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 –”

Fiearius let out a disgruntled ‘hmph’. “Why do you think we’re here?”

“Vacation?” said Finn brightly, jabbing a thumb back toward the door. Dropping his hand, he shrugged. “Nah, you picked a good spot. Goddora was never that popular on Archeti. Most are glad he’s snuffed it; probably won’t run into anyone who wants violent revenge … ”

“Well, that’s comforting,” said Leta dryly. Quite ready for this conversation to be over, she glanced to Cyrus. “Ready to go?”

Cyrus, who didn’t look remotely ready by the expression on his face, stuck the map in his pocket and nodded. “As I’ll ever be.”

Leta was surprised to see a look of pity flicker on Fiearius’ face.

“Hey,” he called, catching Cyrus’ attention. He used his one good shoulder to push himself from the wall and he stepped to his brother. “Take care of yourself, alright? And don’t worry about the fuel, I’ll find someone dumb enough to hook up to a ship in the middle of town.”

Cyrus frowned, taken aback. “I thought you were on a break…”

Fiearius shrugged one shoulder. “Ain’t no rest for the wicked.”

“I…don’t think that’s what –” Cyrus began.

“You’ll do fine.” Fiearius patted him on the shoulder cheerfully before turning back to Leta. “And you,” he told her bluntly, his eyes drifting toward a glare. “Don’t you dare let him die.” He kept his long, intense stare on her face before breaking into a wide smile. “Have fun, kids!”

Cyrus rolled his eyes and beckoned Leta to the ramp. She started to follow, but not without throwing a distracted look toward Fiearius, her needy patient. “No more window jumping, got it?” she growled, suddenly alarmed by whatever business deal Fiearius was planning himself. “Your arm’s barely — “

Before she could finish her threat, another voice rang out, causing everyone to turn.

“Hang on!”

It was Corra. She was hurrying down the stairs, fully armed with at least three guns strapped to her tiny body. She practically flew across the room, nearly colliding with Cyrus as she skidded to a halt and grabbed his arm. “I just heard,” she panted through heavy breaths, “I can’t believe…you’re gonna go…do this…without me.”

Looking dumbstruck,  Cyrus opened his mouth and finally stammered, “I didn’t want to bother you and I thought–”

“And I can’t believe,” she went on breathlessly, ignoring his stammers and rounding on Fiearius, “You were gonna…let them go…on their own.” She looked at him furiously. “These two! Are you…crazy?!”

Appearing as perplexed as his brother, Fiearius blinked down at her slowly. “Depends who you ask?” he offered unhelpfully.

Corra released a frustrated groan, sucked in one more heavy breath and glared at Cyrus. “I’m coming with you,” she informed him matter-of-factly, her tone practically daring him to challenge her.

Cyrus was apparently up to the task. “Are you sure?” he asked, stupidly. Leta saw an odd, confused hope fill Cyrus’ eyes, like he couldn’t quite believe what was happening, but he wanted to. Actually, in her week aboard, she’d never seen Cyrus look at anyone like that. “I mean, after–”

“I’m coming with you,” she repeated harshly.

Cyrus seemed incapable of putting words together anymore, so Leta wondered, “What made you change your mind?”

Corra’s frown softened, and she gave a sheepish, kind smirk. “I can’t just let you guys go out there alone,” she admitted, sounding breathless but determined. “If something happened? I’d…I’d never forgive myself. If we can’t look out for each other, who will?”

Sincerity blazed in her round brown eyes, and Leta was taken aback. It made sense that she wanted to help Cyrus — they were clearly friends, perhaps more than friends — but Corra grasped her forearm too, like they’d known each other forever.

“I — guess you’re right,” said Leta finally, beginning to smile in spite of herself. At least until Finn interrupted.

“This is really touching,” he said, beaming at them all. “So how come no one’s invited me, eh?”

Still grasping Leta’s arm, Corra turned back to Finn and frowned. “Because I don’t trust you,” she stated simply. “Any ‘friend’ of his,” she gestured to Fiearius, “is bound to be trouble.”

“Well, fair point,” Finn conceded. “Shame you won’t ask my help though. I’m more than just a pretty face, Corra… ”

Indignantly, Fiearius laid a protective hand on Finn’s shoulder. “S’alright, mate. They’re just jealous.”

Rolling her eyes, quite ready to be away from both Fiearius and his obnoxious friend, Leta steered them toward the door and fell into step beside Cyrus.

“Let’s just get this over with,” she muttered, but now she felt slightly more confident in their chances. After all, unlike her last three painful months on Vescent, at least she didn’t have to face this task alone.

