said Corra, arms crossed. “I thought I was done following orders from you when I got my own ship.”

“If I recall correctly, you volunteered,” Fiearius countered.

“Well of course, I gotta protect my engineer.” She wrapped her arm around Addy’s shoulders.

“Any real concerns?” Fiearius rephrased. When the group before him just mumbled in a generally negative direction, he clapped his hands together. “Good. Grab your arms and take your positions then. Be careful. Watch out for each other. Come back alive.”

Which was why Fiearius had made the calculated decision, a half hour ago, to down a half-pill of Flush. Just a half of a pill was all, just to get him moving. Now, that jumpy energy was just starting to return to his legs, his mind was just beginning to snap awake ….

Twenty minutes later, Fiearius was stepping into Quin’s office with his usual swagger, Dez on his heels. Her office was a large room cluttered with antiqued sofas and desks, and it was empty, but only for a moment.

“There you are,” came Quin’s bemused voice as she strode in through the opposite door and closed it behind her, clicking it shut. She was an older woman, with creases lining her eyes and her grayed hair pulled back to the nape of her neck. A few scars marred her features, and, typical of Archetians, the city’s smog had stained her clothes and skin, but she held herself like an Ellegian noble nonetheless. For someone with a stature so small, her presence overflowed the room. Even Dez straightened his shoulders.

“Soliveré,” she greeted, spreading her arms, pulling him into an embrace and swiftly kissing either of his cheeks. “Not dead then, I see.”

“Did you hear otherwise?” Fiearius couldn’t help but ask as he drew away.

“Oh I read the Satieran newsfeeds, my dear. Dead as a damn doornail,” she cooed, rather wistfully, though a smirk spread across her face as she lifted her hand to his cheek. “Knew it couldn’t be true. Although — “ She suddenly frowned, her dark eyes shifting over his face. “There’s something different about you.” The older woman held him by the shoulders, searching his face. “You don’t have the usual gloom and doom in your eyes. Somethin’ got your spirits up, hun?”

“Can’t imagine what,” Fiearius replied, an image of innocence that Quin hardly bought.

“Yeah, I bet.” She nudged him in the ribs with her elbow. “You’ll have to introduce me later, hm?”

She always had managed to read him like an open book. But for now, Quin spun around and stalked back into the center of the room. “Well, just glad to see you in the land of the living. The day you’re actually dead is the day the Carthians give up on the border planets. Come in!” she ordered, “Have a seat.”

As always with Quin, Fiearius did exactly as he was told and lowered into a high-backed chair. Although he didn’t particularly want to stay long, he kept obediently quiet when she suddenly called, “Aeneas! Where are you? We have company, bring drinks.”

Aeneas was Quin’s — Assistant? Right hand man? Bodyguard? Fiearius had known him for four years and still wasn’t sure. The younger man slid into the room silently, poured drinks out of a glinting decanter, and passed them to each person in the room. Quin herself lounged back in her usual ripped up armchair, exuding importance from every pore.

“You know, for someone from such an affluent planet, you sure do have terrible manners,” she remarked, a sudden bite in her voice that made him wince. “Not calling for months, dropping in unannounced … failing to introduce to me your friend here.”

Dez had taken the seat beside him, silent and stoic as always.

“Right,” said Fiearius quickly. “This is Desophyles Cordova.”

Quin’s expression darkened, though Dez didn’t seem to notice. “A pleasure to meet you ma’am,” he announced on cue, reaching forward to shake her hand.

Quin just eyed his hand with distaste. “Ma’am?” she repeated. “How old you think I am that I wanna be called ‘ma’am’?” Dez looked as close to perplexed as his face allowed.

Eager to smooth it over, Fiearius added, “He’s my…business associate,” but the explanation had the opposite effect.

“Don’t think me to be dumb, Soliveré. I know damn well who Desophyles Cordova is and what he done. All I want to know is what he’s doing here.”

“Helping, ma–” Dez began, but managed to cut himself off as Quin lifted her brows at him in a rather threatening manner.

“He’s joined the Dionysian’s crew,” Fiearius cut in. “He’s one of mine now. If you trust me,” he told her seriously, “you can trust him.”

Quin hardly looked convinced. Her cutting glare continued to invisibly rip the man before her to shreds, but somehow, miraculously, her posture slackened. “Fine,” she snapped. “You’ve been good to me, Soliveré. I’ll give you this. But if lettin’ this Sochy scumbag walk in and outta here alive comes back to bite my ass in any way, there’ll be hell to pay for the both of ya.” She took another long sip from her glance and through the wince that followed, she asked, “So what is it ya need, huh? Work? Got plenty of goods need movin’, plenty of lives need stoppin’, pick your poison.”

“Actually,” said Fiearius, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees. “I’m here with a proposition.”

Her interest was clearly piqued. “That so?”

“You know the Society supply ships?”

“No, sweetie,” she muttered sarcastically. “Never heard of ‘em.”

Ignoring her, he went on, “I have information on the ships, their crew, their specs, their shipments, I–”

But before he could even get to the meat of the plan, she cut him off. “Hang on now, sweetie, haven’t you gone after Society supply drops before? Last time, you were here even? This sounds mighty familiar.”

Fiearius resisted the urge to groan, though he had to note Cyrus would be even more embarrassed to realize how many people still remembered that. “Okay that. That was my brother and my doctor trying to trade marked weaponry for med supplies with Grice. And every single word in that sentence is just…wrong. Bad news. All around. This is different. This is me and you and our people using a royal flush of confidential intel to take three Society ships for all they’re worth.”

All the while as he spoke, Quin watched with her solemn, thoughtful stare, the edge of her glass perched against her lips as though she was debating whether or not to take a drink. She remained that way for what felt like an hour even after he was finished. She was so still and silent that Fiearius wasn’t even sure if she’d ever answer at all.

But at last, she lowered the glass from her lips and asked, “What is this ‘confidential intel’?”

Fiearius grinned. “Did you know the ships they send on these runs are the retired models of their mainline frigates?”

“I didn’t, but I’m not surprised.”

“And did you know that those models were retired due to their faulty security systems?” Quin’s brows visibly lifted on her forehead. Fiearius went on. “How about that ninety percent of the crews manning those ships are fourth division Transport agents? That the Archetian supply run is most commonly recommended as an easy way to meet the single required induction flight to qualify those who are after a cushy third division desk job? Or that, due to the captains’ trade deals with local Genisian gangs, the run is seen as so low-risk that the ships only carry enough weaponry to arm 1% of its crew?”

At this point, Quin looked genuinely impressed. But as usual, she wasn’t. “And where did you come across this intel?” Her glare turned back towards Dez. “Excuse me if I feel inclined to question some of your sources.”

“You’ve read the news,” Fiearius said, drawing her attention back to him. “You know what I am. This is the kind of access the gig comes with.”

“Ah yes. The perks of being Verdant?” she said the word as though it was coated in something rotten. “And I’m offended, by the way, you never mentioned that to me before.” Fiearius shrugged helplessly, but a guilt trip didn’t appear to be on her mind. “So you want to assault the Society ships when they bring the supplies. And you want my help?”

