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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hang on.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fiance.”

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

“No, what you need to do is rest,” Cyrus told him again, irritated. “I’ve got this covered. Rest now so I don’t have to keep doing your job forever.” He met his brother’s glare with a playful smirk. “How’d you even manage to open that up again?” he asked, gesturing to the now properly re-bandaged wound on his shoulder.

Fiearius nearly shrugged, but seemed to find the effort too painful, so he stopped short. “Jumped out a window,” he admitted.

“Of course you did. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again,” Cyrus remarked darkly. “You deserve everything that happens to you.”

“Ha ha,” Fiearius muttered, cringing a little. “So how’d you supposedly get us out of ‘royally fucked’ status?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Cyrus looked decidedly innocent, to which Fiearius narrowed his eyes.

“Do I trust you?”

“I hope so, you did make me first mate.”

“Well yeah, you were my only option at the time,” Fiearius said bluntly.

Cyrus spun around in his chair to face Fiearius and without warning, he reached over and thwapped his shoulder, causing the elder sibling to yelp in pain. “Go on,” he dared him. “Keep ridiculing me. Let’s see where it gets you. Or would you prefer I just call the doctor and have her knock you out again?”

“Please do,” Fiearius growled. “If I can’t walk myself outta here, at least make me unconscious so I don’t have to put up with you.”

“Stop,” Leta groaned finally, entering the room and coming between them. They could argue all night for all she cared, but Fiearius’ blistering shoulder was now her main concern, and she moved Cyrus’ hands away. “Cyrus, don’t touch that, I just got it to close again.”

Without invitation, Leta moved Fiearius’ chair around so he faced her. She eyed him clinically and pressed the back of her wrist to his forehead, ignoring his look of immediate distaste. “Fever’s down,” she noted approvingly. “Eyes less dilated. You’re about due for another round of painkillers.”

“Won’t do anything,” he scoffed under his breath. “But whatever you say, doc…”

“And once those kick in,” she stated clearly, standing up straight, “we can discuss our deal.”

Despite the bloody events of the last eight hours, Leta hadn’t forgotten. There was a reason she was staying aboard this ship and she intended to see it through. In fact, she held the thought close, like a talisman: help Fiearius, then strike up a deal. Help Fiearius, and help Ren.

“Ah, right,” Fiearius muttered, looking briefly taken aback in spite of his fatigue. “That. Alright, kiddo.” He sighed heavily and glanced over at her. “I’m nothing if not a man of my word I guess. What is it ya need?”

“Well,” Cyrus said unexpectedly, standing up from his chair and hovering awkwardly between them for a moment. “I eh…should go work on the engine a bit more. Still need to realign the modular piston rings…I’ll leave you to it.” He glanced between them and then departed quickly.

So she was on her own then. Leta stared at Cyrus’ retreating back for a moment, torn between amusement and annoyance, before lowering into his vacant chair. Her hands found the armrests and she looked over at Fiearius. He was watching her with an eyebrow raised, looking vaguely skeptical, and really rather tired.

“My fiance’s been captured,” she began calmly. “He was doing a research project on Vescent, and his focus was the Society. He found out — I don’t know what he found out.  He had something to do with ‘identification.’ That’s all I know. Right before he could publish his work, he disappeared.”

Fiearius’ eyes moved toward the window, which showed the subtly moving landscape of stars. He appeared as if he was not listening at all, but then he said at last, “After researching the Society? Hm. Why’s that not a surprise?”

Leta’s eyes flicked to the Society tattoo on Fiearius’ arm. The thick black lines stuck out beneath his bandage. “Everyone at home believes he’s dead.”

Fiearius nodded slowly, his eyes still on the window.  “I’m guessing you don’t subscribe to that theory?”

“No,” said Leta, more sharply than intended. After a moment, she cast him a look of apology and amended more softly. “No, I don’t. A few months after the capture, my father told me. He has a few ties to the Society higher-ups; he knew the truth. That Ren’s alive. In prison. He has been for three months. I’ve also gotten messages … messages that could only come from Ren.” She paused a moment, awaiting his reaction that never came. “So you can guess what I want to do,” she prompted. “I want to break him out.”

Fiearius said nothing. He was still looking sidelong out the window, holding a staring contest with a distant star. But then his fingers drummed lightly on the arm of his chair and his eyes came to her. “So why’s he in there at all?” he asked finally. “Obviously, okay, he found something out. Something they don’t want him to know. But why capture him? Why not just kill him?”

