“But how can you really know that?”

“I just do,” he assured her. “Think about it. Why would he go through all the trouble of pulling me out of Satieri just to tip off Varisian so she can bring me back in? It doesn’t make sense, not even for a crazy bastard like him.”

“That’s just it, Fiear. He could change his mind at any second.”

But Fiearius was shaking his head. “I really don’t think he will this time,” he said with a surprisingly firm conviction. “And even if he does, I’m keeping tabs on him. There’s nothing he can do to us without me knowing about it. I promise.”

“Can you at least acknowledge that you might have a blind spot when it comes to him?” said Leta pleadingly. “He’s your oldest friend. And now — ”

“It’s not a blind spot,” Fiearius defended at once. “He’s been trying to kill me for the last four years, I’m not an idiot, I didn’t forget that. I just understand him a little better than–”

“You need to come to the bridge.”

The voice suddenly broke over the mess hall. Fiearius sat up, startled, as Leta swung her eyes to the doorway and saw Cyrus in the doorway, looking worried.

Once he’d quickly regained his cool, Fiearius frowned at him tiredly. “Dare I ask why?”

“We picked something up,” said Cyrus, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder. “I think you should see it…”

Fiearius cast a worried glance at Leta before pushing himself from the table and following his brother into the hallway.

– – – – – – – –

“A distress signal?” Fiearius demanded in disbelief as he scrolled through the bridge’s main console screen. “How? From where? We’re alone in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere.”

“Apparently we’re not,” said Cyrus, hovering behind him. “It’s coming from a small ship not too far off from us.”

Leta crossed her arms over her chest. “How long has this been broadcasting?” she asked, feeling unpleasant worry stir through her as she read the screen: Transmitting signal … DISTRESS CALL. URGENT. DISTRESS CALL. URGENT. M00112 …

Cyrus shrugged. “Hard to say. We’re the only pingback recorded, but that doesn’t mean much. We are in essentially dead space. We could have been the only receiver in range for days, weeks, months, these things can keep going for years if the generator’s still running.”

“I know this signal,” said Leta, stepping closer to the flashing screen. “It’s a code for ‘medical emergency.’”

“And a low fuel signal, yeah,” Cyrus agreed. “Nasty place to run out of bandages…”

But Fiearius looked unconvinced. “Would be, if it were true,” he muttered and without another word, he pressed the dial for the intercom and spoke into it. “Dez, get up here.”

Leta and Cyrus exchanged a startled glance. Then, seconds later, Dez arrived in the doorway. He was possibly the last person Leta wanted to see, and she did not bother to conceal it, as she rolled her eyes.

Wasting no time, Fiearius pointed to the screen. “Recognize this Vessel ID at all?”

Dez peered at the number and shook his head. “Not one of theirs, no.” He paused and tilted his head. “Not that it would be.”

Fiearius grunted agreement. “Exactly what I was thinking. Ambush?”

Dez nodded. “Ambush.”

Fiearius turned to Leta and Cyrus and shrugged, like all was well. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. We’ll be out of range soon.”

Cyrus looked perplexed. “Wait, what just happened?”

“We have no idea what’s on that ship, Cy,” Fiearius pointed out. “And given our status as, y’know, fugitives, I’d rather not find out, would you?”

“You — what?” said Leta in alarm. “You think it’s a trap?”

Fiearius met her eyes meaningfully. Leta knew what he was thinking: Ren’s warning, from the night previous. A fresh wave of bounty hunters on their tail.

But this simply didn’t add up.

“It can’t be a trap,” she went on seriously. “There’s no way the Society or anybody knows we’re on this side of space, how could they just magically know to plant a distress call here?”

Fiearius opened his mouth to respond, but to Leta’s surprise, Dez spoke over him. “Our location has little to do with the possibility of Society interference,” he explained in his cold monotone, looking not at her, but at the screen. “In fact, a more remote location further from bases would be a more agile staging position due to the very logic that a planned attack is improbable.”