“They’re sitting ducks, but they still outnumber my handful of gunhands. Not to mention whatever other gangs might not be so happy we’re cutting off their supply line.”

Quin scoffed with amusement. “Other gangs? Childsplay. So — let’s say I lend you my manpower. What’s in it for me?”

“Three Society ships and whatever the hell’s on ‘em,” Fiearius said briskly. Though what he saw as a gesture of good will, she clearly saw as trouble, and her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Then what’s in it for you?”

“I’ll take a small cut to keep my ship afloat, but the rest is yours.”

“Then,” she said, more sharply now, “what’s in it for you?”

Well, she certainly wouldn’t let that one go. He wrinkled his forehead with thought. “Tell ya what. Send me the newsfeed the day Satieri reports the theft.” A smirk grew on his face. “I can’t wait to read their take on it.”

Quin observed him carefully, but realization slowly dawned on her. Disproval lined her face, but she was laughing as she said, “You just ain’t right in the head, are ya Soliveré?” She let out a sigh and leaned back in her chair. “But as much as I shouldn’t take advantage of the ill…I can’t say no to three new Satieran ships, can I?” A gentle smile curved her lips. “I think we may just be able to work somethin’ out.”

Smoggy gray light filtered weakly through the stained windows of the tavern. It was midday on Archeti and the dive bar held only a handful of people: the sleepy bartender, wiping down the greasy counter, and a few mumbling alcoholics slouched in their seats. Normally Corra would have been intrigued to find their life stories and talk up the whole bar — but today, she was distracted. She sat beside Finn and tapped her fingers on the counter, waiting for their new business contact who was supposed to meet them here. Thirty minutes ago.

“He’s late,” said Corra. As usual, Finn did not look bothered: he rested a forearm on the bar and drank from his beer.

“Yeah, Callahan’s the kind of guy who’s either an hour early or an hour late,” he mused. “It’s kind of a toss up.”

“Speaking of late.” Corra frowned. “Did you hear that the Dionysian was supposed to be here yesterday? Why d’ya think they’re coming to Archeti at all?”

“Fiear misses me terribly.”

Corra rolled her eyes and reached to slide her drink closer. “I really hope we don’t leave before the Dionysian gets here,” she said darkly, which made amusement come to Finn’s eyes.

“Corra, we haven’t even been apart that long.”

“Well it feels like ages.” Her eyes snapped towards the door. “So who is this guy again? How do you know him?”

“Callahan? We met in the Genesi casinos a few years ago.” He lifted his chin, looking a little proud of himself. “We made a killing for awhile counting cards in blackjack, beat the house a few times.”

“You counted cards?” she laughed.

“Well, he was way better at it than me — trust me, this guy’s a genius. A real freak.”

“If he’s such a genius, how come he’s wasting his brains at casinos?”

“He does plenty else,” Finn laughed. “Runs the vessel black market. Ships, ship parts, tech, and the like. Runs the smoothest and most complicated operation out of Archeti from his console at home and has never been caught. All the corrupt politicians want him on their side. And so do we. We ever got a shot on doing more than break even with the Beacon, this guy — he’s our ticket. Ah, and here he is.”

The door opened and in stepped a tall, wispy man with short dark hair, his hands tucked into the pockets of his crisp dark jacket. Somewhere in his mid-thirties, he looked rather like a strong wind could have blown him sideways. Corra would not have pegged him a seedy criminal thug, but then again, Fiearius’ old network of associates tended to be more burly, less brainy.

His face was pale and clouded, until he spotted Finn — then, he perked with mild interest and wound toward the bar.

“Finnegan Riley,” he said, smiling gently and holding out his hand. “It’s been too long for us.”

“No kidding. I think you’ve owed me a drink for a year now. How the hell are ya?”

“Never better, never better,” said Callahan lightly, before turning to Corra. His angular face was almost handsome, except there was something distantly cruel in his eyes.  “And you must be Corra? The first mate.”

“Co-captain, actually,” said Corra, and Callahan blinked slowly. He did not look like someone who was regularly corrected by anyone else.

“That so? Well, I do apologize. It’s nice to meet you, Corra. I hope you’re enjoying Archeti so far.” He lowered to his barstool, his grey eyes resting on her face. “Finn seems to believe you and your ship would be a good fit for my exporting operation.”

“Definitely,” Corra said with confidence. “I’ve been in the ‘exports’ business for years now on the Dionsyian. And the Beacon? She’s new, but I’m sure she can manage.”

“Mm.” Callahan was not looking at her, but examining a cocktail list. “What core did you say she runs on?”

Corra opened her mouth, then closed it again. She’d heard Cyrus say something about the Beacon’s core, but hell if she could remember the specific model. “Um…”

“I mean to ask, how fast is she?” Callahan clarified, lifting his eyes, which had grown much cooler. It was then Finn intervened.

“Fast and getting faster, mate,” he said briskly, swigging his beer and sighing. “Runs a 50-80 stabilizer, and I just hired an engineer to help me with some hotwiring.”

“Mm,” said Callahan again — it was an affirmation that he heard Finn, not that he was impressed. He laid down the menu and glanced again at Corra. “And what is it you smuggled on the Dionysian?”

Corra was certain he was baiting her. Carefully as she could, she said, “We moved weaponry.”

“Ah yes. Guns and ammo.”

After a short, uncomfortable pause, Finn said, casual as ever, “And they were pretty damn good at it too, eh? Corra and Fiear built up quite the reputation toge– “

“Certainly,” said Callahan, his eyes now on the ceiling. “Moving weaponry is just not what I do. In fact, pistols and bullets are nothing, nothing like the challenge of moving whole ships. Do you realize that? Every time you take apart an engine, every nut and bolt is marked and recorded somewhere.”

Corra did not know that at all, but she said nothing.

“I’ve been in the smuggling business since I was eighteen years old,” he went steadily. “And never once — not once — have any of my ships missed a drop. That’s how strict this business is.”

He stared right at Corra, eyes glinting. She was determined not to look away even though disappointment was sinking through her: there was simply no way this man wanted to partner with them. He was practically laughing in her face.

But then, to her shock, Callahan looked down at the bar and mused, “But I may have a job that’s just right for you. A simple lift, you pick up goods for me, move them successfully, I compensate you, fuel included.” He pressed his lips together in thought. “If you wouldn’t mind coming back to my office, we can discuss finances?”

“Hell yeah we can,” Finn said at once as he slapped a hand on his bony shoulder and beamed his most charming grin.

Following a step behind the pair, Corra did not feel like smiling at all; most especially when she heard Callahan say quietly to Finn, “In the future, you might want to keep your first mate more informed.”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

From his spot atop the Dionysian’s ramp, Fiearius looked over the gritty maze of the Genesian streets and inhaled a deep breath of atmosphere. The smoke-thickened air of Archeti’s failing terraform certainly served as a reminder of the benefits of spaceship living. And there was nothing like Desophyles Cordova complaining nearby to serve as another reminder: why it was important to be a little more picky in who lived aboard that spaceship with you.

