“How’d they die?” she asked quietly.

Cyrus blinked his eyes slowly, as if Leta was barely in focus. “How did they–” he began. “I don’t know. They just…they died. They were dead before I knew they existed. Got shot I think. I don’t know by who. Or why. Or anything really.” It didn’t exactly sound like an honest response, but Leta didn’t press it. After all, this was Cyrus’ sister-in-law and niece or nephew.

“That’s terrible. That must be why he left Satieri then,” she said wondrously. “Or part of why. And explains why he’s so … “

“Look,” Cyrus interrupted, fixing her with a drunken, worried stare. “You really can’t tell anyone about this. Not even Corra.”

“I — alright, I won’t,” said Leta, tearing her eyes away from him. “I’ll keep it to myself. I guess. But why’s he keep it such a secret?”

Cyrus hesitated, finding something fascinating about the way his fingers looked knotted together in his lap. “If the wrong people find out what happened…” he muttered at last, but before he could finish the thought, he was cut off suddenly by a tiny, but powerful burst of energy barreling into him.

“Alright, I’ve had it,” Corra scolded, steadying herself on Cyrus’ shoulders and barely talking over her laugh. “If you guys are just gonna sit here looking miserable, we’re going somewhere else. You coulda just told me you were bored, y’know.”

“Oh — that’s alright,” said Leta quickly. Her lips twitched toward a wry smile. “Cyrus was keeping me entertained. What now then? Because I could use another strong drink.”

A rather worrisome grin twisted its way onto Corra’s face. “Oh, I have an idea.”

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

This street of Tarin lay in an odd, ghostly silence, save for a drip-drip from the gutters and his own footsteps on the cobblestone. As he wove through the maze of empty markets, his senses strangely attuned, Fiearius couldn’t help but imagine the figure of Desophyles in every shadow he passed — leaning against every building, or perhaps observing from a high window —  waiting for his moment to strike.

But it didn’t worry him. It should have worried him, but just for the moment he was immune. He was almost tempted to call out Dez’s name and he genuinely expected him to answer. He would see the massive shape of his once friend step into the street and raise a gun to his head and–

But every time his imagination got that far, the gun was suddenly in his own hand and it was not his face he saw gazing into the nozzle. It was the pleading, tear-filled stare of a woman he’d never met about to die.

A shiver ran down his spine, although the evening was a warm one. It didn’t used to affect him like this. It wasn’t the same anymore. Maybe he really was getting too old for this kind of job.

He was just shaking off the thought when he heard the commotion a few streets over. So he wasn’t the only one out in the streets at this hour after all. A bubbly, long laugh cut through the night and he froze. He’d recognize that laugh anywhere: Corra.

The bizarre, complacent state snapped away. Quickly he veered down an alley and made for the source of the noise. Of course she’d disobey his orders and leave the ship. He’d expected that. But to be raising a racket in the middle of town at this hour? She was just asking to get kidnapped or ransomed or worse. Had that girl no sense whatsoever?

As he rounded the corner into the town square which was practically ringing with laughter now, he quickly found she was not alone and realized he should have expected that too. In the center of the square, at the base of the tremendous, circular fountain lounged not just Corra, but his brother and the doctor with her. Wasted. All of them.

Taken by frustration, Fiearius marched across the square towards them, his brow creased in anger. “You do realize,” he snapped when he was close enough, “that I can hear your sorry asses three streets over.”

Cyrus was the first to notice him. He sat on the ground, slumped against the fountain. He picked up his head and gasped, shocked to be caught, the same guilt in his eyes he’d had when he’d stolen and wrecked Fiearius’ favorite toy spaceship when he was a child. It was Corra who spoke first, quite excitedly at that.

“Cap’n!” said Corra, swinging Leta’s legs off her lap and jumping to feet. “You made it!” she cried happily. Below her,  laying horizontal and sprawled over the edge of the fountain, Leta raised her head and grimaced at him, clapping a hand over her eyes.

“Good to see you too,” Fiearius muttered to her, before turning back to Corra, the obvious ringleader of all this. “I suppose I don’t need to point out that this is basically exactly what I asked you lot not to do.”

Corra stuck out her tongue with a mighty ‘pfft’ and clapped her hands on her hips in defiance. Sounding accusing, she started, “Well I suppose I won’t point out that you don’t follow the orders that are given in the … pointing to you…usually,” and then she trailed off, quite lamely.

“She’s right,” Cyrus added seriously, coming to her defense at once. “You don’t always do the pointing.”

As dangerous and stupid as it was for them to be out here, acting like this, especially after the day’s events, Fiearius was finding it difficult to be angry with a group of people too drunk to put together coherent sentences. Nothing he said would sink in anyway, and clearly, Dez, for whatever reason, wasn’t interested in rounding up Fiearius’ intoxicated crew. Too predictable of a move, perhaps?

They deserved a good lecture, of course, but right now, it would have been a waste of effort. “Alright, enough with the pointing,” he grumbled. “Up. All of you. Back to the ship.” He jutted his thumb over his shoulder.

The three of them groaned, like he’d just told them recess was cancelled.