“We can’t ignore the call,” Leta said in disgust, rounding on Fiearius. “We have to answer. Remember when the Dionysian’s engine was broken and we were stuck in the middle of nowhere? We would’ve killed for anyone to answer us. We have to go, we have to see what they need.”

“Wait,” said Cyrus, sounding lost in this discussion, “are we seriously considering this ship being some sort of Society scheme? It doesn’t even have any fuel for gods’ sakes.”

“That it’s reporting. You of all people should know how easy that is to fake,” Dez replied simply. “It also is suspect that the ship is transmitting a medical emergency code specifically.” His cold eyes shifted toward Leta. “The Society is no doubt aware of who they are baiting. The medical staff aboard this ship and the tendencies of that staff towards situations such as these have been well-documented — “

It was then that anger darkened Fiearius’ face. “Dez … ” he muttered warningly, while Leta flared up at once.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“In addition, Society or none, distress signals are common tactics of bandit ships to lure in–”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Fiearius interrupted suddenly, holding a hand out in front of Dez, who went icily quiet.

“How about we just call it in?” Fiearius suggested, hoping to find some happy medium between the three of them. “There’s gotta be an emergency team stationed somewhere. They can come out here, check it out for themselves and we’ll just get out of the way. Okay?”

“That could take days,” said Cyrus, exasperated.  “Weeks even. Did you see the radar? There aren’t any ports around here.”

“If the signal is recent, whoever’s on that ship could be long dead by then,” said Leta. “There’s no time. It has to be us. We have to go see what that ship needs.”

Fiearius eyed her, his face softening. She was sure he was on the verge of agreeing when Dez cut in yet again, “While your crew’s empathy is admirable, it is foolish and impractical. An investigation is a decision we may not return from. Any view otherwise is naive.”

“I don’t care if you think it’s naive,” said Leta, her eyes narrowing to slits. “Your word doesn’t mean anything on this ship.”

Dez lifted his brows at her curiously and turned to Fiearius, as if expecting him to refute. Leta and Cyrus’ eyes followed. Fiearius, however uncharacteristically, seemed unwilling to make the call himself.

Clenching his jaw, Fiearius said at last, “We’ll check it out. Briefly. But we’ll put the Dionysian in a running dock in case we need to disengage quickly.”

“That, I can do,” Cyrus agreed. He turned on his heel and left for the engine room.

Dez spent another moment gazing hard at Fiearius. “I guess logic and backbone have no meaning on this ship either,” he muttered before he took a deep breath, declared dutifully, “I’ll ready the weaponry,” and headed out.

“You sound like you’re happy, Leta.”

“Something like that,” she conceded. Leta thanked him for calling, bid him goodnight, promised him she’d keep her head down. Minutes later Leta was back upstairs in Fiearius’ room.

She closed the hatch quietly and was just lowering to the edge of the bed when Fiearius stirred awake, lifting his head to squint at her in the darkness.

“Everything alright?” he asked gruffly, his voice hoarse.

Smiling slightly, Leta smoothed back his hair, assured him everything was fine, and pulled up the sheets to slide in beside him. She was asleep before the blankets were even warm.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

“So is the name familiar to you at all?” Leta asked, scrolling through the tablet in her hand. With her other hand she lifted a mug of strong black tea to her lips. It was early afternoon the next day and most of the crew had eaten Amora’s breakfast already. Leta and Fiearius, after spending most of the morning in bed, were in the mess hall alone.

“Arleth Morgan,” Fiearius repeated from the kitchen. He flipped an omelette over in the pan before he glanced over his shoulder at her. “Doesn’t ring any bells.”

“Ren’s completely convinced that he’s after me,” she muttered. Then she hesitated . This was insane, surely, but she had to know what Fiearius thought.

“And,” she added carefully, “that he’s a Councilor.”

The kitchen suddenly grew quiet. At first, she wasn’t sure he’d heard her, until suddenly, the spatula hit the pan with a clang.