“I’ve wondered that,” said Leta, scooting closer to the edge of her chair. She stole a keener glance at Fiearius’ face, trying to gauge his expression, but he was unreadable. “I don’t pretend to understand how the Society works. But I see a few reasons for it. One, my dad asked him to be spared. But I don’t think he has that kind of influence — so probably something else. Whatever Ren knows, it must be useful and valuable to the Society. They must need him alive.”

“I gave your brother the data from Ren,” she went on hurriedly, “to see if he could pinpoint where the messages come from. Some Society cell is my guess. Far from Vescent. It’s not easy to get passage from there, so I was never able to investigate. But what I’m getting to is,” she paused, “you have a ship.”

“Oh, how nice of you to notice.”

“So with our deal, I’m asking you to use it,” she went on, “And take me to where he is and help me break him out.”

For the first time in the conversation, she got a reaction: Fiearius knit his brow and he stared at her, looking unapologetically doubtful, and perhaps amused. “Oh really?” he asked. “Is that so? You want me to take my spaceship and fly to…who knows where? Some Society prison. To rescue your boyfriend.”

“Fiance,” Leta corrected dully.

He raised his brows and looked like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or not. “Right. Look, kiddo, you helped me out today and don’t get me wrong, I appreciate that. But do you have any idea what you’re asking?” he asked sincerely. “I know, I’m fucking impressive, but running into a nest of my enemy probably isn’t the best idea even for me.”

It wasn’t the best idea for any person, but Leta was too distracted — too surprised — by the ease in which he spoke. It was like he remembered nothing of the nightmare from earlier.

Corra didn’t breathe as the Dionysian began its ascent. She couldn’t swallow as the ship violently rocked and shook and fought its way up through the sky. She had to look away as they passed through the clouds, the empty thin layer of nothing, the fiery atmosphere and finally emerged into the cold black of space. As the ship calmed from its violent seizure into the sweet stillness of the vacuum, Corra could hold nothing back. The tears flowed forth and she wept.

For minutes, there was nothing in the bridge but the sound of her sorrow until she heard, very faintly, “I’m sorry.” Hesitantly and barely able to lift her head, Corra looked up at Fiearius, hardly daring to believe it.

“Cap’n?” she ventured tentatively.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again as he stared straight ahead into space beyond the window. “I couldn’t do it.” Her tears slowed and her sniffles weakened. Fiearius Soliveré was actually apologizing to her? It didn’t change anything. It didn’t solve it. But it was a step.

“We can still go back,” she murmured, laying a hand on his arm. “We can turn the ship around. We can go back. We can help them.” The desperation in her voice was apparent. “Please…”

At her touch, Fiearius suddenly looked down at her and for the first time, she saw just how horrified he looked. Horrified and…off. Confused. “I’m sorry,” he said again, sounding desperate himself. “I should have listened to you. We could have left. I was just–I didn’t—I couldn’t.”

Suddenly, he reached over and seized her wrist. Corra came to her feet and took a cautious step back, but his hold was strong and she couldn’t break free. She did, however, get the very distinct feeling that despite his eyes being fixed upon hers, Fiearius was no longer speaking to her.

“I couldn’t do it,” he pleaded again. “It was my fault. Everything. All of it. If I had just done what you said–” He brought his other hand to his temple and clutched it viciously as though trying to rip something out of it.

Corra had almost thought it was funny the other day when she’d caught Fiearius talking to himself about some feverish nonsense. Funny not in the way he was rather terribly sick and possibly dying, but funny at least in what he was saying. Now, however, she wasn’t laughing. “Cap’n…” she said again, worried now.

Thank the gods, then, that she didn’t have to do this alone. Corra was relieved to see that the doctor arrived in the doorway, out of breath but ready, a knapsack of med supplies in her hand. “All right,” said Leta, her eyes on Fiearius, “how is — “

“If I didn’t hesitate,” Fiearius went on, as if he were in the middle of a concerned conversation with the wall, “if I’d just done it. I’m sorry I didn’t read your message. I’m sorry. I just…I don’t know.”

Instantly, Leta’s expression shifted with confusion.

“Corra,” she remarked quietly, “who’s he talking to?”