“We should have gone over the details by now,” Dez was saying as Fiearius stalked down the ramp, ignoring him as much as he could. But Dez kept speaking in his ear, machine-like and automatic. “There is a multitude of information that we must bring into consideration when we meet with Utada. It would have been wise to recount it all this morning.”

Fiearius barely glanced backwards. “I was busy.”

“We are unprepared,” he informed him matter-of-factly. “Utada will not offer assistance if we are unorganized. Perhaps it would be in our best interest to reschedule.”

At that, Fiearius let out a laugh. “It’s just Quin, Dez. Relax.” He threw him an amused glance. “You’re not nervous, are you?”

“Quinida Utada leads the most extensive and powerful gang on all of Archeti,” he said, marching along at his side. “She commands a small army and single-handedly wrenched all control of Archeti’s span-wide trade relations from her predecessors. She demands a great deal of respect and I feel no shame in approaching her with caution.”

There was something satisfying in witnessing Dez, a force of Society fear-mongering for so long, actually shift with unease now that he was in Fiearius’ territory. He couldn’t help but grin.

“Oh don’t get me wrong, she’s terrifying,” Fiearius admitted with another laugh. “But she likes me. We’ll be fine.”

He spoke with confidence, and Fiearius purposely did not let on that, actually, he was exhausted — Dez certainly didn’t need to know just how little sleep he’d gotten the night previous, and why, and with whom.

“Dance with me.” He held out his hand. “Since we didn’t get to at the party.”

Leta stared at the open palm of his hand. Then her gaze lifted to stare at his face, and all she could mutter was, “You really think you’re something, huh?”

When he smirked uncertainly, her head tilted with sudden suspicion. “Wait. Are you trying to seduce me?

Fiearius laughed. “Does that affect your answer?”

After a contemplative pause, Leta admitted, “Not really,” and then tilted her champagne glass to her mouth, drank deeply and set it carefully on the counter at her side.

Then she hazarded toward him, her slightly shaking hand slipping into his calloused one. Her other hand came to rest at his shoulder and she set her bare feet steadily. A safe distance, she assured herself — though she nearly laughed at herself a second later. With him, there was no safe distance.

His hand came to her waist, gently drawing her closer.

“I’m out of practice,” she warned.

“I’ll go easy on you.”

He eased a half-step closer so her wrist rested on his shoulder. The music was low and bluesy, and it led to a gentle sway of their feet. Fiearius was light on his feet, undeniably a better dancer than she was, and she expected him to point it out any second, but when Leta looked up, Fiearius was watching her, thoughtful and bemused.

“Remember the last time we did this?”

“How could I forget? You were wearing a gigantic feathery bird mask.”

“Hey,” he defended, “I liked that thing. So did everyone else at that party. They were all staring in admiration.”

“That wasn’t admiration.”

He grinned and gripped her hand more tightly. “From you, it was.”

Leta opened her mouth to refute, but a smirk came to her face instead. Then he drew her closer with his palm at the small of her back, his chin against her temple, and a comfortable rhythm found them.

It was then that, abruptly, the music cut out. The speakers crackled noisily, and the bridge plunged into silence, and she and Fiearius were still holding one another without reason now.

“Ah, shit,” he muttered, unsurprised. “Go figure. I never asked Cyrus to upgrade the sound system.” He threw a sideways dirty look toward the speaker on the wall. Instead of moving away, however, he lowered his head toward the arch of her shoulder, turned his lips against her hair, and started to hum the song in her ear.

A shiver electrified Leta’s spine. Unthinkingly, as if she needed to hold herself to the ground, her fingers in his hand laced around his.

But lest this go too far — as it always did before — Leta made herself go still against him.

“Fiearius,” she demanded quietly. “What is this? What’re we doing? This. All of this.”

He glanced sideways at their intertwined hands, then down at her. “We’re dancing, aren’t we?”

After a moment, his hold relaxed and he eyed her seriously, more seriously than Leta could have ever anticipated, a furrow in his brow.

“Alright,” he exhaled sharply, as if preparing himself. “Here’s the thing. I’m really sorry about what happened the other week. It was inappropriate since you’re my crew and it was uncalled for and I’m just real sorry it happened like that. But — if I’m being perfectly honest? I’m really only sorry that I forgot to shut the door.”

Leta opened her mouth in surprise, but he kept going.

“I don’t mean that in the creepy way either,” he went on quickly. “I just mean that…well –” He lifted his eyebrows in earnest admission. “I don’t find you quite as awful as I pretend to. In fact, sometimes — not always, mind you — but times like today for instance, I genuinely enjoy your presence. I’m better with you around. And not just healthier, though thanks for that too. But when we’re together, I’m actually better.”

At first Leta could think of nothing to say; he’d never spoken to her like this before. She felt nearly gutted, cut open with shock.

“So to answer your question,” he finished, “that’s what we’re doing. That’s where I’m at. I don’t — presume to know what’s going on with you, especially considering the last few months, but I thought you should know. Know that if you wanted … I wouldn’t mind being together a bit more than we have been in the past.”

Several long, heavy seconds passed before Leta found her voice, which had buried somewhere in her chest.

“I wouldn’t mind that either,” she admitted softly.

A beat of expectation passed between them. His eyes danced over her face, then went to her lips. Just as his hand found the angle of her face and tilted her mouth toward his, she raised herself to tip-toe. Her mind was a fog, but even still, she registered how different of an embrace this truly was: less of a kiss, more of a brush. It wasn’t urgent, fervent. Certainly she never would have considered, not in any realm of possibility, that kissing Fiearius could ever be slow and soft. It certainly couldn’t ever be sweet. And yet…

Of all the ways the night could have gone, she thought in amazement, as their kiss deepened and grew heavy, his fingers slid up into the back of her hair, and his hand pressed against her back, pulling her in.

But before Fiearius could step closer and knock out the guard, before Leta could yell to warn him, his foot caught on one of the velvet ropes that surrounded an exhibit and within a moment, he fell face-first to the ground. For someone usually so quick and sharp on his feet, he made a particularly gruesome thud.

The guard spun around at once, sloshing coffee all over himself.  Slapping her hand to her forehead, Leta stood up, and locked eyes with the guard, who looked thunderstruck.

“What in the — devil’s name — you!” he gasped, hurrying to unlock his nightstick.

For a split second, Leta stood still. Her mind filled, at once, with an endless supply of ready lies: they were sneaking up here for a midnight stroll; they’d gotten lost on their way out of the party. Certainly she could weave together the proper words to get them out of this.

But instead, Leta acted: she suddenly brushed forward, seized a large clay pot off a shelf, lifted it in an arch above her and cracked it hard against the guard’s head.

With a groan, the man went still, then slumped to the ground at her feet, unconscious.

Shocked with her own daring, Leta slowly lowered the pot, grimacing in apology.

Fiearius, meanwhile, was pushing himself to his feet, already recovering with a grin on his face.

“That,” he said, eyeing her significantly, “was hot.”

“Thanks,” said Leta sarcastically, hiking up her dress and turning for the door. “I think. Grab the thing, please, so we can get the hell out of here.”