“Wait, a Councilor? Like, a Society Councilor? A Society Council Councilor?”

“I know. I thought it was crazy too,” Leta admitted. “But he sounded so sure that this ‘Morgan’ definitely is one. So much so that I–well, I almost want to believe it.”

Frowning, Fiearius moved towards her and leaned his shoulder against the doorway. “Councilors don’t have names or identities. They kill their names when they take the job. Nobody’s ever managed to link an actual human being to the position. So how, exactly, did he come to have this belief?”

“I don’t know, but he has a knack for putting pieces together. This is exactly how he ended up in prison in the first place.” She scrolled through the tablet once more. So far, she hadn’t been able to find much of value, except that what Ren said was true: Arleth Morgan was reported dead years prior, leaving behind a wife and no children.

Exasperated, Leta put down the tablet. “Is it possible there’s something more interesting on him in the Verdant database?”

“If he was a Society agent at all? Probably. Unless they obliterated him from existence, but even then, this database is suspiciously inclusive.” Fiearius shrugged, then wandered over to the kitchen’s console and held his wrist to it. Moments later, the screen turned black and a silver Society librera formed in its center. As the database loaded, Fiearius grunted, “All yours.”

Leta pushed herself to her feet at once. “I knew I liked you for a reason.”

“Ah yes, the true secret to a woman’s heart,” said Fiearius, crossing back toward the stove to finish cooking. “Homemade breakfast and unrestricted access to high-level government secrets.”

But Leta was hardly listening to his banter: she stepped closer to the screen, absorbing every word. “Here he is. Department of Internal Affairs, 2nd Division agent.”

“Ooh, one of ours,” Fiearius muttered curiously.

“He was implanted as an undercover operative in the Carthian military. But get this.” Her eyes widened as she read, “‘Demonstrated above average leadership and organizational abilities, however, extracted from Carthian project due to non-adherence to undercover protocol and tendency towards anger-based violence. At recommendation of supervision, retired from field work and re-instated as Director of Internal Affairs, 1847.’”

“And he died…?” Fiearius prompted, picking up the plates and hovering behind her.

“‘Of natural causes.’ 1851.”

Fiearius nodded once. “Same year as the acquisition of Vescent.”

Leta regarded him skeptically. “That could be a coincidence.”

“Or he could be a Councilor. He could’ve faked his death under the Society’s guidance. It wouldn’t be the first time they covered something up,” he added, mouth twitching toward a smirk.

“This seems too easy,” Leta sighed, overwhelmed. “If they’re really that anonymous, that secretive, that protective, why is this information available at all? And even if it’s only available to the Verdant, how did Ren find out?”

“Maybe Morgan wasn’t quite as good at disappearing as he should be. Maybe he left some dangerous clues somewhere. Maybe Ren just saw it in a vision. Either way, I think that’s something you’re gonna have to ask him,” Fiearius said, dropping to the table. “Now c’mere. Sit. Eat.”

Leta made herself move away from the console and sit down across from him. She picked up her fork, though she was too deep in thought to eat.

“So how is he anyway? Ren?” Fiearius asked as he dug into his food, eyebrows raised. “The Carthians treating him okay?”

“He’s doing well. Really well.” Leta twirled the fork in her fingers. “He might be out of rehabilitation very soon, by the sound of things.”

Fiearius only nodded. His eyes slid out of focus and then he diverted his gaze toward his plate.

“What?” Leta prompted.

“Nothin’.”

But Leta could read Fiearius well by now. He was deliberately avoiding her eyes, and she knew why. A knowing smile came to her face.

“It’s completely over, you know,” she told him earnestly. “Ren and I.”

Fiearius lifted his gaze and shrugged one shoulder, a skeptical smirk on his face. “I didn’t say anythin’.”

But there was no denying he looked more relaxed after that.

“Besides, Ren will probably stay on Carthis if that’s where he’s safe,” Leta added, almost to herself. She slid her fork into her food as her gaze wandered toward the open window. A canopy of stars floated past — empty space. “Where are we headed next, anyway?”