Nonetheless, Corra lowered herself down from the wall. She let her whole torso hang despairingly as she dragged her feet a few steps forward. “Why you gotta ruin all things?” she sighed, but before she could get her answer, her foot caught on the edge of a stone and she fell forward, straight into Fiearius, who caught the woman who was hardly tall enough to reach his shoulder. Inwardly, he sighed: the stories of daring spaceship captains he’d heard as a kid had always left out the part about babysitting.

As he righted Corra to her feet, Leta was helping Cyrus, swinging his arm over her shoulders amid painful groans and laughter. At once, Leta staggered under his weight, but not without yelling, at the top of her voice,”We’re fine! I’m — we’re completely fine, it’s fine,” she added, her voice trailing off uncertainly as she hooked her hand around Cyrus’ wrist.

In a sloppy sort of caravan, they started off toward the ship docks. They’d only made it a few feet when Leta arrived at Fiearius’ side and suddenly brandished something in his face with her free hand: it was an emptied liquor bottle. In a sly, proud voice, she informed him, “I stole this.”

Blinking in surprise, Fiearius first regarded the bottle, and then the girl attached to it. His annoyance slowly waning into amusement, he was unable to resist a smirk. “That’s good stuff. Well done. Looks like we might make a criminal of ya yet.”

She snorted a derisive laugh, while swinging the bottle happily in a circle.  “Yeah, that would be a great use of my education. Although I am pretty damn good. I nicked it from behind the bar at this swanky club while Corra distracted the server, and we drank it all together right out here,” she finished with satisfaction, examining the bottle fondly as if she’d found a new friend.

Fiearius couldn’t help but snort a laugh. Apparently the uptight doctor did, infact, know how to have a good time. He peered around her to Cyrus. “I think I like her better like this.”

Now, Fiearius furrowed his brow, surveying her. “What?” he asked blankly, and Leta wasn’t sure if he hadn’t heard, or just didn’t care.

“Someone who knows you!” she went on impatiently. “He cornered me in the marketplace — he had the librera on his arm — ”

“No, no, I heard you,” Fiearius snapped, swinging his feet off the console and leaning forward in his chair. “Librera, whatever, forget that. Did he have the ti’ata?” At Leta’s confused stare, he hurried on, “The ti’ata. The–ugh–these.” He pointed at the thick black rings circled around his upper arm.

“Wh — I think so, yes, he did,” said Leta quickly. “And he — ”

“Dark skin, black hair, massive?”

“Yes, who is he? He knew everything — ”

But Fiearius ignored her and sunk back into his chair. His eyes widened and the color drained from his face. He seemed to entirely forget that she was there, instead choosing to stare at the wall in shock.

“Fiear?” she said tentatively. “He knew that I’m a doctor on your ship  — ”

But suddenly, Fiearius looked at her in a way he never had before. He jumped to his feet, came closer and demanded in a low voice, “What did he do to you? Are you alright?”

Leta, momentarily startled by the concern blazing through his eyes, managed to answer, “He didn’t hurt me, if that’s what you mean. Actually, he said, ‘I’m not here for you.” What the hell does that mean? Who is this guy?”

Leta watched, dumbfounded, as Fiearius turned away from her, put his forehead in hand and started pacing through the cabin, muttering what sounded like sharp Ridellian curses under his breath.  His usual confidence and bravado was gone. He looked lost, his eyes darting around in confusion. She’d never seen him so distraught, not even when they’d been cornered by three gunmen.

“Who is he?” she said worriedly. “How does he know who I am? Did — did you work with him in the Society? Is that how you know him?”

Fiearius paused halfway across the room and looked back at her emptily. “Dez was my partner,” he said in a hollow voice. “Partner turned…I don’t know, hunter?” Turning away, he took another few steps forward and muttered, “Roh’sien tehima, how the hell did he catch up?”

“Partner? Sounds like things ended really well then,” said Leta sarcastically, crossing her arms. “What, now he wants you dead or something?”

Glancing back over his shoulder, Fiearius grumbled, “Not exactly. Returned, more like it.”

“Okay, well, that doesn’t explain why he knows everything about me. He asked if I was making a ‘fair trade’ about joining the ship —  ” Suddenly, the words clicked together in her mind, and she breathed in shock, “Wait. If he knows all that, he must know about Ren.”

The captain was not looking at her, but over her shoulder. “We need to get out of here,” he muttered, more to himself. “We need to–” His eyes went down to the bridge console he’d been using when she came in and stayed there. “Shit, the job.” He cringed and his fists clenched. “Dov’ha kar’iat, Desophyles.”

For the first time, Fiearius was reminding her strongly of his younger brother, in all of his worry. “Listen,” she said, stepping closer to him. “He said he wanted to ‘see where this goes’ — that means Ren, doesn’t it? He wants to see what happens about going after Ren? What if he knows about him, like where he is?”

But Fiearius only muttered in distraction, “Just get it done, quick, and we’ll leave. Mattei fi tolési nai’e. Just one night. It’ll be fine. It’ll be fine. It’ll be–”

“Fiearius!”