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

After a mad dash through the hall, down the street and through the Tarin main square, attracting more than a few stares from Ordenians and Tarinians alike, Leta was thrilled to find the safety of the Dionysian’s bridge. She kicked off her shoes and sunk into the co-pilot’s chair, her dress draping over the seat. Fiearius threw himself into the captain’s chair beside her, looking like he’d never had so much fun in his life, a dog who had been let out to play at last.

“Aren’t your legs aching?” she demanded, still out of breath; Fiearius both scoffed and grinned.

“I told ya, I’m all healed up now. Piece of cake.”

“You,” said Leta, “are completely insane.” But she was laughing, too, as she looked down at Cyrus’ gift in her lap. “So when are you going to give this to him?”

“For his birthday. It’s next week. I think? Probably.” Fiearius leaned over the dashboard, flipping one of the dials to set a new course. The floor of the cabin began to vibrate — the engine hummed to life, the ship was lifting off the ground, the landscape outside the window was beginning to show the night sky. And this, surely, was Leta’s cue to say goodnight; their long day together was over.

A lingering sort of lightness filled her chest: she wasn’t sorry at all she’d left the Dionysian this morning.

“Hey,” she said quietly, catching his curious eye. “Thanks.” She stood up, raising her bare feet to tip-toe to set Cyrus’ gift down in one of the Dionysians’ smuggling cabinets. “Today was — surprisingly fun.”

Her mouth quirked to a half-smile as she turned for the door. But she didn’t make it into the hallway before Fiearius lifted one hand and pushed himself to his feet out of his chair. “Wait, hang on. I’m not done trying to impress you yet.”

“What?” Leta laughed. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. One more thing.”

Leta watched, bewildered, as Fiearius started to bustle around the cabin: first he snatched a mysterious long green bottle — champagne — from a cabinet, followed by two flute glasses.

He filled her a glass, then handed it to her, which she accepted in confusion. Then, as if this weren’t enough, he reached to press a dial on the dashboard. Suddenly, an inviting crackle of big band music filled the cabin, warming the whole room like a bonfire.

But even this did not make Leta believe what would come next. No, of course he wasn’t…he wasn’t really…

“Oh, you’ve never heard of Ordenon?” said Yseltin, tugging at fabric near her knees. “It’s a city on the other side of Tarin. A very wealthy, lavish city. Colonized by those who apparently thought the high streets of Tarin Proper weren’t high enough for them. It’s quite a sight to behold, I hear. Great mansions and sweeping hills, no expense spared. The Ordenians are thought to be the wealthiest in the Span.”

“But,” he went on, “as wealthy as they are, they’re certainly no craftsmen. They fly into our own humble city so often to trade that they set up their own district on the east side. Nowhere near as extravagant as Ordenon itself, but dov’ha gia’me, it’s something! Very closed-off though. Need all the proper documentation to get through the gates.”

“From what I hear, there’s a group of them in town tonight,” he went on as though imparting some scandalous gossip. “They’re known to throw quite the elegant soiree. Now I don’t claim to ever know what that ti’eh waré is thinking, but if I were you, I’d be excited.”

“A soiree?” Leta muttered. “Fiearius wouldn’t want to attend a soiree — ”

“Too true,” came Fiearius’ voice. He paused in the doorway, hands in the pockets of his slacks — which lacked the grease and blood stains of his normal wear. A dinner jacket sat neatly around his shoulders, and he looked clean and put-together in a way Leta had never seen before. She was about to comment on his appearance, but then she noticed the odd, appreciative look brimming in his eyes. His gaze roamed over her bare freckled shoulders, down her dress, a faint smirk curving the side of his mouth.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Leta snapped.

Yseltin came to her aid. He spun around with his hands on his hips. “You’re not supposed to be back here. I’m not ready for you yet. And where’d you find those clothes?!” he gasped.

“Rack on the other wall,” Fiearius said, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder, still without breaking his line of sight.

“Did you just…get changed in the middle of my store?”

“Yeah.” He wound into the room and held out his hand for Leta. “So. Ready to crash a fancy party?”

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

Yseltin had been right: it was an elegant soiree. Ordenians in long richly-colored gowns and stiff jackets circled through the hall, chatting and laughing and toasting champagne. Sparkling chandeliers hung from the ceiling and a string quartet played near the dance floor. It had been a long, long time since Leta attended an event like this: it felt like stepping into her youth.

“Not really my kinda party,” Fiearius admitted, smirking at her as they descended the staircase into the hall.

“No kidding. Hey, you never told me,” Leta realized with a start, looking around at all the guests. “Who are we pretending to be, exactly? These people will sniff us out.”

“Oh, right,” said Fiearius quickly. “I researched this. You are Adinia Roledai, the rebellious young daughter of Venian Roledai who passed away a few months ago. She ran off to Vescent actually when she was thirteen. No one’s seen her since. No one would recognize her. And I. I am your unworthy Vescentian husband with no noble blood and a measly two million a year income.” He smiled innocently. “Fitting, right?”

As they wound toward the bar, she side-stepped closer and slipped her arm around his. Fiearius shot her a look of interest.

“What?” she teased. “I’m playing the part.”

“Right,” he said, curving his arm around hers. His grin was almost blinding. “The part.”

They weaved their way into the hall. As they walked through the crowd, Fiearius kept exaggeratedly greeting people as if he’d known them his whole life.

“ — and how’s the wife? The kids?” Fiearius was saying to a puzzled older man, before stealing his glass of champagne, downing it one gulp and then handing it back to him. Leta, snorting to herself, quickly steered him toward the bar. It was a much safer bet than leaving him loose around these people.

As their drinks were slid smoothly across the bar into the hands, Fiearius’ attention span was already thinning. “We should dance,” he said, then downed half his drink in one shot. “Dance with me.”

The orchestra was just beginning a new tune; couples were melting onto the dance floor, hand-in-hand. A tug in Leta’s chest told her she would’ve liked to join, but she turned away from the dance floor. “You shouldn’t even be on your feet right now at all, Fiear. Your legs are barely healed.”

And besides — this night was such an odd turn of events; she’d gone too long without answers. “Fiearius,” she sighed in exasperation. “Why are we even here? You haven’t told me a damn thing, just that you need my help to get a gift. We got the gift. So what are we doing now?”

“The painting wasn’t the gift I was talking about,” Fiearius said, reaching for his martini once more. “That was just step one. Now I need your help with another gift. Which is around here somewhere … “ He glanced over his shoulder around the hall.

“So we’re stealing yet again. Who is this gift for?” she asked impatiently.

“Still not you.”

“Then what is it? Just tell me that at least. Tell me something. You’re killing me. Because this is just about the absolute weirdest date — or non-date,” she amended hastily, careful to avoid Fiearius’ eye, “that I’ve ever been on.”

“Date?” Fiearius laughed like he’d never heard anything so outlandish. “Who said anything about this being a date?”

Leta cocked her head to the side, full of innocence. “Oh? So it’s not a date then.”

Amusement sparkled in his eyes. “No,” he said simply. “I mean — “ he added mockingly, “I certainly don’t expect that.”

He was using her own words against her. Naturally.