Corra looked up at her, her concern drying her eyes. “I–I don’t know,” she stammered. “He’s just…” She looked down at the broken man attached to her hand and frowned. “Talking nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense!” Fiearius snapped,  pulling her by the wrist closer to him. “I would do anything for you. You know that. Anything. Except…I couldn’t let him kill him. I had to do it. I didn’t have a choice.”

Corra knew it was just fever talking, she couldn’t help herself. Her curiosity was unbearable. “What are you talking about?” she asked quietly. “Couldn’t let who kill who? You had to do what?”

“I had to shoot him,” he replied shortly, looking up at her with his brow furrowed. “I couldn’t save you. I had to save him.”

Perplexed and strangely fascinated, Corra opened her mouth to ask more, but she was cut off.

“Corra,” Cyrus barked sharply at as he stormed into the bridge, causing the now even more confused young woman to almost jump at the sound of her name. “Get out of the way. Let Leta do her thing.” Corra nodded slowly and drew her hand away.

As she retreated to the back of the room, Leta came forward and dropped to her knees, pulling out a collection of needles and bottles from her bag.

Seeming not to notice his doctor, Fiearius’ eyes grew distant with longing toward the wall. Cyrus took one moment to grimace down at him and say softly, “That’s not her,” much to the confusion of the two other people in the room. Corra and Leta exchanged glances, but Cyrus pressed on quickly.

“How fast do you think you can get him back to normal?” he said. “At least coherent would be acceptable,” he added. “We just shot part of the engine with that takeoff and we’re running dangerously low on our fuel reserves. And I’m guessing we didn’t get paid for that one, right?”

“No,” said Leta, now pressing a cloth to Fiearius’ arm, “we didn’t get paid. Torian was there waiting; Solon double-crossed us. Double-crossed Fiearius, I mean.”

Corra watched from the sidelines as Leta cleaned and dressed the wound and began to put together a needle. As she worked, Fiearius’ eyes looked emptily over her head until he finally noticed Leta. As though she would understand this more than anyone else in the room could, he informed her, his voice too calm and haunting, “You can’t fix it. You can’t bring back the dead.”

His words brought Leta to pause. She halted in the middle of filling a shot, provided him a startled look, before hastily recovering. Whatever he’d meant by that, it clearly disturbed their doctor.

“I’m not,” she said, too forcefully. “I’m not. I’m — going to give you something for the fever; it’ll put you to sleep,” she finished quietly, and finally administered a needle to his shoulder.

It took only seconds for the patient in the room to quiet. Fiearius’ feverish nonsense faded as his eyes fell closed and his head slumped back in the chair.

Slowly, Leta stood up to her feet. Her expression was darkened. “He’ll be asleep for hours. Then, he needs rest. Actual rest. He shouldn’t lift a spoon tomorrow, let alone fly a ship.”

The bridge lapsed into solemn, expectant silence. Leta was standing there numbly, her brow knit, looking ghastly pale and rather lost. Corra was fairly certain she knew what  they were all thinking. The captain was unconscious. They had no plan, no next-step. They were out of money and very nearly out of fuel. And Solon Goddora was dead. One of the most powerful traders in the span. Dead at the hands of the man in the pilot’s seat. His ghost would be back to haunt them. That was for sure. Finally, she found the nerve to speak.

“Now what?” she wondered quietly from her place by the wall.

Cyrus heaved a long sigh. “Now?” he repeated, looking between the two of them and back down at his unconscious brother. “Now, we leave.”

“I saw Arty bleeding, trying to treat himself,” he told her. “And a couple others wounded too. Take care of them. Do your thing. I’ll handle the rest.”

“Oh, will you?”

Her words hung in the air with a bit of a nasty sting, but she didn’t take them back. Instead, she turned around swiftly and inhaled a sharp breath. Half a dozen faces of the crew looked back at her. A few people were crumbled against the wall, managing injuries. Barely.

“All right,” she said, her tone raised to address the room at large. “You heard him, I need help. If you’re hurt, find a place to sit. If you’re bleeding anywhere on the core of the body, don’t move far. Everyone not injured, pair with someone, apply pressure to the wound with whatever clothing you have. Or just use your hands, get them dirty. Press as hard as you can,” she explained, her tone heavy with significance. “And then press harder.”