“Actually, I was just talking to Quin a couple days ago. She’s very enamored with those new ships we helped her get. She’s promised a very good cut if I can acquire her some more so I’m having Dez do some research. He’s putting together a list of low-security Society shipping routes.” He grinned proudly. “Gonna do some real pirating.”

Leta did not quite share his enthusiasm. “Do you really think listening to Dez on anything is a good idea?”

Fiearius frowned. “Listening to Dez is a terrible idea,” he agreed. “Don’t misundertand me, I can’t trust the guy as far as I can throw him, but he does know things, statistical things, data things, that would take me a helluva lot longer to find out on my own.” He shrugged. “But I’ll be scouring anything he hands me three times over, don’t you worry.”

“It’s not just that, Fiear.  We can’t trust his insight at all. He has an end-game here. He could turn on us — you — any second.” Leta set down her fork.

Fiearius met her eyes calmly. Too calmly. “He won’t. Don’t trust him, but you can trust me. He won’t. I’m sure of it.”

“You have no reason to believe that,” Leta pointed out, heaving a sigh. “I’ve been thinking, actually … “

Fiearius’ brows raised on his forehead. “Uh-oh,” he muttered before shoveling a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

“On Archeti, Ophelia found us. And we don’t know how. Someone could have reached out to the Society.”

“And you think it was Dez.”  It was another moment before he swallowed and added, “It wasn’t.”

She sounded wistful, full of longing. Perhaps he should have gotten Leta on the line after all.

“We’d probably go out to some sketchy dump of a bar,” Corra went on, smiling sadly. “Cy would be too scared to talk to any girl there. Leta and Fiear would argue loudly to mask their shameless flirting. We’d all get drunk. And I’d probably get laid.”

As he sat down beside her, Finn snorted into his drink. Corra swung her eyes at him.

“What?” she demanded.

“Nothin’. You just make it sound so romantic,” he said sarcastically.

Corra frowned at him. “Romance is all well and good for other people. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll take a good love story any day, but for me? No way. Too messy. I like simplicity.” She shrugged and raised her glass to her lips, but it paused an inch away as revelation crossed her expression. “God, it’s been ages since I last got laid.” In despair, she dropped her face into her free hand. “No wonder I’m so tense.” When Finn chuckled, she cast him a sharp look. “I mean it. Ages, Riley.” Drama filled her voice. “Ages.”

“No, no, that’s a serious problem,” Finn agreed heartily. “I just find that hard to believe. You?” He nodded at her in appreciation. “Not getting laid … “

“Well, according to you, I’m a captain now. I don’t have time to just mess around,” she chided, waving him off like he was being absurd. “And I, unlike Fiearius, am making a vow not to fool around with my crew.”

Finn made a noise of agreement. “Very admirable, captain,” he said and tilted his glass toward his lips, letting the bourbon scald his throat. Perhaps it was the liquor, perhaps it was the long exhausting day that had taken a toll on him — but suddenly Finn found himself saying boldly, “You know what though. Technically, I’m not crew.”

Corra lowered his glass to gaze at him. She looked, more than anything, curious.

“And,” Finn went on slowly, “I’m not really sure what the captain-and-captain protocol is on this ship yet. So … “

A long silence lapsed between them. Well, that was stupid, Finn couldn’t help but think and he was about to retract the comment as a joke when Corra tilted her head to the side. Slowly, a smirk spread over her face. “Are you flirting with me, Riley?”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

An hour later, after the sheen of sweat cooled his skin, Finn released a long sigh out of his bare chest and folded the palms of his hand behind his neck. He lay flat on his back on the dining room table, gazing up at the ceiling with a tired, happy sort of pride — in his humble opinion, they’d found the perfect way to turn this night around.

Beside him, he could feel Corra smirking. Hell, what a weird 24 hours, he thought to himself. He certainly hadn’t expected the night to end this way and he doubted Corra did, either.