“Very funny,” Leta responded dully. She traced her finger around her glass, then looked up at him. “This is just getting ridiculous you know. You and I.”

He simply rose his glass in agreement. “Yep.”

“Do you want to talk about it then? About what happened between us.” About what is still happening between us, Leta added silently.

Fiearius looked momentarily surprised. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he claimed innocently, for about ten seconds — before he lowered his glass to the bar and looked at her seriously. “Yeah. Actually. I wouldn’t be opposed to revisiting the terms of our arrangement. But not here, alright? Not around these … stiffs … “

He drew his brow together and cast an uncertain look around the hall, while tugging uncomfortably at his collar. “You’re used to this kinda thing, aren’t you? What’s there to do at these classy parties?”

“Well,” Leta sighed, “we probably should be interfacing with our wealthy contemporaries … “ She turned back to the bar. “But I’m going to keep drinking.” As she lifted her glass to her lips, she couldn’t help but notice the bartender and a few people nearby were throwing them lingering, questioning looks.

“Our disguises might be failing,” she muttered, averting her eyes. “We’re drawing some stares … “

“Pretty sure that’s just you,” Fiearius teased, toying absently with a ruffle of fabric around her waist and grinning at her. With his other hand he polished off the rest of the drink and looked around: the hall was more crowded now, the music was louder and the dance floor was full.

“Alright,” said Fiearius briskly, thudding his drink down to the bar. He watched in amusement as a well-dressed older man stumbled over himself on the way to the dance floor. “Showtime. These people are officially too drunk to figure out what we’re up to. Let’s go.”

Fiearius led them along a quieter street to their next stop, which turned out to be a quaint little store a few blocks away from the square. To Leta’s immense interest, the windows were filled with mannequins and dresses — he’d brought them to a clothing boutique.

“Where the hell are taking me now?” Leta asked as Fiearius pushed open the front glass door, which dinged merrily to announce their presence. Inside, the store was filled with racks of dresses and suits, but emptied of staff.

“Hello?” Fiearius called. Even the cash register was empty. “Hello-o?” When no one answered, he muttered, furrowing his brow, “Oh he better be here … “

Leta wasn’t sure whether to be amused or concerned. The owner of a fancy clothing store did not seem like someone Fiearius would associate with regularly. “So who is it we’re giving the painting t — “

But it was then that a man stepped out between the racks so quickly that Leta jumped backwards into Fiearius. He was a short, round gentleman with a wide grin, kind eyes, and rosy cheeks. “Tieh waré!” he greeted cheerfully, marching forward, and, to Leta’s amazement, he pushed her aside so he could better throw his pudgy arms around Fiearius’ middle.

Leta noticed the man rather lacked the immediate firepower — and the height — of Fiearius’ usual network of thugs. But anyone bold enough to seize Fiearius in a hug like that had to have something going for him.

Fiearius half-grimaced, half-laughed as he patted the man on the shoulder awkwardly. “Orodiase, noh fian de gona’iin.”

“Asa’de, asa’de!” cried the man, taking a step back and bouncing on his feet in excitement. Then he noticed Leta and his eyes bulged. “Horidi forata sou limére ta?”

“She doesn’t speak the language, orodiase,” said Fiearius quickly. “This is my ship’s doc, and this is Yseltin, old friend from Satieri.”

“Oh, dov’ha gi’ame, I’m so sorry,” said the man, suddenly seizing both of her hands in his and squeezing. “Forgive my rudeness. I assumed your companion here would inform me of something like that before I made a fool out of myself.” He shot a glare at Fiearius before returning soft eyes to Leta. “My name is Rahdien Yseltin. I welcome you to my humble shop.” He smoothly lifted her wrist and kissed the back of her hand.

Over his head, Fiearius was rolling his eyes. Leta, however, laughed.

“Well aren’t you friendly. Nice to meet you, I’m Leta. And — how is it you know Fiearius?” she couldn’t resist asking. This was possibly the least likely scenario Leta could have imagined.

“Fiearius and I? Oh, my dear, we go way, way back. This man — he saved my life.” His chest swelled with emotion. “He truly did. Against all odds. More than I deserve.” The man took a deep, shaky breath, and Leta found her curiosity piqued. Especially when he confessed, “Believe it or not, he spared me from death. You’d never believe the story — “

“Hey, Yseltin, didn’t you see,” Fiearius suddenly interrupted, lifting the painting in his hand. “I brought you a gift.”

“Dov’ha toridi, this man,” he said, his voice exhausted. “I owe him my life, he keeps bringing me gifts. How ever will I repay my debt at this rate?”

“I told you,” Fiearius said impatiently, “You’ve already repaid your–”

“Although,” Yseltin went on, tapping his finger to his lips. “I cannot say no to such wonderful gifts. Especially not when they are pretty girls.” He held Leta’s shoulder fondly. “Though what will my wife say when she finds out?”

“Not the girl, giaté,” Fiearius muttered, passing Leta a look of exasperation. “This.” He held up the artwork again, though Yseltin did not glance at it.

“Ah, she’s yours then? I was wondering,” the man guessed slyly, a broad smirk slipping over his face, which made Fiearius growl in frustration.

“She’s not–”

“Though I don’t know how you managed to win such a fine young woman for yourself.”

“I didn’t–”

“If you don’t mind me asking, miss — “ He swung toward Leta. “How well do you know him?”

At last, Fiearius held out the art piece one more time and snapped, “Take it or I’m taking it back.”

With that, Yseltin burst into laughter. He released Leta’s shoulder and accepted the handsome painting with two hands. “It is a fine gift, tieh waré. You, as always, have exquisite taste. But I have to ask — why? What is it this time, hm? You bring me such a fine gift, you must need something.”

So it was an exchange, Leta realized with growing interest. And indeed, Fiearius replied quickly, without looking at her, “We need papers.”

“Papers?” said Yseltin. “What kind of papers?”

“Ordenian papers,” Fiearius stated simply.

“What’re those?” said Leta, just as Ysetin’s eyebrows shot up.

“Ordenian? Now why in the dov’has’ names do you need Ordenian papers?”

Fiearius sighed. “Because there’s something I want to do that requires me to be Ordenian of course.”

With that, Ystelin suddenly brightened. “Oh oh oh! You need Ordenian identity papers! You need a new name! That means you wish wish to attend the–”

“Yes, that,” Fiearius cut him off. “Can you get us in?”

“In where?” said Leta, deeply curious. “Where’re we going now?”

“Oho, you’ll see, my dear,” said Yseltin, beaming. He clapped his hands together. “I can get you papers. Getting into the event though…You?” He frowned. “The lady, perhaps. But even she…You know how rich the Ordenian people are? They will sniff you out in a heartbeat, you know that.”

Fiearius opened his mouth to retort, but was cut off as Yseltin seemed to amend this problem. “But thank the gods, you’re here in my shop and I can make you look the part.”

“Well I was just going to–” Fiearius muttered through gritted teeth.

But by now, Yseltin was pushing Fiearius back deeper into his shop. “We will give you Ordenian garments. Fine Ordenian garments. You will blend right in! And you too, young lady!” he cried, as Leta hovered in the doorway uncertainly. “Tieh waré, pick out something from these racks. And you, miss — into the changing rooms!

