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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We need it,” Fiearius countered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Scuse me, cap’n!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Any ideas?” he mumbled hopefully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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