“Hey, so … thanks,” she sighed, lifting herself up on an elbow. Her free hand strayed to his hair, smoothing it back, making him grin lazily. “I think I really needed that.”

“Ah, anytime,” he replied absently, as if he’d just bought her a case of beer. After a moment, he amended, “Really, anytime at all,” more pointedly, a grin spreading over his face as he enjoyed the sight of all her bare skin.

Rolling her eyes, Corra sat up and reached for her shirt, which had been tossed across the table, and pulled it on over her head. Taking his cue — he was probably overstaying his welcome now — Finn shifted his feet to the floor and started to gather his clothes. He seized a cigarette out of his jacket pocket and stuck it in his mouth.

“So … we’re okay, right?” said Corra suddenly from her spot on the edge of the table. She looked hesitant. “You know, to…eh…overlook this? Not mention it to our loving and devoted crew? Or Fiearius, or … anyone?”

Finn almost replied normally, but he could not help himself.

“Oh-o, I see what this is now,” he said, his tone muffled from the cigarette. He was full of good-natured accusation. “Your service boy, that what I am? Is that all? Fly the ship, show up in you room? Well now I just feel all cheap-like and dirty.”

Corra smirked. “That sounds about right, yeah.”

If there was any seriousness at all in his tone, it was extinguished the moment he grinned broadly at her. Reaching for the rest of his clothes (his shirt in particular had made it halfway across the room), he tugged it on over his chest and pulled on his shoes and then breathed a sigh.

“Nah, I won’t tell anyone, don’t worry about it. We’re probably going to have to deal with situations a hell of a lot weirder than this, don’t ya think? I mean, definitely wish I could go brag to the all the deckhands right now … and I sure love upsetting Fiear …. but cross my heart, I’ll restrain myself,” he assured her, regarding her in amusement for a moment.

Then, holding his jacket in one hand, he started to cross toward the exit, but not before pausing to lean in toward the table to kiss her briefly on the lips. It was chaste and polite, a clear end-note that lasted only a moment before he went to the door and called plainly, ”Night, cap’n,” over his shoulder.

“Yes, for her sake,” said Callahan coldly. “I was willing to overcome my inhibitions of allowing a kroppie to represent me at all, but now I sincerely regret that decision. You, your employees and your actions on their behalf all reflect on me, do you understand that? And on all accounts, I am ashamed — “

He went on, but Finn tuned him out, watching as Corra suddenly pushed herself to her feet and fled the bridge.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

When Finn knocked on the double-doors to Corra’s quarters some twenty minutes later, he did not expect an answer, although he was certain she was inside. He waited a beat, and then opened the door himself and slipped inside.

The captain quarter’s on the Beacon were quite extravagant. A bedroom, a dining area, a lounge and full kitchen. His eyes scanned over the sleek bookcases and furniture. The space appeared empty.

And then he noticed her. Corra sat on the rug against the wall, knees pulled to her chest. She was not crying in this moment but she clearly had been; her face was clouded and she was eyeing him with a reddened, glassy gaze.

Talkative as he was, no words came to him. Resisting the urge to bolt back into the hallway, he crossed through the room and slowly lowered to sit cross-legged beside her shoulder.

Silence hung between them. He wanted to ask if she was alright, but clearly she was not.

At last, in a stuffed, hoarse voice, Corra said, “I didn’t think Callahan knew.” Her fingers gingerly played with the crop of her ear.

“Ah.” Finn waved a lazy hand in the air, then dropped his wrist on his knee. “He’s past it. Angry, but that’s not your fault at all. It’s mine and Mica’s. ‘Sides, Callahan isn’t dropping us or anything; I smoothed it over already.”

He thought this would help matters, but Corra let out a watery, bitter laugh.

“Of course you did. Of course you fixed it already. You’re actually qualified for this job.”