Before Leta could comprehend what was happening, Yseltin seized her hands and dragged her back to the dressing rooms. “Let’s get started! Not much time!”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

A half hour later, Leta barely recognized her own reflection. She looked nothing like herself, or nothing like herself of the past six months aboard a dirty pirate ship anyway. Her ragged jacket, shirt and trousers were discarded and replaced with a long, bold-red dress that fell over her bare feet, shimmering faintly in the light.

Behind her, Yseltin was positively bouncing with excitement. “It is perfect! It is perfect on you! Just a few more adjustments — “ He darted forward, needle stuck between his teeth, to finish the fitting. Leta managed a heavy, confused laugh.

How had this happened, exactly? She certainly hadn’t woken up this morning thinking she’d end up on Tarin, in a clothing boutique, wearing a gown and waiting for Fiearius to return. And in fact, at first, she’d resisted Yseltin (“Really, I can just run back to the ship and change, I don’t need to — “) but then, he’d brandished the dress at her and she’d gone a bit weak. As it happened, she’d lived on a grimy pirate ship with mostly male crew for nearly a year, and the last time she’d gone out wearing something like that had been even longer. As such, she couldn’t help it: her eyes got big.

“It is beautiful,” Leta had to admit through a wistful sigh, turning around on the dias. “But I still don’t understand where we’re going. Why did we need new identities? And what does Ordenian mean?”

And that was that. He’d been left with more questions than answers. The rest of the week, they’d been polite, if a bit terse, and simply avoiding one another.

Of course, Fiearius couldn’t begin to explain this to Cyrus. He simply leaned back in his seat and replied, casually as he could, “What the hell is there to figure out anyway, Cy? We were a little drunk, we argued, we got physical, it’s not like some grand mystery of the universe.”

The answer was clearly not the one Cyrus wanted, but fortunately he didn’t press it. He just eyed his brother wearily and seemed to give it up. Seemed to. Up until he opened his mouth and said, “I don’t want you hurting her.”

At that, Fiearius gave a start. “Excuse me?”

“She’s been through enough recently,” Cyrus went on, furrowing his brow seriously. Fiearius couldn’t help but wonder if this had been rehearsed. “Everything that happened with Ren and the Baltimore and Satieri. It’s a lot on one person. And the last thing she needs is you mucking things up even more.”

“Mucking things up?”

“I’m asking you, as your brother and as her friend, to just lay off. She’s had enough crap thrown at her recently, she doesn’t need any more.” He paused, and then said boldly, “She doesn’t need to be another notch on your bedpost.”

Frankly, Fiearius couldn’t believe this surreal conversation was even happening. Cyrus was possibly the least confrontational person he knew.. “Wow,” was all he could say at first, almost laughing. “Just…wow. I’m so glad that’s what you think of me.” Closing his eyes, he ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. At last he admitted, quietly, “She wouldn’t be.”

Cyrus didn’t answer, though even with his eyes clamped shut, Fiearius could feel his stare. Finally, he asked with all the knowingness of a sibling, “How deep does this go?”

Dragging his hand away, Fiearius looked over at him. “I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “I mean–I care about her. I respect her. I trust her. I don’t know?” A bitter grin ran across his face, then faded slowly toward thought, and he found himself talking more than usual.

“There’s something about her,” he went on, mumbling now. “Or, I guess, about being around her. She makes me feel better. And I don’t mean less crappy. She makes me feel– “ But the words failed him. Cyrus tilted his head at him curiously, but still said nothing. “To everyone else,” he tried to explain, “I’m just this reckless murderous psychopath with a spaceship, too far gone to ever come back from that. And I’ve come to believe them. That’s just who I am and it’s hopeless. But with her, it’s not like that. That’s not an excuse. She believes I can be better than that and it’s…I don’t know, it’s refreshing. It’s refreshing to have someone who doesn’t look at me like I’m a lost cause.”

Cyrus was watching him with a perfectly blank expression. Though of all the things Fiearius expected him to say, the last was, “I don’t look at you like that…”

Which was completely beside the point. Fiearius glared at him and then rolled his eyes. “Well okay, but you’re my brother, so I’m not really interested in you, thanks.”

“But you’re interested in Leta?”

Fiearius opened his mouth, then sharply closed it again. “It doesn’t matter,” he decided at last. “You said it yourself. She’s been through enough. Need I remind you she just got dumped by her fiance? You know, the one she spent a year trying to save only to find him off his rocker?” He snorted. “Doubt she’s in the mood for something new.”

“Pretty sure that’s up to her.”

“Sure, but it’s up to me too. And I don’t wanna be that guy’s replacement. Nor do I want to be around when he inevitably comes back from crazy town and sweeps her off her feet.”

Cyrus shrugged one shoulder. “That’s a fair point. But you don’t know that’s going to happen. I don’t think their relationship is quite that black and white. Nor do I think yours is. And you’re definitely nothing like Ren so you’d be a shitty choice of replacement regardless.” Cyrus smirked, but Fiearius felt miles away from amused.

“I’m just saying, that sounds like an excuse,” Cyrus went on knowingly. “I know it’s been a while since you’ve felt real, actual human emotions, but it’s not that scary, y’know. Trying something. Maybe there’s some risk involved, but if she really makes you feel so good, maybe it’s worth it. Who knows?”

Fiearius said nothing as he leaned his head on his hand. Although he would never admit it aloud, he couldn’t ignore the fact: Cyrus had a point.

Trying to brush that uncomfortable thought aside, Fiearius muttered, “What’s with you anyway? One minute you’re asking me to leave her alone, the next you want me to be her damn boyfriend, I don’t get it.”

Cyrus smirked sideways at him. “All I want is for you to stop causing problems,” he admitted absently. “And either of those would do it. It’s the in-between I have trouble with. Though if you choose the latter, I don’t need to hear about the details. Or worse, witness the details. Ever. If it’s all the same to you.”

Fiearius snorted. “Noted. Though it’s a little ironic, y’know. Taking relationship advice from you, of all people.”

“Are you taking relationship advice from me?” Cyrus laughed. “What are you going to do?”

It was a question Fiearius should have answered by now. He knew that. His back-and-forth with Leta had been tumultuous and perplexing for months. But suddenly, more than ever before, Fiearius feel the pieces coming together — some things started making sense. Some things were coming rapidly into focus.

Reaching forward to the console, he pulled up the navigation and switched the ship’s destination from Archeti to Tarin — if he remembered correctly, Tarin was a place Leta liked. Even better then. “I have an idea.”

“Everything we have is going straight to fuel, since this girl eats like a monster,” Corra went on. “I don’t know what we’re gonna do when our crew asks for their paychecks and I’m pretty sure we’ll run out of food eventually. But all we seem to be able to do is bring it petty chump change and it’s getting us nowhere.”

“I’m willing to forgo payment if it’s of any comfort,” Daelen said. Corra smiled at him, but shook her head.

“That’s sweet, but I doubt the lot we picked up on Carthis will feel the same. And there’s thirty of them and only one of you…”

“It’s only been a week,” put in Addy, looking hopeful. “It’ll get easier.”

