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…