“Shh!” Leta hissed, swiping her hand sideways to shut the man up, weary of his voice carrying to the bridge. Whatever he was about to say, Leta was certain it wasn’t the time: after all, she was joining Cyrus on Archeti, against all of her better judgement, and the last thing they needed was a blow to his confidence.

He certainly had looked nervous at breakfast this morning. She wasn’t feeling particularly good about this plan either, but it was obvious Cyrus hated his new position as captain and all the attention it brought, so she had done her best to smile at him encouragingly. Or she’d hoped it was encouraging. Hopefully the smile had read, we can do this! Or perhaps, you’re an amazing interim captain! And not, please don’t kill us.

Stopping to help the older man to his feet, Leta then edged around him and turned into the bridge entrance, pausing on the threshold.

Fiearius was in the co-pilot’s seat, relaxed as if he’d just finished watching a mildly interesting film. Beside him, Cyrus was frozen, his hands still on the controls, apparently at a loss for words.

“So everyone’s fine,” she told him lightly, not entirely certain this was true (Rhys groaned from the hallway). “So I’ll finish getting ready? And I’ll meet you in the cargo bay, Cyrus.”

In response, Cyrus said, his voice a little shriller than normal, “Yep. Okay. Thanks.”

Exchanging a look of concern with Fiearius, Leta backed out of the room.

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

Ten minutes later, Leta threw her med bag over her shoulder (she’d come more prepared this time), and took the stairs down into the cargo bay. The wide room was crowded and lively, which Leta found interesting, as Archeti wasn’t exactly a fun landing point. The ship’s ramp door was down, providing a view of the landscape; even in her brief glimpse, the city of Genesi looked grim.

The deckhands Nikkolai and Javier were sitting together atop a crate, Cyrus was hanging nearby reviewing a map in his hands, and Rhys was slumped against a wall, swigging from a bottle of whiskey. Corra seemed to be the only one missing from the scene, and Leta felt a pang of guilt that she hadn’t stopped to see how she was doing. After how nice Corra had been, giving her a gun lesson, letting her borrow a set of her clothes …

Leta was distracted somewhat when she realized even Fiearius was present. He was leaning against a beam on the wall, talking with someone Leta didn’t recognize, but must have been from Archeti. The stranger was tall and lean, young thirties perhaps, though the unruly cut of his brown hair and the grin on his face made him look boyishly youthful.

“ — such a brilliant entrance there, mate,” the man was saying, grinning at Fiearius. A cigarette stuck out from the corner of his mouth as he spoke, his voice slightly muffled by it. “One of your best. Few more of those and maybe you’ll realize it’s time to recycle this hunk of junk?”

“Junk?!” Fiearius repeated incredulously. “She ain’t junk. I resent that. And I’m offended you’d think I would land her like that too. I’d do a better job even with this damn thing,” he gestured to the sling holding his arm. Rolling his eyes, he grumbled, “Junk. Better than that Carthian shit you fly any day. Everyone knows Carthians can’t build ships for the life of ‘em.”

“Oho, I can’t wait to show ya just how wrong y — wait, hang on,” he said, spotting Leta and suddenly swiping the cigarette from his mouth. If it were possible, his grin broadened, and his eyebrows lifted in what was, undeniably, appreciation. “Fiearius. Are you cheating on me? I thought what we had was special … why didn’t you tell me there was a new woman in your life?”

“I guess that depends on how you’re defining ‘in my life’,” Fiearius muttered under his breath, eyeing Leta in distaste. Then he let out a sigh and introduced diligently, “Finn, this is some doctor from Vescent that my brother decided to kidnap. Presumably, he did so for the sole purpose of pissing me off.”

“Ah, well in that case, we all owe Cyrus our thanks,” said the man. Without missing a beat, he stepped before her and stated cheerfully, “Finnegan Riley, old friend of Fiear’s, what’s your name?” and stuck out his hand.

Leta only stared. The man simply oozed boyish charm. She regarded him in both disgust and amusement, not taking his hand. “It’s Leta,” she deadpanned. To Fiearius, she rose her eyebrows in surprise. “You have friends?”

“You have a name?” Fiearius quipped back.

At this, Finn barked a laugh. “Oh, you two are adorable,” he said sincerely. Then he looked back to Leta, wagging a finger at her. “You — hang on … You were with Fiear when he killed Goddorra, weren’t ya? The second shooter?”

Leta, who had been looking over her shoulder to find Cyrus, snapped her attention back. “How’d you know about that?”

“Ah, everyone across the span knows by now, darlin’,” said Finn, an Archetian twang of an accent to his voice. Grimacing and grinning at the same time, he mused to Fiearius amicably, “As if the Dionysian needed more people coming after it. So, you paid dearly for that one yet? Goddora’s pals probably have a few words for you two.”