“No,” said Finn suddenly, swigging his beer and lowering it to the dashboard with a thud. “Corra’s right. We need a long-term plan here. Something sustainable.”

“I suppose legal work is out of the question,” Daelen put in thoughtfully. Finn and Corra simply stared at him.

“Right,” Daelen muttered. “Never mind.”

“Can’t do legal work on a stolen Society vessel anyway, mate,” Finn sighed. “We need a connection to the black market. These one-off gigs are gonna get us nowhere.”

Corra had to agree. “When the Dionysian was first starting out, they partnered with Goddora. Not that anyone should partner with that son of a bitch, but maybe we need something like that? We need our own Goddora.”

“Actually — “ Finn ruffled his hair into untidiness, then suddenly dropped his hand to his knee. He looked quite thoughtful, which was most unusual. “I might know a guy.”

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

The canopy of white stars filling the Dionysian’s window was the most beautiful sight Fiearius could imagine. After two months in the infirmary, he’d never been happier to sit in his own chair, enjoy the view and simply listen to the quiet around him. Gods, he had missed this.

Carefully as he could, he lifted his legs onto the control panel, wincing as pain shot up his knees — probably he was due for another dose of Flush. He’d taken one pill this morning when he’d awoken to a searing pain jolting up his spine, but the effects were starting to wear off. In his younger years, he rarely needed more than one pill to feel invincible for hours and hours. But in his younger years, he wasn’t recovering from a crippling injury.

Fortunately, the other effects — the heightened energy levels, the mild deliria, the loss of judgment and control — were starting to lessen. For the first week, he’d been all over the place, with high-highs and low-lows that had caused more than a few problems, but nearly two weeks in, his body was starting to readapt to the old system.

He was just about to reach under the control panel to grab one of  the pills he’d stashed there when he heard footsteps approaching. He quickly withdrew his hand just in time as Cyrus marched tiredly into the cabin.

Fiearius watched as his brother dropped into the co-pilot’s seat, swung his feet onto the panel, took in a deep breath and proceeded to gaze out the window without a word of hello.

Fiearius cocked a brow. “Everything okay, little brother?”

“Just exhausted.” He sighed. “Haven’t worked this much in a long time. Between the Dionysian and that mechanic and my freelance and the Beacon…”

Fiearius chuckled. “Please, the Beacon should be a cakewalk to you compared to my beast. Finn and Corra have it good.” Cyrus grunted an appreciative laugh, but predictably, the mention of their former arms master made him grow suddenly quiet.

Fiearius knew exactly what was on his mind.

“Still seems weird, huh?” he asked. “Not having her here. It’s so…quiet…”

“Yeah,” said Cyrus hollowly, before promptly changing the subject. “So where are we going?”

“Archeti,” said Fiearius. “Need to talk to Quin.”

“Something I should be worried about?”

Fiearius grinned. “Not just yet.”

“Well just let me know when to start.”

“‘Course,” Fiearius replied easily, shifting his feet on the dashboard. “So hey. Can I ask you something?”

“We both know that’s rhetorical,” Cyrus muttered dryly.

A slow smile spread over his face. “The blonde girl?”

Cyrus seemed to be waiting for the question to continue. When it didn’t, he snapped, “Addy? Yes? What about her?” When Fiearius answered only with a suggestive raise of his brow, Cyrus snapped, “Stop.”

“What, why?” Fiearius demanded. “She’s cute. And she’s almost as nerdy as you are. It’s not that far-fetched. You should pursue it.”

Cyrus looked over at him incredulously. “Pursue it? She’s not prey, Fiear. She’s a highly competent engineer whose family’s work I greatly respect. And that’s why she’s halfway across the span on the Beacon.”

“Which was a decision that lacked some foresight,” Fiearius commented. “Sending her on a different ship. Far away.”

“It was not. She’s doing a great job.”

“Oh, so you’ve been talking to her then?”

Cyrus pushed his glasses up his nose, flustered. “Yes, actually. Miraculously, she’s still willing to speak to me even after I exposed her to you.” The malice in his voice made Fiearius’ amusement collapse. He knew what was coming, before Cyrus even said, “Speaking of which.”

“Oh, let’s not,” Fiearius groaned, immediately looking away. Up until now, it was with mutual understanding that he and Cyrus had avoided discussing What Had Happened In The Bridge Last Week. Fiearius sure as hell couldn’t meet his eyeline when it came to how his sibling had seen him entangled with Leta up against the wall ….

But apparently, Cyrus was ready to confront the situation. “Well? Have you even talked to her about it?”

“What is this, an interrogation?” Fiearius grunted. “And yes, I have, actually.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Did you figure it out?”

Fiearius didn’t answer. No, nothing had been figured out. If anything, when it came to the likes of Leta, Fiearius had never had such conflicting, confusing feelings pulling him every direction.

“We need to talk,” Leta had told him sternly the night after it happened, to which he agreed that yes, they probably ought to. He’d followed her into a quieter alcove of the ship, though before she could speak, he’d said quickly “Look, I’m sorry that things might’ve gotten a little — out of hand, the other night … “

She’d apologized too, her eyes wide and sincere and worried. He resisted the temptation to close the distance between them a second time and respectfully gave her a wide berth. Then she said, bluntly, “Look, Fiearius, I’m not going to just sleep with you, alright?”

It felt as if Fiearius were walking a tightrope. One wrong reaction would send her out of the room. Choosing his words carefully, he managed, “‘Just’? So, what — you want something more, then?”

Her reaction was, admittedly, a touch painful. A knife in his gut. “No,” she had said, “I certainly don’t expect that.”

“I didn’t ask what you expected,” Fiearius clarified quietly. “I asked what you wanted.”

Leta had stared up at him like a deer caught in headlights, but before she could answer, several things happened at once: the speaker on the nearby wall cackled with a message from the Beacon; Amora and Rhys started arguing loudly nearby; and, quickly seizing the moment, Leta excused herself, muttered that she needed some time to think, and fled the room.

Leta didn’t hesitate in trailing Fiearius and Dez all the way up to the bridge, where they were talking privately. She almost stepped inside the cabin — but something in Dez’s voice made her halt in the hallway and listen curiously.

“The Council believes that they’re invincible,” he was saying in a low voice. “Everyone living under their rule thinks they’re invincible.”

“Hell, I think they’re invincible,” Fiearius snorted.

“Well I would like you to use your assets to prove them wrong.”

“Assets?” Fiearius repeated incredulously. “I’ve got a broken ship, a supply drop timetable, and, what, you and me? To take down — what is it you said? Three Satieran frigates and their hundred person crews? Okay, Dez. Sure.”

Take down Society ships? Startled, Leta stole a glance inside. Fiearius was slanted against the wall, arms crossed, skepticism masking his face.

“You have allies,” Desophyles pointed out.

Fiearius raised a brow. “I have business associates,” he corrected.

“Business associates who would likely appreciate the opportunity to acquire three Satieran frigates and their bounty.”

“So what the hell is in it for me, then?”

“Whatever share you require. And,” said Dez, “the satisfaction of striking back.”