Finn would have liked to accept the compliment and agree, but he glanced sideways and saw fresh tears filling her eyes. So instead he said, firmly, “No I’m not. I’m not at all qualified. I got kicked out of military school, remember? I don’t have a pilot’s license and I’ve definitely never captained a ship before.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she moaned. “You have it down. All the jobs you choose go well, the crew respects you, the clients respect you, the Beacon itself respects you. Doesn’t matter if you don’t have a degree or experience, you’re meant for this. Me?” She snorted. “Mica’s right. I’m just a dumb kroppie playing make-believe on a spaceship.” Finn winced at the word, but Corra didn’t notice. She simply concluded, “I never should have left the Dionysian. This was a huge mistake.”

“Hardly. Getting off that death trap was probably the best thing you’ve ever done.”

“But everything has gone so badly,” Corra breathed wondrously. “Ever since I boarded this ship. We barely have any money. We can’t string two jobs together. None of our clients  think I’m worth anything and they’re right. I have no idea how we’ll afford to grow our crew, build our client base, any of it. I don’t want to be captain. I don’t deserve to be captain.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it though?” she snapped, finally looking up at him with watery eyes. “You’re not stupid, Riley. You know as well as I do how unqualified I am. I give up. The captainship is yours, entirely. I’ll just go back to being a gunhand like I’m supposed to.”  She dropped her head back into her knees and her voice became garbled by tears. “At least then no one will question me. It’s a fitting task for someone of my status.”

Finn regarded a spot on the floor. Mostly, he wanted her to stop crying. Please stop crying. Fleetingly, he considered suggesting reaching Leta on the Dionysian — she’d be better at this, right? More equipped? As her best friend?

But then a second later, just when he’d made a longing glance toward the COMM device in the wall, he looked away and inwardly scolded himself for being a cowardly jackass. Still pulling the same old shit, aren’t you, he thought, almost laughing sadly. The urge to leave when things got serious was always there and probably always would be which was why, according to Elsa, he’d never have a real meaningful relationship ….

This time, he managed to stifle that impulse to bolt or keep things light and stupid.

“Here’s the thing,” he stated quietly, surprising even himself, “that I realized only very recently. Everyone’s faking it. No one knows what they’re doing. Everyone. Fiearius. Me. Everybody. No one has their shit together.”

He heard her sniffle at his side and draw in a shaky breath. Carefully, she peered up at him from beneath the shield of her hair. Recognizing a window of opportunity, he went on, “I’m serious. Everyone out here is just frantically grasping at straws hoping that something works out. Praying for that one break that’ll separate them from success and failure. What makes the difference is the act. The lie.” His hand reached out to grasp her shoulder in comfort. “You’re doing fine at this. You just have to convince yourself, first.”

With that, Finn pushed himself to his feet and crossed to the stocked captain’s liquor cabinet across the room.

He picked through the collection and seized the fanciest, most expensive-looking bottle he could find — it had a brilliant gold label, surely that meant something — and turned around, nabbing two glasses with him.

“Bourbon,” he muttered, lifting the bottle and flashing its shining label. “I think that’s what this is, I can’t read this language … actually, not even sure what language this is … but it’s fitting for any decent captain.”

He handed her the glass and lowered to sit beside her again. “Drink,” he ordered and tentatively, she sipped the liquor. And then she coughed harshly, seized with disgust. He almost laughed, but he had a feeling they had not quite made it to the other side of this conversation yet.

“Look,” he muttered, his tone lowering with significance. “For what it’s worth. I’ve been on a lot of ships and worked with a lot of captains. But I’m really fucking glad it’s your ship I’m on.”

“Our ship, you mean,” Corra corrected quietly, the lightest touch of humor in her face. It faded as she shook her head. “I just — miss when things were easy. I miss the Dionysian. I miss Leta and Cy.” She sipped her drink for a few seconds and breathed out shakily. “You know what we’d be doing right now, if we were on the Dionysian? We’d be celebrating. Celebrating a job well done. Well — things never went well on the Dionysian. But we did alright.”