Her voice filled the cabin. She knew this was the wrong way to handle his panic attack, but bedside manner had never been her strength. “Fiearius, calm down, tell me who he is! Tell me why he knows about Ren!”

For the first time, he looked at her and seemed surprised to find her there. After a moment, his expression contorted into anger and he growled, “I don’t know! I don’t know and I don’t care! There’s a way bigger issue here than your damn boyfriend, don’t you get that?!”

Shocked, Leta stared at him, before anger suddenly burst through her at the injustice of it all.  “Excuse me? I’d like to know why this friend of yours was stalking me!”

“Friend?!” Fiearius repeated incredulously. “He’s not my friend. He wants to drag me back to Satieri and throw me to the wolves, I don’t see where you’re getting ‘friend’ from that.”

“Why?” said Leta without a beat of hesitation. “Why does he want that?”

For a moment, Leta thought he might actually respond honestly. In the heat of his anger, he was poised to answer, but at the last second, he caught himself. “It doesn’t matter why!”

“What?! It matters to me if this guy knows about Ren and is following everything I do!”

Again, Fiearius opened his mouth, as if considering a real explanation. But then, with a dirty glare and infuriating tilt of his head, all he said was, “You know what? I have more important things to worry about right now,” and stormed past  into the hallway, leaving Leta alone in the bridge.

“What the hell,” she began conversationally, lifting her grand prize, “do you think this is supposed to be?”

Corra scrunched her nose. “A man I think?” she guessed with a shrug. “A man who got mauled by a pack of stray dogs.” She snorted a laugh and held up her own prize: a short, finely-tailored dress in deep maroon. “What doya think? Kinda my style, yeah?” Before Leta had a chance to answer, Corra declared, “I’m gonna try it on!” and hurried off into the back of the stall.

As Corra darted away, Leta grinned to herself. She had personally avoided the array of dresses, gowns and lingerie — she could not imagine she’d have any reason to dress up anytime soon.

Dropping the sculpture with a clunk, she reached for a small half-moon shaped brass lever, or maybe it was a tool. She was turning it over in her hand, trying to imagine what it could possibly be for, when a low voice spoke in her ear.

“It’s a Poitan festival harp. Missing its strings perhaps. But still a harp.”

Leta looked over her shoulder to find a broad-shouldered man standing directly behind her. He wasn’t tall, but built broadly enough to part the crowd around him, his dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. He was not recognizable to Leta at all.

“Oh?” she said dismissively.

“Difficult to replace, too,” he went on. “The strings. Made only from the finest silks in Synechdan.” The man lapsed into a brief, thoughtful silence. Finally, he looked up at Leta and stated, “Forgive me. You’re probably not interested in the minute details of instrumentation in an aging artform.”

“It’s alright,” she said after a moment’s pause, wondering quickly why this man was still engaging her. “I don’t mind learning something new.”

Politely, she started to turn away, but it was then that her eyes passed over him and she noticed a familiar symbol on his arm, and went very still. The black Society librera was displayed proudly on his shoulder. Well, that didn’t take very long, she thought as cold panic snapped through her. She’d gotten far from Vescent, but not far enough to evade her previous affiliations.

The harp fell from her hands and into the bin, and she wondered if it was even worth it to try and run. Even here, they’d found her after all —

“Relax,” said the man shortly, decidedly less friendly than before. “I’m not here for you.”

Her mouth was very dry. “Who then?” said Leta sharply, with more strength than she actually felt.

The man’s stare cut right through her, and he ignored her question. “You are an interesting case, though,” he remarked casually. “From your upbringing….to a criminal ship. From a scalpel. To a gun.” His eyes moved down to the holster hanging from her hip and rested there. “I wonder. Do you believe you’re making a fair trade?”

The noisy crowd moved around them, oblivious to the young woman who was fighting back fear. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded through gritted teeth.

“For now?” said the man calmly, finally lifting his eyes and blinking slowly. “Just an observer. I’d like to see where this goes.” He looked away from her, casting a mildly curious glance over her head, as if he were considering something as innocent as the weather. “Give your captain my regards.”

Just as Leta opened her mouth in shock, Corra’s cheerful, oblivious voice called out to her, “So much for the prowess of Tarinian craftsmanship! Pretty sure that dress was made of cardboard.”

Leta blinked, and the man was gone. He must have melted back into the crowd, for she could see him nowhere, even as she gave a jolt and turned in a frantic circle to seek him out in the flood of people.

“Hey,” said Corra as she approached, grabbing her arm to still her in place. “You alright, chika? You look even paler than usual.”

Shaking her head, all Leta said was, “I need to talk to Fiearius.”

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

She found him in the bridge. He was lounged back in the pilot’s chair, scrolling through a screen, his long legs propped up over the console. He turned his head as Leta entered, looking immediately annoyed at her interruption.

“Met a friend of yours,” Leta said at once, eyeing him for signs of recognition. “In the marketplace. A Society agent, he had all the same tattoos.” Technically, it was the same librera Leta had hidden under her sleeve on her arm, too, but she wasn’t quite ready to admit that. According to Cyrus, Fiearius would kill her for it.

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.