Fiearius’ mouth twitch in annoyance. “Well aren’t you filled with a newfound sense of vengeance.”

Dez looked only bemused. “Give it some thought. For now,” he added quietly, “I’ll leave you to your doctor in the hallway.”

Leta gave a start. Without a word, Dez locked eyes with her knowingly, then brushed past her shoulder and disappeared down the hallway, leaving Leta to swing her eyes back to Fiearius.

“What the hell was that about?” she asked incredulously, ignoring the fact that she was just caught in the act of spying. “You’re talking to Dez again? Why?”

“You’re creeping around the halls and eavesdropping now? Why?” he muttered, pushing away from the wall and eyeing her with distaste. He looked like he wanted to get back to work, but Leta stepped sharply into the room.

“You don’t actually trust him now, do you? Tell me you don’t. Tell me you’re not that stupid. “

“Of course I don’t trust him,” he snapped, scrolling through the console screen to ignore her. “Not that it’s any business of yours.”

“He’s supposed to be locked in the brig. What were you two talking about?”

“Just discussing plans. Why are you even worried about it?” he demanded with sudden irritation, cutting her a glare. “Sure as hell isn’t your problem.”

“Yes, it is,” said Leta in surprise. “Dez is definitely a problem if I’m part of this crew.”

Fiearius snorted. “Well you’re not.”

“Wait — what?”

Fiearius glanced to her, eyes cold. “What do you mean ‘what’? You leave my ship, you’re not part of my crew, you got no need to know my business. Don’t see what’s so complicated about that.”

“Leave? Leave, what — ?” Suddenly, realization struck her: perhaps Fiearius had overheard all those times Corra had asked her to leave with her …

“You think — you think I’m going with Corra on the Beacon.” Leta searched over his face, though she wasn’t sure what expression she wanted to find. In this moment he was looking her over swiftly with his jaw clenched, as if sizing her up.

“Why?” she challenged hotly, crossing her arms. “Would that bother you, if I did?”

“No,” he said, turning away. “I don’t care what you do.”

“So I up and leave tomorrow, you won’t even bat an eye.”

“No. I won’t.” He gripped the edge of the console, then turned away and paced an impatient circle in the room. A month of being bedridden must had truly gotten to him, because he was overflowing with roiling, misplaced energy.

As bad of an idea as it seemed, Leta couldn’t help herself. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding me? Because you think I’m leaving?”

Fiearius suddenly stopped making circles, pausing in the middle of the room to stare at her. “What do you want me to say, exactly?” he demanded, twitchy and agitated. “Huh? What do you want from me?”

The question felt like a test.

“I don’t know,” said Leta honestly. “I really don’t. But I wasn’t planning to leave the Dionysian.”

Fiearius met her eyes then looked away, quickly unnerved. “Well why the hell not? It’s a good ship with a good pilot and the captain’s your best friend. You could go anywhere you fucking like. Why wouldn’t you?”

“Because maybe Corra isn’t the only reason I’ve stayed on this ship so long.”

The words tumbled out of her, a vulnerable confession, but she did not take them back.

“You know the way you treat me sometimes,” she went on fiercely, “I probably should leave. Maybe it’s time I do.”

He did not refute it.

Dropping her arms in defeat, Leta stepped backwards for the door, to disappear into the hallway and pretend this confrontation had never happened. But she only made it one step when Fiearius turned to her and said abruptly, “Don’t.” His eyes were blazing over her face, pinning her in place, halfway out the door.

Feeble protests jumped out of her throat, and she started to shake her head. “Fiearius. You can’t tell me that. We can’t keep doing this, you can’t — “

“Don’t,” he said again. His eyes burned on her. “Don’t leave. The Beacon. Don’t do it.”

Leta was stunned into silence by the absolute conviction in his voice just as Fiearius was stirred to action. Suddenly, as though this were the most important task beset upon him, Fiearius marched through the room, caught her face in his hands and pressed his lips to hers.

It happened so quickly, such a swift interruption, that Leta went rigid with shock. What was going on? How had they gone from arguing to — to this? Out of pure instinct, her hands reached to grasp his wrists, battling the urge to both shove him off and tug him closer. Her throat made a noise of — desire? protest? — but he swallowed it.

Beneath her shock, the cold, scolding voice in the back of her mind pointed out how completely and entirely foolish this was, kissing Fiearius — But then, the warmer voice, the one that was kinder to her, the one that she rarely listened to, ventured thoughtfully: wasn’t it about time she got something she wanted?

And for that, she felt herself respond.

Raising herself swiftly up to tip-toe, she deepened their breathless kiss while her hand dragged upward, encircling her forearm around his neck. In response, his hand pressed into the small of her back and pushed them back a step until her shoulders met the wall clumsily. A startled breath jutted out of her lips but it was only a half-second before his mouth attacked hers.

At this point, she’d found, resistance was long-lost and futile. Heat rose between them.  He pinned her wrist to the wall with one hand, his other hand clutched her hips, as his mouth pressed hurriedly down her jawline and neck.  Her fingers curved against his taut shoulder, pulling his hips against hers. Their kiss broke jaggedly; she heard his gruff voice in her ear.

“Here?” He meant here, now, the bridge. “Are you — “

Dimly she knew there was every reason to halt him here — what good could possibly come of this? But for once, she found she wasn’t looking for answers. Not now. Which was why she barely breathed, “Yes,” before seeking out his lips once more. He groaned against her mouth, and then his mouth dug against her neck, down her collarbone, and dipped southward.

It was a nearly unyielding embrace. Nearly.

Just when she felt Fiearius’ hands against her obliques beneath the fabric of her shirt, she sensed something else — something off. The air shifted in the room. Her eyes went to the door to their right, and suddenly, horribly, they were not alone at all.

“Uh — “

It was Cyrus halfway in the doorway, shocked, looking rather like he wanted to bolt.  And he wasn’t alone: standing beside him was Adrastreia, the young woman from earlier. Her mouth had fallen open, then she clapped a hand over it, though she looked distinctly more amused than Cyrus did.

“Sorry — I just — “ Cyrus groaned with disgust, pressing his palms against his eyes. “Just wanted to introduce you to Addy — “

Leta slipped away from from Fiearius’ arms just as Fiearius stepped backwards, turning himself away toward the front of the ship. At once, Addy chimed, “We’re so sorry! How about we come back later?”

“Yeah, okay, great,” Fiearius grunted, catching his hand in his hair and refusing to look at any of them.

“Are things always this fun around here?” Addy whispered to Cyrus; he just looked back at her with widened eyes.

“Sorry Cy,” said Leta quickly, her voice remarkably even, all things considered, even if there was a tug of dry horror in her tone. She felt like this would be the proper moment to figuratively bang her head against the wall. Or perhaps literally.

“Really. I’m sorry,” she added, her eyebrows raising faintly as she took a jagged step to the side toward the door,  dazed and unsure of what to make of this moment. Adjusting her shirt, the strap of which had horribly slid down her bare shoulder, she slipped hastily out into the hallway, grimacing profoundly once she was a safer distance from the bridge and from Fiearius.