Leta crossed through the room, assessing the damage on either side of her, seeing who needed the most immediate help. Actually, she knew who needed the most immediate help, and he was currently in the bridge. Looking around quickly, Leta had to appreciate their attempt to organize, but this ship needed a fuckin medical team.

Finally, the young woman dropped onto her knees before a particularly washed-out looking, sweating, shaking, younger member of the crew. “Hi,” she greeted, attempting a smile through her breathlessness. It was a quick effort for a better bedside manner, although she still preferred it when her patients were unconscious.

“Mind if I take a look?” she inquired keenly, and without waiting for an answer, she got to work.

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

“Fiearius, stop!”

Still, nothing. Corra had followed the captain all the way from the cargo bay to the bridge, desperately trying get his attention, but no matter how much she shouted and how often she begged, he seemed not to hear a word. She had had a hard enough time just keeping up with him (for a wounded man, he was unusually fast), but as they reached the bridge and he collapsed into the pilot’s chair, she was finally granted the opportunity.

Breathlessly Corra seized the back of his chair and tried again. “Fiearius please. We can’t….we can’t just leave.” But the captain seemed wholly focused on his task, his eyes locked on the console before him and his hands furiously at work. Frustrated, Corra shook the chair. “Cap’n, stop, don’t.” Still, nothing. It was as if she were invisible. But she had to tell him. He had to stop. They couldn’t leave yet, they just couldn’t.

Finally, tired of this, she released her clutch on the chair and instead reached for his shoulder (the one that wasn’t bleeding profusely all over the bridge) and spun him around to face her. “Fiearius, fucking listen to me!” she yelled in his face and at last, some semblance of recognition flashed in his eyes. Her heart leaping, Corra jumped on the opportunity.

“Fiear, we can’t leave,” she told him desperately, her voice cracking under the weight. “You–you killed Goddora. This is our one chance. We have to go back. We can break up his compound, we can get those people out of there. If we leave now–” Her voice caught in her throat at the very thought of it as her eyes began to water. “If we leave,” she went on more steadily, “someone else is just going to take it over. Nothing will change. We have to do something before that happens. Take advantage of the confusion.” The tears were now starting to stream from her face. Her hand gripped his shoulder more tightly. She could barely get the words out. “Fiear, we have to save the allies. We have to go back. Please.”

But even as she spoke and laid out what should have been a decision clear as day, she began to realize that he perhaps wasn’t even listening. Yes, he was looking at her now, but his eyes were glazed over, his pupils wide and it almost seemed as though he didn’t recognize her at all.

Instantly, she wanted to scream. How did he not understand how important this was? He had been handed a unique chance, a chance she had been praying for her whole life, and he was just about to throw it away. Oh how she wanted to shout and yell and beat on his chest until he listened. Until he understood.

But all he did was stare right through her.

Suddenly, a crackle erupted from the intercom to their right and Cyrus’ voice sputtered out of it. “I’m ready,” he said, worry in his voice. “Can you do this?”

While Fiearius seemed entirely unable to comprehend Corra’s words, he understood his brother’s just fine. “Of course I can,” he replied, breaking free of her grasp and turning back around to the console. “I’ve done this a million times. It’s fine. I’m fine.” True to his words, Fiearius tapped the right combination of commands the the ship’s engine rumbled to life beneath them. Corra’s heart stopped. No, she thought furiously, they couldn’t. They couldn’t just abandon them like this.

Tears were streaming down her face now as she fell to her knees beside his chair, holding onto the arm of it like a liferaft. “Please, Fiearius. Don’t do this. We have to go back,” she said again, her voice quiet now, muffled behind her sobs. But it was hopeless, wasn’t it? He hadn’t listened before, why would he listen now? “This could be our only chance. Fiearius. We have to–”

The ship lurched forward. The intercom crackled again as Cyrus’ angered voice shouted, “No, it’s not ready yet!”

Fiearius, however, did not bother to hit the return button so it was only Corra who heard his reply. “We have to go now. If we wait, I’ll never see you again.” She frowned and lifted her head to stare up at him through fuzzy, water-soaked lenses.

Beneath her, the ship lifted off the ground and began its usual shudder. Subconsciously, she braced herself for the lurch and consciously tried not to think of all the people they were leaving behind. The people she’d known, grown up with, the people who were, for all intents and purposes, her kin. Her kin that she had abandoned three years ago. And abandoned now again.